What's in a Name?

Have you ever wondered how much your name has to do with who you are?  I mean, if your parents named you Helga Brunhilda, are you destined to be a rather masculine female wrestler?  If your name is Joseph Robert, are you certain to become a redneck named Joe Bob?  Or what about the opposite side of that coin?  What if your parents named you Tiffany Heather Amber, do you have any choice but to become a beautiful, but ditzy, cheerleader?

The reason I wonder about this is not so much about my children, wondering whether I've helped or hindered them with their names.  No, rather it's about the animals who live in my house.

The old man of the bunch is Socks.  Socks began life six years ago, shortly after we moved into this house.  He was the teeniest little runt of the litter you ever saw!  Mostly black, but with a white chest, white markings on his face, four little white socks on his paws and stunning green eyes.  His mother ignored him, so I fed him by hand for a few weeks.  One of his front paws was smaller than the other, and it appeared for a while that he was going to always walk with a limp (it later caught up with the others).  But you must know, of course, of another famous Socks; Socks in the Clinton administration.  I believe, by naming our cat after a Democratic cat, we have altered his perception of the world; our Socks is a staunch believer in the welfare system.  He hangs out all day on the recliner, waiting for someone to give him a handout (dinner).

The next member of our little animal clan is Mr. Jingles Wigglebottom, Jingles for short.  He's a Jack Russel terrier, and he has no idea that he's five years old.  He thinks he's still a puppy.  Santa brought Jingles to us (hence the name), and he was the cutest little thing!  He's still seriously cute and funny, and he's fairly small, but he thinks he's the biggest dog on the block.  And he absolutely CANNOT sit still.  But with a name like Jingles Wigglebottom, does he have a choice?  Really?

Then there's Piglet, the guinea pig.  She was just your average guinea pig when we brought her home for Chloe's ninth birthday.  A year and a half later, she barely fits through the tunnel of her house.  Piglet has become Hogzilla!  If we had named her Tiny, would she still fit in the hamster-sized ball we originally bought her (because she doesn't now)?

And now, we come to the latest addition to our family.  Last December, while waiting for Charles to pay for dog and cat stocking stuffers (yes, we are that kind of people), I wandered over to look at some cats in cages.  Most of them just looked at me with boredom, as cats are wont to do.  One actually growled at me.  But one sweet, fluffy little kitty jumped up and began purring, meowing and rubbing her head against the finger I poked through the bars.  I fell in love on the spot.  But alas, I know my husband is not fond of cats.  One was enough.

But I just couldn't get that sweet little girl out of my thoughts.  So the next day, Charles told me to call and see what we needed to do to adopt her.  She was home with us by Christmas.  The people at the cat rescue had named her Antoinette.  It seemed to fit, so we kept it.  In retrospect, we should have known.; you've never seen a more self-absorbed, needy kitty than Antoinette.  Fresh water in her bowl isn't good enough; no, we have to turn the bathroom faucet on for her to get a drink (oh, and now she's taught the other one to expect it, too).  If I'm reading, apparently that's the signal that her head MUST be rubbed thoroughly.  If there was ever a cat who was an Antoinette, it's her.

So did we set our animal family on the paths to the creatures they would become?  Would they be different if we had named them Fluffy, Fido, Tiny and Teresa?  Or would they still be a lazy moocher, a hyper dervish, a collossal furball and a demanding prima donna?

Ah, well, we may never know.  So...let them eat catnip!

My Favorite Hat

I love hats!  I have several of them, and if my husband would let me, I'd buy several more!  Big hats, small ones, hats with flowers or feathers, hats with netting over the face, winter hats, sun hats, you name it.  I love hats!

But my very favorite hat is...drum roll, please...my Mom Hat!  The reason I like the Mom Hat is that it's never the same.  Oh, sure, sometimes, it's the drab Laundry Hat, or the Dishwashing Hat -- or worse yet, the Playroom Cleaning Hat!  Ick!

Most of the time, though, the Mom Hat is fun, fun, fun!  The Mom Hat is the one I wear when I play with my daughter in the pool, seeing how many times we can volley the beachball back and forth, without it hitting the water (or bouncing out).  It's the one I wear when the kids and I go to the library, and my kids come to show me the books they've found and can't wait to read.  I wear the Mom Hat when we go fun places, like the Parker County Peach Festival a few weeks ago.

Sometimes, the Mom Hat will get a little "dark", if you will, causing me to throw Pop-Its off the balcony at my unsuspecting son.  In case you're not familiar with Pop-It's, they are little bits of paper containing just a small amount of gunpowder and "something else" (?); when you throw them at a solid surface -- say the dining room table where your son is sitting playing games on his father's laptop...or the book your son is holding in his lap as he sits in the recliner and reads -- they explode!  It's a pretty good bang for your buck, pardon my pun.

It's the dark Mom Hat that will cause me to suddenly veer into the path of my son as we walk the aisles of Wal-Mart; there is something pretty comical about watching 6'5" of teenage boy trying to avoid running over his mother.  Trust me.  If you have access to a very tall teenage boy, try it sometime.

Sometimes the Mom Hat has to be firm, telling my children they can't do something they want to do, or telling them they HAVE to do something they don't want to do.  Hey, the Laundry Hat is one size fits all, you know.

But the Mom Hat is also the one I wear when my daughter reminds me that she's not as grown up as she thinks she is, by asking me to read her a story and tuck her in at night.  My Mom Hat is the one I wear when my son prays at church, and I know his Mo and Papaw would be proud of him.  The Mom Hat is the one I wear when my children's teachers at church or school tell me how much they enjoy having my kids in their class; in fact, it's the Mom Hat that keeps my head from getting too big at such times, reminding me that my children aren't just a product of me and my brilliance, but are, in fact, a product of my whole family, my church family and most of all, my God.

The Mom Hat...it goes with any outfit.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!

In the spring, when the world begins to wake up and the breezes grow warmer, and the sun spends a little more time in the sky, I will be the first one to start bugging my husband about getting the pool in shape for swimming.  If I could ignore my responsibilities, I'd stay in the pool 24/7 by the time July rolls around.  However.  I can't ignore my responsibilities, because apparently nobody else in my household knows how the dishwasher, washer and dryer, broom, mop and vacuum cleaner work.  Sad, but true.

So it's about this time of year, as I'm flipping through CDs to find some music, that I will suddenly STOP!  The temptation is just too great, and I absolutely MUST listen to a Christmas CD.  Or maybe I'm sitting on my bed folding laundry, I flip through the channels on TV, and suddenly, my remote no longer works!  It has frozen on Disney's "A Christmas Carol", or better yet, "The Polar Express".

Yep, it's right about now, when I know we have several more weeks, probably months, actually, of this nearly unbearable heat to withstand, that I begin longing for the crisp breezes of autumn, followed shortly by short days and long nights in which Christmas lights twinkle happily.  I long for Saturday mornings on the patio with my husband and a cup of coffee -- we tried it last Saturday morning, but the heat quickly chased us back inside.  I long for soup and hot chocolate and gloomy, rainy winter days.

I know those days are coming.  I just have to be patient, and enjoy pool-time in between laundry, dishes and so on.  I know I need to enjoy it, because as soon as it gets too chilly to swim, I'll find myself gazing longingly out at the pool in the back yard.

Pigeonholes and Predictions

I have always hated questions like, "What is the word that best describes you?"  What is that?  One word?  Seriously?  Okay, how about stumped?  That's one word.  Because yes, if you try to make me describe myself with one word, that's what I'll be!  Who can describe themselves in one word?  Generally, it's only people we dislike whom we can describe with one word:  mean, selfish, dishonest, lazy, stupid.  But the people we like?  Including ourselves?  Oh, we could go on for a while, couldn't we?  Kind, loving, smart, funny, generous, helpful, compassionate...see?

I just don't think I'm all that easy to pigeonhole into one word.  I'm pretty unpredictable.  As a result, I find it interesting to look at my own blog occasionally and see what ads have popped up for the day.  On my other blog, The Happy Heart, it's fairly simple to figure out; my Happy Heart blog is about...well, having a happy heart because of my faith in God.  So most of the ads on there are about some type of "ministry" or other.  I get it.

You see, the ads are generated by the content of the blog.  Keywords, such as scripture, worship, God and the like, will cause certain ads to appear on my blog page.  If people click on those ads, I get money.  (Then I can honestly say I'm a paid writer, woo hoo!  So feel free to click on any of them!)

But this blog?  The Weenie Wife?  I don't think the ad generator has quite figured me out.  When I wrote about bathing babies, there was an ad for bathtub refinishing.  But I have this image of a little computer somewhere saying, "Weenies?  Bathtubs?  Pigeons?" until it finally just implodes on itself.  So I intend to continue writing about the weirdness that is my train of thought, just to see if the little computer can keep up and figure me out.  Maybe after a year or so, I'll email the little computer and ask, "What one word would you use to describe me?"  I can't wait to see what it says.  I'm betting on random.

Baby Toe Soup

While cleaning Chloe's disaster -- I mean room -- this week, I ran across an old Polaroid of Harley.  He was probably about a year old, back when I thought he was going to be a rather petite guy, instead of the monster he is today at 16.  He was in the tub, with a huge "hat" made of foam Silly Soap.  When my kids were little, I was forever making beards, hats, horns, etc. out of Silly Soap when they were in the tub.  Both of my kids were fond of just lying in the tub, listening to the sound of the world as muffled by the water.  One of us would always look down at them and say, "Baby Toe Soup!"

Anyway, the picture reminded me of all the times I bathed my kids when they were little.  During those days, there were so many toys in the tub I actually put them all in one of those plastic tubs they give you in the hospital -- you know, the one they send home with you that has all the weird, random stuff you get in the hospital.  (Random stuff, which, by the way, would probably cut health care costs considerably if they gave you a choice of whether or not you wanted it.  Just a thought.)

There were ducks in the tub.  Lots of ducks.  Come to think of it, there is a duck in my own tub, even as I write this many years later.  Go figure.  There were G.I. Joes, plastic cups, random animals, random Happy Meal toys, random pieces from games -- seems to have been a random theme in my life, huh?

When the kids were little, though, and they'd come out of the tub all wrinkly and clean and sweet smelling (at least for a time), Charles and I would snuggle them up in a big fluffy towel.  While we dried them and dressed them, the one thing we absolutely could not resist was nibbling on their chubby little toes.  There is just something about baby feet and toes!  Anytime I see a baby, my fingers just itch to take off their tiny little socks and see those precious little piggies!  It is, for me, an absolutely irresistible compulsion.

So here it is, one of the very best recipes you'll ever find on the web or anywhere else:

Baby Toe Soup
Ingredients:

1 baby (more if you prefer)
Water (enough to splash)
Toys, cups (enough for fun, but not enough that the baby won't fit)
Silly Soap (enough for one hat or pair of horns)

Put all ingredients into a tub and mix till baby is pruny!  Once baby is wrinkly, remove from water, drain tub and wrap baby in large fluffy towel.  Toss baby gently on a bed of clean sheets and enjoy.  Note:  This recipe DOES NOT KEEP.  It only lasts for about six years, so enjoy your Baby Toe Soup while you have it.

Trashy Ten-Year Olds

No, the title does NOT refer to the participants of "Toddlers & Tiaras", although it certainly COULD.  No, friends, the title refers to my adventures yesterday in my daughter's room.  My darling daughter, Chloe Skye, is a Door Dropper.  What's a Door Dropper, you ask?  A Door Dropper is a child who, when told, "Go put this away" about any object, will take said object to whichever room it belongs, and DROP IT RIGHT IN THE DOOR!

When I tell her, "If you don't go put these stuffed animals away, I'm throwing them out!", a short time later, I will find those very animals abandoned in the doorway of the playroom.  If I tell her to go put away some laundry -- laundry which I have just finished washing, drying and folding, mind you -- the next time I go upstairs, I will see that same laundry lying haphazardly in the doorway of her room. Are you starting to get the picture?

A few months ago, we brought home some sixty-plus books from the school district's book swap.  Most of the books were in an old Dole banana box.  And by "old", I mean this box was in no way capable of successfully holding about forty books.  And yet, that's exactly what we did.  Needless to say, by the time we got home, the box situation was getting pretty precarious.  By the time Chloe had gone through the books again, it was even worse.  So when she decided to bring the box in from the playroom a few weeks ago, things were getting seriously unstable.  Naturally, I said, "Chloe, do NOT leave that ratty box in the middle of my living room!"

I fully expected her to drag the box back to the playroom.  Silly me.  The next time I went upstairs, there was that box of books in the doorway of her room.  Except it was no longer a box.  It was now a random pile of books, surrounded by the remnants of the cardboard box, which had clearly given up.  Do you know what happens when you have a pile of books in a doorway?  Those books begin to migrate.  Some migrate into the hall, others migrate further into the room, still others migrate under the bed, thereby blocking the trundle bed from being properly stowed beneath the other bed.

Furthermore, the books cause other things to migrate, as well.  With the books staunchly guarding the doorway, nothing else can get more than a few feet into the room.  And nothing can get out of the room, either.  No dirty laundry, no items of clothing that have been outgrown and should be tossed in the "donate" bag, no trash, no empty Guinea pig food bags, NOTHING!  It all stays, and the majority of it stays right in the doorway, like some hideous highway accident in which no vehicles can pass in either direction, and from which, you simply cannot look away!

So yesterday, I braved the horror of the doorway, and waded into the abyss that was Chloe's room.  I found four water bottles, two cups, three spoons (but no bowls, go figure), two cook books (I guess they go with the spoons), enough doll clothes to wardrobe several American Girls, clothing that Chloe, herself, hasn't worn in who knows how long, enough blankets, throws, quilts and comforters to keep the population of Siberia warm in January, three of the pairs of shorts I told Chloe were long enough to take to camp (so why did I have to buy several new pairs?), and TRASH!  Oh, I'm sure some of it wasn't trash to her, but she's at camp, so she'll never know I filled three trash bags worth of random stuff in her room.  That will be our little secret, okay?

The Weenie Wife

Years ago, I was pushing my nephew, Jeff, through a grocery store.  He was, oh, maybe three years old.  He was sitting in the cart, grinning up at me, saying, "Sing the weenie song!"  So sing it, I did.  "Again!" he cried, giggling.  So I sang it again.  He didn't know it at the time, but he pretty much had me wrapped around his chubby little finger.  (His little brother, Cliff would do the same.)

Now, many years have passed, and I still find that song will occasionally just pop into my head.  Once it's there, you're kind of stuck with it for a while, till some other earworm comes along to usurp its place.  I have sung that song to my own children, and will probably sing it to their children.  (There's a lot to be said for family legacies, you know.)

Anyway, when that song weasels its way into my brain, I always grin.  I have, in fact, found my weenie man.  Oh, he doesn't actually own a hot dog stand; he's a catastrophe adjuster.  But he is my other half, my soulmate.  He is the hot dog to my bun, the mustard to my onion...dare I say, the tater to my tot?

I love my weenie man dearly, along with our two little weenies -- although, in truth, the oldest "little weenie" is more of a jumbo dog, at 6' 5".  And the younger one is more of a "bun length", as she will soon be taller than I am!

So that's us.  Four weenies in a pack, and we have a great time.  Hopefully, my adventures and foibles will provide a laugh or two for someone out there on the web.