Some Questions About Football

Author's note: Before we begin today's humorous look at football, I wanted to take a serious moment to publicly thank some Universities for their principled decisions this past weekend. Thank you, University of Oregon, for taking a tough stance on the egregious conduct of LeGarrette Blount. I truly hope your football season improves and that Blount's position is filled admirably by younger players. I am a huge fan of football, but there is no room for viciousness and violence in sports. At the end of the day, this is just a form of entertainment for the public, and I never want to wake up again to read a headline focused on a suckerpunch instead of which team won or lost the game. For those of you interested in learning more, please see this link: http://espn.go.com/video/clip?id=4447247. To Boise State, I am truly sorry that this unfortunate incident has cast a shadow over what was a well-deserved win. I have also heard a rumor, which I have yet to confirm, that Boise State will discipline the player whose remarks provoked Blount's behavior, although I am not aware that we know what this player allegedly said to Blount. If this rumor is true, then thank you, too, for the reminder that we are all responsible for what we do and say, and some things, even in the spirit of good fun, are not worth the harm they cause. To the remaining players of both teams, a public thank you for setting a model example of good sportsmanship. You kept your cool and kept a bad incident from getting much worse. To the students of Boise State, a thought. To an extent, teasing and taunting is part of the game of football, and nothing excuses Blount's conduct. On the other hand, taunting a player that has already exploded in violence over remarks made by an opponent is neither good sportsmanship, nor is it particularly wise.

Now, I will step down from my stump and return you to our regularly scheduled program.

While sitting watching the Alabama-Virgina Tech game last Saturday night, I got to wondering again. Here are some thoughts that I had:

Why does the Alabama Crimson Tide have an elephant as a mascot? I'm sure I could Google an answer, but should I have to? Some things should not require explanation.

The Akron Zips played Penn State earlier in the day on Saturday. What is a Zip? I saw the mascot and I'm still not sure. Doesn't this defeat the purpose of mascots?

Why is Boise State's field blue? I'm sure the novelty of watching us all try to adjust the color on our TV has long since passed. I mean, most of us have figured it out by now.

The Syracuse Orangemen? Seriously, a fruit for a mascot? I did Google this one because I even though I've seen the Orange, I wanted to be sure I was right. The most flattering thing one can say about this mascot is that it is a fruit Another interpretation is that it is just a color. Yep. The mascot is just ... orange. Maybe not even "an" orange.

Some masots make sense -- wolverines, tigers, lions, cougars. But how about these:

The University of Hawaii. (Rainbow Warriors/Warriors/Rainbows) Hawaii is schizophrenic. Some of its teams are known as the Rainbow Warriors or Warriors. One (the baseball team) is known as the Rainbows. Yes, curious physics effects are both romantic, pretty, some believe a promise by God, and apparently intimidating and aggressive, too. Rainbows. Huh. The football team had it right, just go with "Warriors."

The Ohio State University. (Buckeyes) The first question is, "What's a Buckeye?" Wait, I know this one. It's a poisonous nut. This fierce football mascot is supposed to inspire the team to ... what? Slip a mickey in the other team's Gatorade? I don't get it.

While we're on the subject of Ohio State, I have to ask. Why would anyone put the words, "Oh, Ohio! You're a bunch of bums!" in their fight song? (No joke -- see here, bottom left: http://www.alumni-osu.org/sacvalleybuckeyes/html/music.html)

The University of Minnesota. (Golden Gophers) Hmm. Golden ... Gophers. Need I say more?

University of Maryland. (Terrapin) Some mascots are a little less obvious, but I can respect them. Take the Temple Owls for example. An owl might give someone the impression of a bookish school, without a lot of athletic prowess, but owls are predatory birds and can be quite fearsome, just like eagles. An owl will do. But what about a turtle? What is predatory or clever about a turtle? Sure, Maryland tries to disguise its turtle with the fancy name of "Terrapin," but in the end the beast is still just a slow moving creature that hides inside its shell when facing trouble. I see bumper stickers telling me to, "Fear the Turtle" but I can't figure out why I should. Even more puzzling, what are we to make of a school whose fight song is to the tune of "Oh Christmas Tree"?

University of Virginia. (Cavaliers) Continuing our sojourn down the eastern seabord, let's stop and talk about the University of Virginia. I have no beef with the mascot being a Cavalier. However, I do wonder why the students and alums want to call themselves the Wahoos. I have been told there is a plausible story behind the nickname, but when your name sounds as potentially derogatory as "Wahoo," shouldn't the story be really, really obvious?

Virginia Tech. (Hokies) The Virginia Tech Hokies almost beat Alabama in this opening week of ball playing. I can understand the ferocity of barnyard fowl and am loath to criticize such mascots as the South Carolina Gamecocks (even though it sounds funny). What I can't understand is the Hokie. I mean, a hokie is an emasculated turkey. Why would you want to identify with that? And, while were in Va Tech country, let's talk about those colors -- orange and maroon. I read that the University chose those colors in 1890-something because no other school had picked that combination. I don't know about you, but I think the fact that the combination was still available should have been a clue to get a second opinion. How can the students and fans wear a color combination their mothers wouldn't let them leave the house in?

I know some of you are saying, "Sure, sure, but what the heck is a Nittany Lion?" It's a ficticious lion supposed to roam Mount Nittany, which overlooks the PSU campus. Don't bother trying to look up the species. It's made up. Get over it.

I'm sure next Saturday I will find myself thinking more about how Universities advertise themselves and their sports programs. As a closing note, I need to make one comment about my own Penn State Nittany Lion's beloved song, "Fight on State!" I know the kids love it, and the music is catchy, but were the last two lines written in a bar late one night, or what? "Fight on, on, on, on, on. Fight on, on State!" Very inspired.

Finally, and totally unrelated, for those of you wondering what happened when I had to go back to the land records, the answer is, "absolutely nothing." I stood in line, paid my fee, got the printout, and went home. It was so uneventful as to be quite shocking. Some things work out eventually, right?

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My First Trip to the Land Records -- a Story for My Lawyer Friends

So, as I mentioned yesterday, I needed to go to the Land Records and record a document.

Now, let me get this perfectly clear -- this document is a License Agreement allowing us to run stormwater from our land, across land owned by a division of the County, into a drainage ditch. It says "License Agreement" on the front, and it is absolutely not an easement. Okay.

Toddler and I went to the courthouse this morning. My first observation of the day was that the GPS doesn't help much in a large complex. It wants to drop me off at the front door, and I really need the parking garage a few blocks away. My second observation was that, per the website, I'm looking for a specific building address. I don't know if this is actually in the courthouse building, or if it is in another building in the judicial complex. Perhaps, say, the "Judicial Administration Building?" My third observation was that the building numbers are really hard to see from the sidewalk. I successfully navigated out of the parking garage, onto the sidewalk, and had a bonus. The big sidewalk maps had a paper sign saying that the new juvenile center has been moved to the same building I'm looking for -- 4110. Cool. I can find my way by following the silly paper arrows. This works up until the last sidewalk junction, where the arrows stop, and I have two choices -- the Judicial Administration Building or the actual Courthouse. I can't see any street numbers. So, there I stand until a helpful bystander asks if I'm lost. I ask her which building is 4110, is it the courthouse? And she says, "I think it is that one" (pointing to the courthouse).

Sure. That makes sense, but this means metal detectors, security guards, the works. I might as well be going into an airport. I was glad to have brought the little umbrella stroller -- much better to have Toddler contained rather than two steps away from a mad dash down the hall. So, I confirmed I was in the right place, I had to give up my cellphone to the front desk because it has a camera (no cameras in the courthouse), and I had the diaper bag searched because I forgot there was another camera in there. Oops! (Well, Toddler and I do look like paparazzi, don't you think?)

So, we finally make it up to the Land Records. I'm acting my part about being clueless very well, apparently, because the lady at information seemed skeptical that I even had a real document to be recorded. She asked me who prepared it. (I think she must have thought I drew it on a piece of paper or something.) She became totally helpful and sweet when she saw the document was real and looked pretty official.

This was one of the last moments that I felt my role easily. After that, things became much harder. I was led over to talk to a rather nice young woman, and then these two ladies stood there and debated what kind of document I had. They decided it was either an "Agreement" or an "Easement" because it was like an easement. They needed to know this for the intake sheet so they know how much money to charge me. Okay, I've seen the boxes on the intake sheet, and "License" is one of the options. I know there is no tax for a license or an agreement, and in most cases not for an easement either, so it doesn't matter to me much.

On the other hand, I all of the sudden understand all those title reports I read for all those years, where the Land Records office calls documents things they aren't. Then the surveyors copy down what the Land Records calls the document, and everything gets all bolluxed up. If there is no easement, and the document is called "easement" just try to get the surveyor to remove the word "easement" from his notes. Just try.

But ... what to do? Keep quiet and risk them naming it wrong (knowing I don't actually get harmed by this), or say something and risk blowing my "naive and uninformed mother" cover? Well, when I heard they were leaning toward, "Easement" I said, "You know, the County division that gave me the document was pretty adamant that this wasn't an easement. They aren't allowed to give easements, but they said this License is like an easement ... it just ends after a bunch of years." My words had little effect on them. I try again. "I read the intake form instructions, and I thought I saw a box for 'License'?" Again, no reaction. I decided to give up. This really isn't my problem, so long as it goes into the records against the right property, I don't care in the slightest what they call it. The title company that insures my house to whomever I sell it will have to deal with that.

I was vaguely listening while they asked yet a third woman what to do. This is when I about lost it. I was very glad I was standing a little way away. The third woman said, "We'll reject it, of course. No 'Prepared by'."

AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! Now why didn't I see that? She was saying that my document was not in recordable form because the face of the document did not identify who prepared it and where the recorded copy was to be returned. Now, does the average member of the public know this? Of course not. Is it easy to find? Not as easy as one might hope. So why was I distressed by this? Because I spent the better part of 10 years advising attorneys to include that exact language on their documents when I issued legal opinions! Of ALL the people in that building, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER!

But, they don't give the document back to me. They go over and work on the intake sheet anyway. So, I walk Toddler up and down the long room, in big, big ovals, trying to look everything but like I knew what I had overheard. The question going through my mind was, do I return the document to the County office to correct it, or do I take responsibility for the document myself? I could claim to be the drafter. I am barred in the Commonwealth and have the right to put my name as drafter on a document like that. Heck, I even had my bar number tucked away in my wallet in the diaper bag somewhere. Even better, I am a named party, and there is a little known rule that says a named party can be the "preparer" even if not an attorney. The awkward part is everyone in the building knows I didn't prepare it because I said I didn't.

I stopped to wonder what the nice ladies would do if I suddenly came up with a bar card, wrote my own name down, and turned it in again. I couldn't figure out how they would handle it, but I was sure there would be some surliness. For the time being, I decided to keep on walking and wait to see what they said to me about what I overheard. They finally bring me everything, tell me it will cost $35, and tell me I need to write on the document who prepared it. I said it was the lawyer the division hired, and I didn't know who that was. I told them I couldn't call because the security guards took my cellphone. They showed me to a payphone and said I could use it or come back. I called our counterparty at the County division, and of course, he wasn't in. I came back and said I had to go, when the first woman came back up and said, "You can just write the name of the County agency as the author. That's okay. You also have to write who we are supposed to send the document back to."

I confirmed that writing it in the margin was okay, and they agreed. Then I proceeded to write the formulaic language I had written more times than I have any idea. I wonder what they might have thought if they had looked at what I wrote and saw that it was the standard language inserted by lawyers and title companies.

I'll never know, though, because I didn't get to record the document that day after all. See, one of the reasons they had enough time to help me as much as they did was because the computers were down, and nothing was going to record anyway. We were all stalling for time to see if they would come back up before Toddler had a meltdown. After an hour of being in the building, mostly walking in circles, I decided not to push my luck and just come back. As you may recall from yesterday, I was operating on 3 hours sleep, and Toddler was beginning to lose patience with being patient in the stroller. I figured if I pushed my luck much further, either he'd have a meltdown, or I'd breakdown and tell someone something that let them know I knew more about the legal process of recording things than they did. (I just know nothing about the mechanics.)

Now the interesting news is that I have to go back tomorrow and try again. Ooohh.

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This Ought to be Interesting

Ugh. I have to go to the County Clerk's office today to record a document we've been working toward for 2 years. I need to get this over with. All the pieces are finally in place.

Now here is the catch. I was up literally half the night (one hour out of every two) with massive and painful indigestion. (Darn that pizza and ice cream cake anyway.) For the past 3 days Toddler has been a real crabapple, so I'm a bit nervous. Today, though, he seems happy and cheerful, but he asked me for a tissue and actually wiped his nose with it -- a rare event indeed, so I'm thinking maybe all that fussing was leading up to something? Well, I certainly believe in keeping the contagious home, I can't seem to justify tying us home with no symptoms. Sure, we'll skip the pool today and no eating lunch out, but I just can't cancel everything on a hunch, right? I've just got to get this monkey off my back.

Why is recording a document a monkey, you might ask? Well, first of all, depite 10 years of being a real estate lawyer, I have ever done it before. Second, listen to some of the advice I've been given. "Bring cash, no checks accepted from individuals. Bring $100 just to be safe. Whatever you do, don't tell them you used to practice law, and they should be really helpful. If you tell them, there might be trouble." Hmmm. This ought to be interesting.

Let's think about this. Sure, I drafted all kinds of documents that ended up in the land records of the very office I am going to. It might be hard to look like I really don't know what I'm talking about. On the other hand, I haven't eaten anything in 14 hours because of this stomache ache, I'm exhausted, running on about 3 hours sleep, I'm blonde, I'm very short, I'm wearing blue jeans and flip flops, and I have a two year old and a diaper bag with me. I'm thinking I might be able to get away with the clueless routine.

To emphasize this point, I just called Darling Husband to ask him what he did with my car keys last night after he brought in the stuff from the trunk. He didn't know, and we went through the checklist that started with, "Are they in front of the microwave," and ended with, "Well, if they aren't anywhere else, check and see if I left them clipped to the shorts I was wearing last night." *Sigh.* Of course. I'll go check. As I start around the corner to go look, I hear a suspicious jingle. I reach down, and there are the keys, clipped to my belt loop. I have no recollection of how they got there. A few moments ago, I was putting Toddler in the car and reached down to get those keys. They were gone. I got a little panicky -- did I just lock us out of the house? No, no. I just moved the keys to my other hand when I wasn't looking. Again, I have no recollection of doing this.

Like I said, this ought to be interesting. Tune in next time, and I'll tell you what happened. I'm sure it will be entertaining.

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A Few Random Things to Know About Me

Everyone has their "quirks" and things. I imagine after reading this long, you have come to know a few of mine already. I thought we could have some fun, though, if I listed a few that might never come up. Specifically, here are some oddities about me and food.

1. I think "carrot" is a rotten thing to do to a cake. In fact, I could do without carrots altogether. Contrary to popular belief, I do not hate them. I simply would prefer to do without them. Many years ago my mother and I took a tour of England and Ireland with one of those tour companies that provides a lot of your meals. On the plane ride over, the airline meal had carrots. (This trip was back when airlines actually fed you substantial, albeit crappy, meals.) I made the mistake of telling my mother that I would be more than happy to not see another carrot anytime soon. Well, the Universe was listening, and apparently thought I was being sarcastic. Every single meal that the tour company provided, including breakfast, had carrots mixed in so far that I could hardly separate them. There were carrots in the omelets for crying out loud. How mean is that? I mean, it isn't that the English are so enamoured of the carrots or anything. I've been back to England several times since, and I have never ran into the carrot problem again.

2. One vegetable I do truly despise ... no hate ... is celery. I was the only little kid I ever knew who licked the peanut butter off the celery and wouldn't eat the celery no matter what you bribed me with. In fact, I wouldn't even lick the last part of the peanut butter off in case I tasted the celery. I think celery tastes sharp and nasty, and if I had one vegetable I was allowed to eliminate from this planet, that would be the one. I hate it when it shows up in "salad sandwiches" (like chicken salad, egg salad, etc.) In fact, I hate them so much I will almost never order such a sandwich in a restaurant because I'm sure nasty celery will be waiting for me.

3. I think meat and fruit should never be in the same cooking dish. Even more importantly, there is no form of citrus that belongs on a pizza other than a tomato. Pineapple pizza is just plain wrong. Ham and pineapple is very wrong, too.

4. I do eat liverwurst, and I think it is yummy. Go ahead and groan now. Toddler loves it, too. Fortunately for those of you groaning, liverwurst has tons of calories and you can pretend you are skipping it for that reason.

5. Guacamole isn't worth the calories. If something is going to have that many calories, it should be flavorful and delicious, not bland and almost nonexistent. I mean, at least, if something is green it should taste like a vegetable, but guac tastes almost like nothing. What a waste of valuable calories.

6. I am "salt" not "sweet". I can easily give up all the cakes and cookies in the world forever for one bag of lard soaked fully loaded, salty potato chips. If someone ever invents a truly calorie free chip that tastes like the real thing, I will know that nirvana is around the corner. In the meantime, I pretend that I like Baked Lays just as much and am thankful I have no noticeable side effects to fat substitutes.

7. I really do like diet sodas, especially Diet Pepsi, Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi, Cherry Coke Zero, Pepsi One, and Coke Zero. I just think they taste great. This isn't a diet thing with me, though lord knows I need it, I just like them. I love Chik-Fil-A because they give me a choice between Diet Coke, Diet Caffeine Free Coke, and Coke Zero. Oddly enough, when Coke Zero first came out I hated it. I don't know if they changed the formula or what, but now I like it. The hardest part about being pregnant was staying away from all the diet sodas. It was torture, I tell you.

8. Pregnancy really does change a woman's taste buds. I really don't care much for Dr. Pepper, although I loved it as a kid. Now it just tastes funny to me. When I was pregnant, though, I could hardly keep my hands off it, and of course with all that caffeine it was not a good idea. And beef, oh, yes, beef. Even better, beef with thousand island dressing -- something else I normally don't eat. But me, who scoffed at the idea of cravings, just dreamed every day that Darling Husband would take pity on my and bring me a Big Mac with a Dr. Pepper and make my day complete. I even ended up slathering Thousand Island Dressing on my hamburger at home to keep me from going insane. It worked, but barely.

Aah, food. I love it. And it shows.

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Fire. (Fire, fire!)

We've gone awhile without pondering the mysteries of this crazy world, so I thought I'd talk a little bit about fire.

Let's start out by talking about candles. I love candles. I even tried making a few myself ... and ... well, we'll just say it was a nice try. I know enough from that experiment to say that the wick is just a piece of braided string that needs to be trimmed to fit after the candle sets up. Since it needs to be trimmed during the candle-making process anyway, I have to ask, why can't the candle-makers (or their machines) just trim the wick to the appropriate length before they sell them to us? Why does every candle come with the instructions, "First, trim the wick so that it is only ___ high." Honestly, I think the process of thinking up and printing the instructions probably takes longer than just getting out the scissors and doing it yourself. Ready-to-use candles, that's what we need! No scissors required!

And, seriously, unless the wick is measuring in inches, do you really bother to trim it? Be honest. Do you? While we are on the subject, how often do you let the candle burn beyond the point the instructions say you should, and you light the wax on fire? Be honest. How many times? In a pyro kind of way, it's a pretty neat thing to watch ... but not that I'm admitting anything ... or anything. Where's that frying pan, anyway? Nice, flat bottom ... good for putting out flaming tea lights ....

On the subject of fire, how are you supposed to light a jack-o-lantern, anyway? If you use a traditional taper candle (even a short one), and you light it first, how do you get the candle into the pumpkin without burning your hand? After all, you need to put the candle in upright and your hand still has to fit through the same relatively small hole in the pumpkin's head. Ouch! On the other hand, if you put the candle in first, then light it, how do you get the match in without shooting the flame back up at your fingers? When I was a kid (using paper matches that had a burn time of about two and half seconds), I used the "light the candle and drop it and hope" method that drove my parents nuts. As an adult, if I can't get the lighter through the mouth of the jack-o-lantern, I use the "light the tea light and drop" method. It's much safer than using a taper candle. Then, if all else fails, I ask DH to do it. Sometimes he does ... and other times I find a nice glowing battery operated candle inside the carved pumpkin.

Nice. Wish I had thought of that.

Then you have gas stoves. When the burner doesn't light, do you ever feel weird, like no matter what you do, it might be wrong? If you light a match, what if so much gas has escaped that you light the fumes on fire and burn your hair? Do you skip the match, and try to light the dead burner from one that did light? It's cool ... but would your mother approve? How long do you leave the burner on and not lighting before you begin to choke yourself out from the fumes? (Does anyone else have these thoughts? All this reminiscing makes me almost glad our house has an electric stove.)

Honestly, I love our gas grill, but I do flinch every time I use the electric starter to light the thing. Does anyone else do that? I don't know why I have the urge to duck and cover. I know that flame isn't coming high enough to burn my hair ... but I always act like it is anyway. And then there is the gas tank. Dad warned and warned about turning it off the right way. Now I'm always nervous that I don't remember which way is the "right" way and I'll burn the deck down or something.

Last, but certainly most memorable, there is the unity candle at a wedding. What a dangerous idea. Lots of veils, long hair, and hair spray next to open flame ... brilliant. Just brilliant. Of course, I'm not speaking from experience or anything. No, there was no frantic motions flicking my veil out of an open flame during my wedding ... nothing of the sort. Nope. Not at all. It was your imagination. Trust me. I was there. ...

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Children Can Leave You Speechless

I think we all think kids are cute when they say things, even if they shouldn't. Of course, lots of times we think kids are cute when they are just saying the obvious, just because ... well, they have such high pitched voices and by the time you figure out what they are actually saying, you just have to laugh. There must be something in the human species that makes most of us react this way, otherwise we might not let them grow up. After all, we make great fun of our friends and adult family members when they state the obvious.

Take yesterday, for example. We were at the pool, and I poured a bucket of water over Toddler's head. He squealed, giggled, and wiped his eyes. Then he looked at me and said, "I'm all wet!" Woah. Really? But from him, it was the cutest thing. I don't know why he needed to tell me he was all wet, or why it was such a surprise to him (we do this every day at the pool and every night in the bath), but okay. I can go with it.

Every once in awhile, though, kids say things to you that you have no answer to, or if you do, you should at least check with the child's parents before opening your big mouth. About ten years (ok longer ago than that), I was driving along a highway with a young child in the car with me. A motorcycle swerved around us on the berm, cut us off, and sped obnoxiously on his way. At these times, an insensitive adult, alone in the car might say (or wish silently), that the cops catch that *** and give him a ticket. Such adult might also whisper invectives like, "You'll be in an accident before the day's end, mark my words." (Of course, if s/he were, we would be horrified.)

This child watched this pretty obnoxious biker pass us intently. I think she'd been watching him swerve in and out in the mirror for awhile. When he was a few cars ahead, she said, "I wish he were dead."

HUH? Did I just hear that? So of course, I go into full-blown "adult" mode (I was really only half an adult at that time.) Girl Relative, that is a HORRIBLE thing to say. You should never say something like that." This child turned and looked at me, with the most serious eyes, and said, "Why not? He'll never know."

I was stopped cold in my tracks. She had me there. He never would know. What on earth do I say now? Where are the pearls of wisdom I am supposed to have to convince the child of her great wrongdoing in the moral straight path of the universe? Well, I hemmed and hawed a bit about how we should always try to help our fellow human beings, etc. etc., but it was apparent I was making no impression. Finally, after being unable to persuade her that her feelings were improper, I learned a very valuable lesson.

I finally, finally understood the great lesson of adults (even semi-adults). When you don't know what else to say to a child, stop explaining, and issue a decree. "I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again. It's mean, rude, and I won't have it."

Guess what miss Smarty-pants said next? "Okay, but you can't stop me from thinking it."

Is it any wonder some people are afraid of children?

(I must say, in defense of this child, that she grew up to be a very sweet young woman who would never wish a single person dead ... at least not without huge pangs of guilt. Either that, or she has kept those thoughts very well hidden all these years, and we are all completely fooled. Hmm. I guess only she knows .....)

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My Mom Had Eyes in the Back of Her Head. I Can See Through Walls.

Today (the real today, September 1st) is my anniversary. Eight years ago today, on a surprisingly pleasant and weather-mild day in the mid-atlantic, Darling Husband and I got married. Five years, nine months, and thirteen days later, I received my "Mom" card and promptly got initiated into the Mystery of Omniscience.

What do I mean? I mean the first rule of raising small children is to make them think you can see things when you can't. Somehow, my Mom was pretty good at knowing when I was doing something wrong, even when she wasn't looking. She used to say that she had eyes in the back of her head. I never quite figured out how she was doing it, but as I grew up, it became apparent to me that I was no where near as clever as I thought I was. I knew she didn't have eyes in the back of her head, but this mysterious omniscience she had made me toe the line even when she wasn't around.

Now, I have to admit, I've known the rules -- act confident, show no fear, follow through with your threats, and whatever you do, don't laugh. I have to confess, I have had the hardest time with the last one. Let me share a story.

About four months ago, we had some visitors in the house bringing us some paperwork to sign. Toddler was supposed to be napping, and we had the monitor on listening to him. Napping he was not. For the entire time the guests were there, he was chattering away to himself in his crib. Shortly before the folks were leaving, they asked if they could see Toddler (given that he was so obviously awake). We brought him down and asked him to say "Hi." He waived. We asked him to say, "I was upstairs playing." He looked at me and said, "Sleeping." I suppressed a chuckle. "No, tell them you were playing." He looked at me again, with a big, big grin, and said, "Sleeping." By this point, I was really struggling not to laugh. This was too much. He wasn't even two years old at that point, and here he was, lying to me! After a few more seconds, he gave me a sheepish grin and said, "Playing."

Now, I ask you -- how do you not laugh? How, exactly?

I've been struggling with abiding by the rules and giving Toddler the gift of thinking his mother is omniscient. Honestly, it has been harder than I thought. I recently convinced Toddler that I can see through walls, I've been working on it for awhile, but I finally got him good and believing it now. We put a stop to most of the drive-by toddlerings, but now Toddler has decided that there is no reason to necessarily stay in the bed per se. The bedroom is close enough, right? Unfortunately, with his door closed, my first clue that he is out of bed is usually when he tries to open the door, when he opens the diaper stacker and begins throwing things on the floor, or when he starts pulling the books of his bookshelf. I yell, he cries and runs back to bed. Still, so far it hasn't been enough to convince him not to even try. He's just been testing to see how long he can go before I interrupt his fun. It's all a big game.

The past couple of days I had enough. I was tired of dealing with the "napless wonder" and tired of running up the stairs to put him back in his bed. I decided that I was going to convince Toddler I could see him get out of bed, and that he'd better stay put. So, after putting him back for what felt like the 100th time in 20 minutes, I shut the door, pretended to walk away, and lay down on the floor. I was going to watch his little feet through the crack underneath the door. Problem: The carpet we bought for the house is a little too plush. Either that, or the wood floor in the hallway is a little too low. Either way, I really couldn't seen too well beyond the first 2 inches. I twisted and turned my head, and finally found a position that worked, lying flat on my stomach, with my top eye covered, and my bottom eye turned partially toward the floor. With the right amount of pressure on my eyeball, I could see just far enough to get a blurry view of Toddler's bed. Sure enough, after only a few moments of this (very comfortable) position, I saw little feet start to sneak down from the comforter. As soon as they touched the floor, I yelled at Toddler to get back into bed. You should have heard his answering cry! What a wail of protest! I'm not sure which was more important, that he wasn't allowed out of bed, or that he had been caught? Either way, he cried for a few good solid minutes before finally, blissfully, falling asleep.

I promptly retrieved my eyeball from the floor and went on my merry way, satisfied that I had at last achieved the pinnacle of motherhood. My mom had eyes in the back of her head, but I can see through walls. And it didn't hurt all that much, either.

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