A MOTHER'S SACRIFICE

Today the kids had to bring shoeboxes to school for a project.

Shoeboxes, people!!! Have you any idea what this means??? They're more valuable than gold in my house. [Yes, I'm being completely serious!]

MAMA'S DREAM SHOE CLOSET

So, I reluctantly rifle through my closet, gently pushing aside the Aldo boxes, which open sideways, which I happen to think is ingenious. And then I navigate past the giant Nike boxes that Mommy's Nike IDs come in, which are lined in velvet and come with they're own special satin bags, which I've hijacked for several of my very favorite pairs of heels because, for God's sake, they shouldn't be wasted on anything as remotely unsexy as tennis shoes!!! Then I pile the fabulous Nine West boxes carefully on top of one another high up on the very top shelf because, dammit, they just look so adorable all lined up and sized just right like that, and all in that oh-so-calming shade of grey...

Anyway...with both kids at the bottom of the step stool waiting (im)patiently for their box, I make my apologies, beg forgiveness from the shoe gods, and reluctantly remove two of my bejeweled Cancun ankle-wrap sandals (which you may recall my mentioning a while back)from their protective little homes, and woefully hand them over to the little monsters drooling at my feet.

"YAY!!!!!!!" they run screeching out of my closet, raising their arms to hold the sacrificial cardboard carcasses above their heads, dancing around the bed chanting in unison, "I've got a shoebox! I've got a shoebox!" in utter satisfaction of their triumph over my vice.

And I emerge from the utopia that houses my couture and accoutrements completely defeated as a shoe-whore, but glad to know that when push comes to shove, I CAN make those hard choices for my children. Yes, I can!

That is...until we got to school and Teacher Teresa, who lavishes praises on the kids for remembering to bring in their boxes, makes sure to tell me how thoroughly surprised she is not to see little lucite shoeboxes with pearl handles and shiny polaroids with index cards labeled with the make and model of my heels affixed to the front of each and every box.

[GASP!!!]

Can you believe that? I mean, can you really believe she said that to me? Out loud??? The nerve of that woman! Really.

And I fumed about it all the way to the mall...where I quickly purchased every shoebox-sized lucite container I could find. [What a totally fabulous idea, no?!!!!]

By the way, you can get these for someone special (*hint hint*) at We Love Your Feet for a really reasonable price if you shop in bulk!!!

happy birthday, grandma queta.

we miss you every single day.

AND NOW THE NOT-QUITE-SO-COMEDIC STYLINGS OF SAIA YSIDORA...

Trying to teach a four-year-old to tell a joke is like...trying to teach a four-year-old to wash the dishes. It's clean, but oh-so-messy, goes all over the place, and still requires you to finish things up when it's done.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?" she tries for the twentieth time in as many hours.

"I don't know, Saia. Why?" I monotone with a strained smile.

"Because she...it...wanted to...she was trying to...because...to get to...because she had to cross the street...um...to be over the...to cross the road...to get...to get..."

"To the other side, baby! To get to the other side," I practically weep.

"Yeah," she smiles satisfactorily, "That's right, Mom!"

[And the crowd goes wild!!! Okay, maybe not.]

INTRODUCING: THE COMEDIC GENIUS OF SANTIAGO GAEL...

"So, how was everyone's day today?" I ask as we drive home from school yesterday.

"FINE!" they both sing out in unison [a sure sign they're not quite telling the whole truth].

"Did anyone get in trouble today?" I prod.

"NO!" he says. "YES!" she counters.

"What happended, Santiago?"

"I had to sit at the yellow table by myself," he explains.

"For..." I coax.

"For not listening," he continues.

"To..." I add.

"To the teachers when they asked me to stop," he concludes.

"Stop what?" I ask dreading, always dreading, the answer.

"Stop making everyone laugh when I tell them I can burp my ABCs," he says giggling.

"Where in the world did you get that from?!?!" I demand.

"From Hami in Over the Hedge," they reply, both barely able to contain their laughter at the apparently fond and furiously funny recollection.

"But you know that's nasty, right?" I ask. "It's not even really funny," I say.

"No," he says. "I mean, yes," he stumbles, "but, Mom," he goes on, "everyone really laughed when I said diaper."

[and they erupt into uncontrollable hysterics]

Obviously, they got their sense of humor from their other Mommy!!!

WHO SAYS THE SWORD AIN'T MIGHTY???

"Santiago?" I call from the kitchen window.

"Yes, Mom?" he answers without turning around.
"What are you doing, Bubba?"

"Nothing."

[uh-huh. the mischief maker's tell.]

"Santiago Gael, please tell me what you're up to," I insist.

[Slowly. He. Turns. Around.]

With a whimper, he struggles with his waistband, tugging and pulling, and getting visibly more frustrated by the second when suddenly he screams...

"I JUST CAN'T KEEP MY SWORD IN MY PANTS!!!!"

[No, no, no! This is NOT a sign of things to come!!!]

[And get your minds out of the gutter, people. He's only four! It was a real plastic sword he was trying to hook onto his belt loop, for crisakes!]