I get it. I'm short.

I went to pick Madeline up from school today and happened to be there right as her class was filing down the hall from lunch. Three, THREE different kids uttered these words: “Oh my god, Maddie, is that your mom?” Followed by varying expressions of “Awww, she’s so cute,” and “Oh my god, you’re taller than her,” etcetera. I felt like a hamster. No, wait… a gerbil. Gerbils are smaller than hamsters.

Madeline put her arm gently around my shoulder and patted me softly, like a tiny little pet. Yeah, that helps.

The best part of entire middle school experience, however, was when one of the teachers asked me for my hall pass. I turned around to see her face redden half from embarrassment and half, I’m sure, in astonishment. “Oh, Ms. Andrews, I’m so sorry, I thought you were one of the students,” she stammered, “you should actually be flattered!” (insert nervous laughter here).

Oh yep, flattered for sure. Just like a gerbil.

Mom? It's an emergency.

When you get a call from your kids’ school, you know there’s an emergency on the other end. Any mom will tell you the kids’ school showing up on caller ID will make your heart stop.

Unless you’re kid is a 13 years-old and named Madeline.

I work in radio and I’m on the air from 5a to 10a. Our studio is a 30-minute commute from home. But that doesn’t stop my daughter from making calls like this:

Madeline: Mom?

(As if when she dialed my cell number she wasn’t sure I was actually going to be the one who answered it.)

Me: Yes, Madeline.

Madeline: Um, yeah, so, I don’t know how it happened, but I got a comb stuck in my hair.

(silence)

Madeline: So, I was wondering, um, could you bring me some detangler?

(Silence. My face was frozen with my mouth gaping open.)

Madeline: Mom?

Me: No, Madeline, I cannot bring you detangler. I can, however, bring you some scissors.

Step right up!

I love my kids, but sometimes they get on my nerves and I have to tell them to go away.

Like one morning when they were four, six, and ten. I was busy in the kitchen cutting up vegetables and their game of “let’s see how loud we can be” was deafening so I told them to go outside and play.

They trotted off to garage and its treasure trove of play equipment: numerous bouncy balls, electric ride-on jeeps, jump ropes, hula hoops, sidewalk chalk, bicycles, tricycles; you name it, it was in our garage.

Peace and quiet.

For about three minutes.

From the kitchen I heard the garage door whir open then close. Then open again. Then close. Then open.

What the…?

I put my knife down and headed to the garage.

As I opened the door, I saw Andrew’s legs dangling from the ceiling. Alex’s finger was poised on the garage door control button, ready to send Andrew back to safety. Maddie Grace was in the “spectator’s box,” eyes gleaming and both hands covering the exuberant grin on her face, a look that told me she was next in line.

Alex caught my gaze and froze.

Andrew, clutching the garage door handle and still dangling from the ceiling with his back was towards me, urged “Do it again, Alex! Do it again!” He was downright giddy.

“The garage door carnival ride is officially shut down, Andrew.”

Silence. Then the slow whir of the garage door delivering Andrew to the ground.

It was a good thing I left the knife in the kitchen.

The sign says Keep Out!

My oldest son, Alex, turned twenty last week.

Of course the first thing he said when I told him “Happy birthday!” was “God I’m old!”

Really?

He’ll always be my little boy. I can look at him today and see the six-month-old sitting on my lap, or the two-year-old in rain boots covered in suds helping Daddy wash the car. Or the four-year-old who told Gramma, in a fit of frustration after trying to explain something to her, “Gramma, there are FIVE points, and you’re not getting any of them!”

Alex. An only child for four years (until Andrew came along). That’s not to imply he was spoiled. He was raised on Winnie the Pooh. How can a kid who watched every Pooh movie and cartoon series be anything but kind, gentle, giving, and just sweet-as-honey? Unless maybe he was taking his cues from the curmudgeonly Rabbit, who in one particular episode, built a fortress around his garden and posted signs warning others to “Keep out.” It was one of Alex’s favorites.

On his twentieth birthday, after he blew out the candles and opened presents (mostly money at this age, of course) I couldn’t help remind him of one of his most memorable birthday moments.

He was five. We had bought him the five-year-old equivalent of a car (honestly, I don’t remember what it was, but it was HUGE). My parents had even come over to help us wake him up and see the look a surprise and the grateful squeals of delight this particular gift would elicit from our sweet Alex.

Four of us tip-toed down the hall to his room and eased the door open so we didn’t wake him up before we could surprise him with his fabulous gift.

“Alex,” we sang in unison.

Before we could get the “happy birthday” out, Alex shot straight up in bed, glared at us and said, “The sign says KEEP OUT!” He then plopped back down on his mattress.

Yeah, maybe it was Rabbit all along!

Maddie RULEZ!

Madeline is my third child of four and the only girl.

When I tell people this, the typical response is “Oh, poor Madeline!” They don’t know her.

Madeline rules. Literally. The following is a prime example of what I mean.

When they were nine and five-years-old, the older boys shared a room. Three-year-old Madeline had a room by herself, right next to the boys.

Every night I’d tuck the boys in first and then go in to say goodnight to Madeline. One night as I left her room and started down the hall, Madeline called me back:

“Maaah-uummm,” she sang like only a three-year-old with something important to say can.

I turned around and started back toward her open door, “Yes, Maddie Gracie?”

She was sitting up in her queen-sized bed (don’t get crazy – it was a hand-me-down when MacGyver and I got a king), “Boys talking,” she chimed, still sort of singing the news.

Sure enough, her brothers were in their room chattering away. I couldn’t let it go, of course, because the I would have been sending the wrong message. Lights out, go to  bed meant go to sleep, no talking.

So I obliged, went into the boys room and told them to settle down and go to sleep.
As I walked out of their room and passed Madeline’s room, I looked to see her still sitting up in bed, grinning widely, and giving me two-thumbs-up for a job well done.

Yes, Madeline rules.

The BEST Calvin and Hobbes cartoon

What makes me laugh is a varied as my iPod which includes Hank Williams, Jr., Nelly, Aaron Neville, Kenny Loggins, The Black Eyed Peas, Greenday, Nirvana, George Straight, Flo Rida, Run DMC, and, shamefully, one Cher song. And that’s the short list.

I am a diehard Python fan, Mad TV cracks me up, Tosh 2.0 is hilariously irreverent (you know you think it’s funny), and Ron White has some of the best one-liners EVAH. Some of the most clever humor is nestled neatly among “kids” movies like Madagascar 2 and Finding Nemo. Oh, and don’t even get me started on Sponge Bob.

So this page will include some of my favorites, but I invite you to post your favorites, too. Go ahead, make me laugh.

When I was a little girl, I said I was going to marry a man just like my Daddy. A man who took care of his family, providing for us and protecting us. And a man with strong hands.

My dad’s hands were soft and rough all at once. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve slipped a tiny hand into a hand like that. One that made you feel safe and warm at the same time. His hands were soft on the top but his palms were rough; worn and calloused from hard work and hunting – man stuff.

When I met David, the first thing I noticed was his hands. (Okay, well, maybe not the FIRST thing. That was definitely the way he looked in his jeans and boots!) His hands were like my dad’s. I could tell a lot about him just looking at his hands: he played sports, knew how to use a hunt, liked yard work, and could fix just about anything. Just like my dad.

Twenty-one years later I still like to slip my hand into that rough, warm palm and feel the gentle but firm squeeze.

I’ve learned what makes hands like that. I call it “The MacGyver Gene.” That’s the gene that makes men, well, men. There isn’t a problem MacGyver can’t solve. A broken anything he can’t fix. But he’s also compassionate. He fights for the underdog, those in trouble. which is what softens the edges.

Marry a man like my Daddy. Mission accomplished.

I pride myself on being a good mom.

One who is raising her kids to be kind, gentle, children of God. We’re catholic and as any good catholic knows, playing mass is an integral part of growing up and my kids were no exception. They would lay out an alter with Ritz crackers or smashed up rounds of white bread (no crusts, thank you), cups of apple juice, and a Bible.

Mass was conducted in less than 5 minutes, the bread doled out, the juice consumed, game over. They played this enough that I was confident in my success in teaching them in the ways of Christ.

It didn’t surprise me then when I overheard this conversation coming from our backyard between three-year-old Madeline and five-year-old Andrew:

Andrew: Hey, Maddie, you wanna play Jesus?
Maddie: Sure!

Oh my gosh! I have achieved catholic mom sainthood! My children have moved beyond merely playing Mass to wanting to emulate Jesus! Yay me!

I had to witness this glory so I moved to the back window. What would they be doing? Curing some poor injured bird, baptizing a wanton frog? So I peeked around the corner to see how my little angels were playing out the miraculous works of our Lord.

Me: OH MY GOD, ANDREW WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!

Andrew swirled around clutching the tent stakes and mallet.

Madeline, still laying arms stretched wide on the ground, grinned up at me. “We playin’ Jesus!”

I Want You Love Me Like My Dog

Thor is the “God of Thunder.”

Big, strong, brave, fearless protector. Unless you’re talking about my dog, Thor. He’s more like the “Chicken of Thunder.”

Thor is my 185 pound Great Dane. He stands 6′ ’8″ (if I were to let him stand).

Big? Yes. Strong? Yes. Brave, fearless protector? Not so much. Especially during thunderstorms. When it’s thundering he looks for the safest place to hide: my lap. Since I am only 5′ tall, he doesn’t fit very well.