Poopsie

I promised to tell the story of how my father came to be known as 'Poopsie'...the Poopster...the Grand Poopah...okay, okay we just call him Poopsie, and really I think that is enough. Don't you?

When I was pregnant with Lauren my mom picked out the names Mumsie and Poopsie for the grandnames. She thought the names were adorable. Dave thought they were ridiculous...especially the Poopsie. He protested immediately. My mom didn't really care what he thought (she rarely does) and she stuck to her guns.

So did Dave.

As the months of my pregnancy flew by (as fast as bleeding, pre-eclempsia and bed rest can fly by) it became clear that neither of them were going to agree on a grandname for my dad. Dave was determined that he be called Papaw and mom was sticking with Poopsie. Eventually they decided that whichever name she said first was going to be the name we used.

When Lauren was born they each used the names they had chosen. They used them a lot...a whole bunch of A LOT. The day finally came that she finally called my dad by a name.

Poopsie.

But Dave had the last laugh. As it turns out young children can't say Poopsie very well. Lauren couldn't. Brooklyn couldn't. Tre couldn't. Instead what they said was Poosie.

I'll just let that sink in for a minute.

Everybody on the same page now? That's right. I said Poosie as in poooseee. It really wasn't as fun or cute as it might sound. It was actually awkward and blush inspiring. Especially for my mom because she is the one that insisted on the name. I could tell countless stories about the embarrassment this name caused or about the fun my uncle had telling the kids to say Daddy loves Poopsie (yeah, I come from some up-town folk), but I will limit it to one story.

When Lauren was about 18 months old my dad was taking up offering at church and we were all sitting towards the back of the sanctuary. Lauren really wanted to go with my dad, but of course she couldn't. Her little lip quivered for a bit...waiting just long enough for him to get to the very front of the church and then she stood on the pew and said, 'Pooooossssiiiieeee....I want my Poooossssiiieeee'. Well everyone and I do mean everyone sorta gasped together and turned to look at her/us. Then my mom stands up and announces very loudly, "She is saying Poopsie everybody...she is saying POOPSIE." I wanted to crawl under my seat and hide until everyone left.

Good times. Good times.

And now you know how my Dad ended up named not only after a bodily function, but at times after a body part as well.

Blogfessional

I have an addiction and I humbly ask that you not judge me too harshly when you hear what it is. Okay. Here it goes. I'm just going to blurt it out real quick like...

I love American Idol.

LOVE IT.

There. I said it. Please don't forsake me in this season of tv viewing weakness.

It was because of this undying love that I found myself in a bit of a dilema when I realized that the second night of American Idol was airing at the same time as our youth meeting at church (which I volunteer to help with). I am ashamed to say that I was actually momentarily torn about what to do. It didn't help that Lauren was begging me to let her stay home and watch.

You'll be glad to know that I did make the right decision and told Lauren that we had to go to church. That brought forth much crying and gnashing of teeth.

Lauren wasn't all that thrilled either.

But I told her that the Bible clearly says that thou shall have no other idols before God. Hello. The show is called American IDOL. My choice was made for me thousands of years ago and my hands were tied.

So we went to church and are oh so proud that we persevered through this trying and tempting time in our lives. And we shall be rewarded in the great by and by.

Personally I am asking God to make sure Taylor Hicks isn't allowed to preform in heaven, but hey, we all have our own ideas about the rewards of heaven.

Next we'll work on the cabbage patch

I was teaching an ESL group today (that's English as a Second Language for the acronym impaired readers among us) when it came to my attention that out of the three boys in the group exactly zero percent of them knew what break dancing was. Of course I found that entirely unacceptable.

You may be asking yourself why we were talking about break dancing in class, but never you mind, I do not have the time to go into the complicated intricacies of the art of teaching here today.

Ahem.

Anyway, after I got over my appalledness at their woefully lacking education I tried to explain break dancing to my little Spanish speaking friends. Have you ever tried to explain breaking dancing to someone? It's really not as easy as it sounds. Eventually I had to get up and actually demonstrate some classic break dancing moves to them.

Have you ever tried to demonstrate break dancing? That's not as easy as it sounds either.

Let's just say it didn't go well. I fear they did not understand what walking like a retarded astronaut had to do with American dancing, though it was hard to tell by all the blank stares and blinking they directed my way. Apparently they don't appreciate the finer points of classic dance moves.

Right.

They struggled a bit with synonyms and antonyms as well at first. I didn't think they would ever understand the difference of the two. We had tried numerous examples of synonyms when I got to the word hot. Right before all my hair fell out in one frustrated pile their teacher came in to pick them up early. I told them to leave their dry erase boards on the table and I'd put their things away so their teacher didn't have to wait.

I picked up the first dry erase board. It said warm. Very good. I erased it and put it away.

I picked up the second board. It said worm (don't laugh. That actually makes sense. Seriously, sound it out. Phonetically it does say warm). Again, very good. They both understood that warm and hot were alike. Yay!

I picked up the third board. It said Mrs. S (insert my last name). Now this kid, he is obviously BRILLIANT. He totally understood synonyms. I immediately game him an A for the entire school year and referred him to the Gifted and Talented program. What else could I do??

Oh I kid. What kind of teacher do you think I am?

I only gave him an A for the semester.

Unfortunately my lovely teacher buzz was killed when my next group of children refused to believe that toodleooski was Russian for good-bye. What on earth happened to my credibility??

Perhaps they heard about the break dancing.

Happy Birthday Dad

I used to believe that I was born with twelve toes. My dad convinced me that a shark bit off my two extra toes and boy was I grateful to that shark! I am not even sure at what point I figured out the truth (I am seriously gullible).

The same ornery man convinced my brother, sister and me that a cocklebur was a porcupine egg. Oh how we tried to hatch that little bur. We put it in the windowsill to make sure it stayed extra warm and checked on it several times a day. We really wanted that baby porcupine!! One day we came in off the bus after school and all three of us ran to check on our porcupine egg and it was gone. Gasp! Immediately we all screamed (I'm the oldest, blame me) and jumped on the couch. I guess after a little thought we decided a porcupine on the loose was a bad idea. We stayed on that couch for hours until my parents got home. When they finally arrived mom confessed that she'd thrown it away because she was tired of having it in her window and that it was not really a porcupine egg. Dad didn't say much. He was too busy laughing.

My sixteenth birthday came and went without a driving test taking place. I had a car. I was just a chicken. I just knew as soon as I got my licsense I'd run over some innocent kitten. or puppy. or person. An entire year went by without me taking my driving test. An entire year! I don't know what to say about that. I was just a terribly shy and really pretty insecure girl. Well I'll never forget the day my dad showed up without warning and checked me out of school. I assumed at first my sister was hurt so I rushed to the office when they called for me (those kind of calls were pretty frequent and my biggest fear in life). But it wasn't my sister this time, it was my driving test. Both relief and dread flooded me in pretty near equal doses. I really didn't want to take my driving test. But I did take it and I passed and when I was fixin' to get my very first license picture taken my dad told me I had to take my ponytail down. He said they didn't allow them in the pictures. This was in 1990. I had tons of hairspray in my hair. I was horrified. My hair stayed up in some funky white girl impersonation of Don King . It was about six months later that my best friend took her driving test with HER PONYTAIL IN that I realized I'd been fooled and fooled good.

I could tell endless stories about my dad's mischievous side, but I could also tell endless stories about what an awesome, loving man he is and how he is always there for his family. He is the BEST.

Happy birthday Poopsie!!! We love you.

She should be selling used cars

I had to wake up bright and early this morning on account of the horrible thing that we people in the teaching business call morning duty. I find it very fitting that the word duty sounds like doodie, because, well, morning duty stinks a lot like real doodie.

Since I had to be at work early for stink duty I was trying to hurry the girls along. That was rather difficult to do with Brookie bent over the toilet heaving. She had been sick since last Friday, but she seemed better on Sunday. I was worried and thought I should stay home with her, but Dave said that it was just sinus drainage and that she needed to go. So I brought her crackers and sprite and her clothes and she got dressed in the bathroom.

When we got to school I went to the gym for morning duty and Brookie went to my classroom to spend some quality time with my trash can...lots of quality time. The two should be quite close now because when duty was over she was still bent over it. And when my first group ended she was still bent over it. I probably need to get them BFF necklaces because when my second, third and fourth groups were over she was still bent over it. I decided enough was enough. She needed to go home.

So I called her dad and he said that was nonsense. That I didn't need to miss work. She'd be fine. I explained that she was feeling terrible and heaving so much her tummy was hurting. He said she seemed fine yesterday when she was playing with her cousins (who were visiting from out of state) and to tell her to suck it up and go to class.

He can be a tough dad. I tried to talk to her about trying going to class, but it's rather hard to talk to someone with their head in a can. So I made an executive decision, took the day off and brought her home. Afterall I am the mom and am the one equipped with motherly insticts. She was obviously sick and the man had no idea what he was talking about.

Once I informed all the teachers that I was leaving so they wouldn't send students to my room I took Brooklyn home and put her to bed. I was a little nervous about making my own decision when her father had suggested something else, but I kept reminding myself that I knew better than he what was best for her.

I checked on her often and clearly the child was on her death bed.

The first time I peeked in on her she was in a pair of my heels. Clearly she was very sick. Everyone knows that dressing up makes you feel better. The poor dear was taking it upon herself to force herself to get better.

And apparently Madame was feeling poorly too because she dressed her up as well.

She even tried that age old method of 'feeding her cold'. Oh yes, she was a very sick girl.

And finally I found her in some kind of ritual with her Barbie. They used a fiber optic light to take the place of fire. I'm guessing she was praying to God for forgiveness for exaggerating her illness and making a fool of her gullible, soft hearted mama.

I really hate it when he's right.

Sweetness

Ya'll won't believe what Sharon over at Hustle Hag has done. She went and gave me award. And that's not the best part. The best part is that it's the 'you make my day' award and really, I can't think of a nicer compliment. Just knowing that something I do or say can bring a moment of happiness to someone else is all I could ever ask for out of blogging. Thank you Sharon for your sweetness. You rock!

So, do you wanna see it? Do you?? You must have ants of excitement in your pants. I know I do. So without further ado (I just love that word...ado...it is just so full of cuteness) here is my award...

Ta-Da!!! Isn't it adorable? I get to keep it over on my sidebar to remind of the tickledness I felt when I first saw it. Yippe Skippee!!

And now for another best part. I get to pick some blogs that 'make my day' and give them the award also. The instructions said to pick ten blogs, post about them and then leave them a comment telling them about the award. But you know me. I'm a rebel, so I only picked seven. It's not that there aren't other blogs that make my day, it's because I think I know all these ladies well enough to know they won't be bothered by this. So here is my list. These are all women that make me smile A LOT and I am ever so grateful to each and every one of them...

MomMom's Rant

A Mid Size Home on the Prairie

For Love of Home

Tara's Blog

Toto, I Have a Feeling We're Not In Kansas Anymore

The Jackson Journey

John Deere Mom

Okay Ladies, it's your turn to bless someone else. Who makes YOUR day??

Babbling Can Cure Sad Pants

Hi my devoted readers of babble! How was your day?? BOTH girls are sick so I am having to sit at home and miss out on helping at The Power Team tonight event tonight. That made me sad in my pants so I decided to do something to cheer myself up.

Step one: Comfy cozy pj's. It's hard to get happy in tight jeans.

Step two: Eat an ice cream sandwich. How can you be sad eating that?

Step three: Put on a movie guaranteed to cheer you up each and every time you watch it, Sister Act. When I see Nun Whoopie up there shaking her booty in her habit and those little old ladies signing I just HAVE to smile.

Step four: Babbling. I can't help it. I'm a born babbler and when I am down I need to babble to someone to work the sad out of my system. So guess who the poor saps lucky souls are that get to read my drivel babbling?

Uh huh, it's you! Don't let your excitement overwhelm you.

First I have to elaborate on a recent comment left on my blog. You may or may not have noticed someone talking about the time a student bit me on the...um, boob. Since so many of the wonderful teachers and parents from the school I currently teach at read this blog I thought it might be prudent to reassure them that I am not in the habit of letting students put their mouths on me. Well, there was that time last year that boy licked me in the face, sorta cow like with one big lick that started at the bottom of my face and went ALL the way back up, but I am told he only does that if he really likes you, so that wasn't really a lick, it was more like a compliment (see how my warped brain operates?).

Now back to the attack on my boobage. Here's what happened (and Regina, no laughing...you got enough kicks outta this when it actually happened)...

One morning I was out on my morning jog, well I walked some too, so to be fair let's call it my morning jalk (half walk, half jog)...Okay, so I was out on my jalk with a friend of mine that was an aide at our campus. She mentioned that she was going to be out for a few days and none of the other aides would cover her bus route (she road a bus and helped with some mentally handicapped children in the mornings). I immediately offered to fill in for her and we went on jalking.

Bright and early the next morning I showed up to help on her bus route. The first day was challenging, the two brothers she rode with were a little rowdy and liked to throw things at you. The youngest was cute and smiled a lot, especially when he hit you in the back of the head with the buckle on the seatbelt. That really made him happy.

The second day I came prepared. I brought some of those books with the bug eyes in them that stick out through all the pages and crack you up. I hoped that would be more entertaining that trying to kill me. My brilliant plan worked great until we stopped to drop the youngest child off. The teacher on duty by the bus drop off wanted to talk to the bus driver (this really nice man) and leaving the bus running, he hops off to answer her questions about a note he delivered to the mom for them the day before.

This is where things went terribly awry. The oldest child, I guess he was 13, suddenly makes a dash for the drivers seat of the bus, which as I mentioned a moment ago, was STILL RUNNING. Okay. This is in the morning, before school and there are children everywhere. I had visions of him throwing the bus into drive and running amuck through masses of screaming children. So I put my hands around his shoulders (he was as tall as I am...that's not really saying, much, but still he was as tall as me) and I pulled him away from the driver's seat. Somehow in the struggle that ensued he ended up facing me as he tried to lunge sideways toward the steering wheel. I yelled out the door for help from the bus driver (suddenly I understood why they had a male driver who was rather large) and while the we struggled and the driver ran towards us, the boy latched down onto my boob with all the might in his little choppers.

OUCH!

It really, really hurt. We managed to get him to detach and then I tried to pretend like nothing happened. But oh no, there was to be none of that. My lovely boss (stop laughing woman, I mean it) insisted I fill out an accident report and then called down to my room that afternoon ON THE INTERCOM and said they needed me to come down so they could take a picture of my injury (she made sure I was alone first). Of course she was kidding about the picture, but I did have one heck of a bruise from that bite.

We found out later from his teachers (we sent him to a school nearby with a life skills unit so we didn't know about his nija teeth) that this was his preferred method of attack. It would have been nice for the teachers at that neighboring school to have warned us. But it's ok. My boob and I forgive you. Good thing he bit my right boob, because my left boob is not nearly as forgiving.

Now you know the entire story and you can rest assured I shall not be attempting to turn any of your children into cannibals.

Hold on to your panties cause I have some terrific news. I am not done babbling yet! I know it is so hard to handle all this excitement, but please try (and you can stop holding your panties now, people are staring).

Last night was night number two of The Power Team Event and we had an even bigger group come up and accept Christ as their savior. I'd guess it was close to two hundred, but I haven't heard an official count. This time there were several entire families that came forward. It was so amazing!

I mentioned in my first Power Team post that my husband was a little nervous about the amount of FIRE in the high school. Last night they did the fire bit again and I snapped some pictures (of horrible quality) with my phone and I thought I'd share a few pics of what panicked my principal hubby.

This was on the stage in our high school auditorium. I guess I can kinda see why he was nervous...if I turn my head sideways...and squint just a little...yes, I can sorta see why he had a bit of anxiety over the situation.

I better hush now. Don't be too sad. I babble a lot and I'll be back later ( and seriously, let go of those panties it's getting a little weird).