Mother Nature knows
wonderful ways of teaching–
Pay Attention Here:

Your mama said stay,
sit and behave, child of mine,
Long way to the ground.

Long tumbles are hard,
the wiser of us do know.
Lucky, your landing.

Safe, again, you are–
sit and behave, child of mine.
Fool-proof, luck is not.

So the oldest spawn found a squirrel.

A baby squirrel.

That fell out of its nest…

"Mom! What's a good name for a squirrel?"

"Tom's Pal Frank."

"Who's Tom?"

"The kid whose mom will let him get a pet squirrel."

"… but there's a baby one on the ground by the tree. It's really tiny and I think that its mom left it."

"Oh, joy… "

Now here's where I remind you all that I am an evil mother who routinely gives away the family pet. Like, all fifty of them (because I'm also the evil mother who is married to a man who has seen far too many Meg Ryan-esque films and thinks that bringing home a cuddly puppy is something all women find romantic).

It was a tiny thing— cute in an ugly sort of way. Seemed to be breathing fine and was making the little sucking motions with its little mouth [insert collective 'awwwww' here]…

And had the kid not been standing beside me, I'd have totally called it Dionne and walked on by.

But he was standing beside me, staring at me in that way that spawn does when they're secretly stashing away all of the details from a particular moment in order to reference it at a later date and hold it against you.

Like that time when I was thirteen and my mom had fifty too many Crown & Cokes and was demanding at the top of her lungs that the lady in the Burger King drive-thru tell her where the goddamn beef was.

And since I just so happen to bring that little incident up every time we pass a Burger King sign, I put the little rodent in a box (to the relief of the kid, of course) and did what any mother in my situation would do…

I plurked about it.

Thankfully, the marvelous being known as Joy knew of a great website devoted entirely to the rescue of squirrels… Apparently, baby squirrels fall out of trees a lot. Who knew, right?

The website said that I could simply stick "Dionne" (box and all) at the foot of the tree and that, as long as she wasn't boiling up in somebody's stew pot, its mother should come back to claim it. (It also said that if she didn't return in a couple of hours that I would have to feed the little bugger with an eyedropper on some sort of feeding schedule and raise it as my own until it was old enough to be set free back in the wild… Ummmm, yeah.)

So I did.

And she did.

And all was right with the world.

… right up until the point when the kid, while walking the dog this morning, actually watched the baby squirrel take yet another nose dive from its tree, that is.

And while I sat there listening to the kid describe how the little thing didn't manage to survive this fall, I started thinking about how many times we've seen a fallen squirrel in our tree-filled yard (0) and the odds of the same squirrel falling out of the same tree yet again so soon (pretty high) and realized that maybe, just maybe, that little squirrel didn't accidentally fall out of that tree at all…

Maybe, just maybe, there are mothers out there even more evil than the one that gives away the family pet.

Even if they are just squirrels.

And I'm really happy about that.

For more Haiku Friday, be sure to visit A Mommy Story.

New Box of Colors and Pair of Blunt Scissors… $5.00

New Pair of Shoes… $40

New Backpack… $20

One Bag of Frozen Peas to Keep Black-Eye that He Came Home with on the Second Day of Preschool from Swelling … $1.00

Look on Daddy's Face When Teacher Explains that the Other Kid Has Two Shiners & a Busted Lip… Priceless.

5. It's rather rude (on occasion).

4. She probably bruises easily, thereby suffering terribly while sitting.

3. The chances of her growing so weary of walking about with one hand constantly protecting her rear that she leaves you get stronger and stronger every day.

2. Every time she's in the kitchen, you have to buy a new plate or a new glass or that really expensive gravy boat that costs more than you make in a month.

1. One day, you may find yourself in the awkward position of explaining to your two-year-old daughter why it's not okay for her to reach up and slap the ass of the lady leaning over the counter in front of you in the checkout lane at Big Lots.

And you will never EVER live that one down.

Trust me.

Yesterday was my tenth wedding anniversary.

I shit you not.

It's been TEN years of sleeping squashed-up on one side of the bed.

TEN years of having my ass randomly slapped whenever I'm least expecting it (and somehow, I'm always least expecting it. Go figure.).

TEN years of "baby, baby, baby" and "Courtney, Courtney, Courtney…"

TEN years of "rub my back" and "fix me a sandwich, please…"

TEN years of "can we listen to something else?" and "oh god, not General Hospital again…"

TEN years of "…but it's hunting season…"

TEN years of "My mom does it like this…"

TEN years of "Remember how we used to do it four or five times a day…"

TEN years of dirty socks on the floor.

TEN years of football and trucks and… dirt.

TEN years of "But mo-om honey, I really want that…"

TEN years of "What's so damn special about [insert Clive Owen or similarly hot British actor here]?"

TEN years of… burping.

TEN years of dirty looks and dirty looks.

TEN years of "put that book down and go to sleep, already…"

TEN years of "it's your turn, I did it last…"

TEN years of "where did you put my…"

TEN years of "Of course, I'm listening to you… I just, ummmm, missed that last part…"

TEN years of "Stop telling people that we met at bar named Fat Woody's… It's embarrassing…"

TEN years of "Sure I'll be home in time…"

TEN years of "It looks the same to me…"

TEN years of "I don't know… Where do you want to eat?"

TEN years of "Stop calling my childhood deprived just because I haven't seen Sixteen Candles…"

TEN years of "I have no idea what you're talking about…"

TEN years of "Repeat that? I don't understand you when you speak in bitch…"

TEN years of "Starbucks is NOT a necessity…"

TEN years of "What phone should I buy this week?"

TEN years of "You sound like your mother…"

TEN years of married life.

TEN years.

I shit you not.

And I've enjoyed every minute most of it.

(It's those damn dirty socks, I tell 'ya. I mean, seriously? What's so difficult about picking up your own socks? Do I look like I want to pick up your nasty socks off of my bedroom floor? Like I suddenly woke-up one morning and thought, "My life would be complete if I could just find a pair of dirty socks to carry to the laundry!" Like I think housework is fun or something? Or that my one job on this Earth is to clean-up after you and your stinky feet? Ummmm… I don't think so. And you did have a deprived childhood… C'mon, everybody has seen Sixteen Candles. How in the hell are you going to get my pop culture references if you haven't seen Sixteen Candles? And I picked the restaurant last week, so it's your turn. And Clive Owen is hot. And Starbucks is too a necessity. Are you calling me a bitch? 'Cause it sounds like you just called me a bitch. And I am NOT like my mother… Happy Anniversary, Mr. Shakespeare. If I had to do it all over again, I probably would.)

Where I come from, the word "yes" has two syllables…

The tea is sweet, the food is made of real butter, the mosquitoes are the size of dump trucks, Scarlett O'Hara is second only to the Virgin Mary…

And, during the summer, it's 500 bloody degrees in the freaking shade.

So you'll understand when I say that we spent all day Sunday sitting in front of the television watching a veritable marathon of movies full of kid-friendly life lessons and the occasional sexual innuendo that everyone assumes only the adults in the room will understand.

(And, yes, I know about the whole assumption spill… But in order to continue traveling gaily along this little path of pseudo-sanity that is motherhood, I'm going to hold tight to the belief that my nine-year-old doesn't understand but every other third word in Shrek. You should too. Trust me.)

About four hours into this family marathon, we found ourselves watching Firehouse Dog for the umpteenth-millionth time.

They were delighted.

I was bored.

And a little ashamed every time that stupid dog barked and they all turned to look at me with sad little eyes as if I gave away their little dog that barked exactly the same way…

Of course, I'd just point at their daddy, shake my head a bit, and feel much better.

Judith's Tips for Slacker Moms #237: Always divert the blame. If that doesn't work, please see tip #238.

Judith's Tips for Slacker Moms #238: Bribery is not a four-letter word: Never underestimate the power that a five dollar bill has on a toddler.

Midway through the movie, the little boy is sitting on his bed crying his heart out because he thought that his dad may have been killed…

Peter, ever the critical one, lifts his head a bit from my lap (because the word wife is synonymous with pillow obviously) and says,

"He's not a very good cryer, is he?"

"Sniff"

"…Is he?"

"Sniff"

"Judith? Are you listening to me? He's not a very good cryer, is he?"

Twisting his neck a bit to finally actually look at me for the first time in this little mid-movie conversation, he snorts a bit,

"But you are obviously."

He then proceeds to cackle- yes, cackle- for a good thirty minutes and then well on into the opening credits of Finding Nemo.

I contemplated giving the silly man a firm shove to the floor, thereby vindicating both my misappropriated lap and my tears…

But decided to just walk away instead.

After all, that scene where the monster fish eats all of the baby fish is a rough one.