Shopping with the Sin-dicate

by Rhonda Schrock

It was a dark and stormy night.  Well, actually it was a Thursday.  The cupboard was bare and the small fry were threatening to mutiny.  My husband, doing the “hard thing,” volunteered to stay at home with Little Houdini, the toddler, and “let” me go with the kids. 

As I recall, it all went south over by the meat case.  That’s where I ran into our next-door neighbors and made the grave mistake of turning my back on the mob.  Mistake number two, as I soon discovered, was letting them have their own carts.  

Done with the neighborly chat and ready to shop, I noted that they’d disappeared, leaving me alone sans cart.  Muttering, I started on the list, keeping one eye out for any glimpse of them.  Catching up in the chip aisle, I deposited my load, which they proceeded to divvy up amongst themselves, and tossed in a bag of Doritos. 

A fight broke out when the youngest one proclaimed exclusive chip-carrying rights.  The senior, wanting to demonstrate his authority/superiority, snatched them up out of Little Brother’s cart (cart C) and horked them into his own (cart A).  In the melee that followed, son #2 saw his chance and darted in to pilfer the grapes from Little Brother, smuggling them into his cart (cart B). 

Not even stopping to find a phone booth, I donned my “special suit (you know the one)” and moved to quell the protest.  Then, leading the small sin-dicate in 1-2-3 order through the cereal aisle, I exercised my right as a parent to frustrate them utterly and said “no” to chocolate flavored sugar bombs, “no” to Fruit Roll-Ups, and a loud “no” to a plea for Pop Tarts. 

I lost them again in ethnic foods.  I didn’t actually notice until I was cantering through fruits and vegetables, carrying seven cans with nary a one of my three able-bodied sons – or their carts – in sight.  Spotting the neighbors at the end of the aisle, I gave them a weak smile.  I would have waved, but I was too busy juggling my seven cans. 

When I caught up to them again in dairy, they were still playing hot potato with the chips.  As son #1, cart A, made the umpteenth grab and streaked past the fish tanks, a lady standing close by snickered into the yogurt, and when I announced to those remaining that I was considering adoption for the whole lot of ‘em, there were outright guffaws. 

Recalling my paranoia in earlier years regarding kidnappers, I laughed out loud.  Where, I asked myself, is a good, old-fashioned kidnapper when you really want one?  I turned my back for an extra 90 seconds just to give him plenty of time if he happened to be lurking.  When he didn’t appear, I reluctantly collected the hooligans, trailing grapes through the baby food aisle, and headed for home. 

Now you understand why I voluntarily “admit” myself to the local coffeehouse for regular “therapy.”  Twice a week isn’t excessive; it’s the bare minimum. As for the sin-dicate, there will be an altar call when I get back from “therapy.”  All little sinners are expected to repent forthwith.  And regarding their father, next time I will “do the hard thing” and “let” him take them shopping for once. 

Rhonda Schrock is the mother of 4 sons (ages 21, 18, 13, and 5).  She is a working-from-home transcriptionist and also pens a weekly column for The Goshen News, appropriately titled “Grounds for Insanity.”  You can see why.  For more insanity, visit her at “The Natives are Getting Restless."

Fourteen hours with 'Dale, Jr.' and the pit crew

by Rhonda Schrock

Note:  This column was written during the 2008 holiday season.  It’s all still true.

 

Surviving a 14-hour car trip with 6 people and 12 kidneys is a Christmas miracle right there.  I’m not the only one with an imagination around here.  Mr. Schrock’s got a very colorful one himself.  In our younger years, I honestly think he fancied himself to be Dale Earnhardt, Jr. 

 

You could see a visible change come over him as he took his place at the wheel.  There was a determined set to his jaw and a glint in his eye.  His body language shouted, “I’m here to conquer and to win!”  Mentally, he would don a one-piece racing suit and a helmet before gunning it out the lane at the sound of the imaginary gun.

 

I learned real quick that “The Manly Guidebook for Conquering the Open Road” didn’t include potty breaks.  They simply weren’t necessary.  If we all went before we left, then we could surely wait until we got there.  At the very least, we should easily be able to make it to St. Louis, which was seven hours in and halfway there.

 

See, if we had to stop, then all those semis he’d just passed would sail right by.  So what if they were a friendly bunch, giving us a special wave that either meant we were number one with them or that we had one lap to go.  We were never quite sure.  Either way, getting passed meant you were the loser.

 

However, even he had to relent and let us out once he realized our kidneys were about to shut down.  With the blood vessels popping in our eyeballs, legs crossed, we would slosh in to the gas station while he circled the building, honking.  At least that’s how I remember it.

 

To my relief, the trip down went well.  Things got dicey, though, when they started singing, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall” about 20 minutes down the road.  The singing stopped abruptly when their father killed the sound on their movie, spoiling their fun.  I heard one of them mutter to his brother in the darkness, “Told you he’d shut us down at 95.”

 

Not being a road warrior myself, I’ve tried various feminine wiles in an effort to get out of driving.  “Look at how your muscles ripple,” I might say in a wheedling tone as he grips the wheel to make a turn.  This only earns me a baleful glare that clearly says, “You’re not fooling me.” 

 

Hence, the fact that I drove for 3-1/2 hours in the dead of night to give him a break should count for something.  It wasn’t my fault that he couldn’t sleep, thanks to the incredibly windy conditions.  Sure, it may have been distracting, having the driver shout, “Lean to the left!” and, “Pile to the right!” to get us around the curves without tipping over, causing him to “flip and flop (his words),” but he didn’t have to get cranky about it.

 

All I want for Christmas is one more miracle – getting home with 12 healthy kidneys and a bit of flop-free sleeping.  Is that too much to ask?

 

Rhonda and her husband are raising four sons.  She telecommutes from the reservation (i.e., her home) while riding shotgun on the hungry horde.  Additionally, she is a weekly columnist and professional blogger who finds hilarity anywhere, including, but not limited to the toothpaste aisle, the laundry room, a church pew, and the Winter Olympics.  She chronicles the tribe's latest shenanigans on her blog, The Natives are Getting Restless.

Wheat harvest, can kickin', and revival meetin's

by Rhonda Schrock

“Knee high by Fourth of July.” That’s the rule of thumb in these parts, and sure enough.  Every day when I go out to run, the corn seems to have shot up another inch or two. 

 

A less common sight here is a wheat field.  Every time I pass one and see those golden stalks waving in the breeze, I am instantly transported back to the summers of my childhood. 

 

Growing up on the Kansas plains, we had little technology for entertainment.  Instead, we had 19 cousins and Grandpa’s wheat farm.  Thus, summers consisted of the annual wheat harvest with combine rides, chewing grain ‘til it turned to gum, drinking cold Pepsi from glass bottles, and playing the family favorite, Kick the Can.

 

With lots of outbuildings, lanes, and trees, there were plenty of places to hide on the farm.  As the seeker hid his eyes, counting, the rest of us would scatter like mice. 

 

Believe me, nothing sends a shiver down your spine like hearing the sound of feet coming toward you in the night.  Every nerve tingles.  The darkness is full of danger, and your imagination comes alive with colorful images of what may be hiding behind you in the wash house.  I hate to admit it, but I’m no Joan of Arc when the lights go out. 

 

Suddenly, shouts would ring out, followed by the sounds of panicked flight as the chaser and the chasee raced for the tin can.  If the chasee arrived first, a mighty metallic “whang” could be heard as he or she kicked the can for all they were worth before tearing off to hide once more. 

 

Of course, there was occasional dissension in the ranks when injustice was discovered.  An informal trial was usually convened, which generally involved only the slightest hint of law and absolutely no semblance of order.  Often, it shook out to be boys against girls with whoever argued the loudest coming out on top. 

 

For instance, when Cousin Don began employing his retired K9 dog, Adam, to sniff us out, there was full-blown mutiny.  The court session that followed made the Nuremberg trials look positively tame.  (If you think it takes a long time to design and build gallows, you’ve not seen a batch of indignant little Yoder cousins who’ve just been cheated.  We’re pretty darn fast.) 

 

Once in awhile, though, our play took a more – um, spiritual turn, and we’d play church.  For whatever reason, the “evangelist” who’d “bring the Word” to us was one of the older boy cousins, a real stinker with an occasional streak of mean.  His repertoire included starting water fights, calling us names, shouting insults, hurting our feelings, and making us cry.  Which certainly gives new meaning to the phrase “bully pulpit.” 

 

Anyway, in spite of his own checkered past, when he’d give the “invitation” at the end of his “message,” we, the congregants, would dutifully respond by lifting our hands.  “Yes, I see your hand,” he would solemnly intone before leading us in a prayer of repentance. 

 

And that’s how we spent our summers – no video games, cell phones, or movies; just cousins, fresh air, room to run, and a large extended family who, though imperfect, gave us roots and a legacy that money cannot buy.  Perhaps that, after all, is the best way to grow up.


Rhonda and her husband are raising four sons with their own passel of cousins.  She telecommutes from the reservation (i.e., her home) while riding shotgun on the hungry horde.  Additionally, she is a weekly columnist and professional blogger who finds hilarity anywhere, including, but not limited to the toothpaste aisle, the laundry room, a church pew, and the Winter Olympics.  She chronicles the tribe's latest shenanigans on her blog, The Natives are Getting Restless. 

Local Procrastinators Anonymous leader makes resolutions... for others

by Rhonda Schrock

A new year has begun.  A fresh chapter waits to be written, along with my goals for the year. 

I like goals, see, but I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions.  For the most part, they don’t seem to work.  If I were, however, this would be a prime example of what I, as a responsible citizen, should make one about.  But because I’m a procrastinator and proud leader of the local PA (Procrastinators Anonymous), the list remains blank. 

This whole procrastinating deal is just ripe for a firm, strongly-worded resolution.  Interesting things happen when it shows up in the laundry room, for instance.  Let’s say ‘someone’ is getting ready to go to work at a local restaurant and suddenly realizes that none of his uniforms have been washed.  Panic sets in.  Inside of 30 seconds, he has convened a one-man tribunal, and the head laundress is tried, convicted, and court-martialed.  Never mind that he is a muscular, able-bodied young man.  I’m about to be hung. 

Or let’s say Mr. Schrock is getting ready to run and discovers that his favorite running suit is still in the hamper.  Oops!  Clearly, his recycling tendencies come to a screeching halt in front of the washer.  When I suggested he try this, he stared at me as if I’d sprouted a third eyeball.  And when I offered him a fresh pair of jeans to run in, he simply went back to waving his arms in the air, which, I noted, were whole and unbroken. 

He, on the other hand, has made two resolutions – to lose weight and to get more sleep.  If I were into resolutions, this would be a great place to start.  After all, if toddlers start crying and small dogs set to barking when you back up, something should be done. 

What would really be fun, however, is if, for one year, we could make resolutions for other people.  Now, I could get into that.  Here’s how my list would begin. 

“I resolve that heretofore sons one, two, and three shall quit running the 50-gallon hot water heater dry.  Effective immediately, all showers shall be of moderate duration.  There’s no need to shower through another birthday.  I simply refuse to serve cake and ice cream under the shower head. 

Furthermore, all baths shall be no more than six inches deep.  This is not Sea World and you are not dolphins. 

To make this whole deal more fun, I resolve that you shall adopt your cousins’ strategy and make a contest out of it.  Using their trusty stopwatch, they have set a record of two men racing through the shower and presenting downstairs in their PJs in 2 minutes and 7 seconds.  If you want to see your mother speechless for once, beat that. 

 Lastly, I resolve that Mr. Schrock and his eldest son and heir shall, using their four perfectly good arms, learn to run the washer so that I no longer have to face the firing squad should I forget to launder certain very special garments.  This would greatly improve my life expectancy and my stress level.  Thank you for cooperating.  You may sign right here.”

Disclaimer: As no scratch-n-sniff test was applied to the nephews, their level of cleanliness cannot be verified.  At least they got wet, and that’s the point. 

Rhonda is a working-from-home mother of four sons, a weekly columnist, and a professional blogger.  To read more of her tribal adventures, visit her blog, The Natives are Getting Restless.    

Going once...going twice...the chucks are sold!

by Rhonda Schrock

It’s been going on for weeks.  Mr. Schrock is starting to look a little peaked, eyes darting from side to side with an occasional covert glance at the phone book.  Any day now, I expect to find him hunched over the yellow pages, leafing furtively through the travel agent section. 

If it’s the oil that needs changing, he’s all over it.  If I need a picture hung, wood split, or the vehicles washed, he’s my man.  It’s the frequent – um, reminders of my wardrobe deficits that have him looking pale around the gills.  Fixer and problem solver that he is, he’s out of his depth on this one.  Which is why, I suspect, he’s thinking of jumping a trawler bound for Monaco. 

Believe it or not, this girl finds it hard to let go of her hard-earned money in the clothing section.  Not only that, I find myself struck with paralysis there, unable to make a decision.  So I leave, empty handed and frustrated again.  And I mention it. 

It would be a great relief for all involved to have this issue resolved.  That’s why I’m turning to eBay to raise a little money.  Surely there are some items around here that I could auction off for my clothing drive. 

Take these plastic light sabers.  I think it’s time for them to go.  Why the boys love these things is beyond me.  I’m no Hillary Clinton, but the minute the slashing and whacking start up, I become Secretary of Our Small State.  Mom’s my name, and riot suppression’s my game. 

I can only wish they were veterans.  As in “our fighting days are over and we are docile members of a lodge” veterans.  As in FFFFs (Former Fighters of Foreign Fracases).  But no.  These guys are DFMSs, or Domestic Fighters of Modern-day Skirmishes.  That’s why the sabers must be sold. 

I can’t say all that, of course, so I’ll have to get a bit creative when I write it up.  “For sale,” the ad might read.  “Three plastic sabers in good condition.  Guaranteed to stimulate the imagination, transforming a boy into a Jedi knight or ancient warrior.

“High safety profile with a softly-rounded plastic tip (I won’t mention the welts).  Purchase of more than one will ensure hours of animated sibling interaction.  Your bid is your vote for family ties and good times.  Available in purple, green, and red.”

The next item I could auction for cash is the pair of chucks, or high-topped basketball shoes that routinely park in the middle of the floor.  Somewhere in our gene pool, wires got crossed or something dark was spliced in because the Schrock children have a genetic mutation that scientists have recently identified as the plopping gene. 

This is manifested by compulsive plopping of backpacks, jackets, and sneakers directly in the traffic stream.  Including the offending chucks.  Numerous reminders have only left me with inflamed vocal cords, so I’m taking matters into my own gloved hands.  These babies are going up on the block. 

“Lightly worn, high-topped canvas basketball shoes,” I’ll say.  “Size 9.  Color, black.  Style highly reminiscent of the movie ‘Hoosiers.’  Likely to evoke dreams of glory, of unlikely champions, and of underdogs that win.  Hearkens to an era of soda shops, family values, and Lucille Ball.  Click here to place your bid.”

Next up is the requisite bucket of Legos that every family with boys has per the Mandatory Lego Law of Sixty-Six.  This was passed by senators, all male, who obviously had no sons themselves.  I know this for a fact because I know who usually cleans stuff up.  It’s not the daddies.  Believe me, the mamas know how hard it is to find all those pieces the kids just dumped out.  A woman would’ve thought twice before passing a law like that. 

I also know this because stepping on a Barbie in the dark of night is not the same as stepping on a Lego block.  One sharp piece implanted in your foot and you’d remember it when that bill came through.  You would also remember hopping up and down on one leg and all the unsavory words that the “praise the Lord” had to jump over to get out.  No way you’re voting yes after that. 

This is why I’m selling that bucket.  Of course, I’ll tout it as the eighth wonder of the world, a creativity enhancer for little geniuses.  Why, thanks to those colorful pieces, I’ll enthuse, you may discover you have a world-famous engineer or architect on your hands who will one day, bless his little heart, build the next Eiffel tower. 

I could, if I were very brave, put that Other Pile up for sale to advance my cause.  The “Other Pile” is the one I walk by every night.  It consists of khaki trousers and a sharp dress shirt that were – well, plopped just this side of the laundry room.  Thing is, The Plopper knows where I live, and he’s already out of sorts about the whole clothes thing.  I think I’ll hold on this.  For now.   


Rhonda Schrock (aka The Lively One) thinks those boys should bow and give thanks that it was only the chucks, Legos, and light sabers being auctioned on eBay.  One of these days, they may not be so lucky.  Visit her over on the rez, The Natives are Getting Restless, for more tales of mischief and misdemeanors.


Photo credit: sodahead.com

Sometimes you vote, sometimes you don't

by Rhonda Schrock

Election Day is a big day.  That's when we get to exercise that great right of American citizenship – the right to vote.  It’s also a day of liberation as we will finally be delivered from the relentless political ads and the countless talking heads on every major network.  I figure we’ve got about two weeks of silence before the next election cycle starts up again. 

 

Reflecting on the amazing privilege we as Americans have of choosing our own leaders has made me grateful again for this country.  In many countries, governments are run by dictators who rule with an iron fist and shotguns.  Contrary to what a couple of boys I know seem to think, these are all located overseas. 

 

For some reason, the political process got me thinking this week about all the things in life that we don’t get a vote on.  Take, for instance, your family of origin.  There is, to my knowledge, no in utero voting.  When you exit that birth canal, you have already been assigned to the breathless, eager family that is assembled, most of them in the waiting room with a few that everyone wishes were on the Outer Banks. 

 

Through no choice of your own, you become a branch on your particular family tree.  As you grow older and become more aware, you realize that some family trees have more nuts than others.  You didn’t choose, for example, to have an Uncle Joe that spits when he talks or an Aunt Susie who snorts when she laughs or a Cousin Felix who is a professional forger. 

 

Other people’s family gatherings are quiet and decorous with polite conversation by polite, well-dressed people around a spotless tablecloth that somehow always stays that way.  Your family gatherings are loud.  They talk loud and laugh louder.  There is gravy on the tablecloth in the first five minutes and gravy on your shirt.  There is at least one high-volume political debate before everyone leaves.  That’s your family tree. 

 

You also get no vote on your DNA.  Whether you are tall, short, chunky, or skinny is largely determined by your genes.  Sure, you were hoping that Aunt Fannie’s posterior would skip a generation or that somehow the physique of an NFL linebacker would have been spliced into your genes somewhere.  That’s natural. 

 

If you, like me, are vertically challenged, you will understand how all-important the half-inch is.  Mr. Schrock laughs when I declare myself to be 4 feet 11-1/2 inches.  That’s okay.  People have told me that dynamite comes in small packages.  I’m operating on the theory that the Good Lord puts a little more kaboom in short people to help us compensate. 

 

On the opposite end of the birth canal, we as parents have no say on just who is making their debut.  They come with preset temperaments, these little sprouts on our tree, and it’s anyone’s guess on what you’ll find.  It could be a trick.  It could be a treat. 

 

We should all with one voice thank the Lord above that there are a couple of things we do get to choose.  Let’s start with your spouse.  Depending on where you lived, your parents would do your choosing for you.  Just imagine!  You could wake up as a 13 year old one morning and find that you’ve been bequeathed to a 53-year-old mule trainer, and all because he offered more camels than that 67-year-old carpet weaver with 2 double chins that was also vying for your hand. 

 

The other thing that should have every American citizen falling to their knees in gratitude is the freedom to choose their own vocation.  The opportunities are limitless here in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  We value innovation and initiative, we Americans, and we place a premium on good, old-fashioned gumption. 

 

Here, you can be anything you want.  If you have superior talents, you can reap great rewards.  Where else can you earn millions of dollars for throwing around a leather object and wallowing around in the mud with other huge, testosterone-charged men who have muscles in their eyelids, hmm?   

 

If football’s not your thing (wrong genes, perhaps), you can be a chemist, a painter, or a welder.  You can run a laundromat or be a baker.  You could even, believe it or not, be a pet massage therapist.  Yes, you can!  I believe in you. 

 

On this election eve, we have a lot to be thankful for.  Regardless of who wins, regardless of the nuts on your family tree, and regardless of the anomalies in your physique, there will still be overpaid, overgrown men wallowing in the mud on Thanksgiving.  There will still be coffee in the pot.  The sun will come up again, and – hey, at least you’re not married to a mule trainer.  

--------------------------------- 

 

While this column was published just in time for the election of Oh-Eight, it's all still true.  There is still much to be grateful for, we should all give thanks, and there's plenty more where this came from on Rhonda's blog, The Natives are Getting Restless.

Divorce is not an option, but murder may be-

 by Rhonda Schrock



You don’t have to be a rocket scientist or a pointy-headed professor to know that wherever human paths cross, there lies the potential for conflict.  Nowhere is this truer than in the family unit.  With different personalities and temperaments, different likes and dislikes, the delicate balance of relationships can be a minefield – a powder keg waiting to blow.

We have been married now for nearly 21 years.  As strong as our marriage is and as committed as we are to sticking together, there have been days.  Oh, there have been days. As Ruth Graham, wife of evangelist Billy Graham, said when she was asked if she’d ever considered divorce, “No, I’ve never thought of divorce in all these 35 years of marriage, but I did think of murder a few times.”

It’s funny.  On most issues, we see eye to eye.  I honestly don’t know of anyone else with whom I have so much in common.  Our politics jibe.  Our theology matches.  Our hopes and dreams for the future are the same.  On the thorny issue of which way the toilet tissue should hang, our hearts beat as one (it should roll down over the top, of course).  It’s the little quirks and foibles, then, that can occasionally derail the happy train.

If you were to ask my husband what I do that irritates him the most, I can tell you without blinking what that would be.  You see, I have a strong desire for neatness in my world.  Clutter bothers me.  With six people in a small house, some clutter is inevitable.  However, every so often the girl has had enough, and then it’s “Katie, bar the door,” ‘cause the clutter’s gotta go.  My family knows by now that when Mama’s in that mood, they’d better keep moving or else they, too, will be stacked, sorted, pitched, or recycled.

What happens, then, is that once in a while in my straightening-up frenzy, I will move an object to a different spot and promptly forget where I put it.  This makes my orderly, everything-in-its-place husband absolutely crazy.  As entertaining as it is to watch him swing from the rafters by his fingernails, it doesn’t seem to have an overall beneficial effect on our marriage.  And when I point out that while he may be tied in knots, seeing red, or sprouting an ulcer, at least he’s not bored, he only begins praying for that very thing. “Dear Lord, I’d like to be bored for once…”

There is another thing I do once in a blue moon that makes him nuts.  This is something that can only be chalked up to my femininity and, thus, is beyond my control.  When I am startled, I do a very girlish thing.  I scream.  While some men think it’s a hoot to scare their wives, this is not true for Mr. Schrock.  Having inherited the narrow Brubacher ear canals, a high-pitched scream is actually painful for him.

Once, after we were first married, I was working in the kitchen when he appeared out of nowhere, scaring the daylights out of me.  When I cut loose with a blood-curdling shriek, he was so startled himself that he did his own little dance of fear, which loosely resembled an Irish jig.  As I dissolved into helpless laughter, my poor husband stood there, eardrums shattered, shocked that his mere appearance could set off such a chain reaction.

On his part, he comes from a tradition that believes that, “If you’re not early, you’re late.”  Put one of those with a serial procrastinator and it’s a kaboom just waiting for the match.  While I’m calculating how late we can leave for church and still make it, he’s issuing an itinerary to the troops that involves arriving the day before.  Well, almost.

Even he had to admit he erred on the side of caution the time we were slated to fly out of O’Hare airport.  After compiling a list of everything that could possibly happen to delay us, including traffic jams, a blown tire, construction, detours, and carjackings, he hauled us out of bed in the dark of night.  Given that no one in Chicago is moving a muscle at 2 a.m., we sailed up in record time, arriving four hours before departure, sleep deprived and haggard.  Men have been drug out in the street and shot for less than this.

As for the boys, they have their own pet peeves.  One of them, for instance, is a hugger and a kisser.  He has no qualms about kissing grandmothers, aunts, or brothers.  His older brother, however, would rather dip his lips in boiling oil than to use them to kiss anyone but his parents.  He would certainly rather dip his brother’s lips in boiling oil than to let them pucker in his direction.

When said kisser tried to lay one on his brother before he left for Mexico, we had about three minutes of spontaneous combustion in the living room.  It took their father donning his fireman suit to extinguish the blaze.  I would’ve jumped in with the fire extinguisher, but I was straightening up the other day and I can’t remember where I put it.

At least, thank God, we’re not bored.



There's more - far more - wit and wisdom on Rhonda's blog, The Natives are Getting Restless. Pop in and see for yourself.

Survivor mom earns extra 15 minutes of fame

 by Rhonda Schrock



They say everyone has their 15 minutes of fame.  If that’s all we get, then I guess I’m done.  I didn’t realize when I won the Reno County spelling bee in the eighth grade and competed at state that I had peaked too early.  Now all I’ve got left are daydreams.

I can’t imagine what I could possibly do to earn myself a spot on a celebrity’s couch for a high-powered interview watched by millions.  I guess there’s always the notoriety that comes with reckless criminality, such as infanticide, but my self-restraint thus far has kept me off Oprah’s couch.  Besides, who wants to appear on national television in prison orange?  Not me.  It washes me out.

In some of my more imaginative daydreams, I have come up with a plot that I believe could get me an extra 15 minutes and save CBS Evening News.  If the network would tap into that whole “Survivor” phenomenon by having Katie Couric do a series called “Survivor Moms,” I think they could right their sinking ship and send ratings through the roof.  Here’s how my interview with Katie might go.

Katie:  “Good evening.  Tonight we continue our series on ‘Survivor Moms,’ our ongoing look at women who are raising large families and, so far, have lived to tell about it.  Our next guest is an enterprising young woman who, with her husband, is raising four sons.  She has a full-time career in addition to doing a bit of writing, and last year even announced a run for the presidency.  Rhonda, you look remarkably normal given your circumstances.”

Me:  “Thank you, Katie.  It’s an honor to be here.”

Katie:  “Is that grape jelly on your shirt?”

Me:  “Doggone it.  I thought I got that spot.  Actually, Katie, I personally think that’s why my presidential bid failed.  In the end, I think the constituents were afraid that the White House wouldn’t stay white if we moved in, so they voted for the other guy.”

Katie:  “So tell me your secret for surviving as the only female in a houseful of men.”

Me:  “I’d have to say it’s the ABC’s that hold me together.”

Katie:  “The ABC’s?”

Me:  “You know.  Ambien, Benadryl, caffeine, duct tape, and so on all the way to Valium, Xanax, and all the Zzz’s I can get.  You follow this regimen, you can pretty much survive anything.”

Katie:  “As you know, I have two daughters.  I’m curious – living in a male-dominated household, are there any mood swings or emotive displays?”

Me:  “Oh, sure.  We can go from abject despair to elation inside of 30 seconds.  There’s lots of giggling, some excited shouting, and the occasional crying jag.”

Katie:  “Your boys are certainly emotional.”

Me:  “Oh, no.  That’s just me.”

Katie:  “I see.  Now tell me what a family of six does for entertainment.”

Me:  “Well, when five of you think that the highest forms of entertainment are belching, whoopee cushions, and blowing things up, it can leave the one with the ovaries feeling a little desperate.  That’s where my good friends at the coffee shop come in.  There’s just something about that padded room there, and the IV…”

Katie:  “Say no more.  Now, with a crowd this size, you must have a system, a way to keep order.  Can you explain to us what that is?”

Me:  “You’re right, Katie.  This is a crowd, and it’s very important to maintain control.  When you’re outnumbered two to one, you have to really come out with a show of force initially, get the little people marching in line or you’ll have anarchy.  And it’s absolutely essential that you stick together, or the little buggers will pick you off one at a time, and then the inmates…”

Katie:  “…Are running the asylum?”

Me:  “Exactly.”

Katie:  “One last question before we let you go.  What are your fears as a mother?”

Me:  “Two words, Katie.  Drivers ed.  I mean white knuckles, some whimpering and praying…”

Katie:  “Is it really that bad?”

Me:  “Think about it.  Have you let your oldest daughter take your limo through NYC at rush hour with no extra steering wheel or second set of brakes back where you normally sit?”

Katie (blanching):  “Um, no, I guess not.”

Me:  “That’s how it feels.  I’m just saying.”

Katie:  “Well, that wraps it up.  Thank you for stopping by this evening and sharing your survivor story with us.”

Katie, off camera:  “Someone bring me some Xanax – now!”


For more tales of hooliganism and stories of survivorship, visit Rhonda's blog, The Natives are Getting Restless.  She's still awaiting that phone call from Katie Couric even as she self-medicates with her much-loved white chocolate mochas.

Death by pantyhose? I think that's fair

This week I am introducing you to a game called “Who Invented That?” You won’t see it on the shelves of your local Wal-Mart. That’s because my patent is still pending. It should debut in the next six months or so. A redneck version aptly named “Who Thunk Up That Thar Deal?” will be released shortly thereafter.

The idea for this game has been percolating for years. Whether it’s simply the product of an overactive imagination or a fixation on assigning blame, I will let you be the judge. Whatever its genesis, folks of any age can participate, either individually or in a group.

Here’s how it goes. In phase one, you draw a card on which is listed an invention and you try to decide who created it, a man or a woman. See how easy it is? Let me just throw one out there to get you warmed up.

Panty hose. It’s my own personal experience with this invention that spawned this whole exciting game. Marry the heat and humidity of an Indiana summer with a tiny pair of nylons, and there’s no doubt in your mind. A man somewhere is to blame.

You women know what I mean. By the time you’re finished with your own special version of the “Twist and Shout,” your heart is hammering and you’re dripping with perspiration. The knowledge that your calisthenics have just burned 1000 calories in a futile attempt to ensure untwisted coverage of all involved surfaces is cold comfort.

Every single summer we have this conversation. “The man who invented these things should be drug out in the street and shot,” I mutter darkly, peering at Mr. Schrock.

“How do you know it was a man?” he replies, clicking the remote.

“Do you think a woman would invent something that cuts of all blood flow to her bottom half, gives her prickly heat rash, and rides up her…” I begin.

“Stop!” he cries, turning up the volume.

“And how about the wiggle factor?” I say irritably.

“Wiggle what?” he mumbles.

“Do you have any idea how much wiggling and shimmying it takes to get the darn things on?” I reply heatedly.

At this point, the poor man is clapping his hands over his ears and shouting, “La-la-la-la,” at the TV.

It happens every year.

Another dark brain child of what must be a masculine mind is the girdle, which will be one of the categories in my game. No woman would ever design a restraint that displaces roughly half of her body weight and deposits it up into her neck, making her face swell like a puffer fish and pushing her ear lobes out at right angles. We have the GBA (Girdle Burners of America) to thank for making this instrument of torture obsolete. Ladies, we salute you.

Now, since the first two were easy questions, I’m going to give you one that will really take some thinking. Here goes. Epidural injections. Oh, I know. You think it’s a slam-dunk female invention. But is it?

Having given birth four times – thrice with epidurals and once without – I am well aware of the almost superhuman strength that comes over a woman in the throes of labor. So is Mr. Schrock, who is only now regaining feeling in his hands from that last go-round.

What if some husband in Tuscaloosa wasn’t as fortunate as Mr. Schrock and to this day walks around with two limp hands? You can see how this could inspire a fellow’s creativity. If you really want to know the answer, though, you’ll have to buy the game.

Here’s one last sample question for you. Who invented seat warmers in SUVs?

Bingo. It was unquestionably a woman. When I informed You Know Who that I wanted heated seats in my next vehicle, he harrumphed. He snorted. He whiffled and huffed. Why, he wanted to know, was that necessary?

Unknowingly, he only confirmed what I’ve long suspected – women have more delicate heinies, and they don’t want them frostbitten. If he doesn’t need hot cross buns of his own to be a happy camper, well then, more power and all that. God love that girl, whoever she is, with the ingenuity to devise a way to get heat to not only my seat, but to thousands of women everywhere.

In the second phase of the game, the participants have fun speculating about appropriate punishments or commendations for the creators of the inventions in question. The guy who invented nylons? Death by hanging – with pantyhose. Mr. Epidural? You could name your first child after him. And Ms. Seat Heater? Ah, now she deserves a Nobel Prize.

Now, two years after this column's publication, the author is enjoying the heated seats in her mommy van.  She is throwing prizes, Nobel and otherwise, with both hands at the woman who invented them.  There's far more fun and frivolity on her blog, The Natives are Getting Restless.  Pop in and see for yourself.

Diaper changing should be an Olympic sport

It’s summertime. The days are long and lazy. Flags are flying up and down Main Street. The county fair is in full swing and the Summer Olympics are right around the corner.

At our house, the countdown to the Olympics provokes two distinctly different reactions. One of us sits poised, panting with excitement on the edge of her seat in anticipation of the opening ceremonies. The other one huffs and grunts and hunkers further into his favorite corner of the couch, declaring that under no circumstances is he biologically capable of surrendering the remote for a mere two weeks.

To the chagrin of the one waving the flag and sporting the five special rings, feverish phone calls to the insurance company requesting approval for an emergent remotectomy have been met by outright guffaws and rude hang-ups. It’s so unprofessional.

As long as I can recall, the games have held a special fascination for me. I remember watching Nadia Comaneci, the famous Romanian gymnast, back in the seventies and wishing I could be like her. The same is true for the figure skaters who have always enchanted me with their grace and daring.

There are few pictures that provoke more patriotism in me than seeing a sweaty, triumphant American athlete atop the podium, bending to receive the gold medal as the flag is raised overhead and the national anthem plays. When he or she starts to tear up as the camera zooms in, I’m a goner, crying into my red, white, and blue napkin. If that scene doesn’t put a tear in your eye, then call a mortician because you have obviously assumed room temperature.

The only thing that can spoil my Olympic joy is watching it with a party pooper. Or two. During the winter games two years ago, my brother and his wife were visiting us. Every night we would tune in to get the latest medal count and to cheer for our athletes. Well, two of us would cheer.

The other two were suddenly armchair coaches, well versed in every sport, shouting instructions and holding up placards with hastily scribbled scores after each ski jump. As we women sat enthralled during the figure skating competition, they harrumphed and made snarky remarks about men who wear spandex. Never mind that neither one of them possessed the wherewithal to lift a 100-pound bag of cement, much less a grown woman, overhead on one hand while skating across the kitchen floor in tube socks. This, in their world, was not a disqualifier.

When we delicately pointed this out, they only snorted again and went to look for more potato chips.

It is a sad reality that at my age, there just isn’t a spot for me at the games. When it comes to track and field events, I run in one place for too long. Yes, I realize that doggy paddling will never get me on that poolside podium. And there isn’t a chiropractor gifted enough to make me a well-adjusted competitor again if I tried out on the balance beam or attempted to leap and pirouette on the ice. I can, however, think of several events in which I and a few family members could truly shine and make you, our fellow Americans, proud.

Take diaper changing, for instance. Having been responsible for four prolific little colons in my career, my skills are so finely honed that I am now fully capable of diapering a crying, thrashing toddler in a blinding rainstorm with one hand tied behind my back. The reigning Brazilian champion who diapers her babies in banana leaves fastened with pincher ants doesn’t intimidate me at all. I can diaper her under the table.

If the Olympic committee would recognize the ability to produce earsplitting shrieks that can shatter crystal from here to Tupelo as an official sport, my cousin Rhoda would win. Once, during a tense cousinly game of hide and seek, she shut down the power grids on the entire eastern seaboard and sparked a tidal wave off the coast of Florida. She could be a medalist, that one.

For Mr. Schrock, it’s his nose that could take him to the gold. I have never in my life met anyone with a keener sense of smell. His olfactory abilities would make a beagle patently envious. If the IOC would stage a contest wherein the blindfolded participants would be asked to identify objects solely by smell, he would win hands down.

“That is the dung of an Arabian camel who recently passed through the Saharan desert,” he might say as the first object is passed.

“This is an extremely rare orchid only found in the rainforests of Papua, New Guinea,” he would proclaim.

“And this is a coffee bean grown in Costa Rica, medium roasted and infused with Jamaican and Mexican liqueurs,” he would assert to gasps and applause from the judges.

I’m confident he could parlay his gold medal into some lucrative endorsements. Please pray with me that the U.S. sniffing team doesn’t have to wear tights, or I’ll never get him to Beijing.

This column was published in July 2008 when the Summer Olympics were imminent.  The author asserts that she could still take the gold in diaper changing and begs IOC chairman, Mr. Rogge, to "open those games, sir - open up those games!" 

Unfortunately, Mr. Schrock has not yet buckled acceded to her encouragement to 'live the dream' due to the fact that spandex would still be involved.  Her blog, The Natives Are Getting Restless, holds even more creative Olympic suggestions.

Mother proposes trade - flip-flops for wingtips

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They’re always jumping, ever grazing, and seldom sleeping.

Yup, it’s summertime and the kids are home. Somewhere, tired teachers are on their knees, thanking God that it’s over before heading off to sleep ‘til August.

No one is quite sure where the bus drivers have gone, having apparently disappeared en masse. There was one reported sighting in Malaysia, but local police are “awfully suspicious, seeing as how the tip came from a pay phone at the playground.” This, according to an inside source at the department, who then added, “The tipster sounded real young and was laughing when he hung up.”

Interestingly, early indicators show a strong surge in productivity as offices throughout the county are opening prematurely now, some even as early as daybreak. This has officials scratching their heads, but I know jolly well what’s behind it.

We have the abovementioned small fry to thank for this. They’re the ones sending frazzled fathers fleeing in frustration, leaving behind a myriad of mothers mired in melancholy. At many homes, there’s whooping from one party and whimpering from the other as the whooper whips out the drive in a cloud of dust. (Sorry. It’s the Seuss again.)

I know this for a fact because I got it straight from the horse’s mouth. The “horse,” of course, shall remain anonymous, but he told me just this week that he “uses all eight cylinders” when he leaves for work in the mornings.

After four weeks now of this whooping and whimpering arrangement, I’ve come to the conclusion that the scales of justice are seriously out of whack. Lover of justice that I am, I believe I’ve hit upon a solution. The following is a rough draft of a proposal I intend to present to Mr. Schrock for his approval.

“Inasmuch as we both desire to have a strong and loving marriage and inasmuch as we both aspire to nurture enduring bonds with our offspring, I offer the following proposition. I propose that herewith we shall switch places for one week. Thus, you will conduct business from my office on the second floor while I transcribe in your office across from the coffee shop. This would benefit the family in several ways.

“First, you and I would gain a new appreciation for each other by trading flip flops and wingtips. Just think of how our love would grow from walking in each other’s shoes for a bit.

“For instance, working at your office would remind me of how lonely you must get with no children swarming your ankles and answering your phone for you. How the silence must ring in your ears with no doors slamming every 30 seconds. And doesn’t working in relative cleanliness just seem sterile to you? I’m afraid I’ll have to track in some dirt and smudge the walls just to feel at home there. I hope you won’t mind.

“After all that stultifying adult conversation you get over there, I’ll bet you’ll find it refreshing to trade it in for the happy sounds of childhood. You know, such as the shrieks and howls of pain being inflicted, the sounds of riotous chases through the house, and the endless ‘can we’ questions? Sure, those may not mix well with client phone calls, but just look at it as a chance to brush up on some other skills, like charades and sign language. The boys will love it. They’ll think it’s a game.

“And that’s the second objective – bonding with your sons. Just think of all the fun you’ll have, staying one step ahead of those guys. Why, you may not need to run half as much once you’re keeping track of them. Besides, it’s way more fun to shred confiscated, cleverly crafted schematics for a daring Doritos and brownies raid which you’ve uncovered than to shred boring old business documents. Your ‘fun factor’ will go through the roof.

“While I’m slaving away next door to a tanning salon and just down the street from a good pedicure, you’ll be receiving sticky kisses and getting jam on your sock because someone dropped a blob and forgot to wipe it up. Like I always tell you, ‘It makes the love stick on longer.’

“At least at the house, you can take a break and get outdoors a bit. There’s a world of entertainment right outside the back door. There really is nothing like jumping on the trampoline for awhile and playing Dead Man with six other legs to clear your head. Watch out, though. One pair cheats.

“I can see that working day after day in that concrete jungle, surrounded by asphalt and cement, must really wear on you. I mean, all you have is a coffee shop across the street. What kind of place is that to take a break at, anyway? The grass really is greener over here. It sure is.

“So, if you’re up for improving our marriage and strengthening our family ties, you may sign right here. Thank you.”

Rhonda Schrock is fairly certain that this proposal will go down in flames. She asserts that the proximity of the coffee shop to Mr. Schrock’s office has nothing to do with her offer. To read more of her tribal adventures, visit her blog, The Natives Are Getting Restless.

Writer assesses qualications, considers joining circus

It’s called being proactive. This year, I’m going to be ready for ‘em when they hit. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Yes, the midwinter jickers (to use a Seuss-ism) that descend along about February.

These tend to show up and hammer a person after the warmth and glow of the holidays have passed. At that point, you’re about 18 months into winter with another 9 to go. You’re bored and restless, just ripe for some excitement, so you think, “Hey, a new job might be just the ticket.” Which is exactly why last winter found me Googling “zoo keeping,” and I found, to my chagrin, that I was one.

With that idea going bust, I’m looking elsewhere. This time, I’m getting my inspiration from the characters in our great American literature who, we are told, “ran off and joined the circus.” I have a sneaking suspicion there just may be something here for me. Hence, in order to update my resume, I’m taking a closer look at my qualifications.

First of all, a circus needs a ringmaster. This is the person who makes announcements, directs traffic, and keeps the show running on schedule, all with a certain dramatic flair.

Well, now. That sounds like our kitchen on a school morning. I’m great at making announcements like, “Bus in ten!” The flair gets really dramatic when I actually hear the bus and see that one of the performers is still sockless. Ringmaster – check.

Naturally, every circus has clowns. You either have to be one or know how to work with them. I’m completely unfamiliar with the former, but am entirely familiar with the latter. I know their kind. In fact, I assist in supervising a very credible version of the old “53 clowns spilling out of a VW” trick. It happens every Sunday in the church parking lot. So, clown handler – check.

Now, how about the lion tamer position? This requires nerves of steel and the ability to tame savage beasts. Just because I don’t use a whip, a chair, or a pistol that shoots blanks doesn’t mean I can’t get the job done. My secret weapon goes like this, “If you don’t stop right now, you will get no dessert.” Works every single time. Lion tamer – check.

Moving on, I see that any circus worth its salt includes exciting stunts and tricks. I have a working knowledge of that side of the business, believe me. In fact, earlier this summer, a big stunt went down over here when those goofy toy handcuffs reappeared, wreaking havoc for a day.

Honestly. When one performer is busy cuffing his brother to the bed post, the door knob, the stove handle, the fridge door, and the steering wheel of the parked mower, then none of my work is getting done, is it, now? This prompted some wailing to their father along the lines of, “Do you know what stunt your kids pulled today?” Which, of course, was followed by confiscation of the cuffs.

Stunts? Big check.

Every circus, if it’s a good one, has some growly bears. I know a bit about those, too. When you have a couple of them under your roof every morning, you learn how to handle them. You learn, for instance, that they need their space. It’s best to just push their breakfast over to them with a long pole.

You don’t try to engage them in conversation, either. They’re not awake yet. Further, any attempts to coax them into a little pink skirt so they can trot along on top of a ball is a disaster. Lesson learned.

Yup, bear wrangler – check.

Another job opening I see is for a cotton candy/peanut seller. These are the brave souls that roam the stands, hawking their wares. From what I can see, you need the agility of an antelope and the fierceness of a wild boar to keep from being flattened by a hungry little mob.

Funny. This is pretty much what happens when the chocolate chip cookies come out of the oven. Peanut seller? Check.

Unfortunately, I have no future as a bearded lady, but I think I’d make a pretty good roustabout. According to one website I found, a roustabout does the behind-the-scenes work like putting up tents, driving buses, and feeding the performers. I have a hunch they’re also the pooper scoopers, which is some real “behind the scenes” work, if you know what I mean. After being responsible for four little colons in my lifetime, I believe I’m qualified for this job.

In fact, I may be over qualified. I can juggle and jump through hoops, and six days out of seven, I’m a human cannonball when the alarm clock goes. Surely there’s a spot for me under the big top.

If not, I’ve got Plan C in place. After I lamented the unnerving discovery of a mustard-drenched beach towel and dishcloth in the laundry pile to my Facebook friends, one of them commented, “Why your life hasn’t been made into a sitcom is one of the great mysteries of the world.”

There you have it. Move over, Brady Bunch. Hollywood, here we come.

Note:  This column was first published in September 2009.  The author reports that the action still continues beneath the Big Top and that she's still over qualified and under paid.

Analyst seeks spot in federal witness protection program

Now we know. After days of speculation, the results are in. The New Orleans Saints decisively munched the Colts’ lunch and handed back their little brown bag, empty.

With all the hype that accompanies the largest single sporting event in the world, you will think I’m positively un-American when I make my confession. That is, I could live with out it.

You heard me. I could live without the game of football. And now that I’ve blurted out that little inconvenient truth à la Al Gore, I will be seeking a spot in the federal witness protection program immediately.

If my confession has you ready to overturn the water cooler before banging your collective heads on your desks, I’m sorry. I just don’t get the obsession with this particular sport. From what I can see, it’s simply a bunch of big, musclebound guys that could kill you with one eyelid who can’t make up their minds about what they want to play.

One minute, they’re playing Keep Away. A player will rear back and throw the ball clear down the field to a guy in a matching suit. Meanwhile, the other team is jumping up and down in the middle, waving their arms around, trying to get that ball.

This, by the way, is nothing like the game of Keep Away we used to play at recess. These guys play rough. They actually go after the guy with the ball, and they try to make him eat dirt. Dirt, mind you!

We would’ve never gotten by with that at Elreka Elementary. No way.

They certainly get bored quick, because next thing you know, they switch over to a serious game of tag. They really put themselves into it. Even the fellows on the sidelines get caught up in the excitement, running in place as though that will help their teammates on the field. It reminds me of a certain mister who bobs and weaves when he’s playing video games as if lunging with the controller will help him vaporize the bad guy.

Anyway, just as I’m getting into the game of tag they’ve got going, they pull another switcheroo and start playing Kick the Can.

Frankly, I don’t know how their moms do it. Sit still, that is, while all this is going on. It’s one thing, you see, if your kid is the one doing. It’s quite another if your kid is the one being done unto. If that’s my son getting his can kicked on that field, this mama’s going down and kicking some can herself.

That’s why it’s good none of the cubs are football players. I would spend the entire game with my eyeballs pasted between their father’s shoulder blades because he’d be sitting on me to keep me from embarrassing the family name.

Oh, and speaking of kicking, that’s the other game they play. Only their version of kickball looks different from what we used to play at my elementary school of record. There, everyone got a turn to kick. Here, if you’re not the man with the golden leg, you won’t put a toe on that ball. You’re chopped liver. (Which, incidentally, is another thing I could live without. But I digress.)

Another big drawback to this game is where it’s played. As in outdoors. In the elements. This means that in the summer when the season begins, you and a few thousand of your closest friends are squished, cheek by jowl, in a packed stadium, sweating like stuck pigs.

If you had more than three square inches of wooden bench to sit on, this wouldn’t be such a hardship. But when quarters are that tight, you’re bound to end up wearing drink stains and getting popcorn down your neck because your neighbor forgot to put his snacks down before leaping up to do the wave.

On Foam Finger Day, it’s nearly impossible to eat your hot dog because you keep getting beat about the head and neck with the goofy things. The enthusiastic fan next to you is wearing most of your ketchup on his anyway. Then, just as you’re about to make one more attempt, the kid on the other side has to go potty, so you have to get up and let him out. Again.

Eventually it turns cold. The wind blows. It rains. Your foam finger gets soggy, and you still have stains on your shirt and popcorn down your neck. It’s just that now the stains are cold and the popcorn is wet. If it weren’t for all the fun you’re having, you would vow to stay home next season and watch the life cycle of the walrus on the Discovery Channel.

And that’s my analysis of the national pastime. If I’ve alienated half of my readership, I apologize and throw myself on the mercy of the court. I simply ask that if you’re traveling through Biloxi or Tupelo or Canton someday and you have a curly-headed waitress by the name of Jane Smith, please be kind. Leave her a generous tip.

This column ran mere days after the local favorite, the Colts, suffered an ignominious defeat (i.e., went down in flames) at the hands of the Saints.  Thankfully, "Jane Smith" reports that she's not been accosted by angry fans or stiffed on any tips.  Yet.

Whatever ails you, country understands

Here in America, we love our music, don’t we? From coast to coast and all points in between, the hills, valleys, and plains are alive with the sound of it.

It’s a veritable smorgasbord here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. We’ve got everything from rock ‘n roll to country western to rap. Then there’s pop, Southern gospel, and jazz in addition to bluegrass, contemporary Christian, and Motown. If you like it, we’ve got it.

For many Americans, country western is their music of choice. It’s an emotional genre, full of heartbreak and loss, the ecstasy of love, and the importance of one’s tractor in one’s life. There’s an old joke that goes, “What do you get when you play a country song backward? You get your wife, your ring, your house, and your truck back.” And that’s just about it.

If there were an award for the most interesting song titles among the genres, country music would win it going away. Out of curiosity, I did some research on this topic this week. I cannot personally verify that each one of these is the real title of an actual song, but since I got them off the internet, it must be true. Uh-huh.

At any rate, it was quite entertaining to look over the lists I found. Even the titles convey deep emotions, like the agony of rejection and of love gone wrong. There is bitterness and anger. There is low self-esteem with plenty of blame to go around. There is uncertainty and confusion, leaving one wondering if the song writer had a few too many. With a title like “How Can You Believe Me When I Say I Love You When You Know I’ve Been a Liar All My Life,” what else can you conclude?

“I Would Have Writ You a Letter, But I Couldn’t Spell Yuck” certainly carries a hint of resentment. So does “I Wouldn’t Take Her to a Dawg Fight ‘Cause I’m Afraid She’d Win.” Someone’s been hurt.

“You Done Tore Out My Heart and Stomped That Sucker Flat” continues that theme. Follow that with “You Stuck My Heart in an Old Tin Can and Shot It Off a Log,” and the pain is palpable.

If a song like “I Gave Her My Heart and a Diamond and She Clubbed Me With a Spade” doesn’t move you to tears, maybe this one will, “My John Deere Was Breaking Your Field While Your ‘Dear John’ Was Breaking My Heart.” Still nothing? Then you’ve got a cold, cold heart.

I’m sure that “When You Wrapped My Lunch in a Road Map, I Knew You Meant Goodbye” is a heartbreaker. And how about “Walk Out Backwards Slowly So I’ll Think You’re Walking In?” Surely you’re feeling this.

Or have you heard the song about the fellow who was standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, with seven women on his mind? If those women are Grandma Alice, Aunt Marsha, three cousins, a sister, and his wife, then you think, “Bless that guy. He loves his family.” If, however, none of those names belong to any family members, then you can see how it could give rise to another song entitled, “I Still Miss You, Baby, But My Aim is Getting Better.” This would be followed by “If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me” from his angry spouse.

Sure, this is all hypothetical, but it happens, doesn’t it? These are real life issues we’re singing about here. How nice to know that whatever you’re feeling, there’s a song to fit. After all, wouldn’t you feel like hurting him back by singing “You’re the Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly” if you’d just been jilted, hmm?

It’s no surprise that he might fire back with his own rendition of “The Next Time You Throw That Fryin’ Pan, My Face Ain’t Gonna Be There,” but hey. The guy’s hurting, too. Guys like that just have to learn the hard way that “You Can’t Have Your Kate and Edith, Too.”

Then you have what is likely teenage angst portrayed in the song, “They May Put Me in Prison, But They Can’t Stop My Face From Breakin’ Out.” Yes, that’s a tough time of life to which we can all relate. There’s something for everyone here, folks.

Hopefully this next one isn’t representative of all cowboys, because it’s pretty unfeeling if you ask me: “Don’t Cry On My Shoulders ‘Cause You’re Rustin’ My Spurs.” That’s never gonna get the girl. She’s looking for something much more romantic, something along the lines of “Her Teeth Were Stained, But Her Heart Was Pure.”

Lastly, some numbers hint at tragedy, like the one entitled “If She Hadn’t Been So Good Lookin’, I Might Have Seen the Train.” Uh-oh. There’s a story there, I’m pretty sure.

I tell you all this to say, if your own private forecast is “achy” with a 50% chance of “breaky,” then tune in to your local radio station post haste. Maybe they’ll be playing “I’d Rather Have a Bottle in Front of Me Than a Frontal Lobotomy.” You’ll feel better. I promise.

Potty training success leads to big dreams

“Houston, we have a tinkle.”

Stop the presses. This, my friends, is breaking news.

Oh, I know there’s big stuff going on around the world. Things like the government revamping of health care, for instance, and the astonishing outcome of the election in Massachusetts, not to mention bad guys who are still blowing things up across the pond.

And let’s not forget that little incident on Christmas Day with that one guy who thought that packing his underwear with explosives would make him a hero. All it got him was a stay in the clink, compliments of the U.S. government, and a nickname that’s made him the laughingstock of his cell block.

All of these are big, important stories; I agree. It’s just that after weeks of a potty training initiative with all the success of the Underwear Bomber (a.k.a. the Fruit-a-Kaboomer), this is the headline news, the big scoop in my world.

For days, I moaned to family and friends about our lack of success. I posted Facebook statuses like, “Rhonda Schrock asks, ‘How many times can you take a toddler potty with absolutely nothing to show for it?? How many?!’”

This prompted a spate of comments from well-meaning citizens that ranged from, “Many, many, many, many more times, my dear,” to suggestions involving Cheerios and running water. Meanwhile, others exulted in the fact that their training days were done, leaving me feeling even worse than before.

Finally, someone posted, telling me that she’d kept a jar of M&Ms and jellybeans in the bathroom, exchanging a little treat for a successful potty, and that this had proven to be the golden ticket for her small son. To this, I replied that I would gladly exchange the Brooklyn Bridge for a successful potty and that I was ready to head south for parts unknown where everyone pottied by themselves and no one needed my help.

Then, just as I was about to promise Mr. No Go a driver’s license and a brand new Mustang, it happened. The toddler tinkled, angels sang, and his mother collapsed, weeping tears of joy into her coffee, which had long since grown cold.

Immediately, I upended the pantry into his lap, rewarding him with juice boxes and treats. We called Daddy at the office and told him. We dialed Grandma’s number and informed her. His big brothers received the news as they filtered in from school and, to their credit, made all the appropriate noises.

Unable to keep it to myself, I enthused about our success before a group that I was speaking to. They responded with a wave of sympathetic laughter accompanied, I suspect, by fervent thoughts of, “Thank God, we’re outta that stage,” which they graciously kept to themselves.

Fearful that he would turn out to be a one-hit wonder, I was ecstatic when it happened again. Once more, I chucked goodies at him, to his delight, and promptly texted his father who joined me in celebrating.

Yes, sir. It sure pays to potty around here.

Experiencing such success, however, only makes me long for more, but just in other areas. I’d love, for example, to be able to sing like Celine Dion. It would be exhilarating to stand before a packed-out Vegas audience, moving them to tears and driving them to their feet in wave after wave of standing ovations.

This will never happen. I know my limits, and those include three walls and a shower curtain. There will be no solos performed to wild acclaim in my future. As a friend once said, he could sing a solo, alright, but it would be “so low you can’t hear it.”

Exactly. What he said.

Another thing I’d love to be successful at is gymnastics or cheerleading. As a young girl, I was riveted by the grace and daring of the gymnasts as they tumbled across the floor. I watched with rapt attention as the cheerleaders whipped the crowd into a frenzy with their chants and their energetic routines.

When I was in third grade, several of us cheerleading wannabes lobbied our teacher unrelentingly until she finally wrote out all the cheers she knew. We memorized these and practiced cartwheels and small formations with limited success.

While I never did make it courtside in a flippy skirt and rustly pom-poms, I can, to this day, turn a cartwheel. You’ll just have to take my word for it, though, because that particular skill will never be demonstrated in public. Ever.

It’s really too bad that I’ll never realize these dreams. I love to sing, but will never make a living at it. Even though I was born with an inner pom-pom girl who just wants to come out, this has not translated into success for me. Neither has winning the limbo championship in the first grade. You’d think that would help get me on a squad somewhere, but so far it’s been – well, a “no go.”

I guess I’ll just have to content myself with cheering sans pom-poms for this crowd over here. Starting, of course, with a successful potty. Hoo-rah!

Note:  This column was first published in January 2010.

Old Red - retired, but not forgotten

Sixteen years, two jiggly mirrors, and 201,000 miles. Throw in one anemic engine, 0.3 cup holders per person, and an air conditioner that went clunk, and the numbers added up to one thing. In cowboy vernacular, we had ridden the hair off that horse, and it was time for a new ride.

When my resourceful husband did the research, he found that the nearest one that met all his specifications was one state over. Thus, on a recent spring evening we piled into Old Red – two adults, four boys, one stroller, three suitcases, and one portable crib.

Oh, yeah. And a pack of howler monkeys, judging by the shrieks that erupted when someone’s sibling dribbled cold pop on his leg.

“Can you throw some napkins back there?” The Chief asked.

“I would, but I’ve got a suitcase in my back, a stroller across my legs, and your soda on my lap,” I said. “Need a drink?”

“Forget it,” he said, looking tired.

I could tell he was counting the miles.

Upon returning, I was surprised by a twinge of nostalgia as I watched Old Red being wheeled into the barn. To the ordinary eye, it looked like an old, tired van, but to me, it looked like the answer to our long-ago prayers. Far from being just a piece of junk destined for the scrap heap, it was a museum of family history, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many times our merry band had spilled in and out of its doors.

A lot of character had been developed using that humble van. Week after week, we packed in four boys who had (theoretically, anyway) been freshly scrubbed the night before, and hauled them to church. Out they would tumble afterward in a flurry of Sunday School papers, shirts untucked and shoelaces untied, looking for lunch.

Further character was developed when the teenagers started driving. For the oldest one especially, it was the bane of his existence, thanks to its unique shape and the fact that it was clearly the only van to come over on the ark.

Being dropped off at school was particularly stressful for him. We would pull up to the sidewalk with only a pair of eyebrows, two eyes, and a tuft of hair showing on the passenger’s side. I would pause, sighing with impatience, as he waited for all upper classmen and cheerleaders to pass by before slinking out and bolting into the school.

Over the years, Old Red faithfully carried us to and from many sporting events. We’d load up the stroller and toss in the equipment, followed by the players and the baby. After whooping and hollering per “The Good Parent’s Handbook,” we’d return home and unload the whole caboodle, this time in reverse.

Old Red also served as my counseling office. For some reason, boys open up when you get out on the open road. Maybe it’s the locked doors, I don’t know, but I did discover that if you keep it above 35, they can’t jump. When they get tired of circling the block, they’ll lean back and sing like canaries, giving you an opportunity to speak wisdom into their lives.

I’m sure I don’t need to mention the countless scuffles that took place in the back half of that van. You will not be surprised to hear that on a recent drive with three of them, I happened to look in the rear view mirror and noted the silhouette of a shoe. Above the seats. Obviously, there were some limbs seriously out of place.

This is why you pack some heat. Firing a few blanks in the air settles the dust in a hurry. So does a brief, impassioned sermon delivered from behind the steering wheel. I don’t mean that “I have a dream” one, either. I’m thinking more along the lines of “Little sinners in the hands of an angry driver who is being distracted.” I’ll bet you have the notes for that one, too.

And how can I forget the wild ride we took the night Baby Schrock was born? With three brothers eager to welcome him and a mama in labor, The Chief chucked everyone in, throwing in a suitcase and pillows, and gunned it.

With every jolt and bump in the road triggering a fresh contraction, I think I screeched something like, “Do you want me to deliver this child in the glove box?!” while hanging on for dear life. I’m pretty sure we slewed into the parking lot sidewise in a hail of gravel and dust, but that’s not what The Mister says. He claims it was far more dignified than that, but I’m awfully suspicious of his supposed memory.

Yes, Old Red served us well. I’m pretty sure the pain will fade when it sinks in that wet thighs are a thing of the past, thanks to all the new cup holders. The boys will feel out of place in a vehicle that has a built-in DVD player, but I think they’ll feel right at home once they’ve had a tussle or two just to break it in.

It’s the heated seats that may cause a problem. Come winter, I may never get out. Hot cross buns? Bring it on.

Author's note:  "Old Red" received an Editor's Choice award, placing in the top 10 in the Faithwriters Challenge.  It was published in one of the Faithwriters' quarterly books.

I'd like a chance to 'suffer,' please

Coming up shortly, our tribe will be having an interesting week. Interesting, I mean, in the way that a train wreck is “interesting” or a colonoscopy is “interesting.” While there is surely a certain level of discomfort involved in having a scope inserted into your exhaust system, you are definitely interested in what is happening outside your range of vision. “Interesting” doesn’t necessarily mean “fun.”

Here’s what’s happening – the chief of the tribe is going on a business trip, leaving me to ride shotgun on the four braves. When he issued this proclamation, I had a full-color vision wherein he was heading out the door with me clinging to his leg like a barnacle, crying and begging him not to go. As this seemed rather melodramatic, I immediately began reviewing other options.

I could secede, I thought, and retire to a villa in the south of France. However, the idea of leaving the inmates to run the asylum for five days just seemed risky to me. It was entirely possible, I knew, that by Tuesday the pantry would be bare and the house would be burned to cinders. This was clearly not a viable option.

Next, I began a carefully orchestrated campaign, lobbying for the privilege of going away to a hotel by myself for five days sometime this summer. When he reminded me that he wouldn’t actually be having any fun, hotel notwithstanding, I snorted. Where was the suffering, I asked myself. There would be no diapers to change and no baths to give. He wouldn’t have to make sure all four kids get to bed. He would get to control the volume and eat out every day.

“When is it my turn to ‘suffer?’” I wailed. He rolled his eyes.

The key here, I thought, will be slugging it out one day at a time. As a mother of sons, I’ve learned that celebrating the little things helps me endure. For instance, I chalk one up in the victory column when I come out of a store and see that the offspring haven’t laid the van over on its side in my absence.

I count it a miracle when I see four sets of tail lights heading straight north to their little beds – and they all stay! Considering that we have one with boomerang tendencies (you throw him up, he comes right back), it merits a brief, heartfelt rendition of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Tired mothers everywhere will empathize.

The chief assures me he will certainly miss the braves. He is also going to miss Brave Number Two’s wrestling match. I must admit – it’s tough for me to watch him wrestle. There’s just something unnatural about watching someone else’s kid bend your kid into nine different pretzel shapes.

My motherly instincts kick into overdrive and I have to fight the temptation to wade in, swinging my red purse at his opponent. Seeing as how this would likely result in a hair-pulling catfight with the other mom, which could then involve a mug shot, a chubby jailer named Hank, and an orange jumpsuit, I try hard to restrain myself. I just don’t look good in orange.

Another thing he may miss that week is the baby’s next major step toward liberation. This kid is every inch an adventurer. He climbs onto the table and empties the salt. He stands on the toilet and clears the shelves. He throws remotes around like so much confetti from a standing position on the back of the couch. There is little, anymore, that can stop him.

When I complained to his father that it was becoming very difficult to work with a VSP (Very Small Person) sitting on my foot pedal, chewing on the phone line, and “typing” his own documents, not to mention throwing the switch on the power strip mid report, he went to work. He spent an entire Saturday building two wooden gates with metal hooks and installed them.

Within weeks, his tiny son, whose theme song is, apparently, “Don’t fence me in,” was sticking his little hand through the bars, flipping up the hook, and toddling right on through. You can see, then, why I fully expect to come into his room one day and find him standing in his crib wearing a welding helmet and going to work on the bars. It could happen, and he will miss it.

If you’re a praying person, shoot one up for me. If I come through your neighborhood with a petition asking the “sufferer” to send me away for five nights, please sign it. If you find me in a corner repeating my name, call the men in white coats. Otherwise, hit me with a mocha, white chocolate, light on the syrup. It will ease my pain and suffering.

Note:  This column originally ran back in February 2008.  While The Lively One did survive (just barely) without throwing the kids up for sale on eBay, you can read the follow-up column on her blog, "The Natives Are Getting Restless," to see exactly what their father missed while he was "suffering" in his hotel.