Uh, I CAN Read You Know

On a recent Skype call I suffered a couple of technical difficulties.

The first being that while I could see video, I couldn't hear any sound.

The second being that the technicality was being blamed on my supposed old age.

I was trying to Skype with my granddaughter Kendra, as I often do.  She sits in her high chair while I try to amuse her with peek-a-boo and finger puppets--really important grandma stuff.  The problem was that while she could hear me, I couldn't hear anything on my end.  Admittedly, this was no major disaster since she's not even one yet and can't speak.  But my daughter Cheyenne likes to walk in and out of the room and join the conversation at times and she was certain the problem must be something idiotic on my end.  Determined to fix my little sound snafu, she began writing notes and then held them up to her computer's camera so I could read them.
Notes like:

• Mom check your volume setting
• Are you sure you checked your volume setting?
• Do you even know where your volume button is?

And even though I couldn't hear her, she could hear me so I responded out loud with answers like:

• Yes, I've checked it.
• Yes, I'm totally sure I checked it.
• Of course I know where the stupid volume button is.
• Chey, do you realize your texting me the hard way?

Cheyenne finally got exasperated and I heard the phone ring downstairs.  Soon Mitchell, my resident computer whiz, was tromping up the stairs--Chey had called him on his cell phone.  With his phone to his ear, talking to his sister, he came to my computer and peered at the screen.

That was when Cheyenne held up this scribbled bit:

In case it's too blurry, her note says:

"Hi Mitch Mom's getting Old"

Uh, hello, I'm right here and I can read!

Mitchell audibly responds (with me sitting right there) by saying "Yeah, I know" then scoots me off my chair, sits in front of my computer and clicks a few buttons and then suddenly all communication is miraculously restored.  

Unfortunately, what was not restored was my dignity as my age was harshly called into question and completely bludgeoned in the inquest.  

But at least now Cheyenne can hear me. 

So I wait for Mitch to head back down stairs and then I smile real wide.  I look at Chey on my computer screen and I move my mouth...

...I just don't make any sounds.
(score one for the old people.)

Christmas in January?

The rapid decline of my aging brain--a worsening condition which only serves to remind me that the inevitable descent into one of those 55 and older communities may be looming in my not too distant decrepit future. 

Today I bought a secret little gift for an upcoming holiday.  I thought about where the perfect place to hide it might be and scanned the house for that gem of a spot.  I zeroed in on what a thought would make the perfect hiding stash and went to put my surprise something there...

Lo and behold I found not one but THREE Christmas presents I had previously hidden months before!  Apparently this wasn't the first time I'd decided that this covert spot was the perfect hideaway!  Several months before Christmas I had bought a few things for the kids and hid them there.  And yes indeed it was a safe spot--even safe from me apparently.  By the time the holidays rolled around I didn't even remember I'd bought these silly Christmas treasures.

Luckily there was a little gift stashed away for each one of my kids still left at home--no kid had been left out of this little scandal.  I brought the gifts downstairs and handed them each a crumpled shopping bag and simply said: 

"Merry Christmas, your mother's an idiot."

They didn't even ask for an explanation as they opened their bags.  This wasn't the first time this sort of unfortunate thing has happened and they know better than to upset an aging parent with questions that will only result in embarrassing confessions of senility.  And perhaps this was not a bad snafu after all since they would have thought these gifts were stupid had they opened them with all their more resplendent stuff on Christmas. 

Connor got a new U of O hat:

Chloe a fortune cookie key chain she'd been wanting for her back pack:

And Mitchell an orange leatherman's tool:

While they were happy with their unexpected surprises I was definitely not happy with my unexpected lapse in memory!

But what can you do?  Except for maybe ask someone out there to call me sometime before Valentine's Day and remind me that I've stashed away some secret somethings in my oft-forgotten hideaway!

Yes, that might help, that is unless I've forgotten where I've put the cordless phone...unfortunately that happens a lot lately too. 

Fifty

Yep, Mark just turned 50.  50! Whoa!  So in an attempt to go easy on the old guy I thought I'd jot down 50 cheerful things you may find interesting for such a melancholy milestone...

First off...Fifty can't be that old.  
These young bucks are turning fifty right along with him...

• Eddie Murphy
• George Clooney
• Michael J. Fox
• Laurence Fishburne
• Ralph Macchio
• Wayne Gretzky
• Vince Neil  (of Motley Crew)
• Fabio
• Dennis Rodman
• Steve Young

And here's ten reasons Mark sure doesn't act like a 50-year old:

• He can wakeboard 360 degrees around the ski boat.
• He can ride a wheely on his quad for miles.
• He's pulls off some crazy moves on the trampoline.
• He skateboards around the house (yes inside the house!)
• He's placed second in his age division in every triathlon he's entered.
• He was just three minutes shy of qualifying for the Boston Marathon.
• He can jump wake to wake on his wakeboard. 
• Connor's baseball coaches had him pitch to the kids during practices cause he's still got a mean fastball.
• He's always the first to propose a game that involves danger and the possibility of trauma, scars, and or bruises.
• He avoids buffets like the plague.  Old, cranky, senior-discount plagues.

But then again, 
there's ten reasons we can't deny that he really has gotten older:

• At 50, he's actually old enough to join AARP.
• All the LITE radio stations are programmed into his radio's auto-tune buttons.
• When he grows a beard it comes in gray.  I rather fancy it though.
• He wears his readers anytime, anywhere, and doesn't care who sees.
• Slippers have become his favorite footwear.

• He likes to wear his noise cancelling headphones even when there's hardly any noise to cancel out.
• He lingers longer when flipping channels and pauses on trivia game shows.  It's only a matter of time before he just tunes in for the whole show and shouts out the answers.
• If you write him a love note, better do it in large print.  Or at least scan it and send it to his ipad.
• He's rather fond of the weekend nap.
• If someone teases him about his age he turns into                 Mr. Crankypants.  We tease him anyway.

Although, turning 50 does has its advantages...

• You're actually old enough to join AARP.
• Krispie Kreme gives you 10% off their donuts.
• You can save 20% off your monthly Gold's Gym membership.
• Sea World gives you $3 off a one-day ticket.
• and so does Busch Gardens.
• You can save 25% off at National Rent-a-Car
• You now qualify for K-Mart's "Gold K Prescription" discount program.
• Every Tuesday you'll save 10% at Goodys.
• and 10% off on Tuesdays at Michaels Craft.
• and now you can dress like your always on an African safari with your 10% discount at Banana Republic.

And if that's not cool enough...here's ten more interesting things about 50:

• 50 is the score on the center of a dartboard known as a "bullseye".
• The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim retired the number 50.
• 50 is the atomic number of tin.
• An ant can lift 50 times its weight.
• The Roman Numeral for the number 50 is "L".
• The 50-move rules in chess: if there have been 50 consecutive moves of white and black chess pieces without any piece taken or any pawn moved, then a player can claim a draw.
• Back in 1986, Nevada’s Highway 50 was named the “Loneliest Highway in America” by LIFE Magazine.
• The U.S. Senate vote result in a tie 50-50 is the only situation that the U.S. Vice-President has a chance to cast his vote to break the tie.
• The critical speed in the movie “Speed” is 50 mph.  
• Londinium in Britain was founded by the Romans in the year 50 AD.

Happy Birthday Mark! 
You're still young to me.

Picky! Picky!

Chloe.

She's our little fastidious child.  She may come in a small little body but she's surely the most persistent of our progeny.

She decided her dad had a few premature grey eyebrow hairs and that just wouldn't do.  And so, like any emboldened and meticulous child would do, she took matters into her own hands and rid her father of them.

This is the frightening little scene that I walked downstairs and saw:

Thank goodness for my iphone camera! I keep it on silent just for this purpose.  Silent Mode = Stealth picture snapping.

She enlisted the help of her cousin Madi to hold the light on her
dad's face so that she could get down to the very important and ultra serious business of "feral-free facescaping".

As for Mark, he's either one brave dad, one desperate grey ridden man, or simply a whipped father.  Most likely a combination of all three.

And poor poor Chloe.  Should I tell her that her dad's about to turn the big 5-0 this December and that it's only gonna get worse?  Very soon this old man is gonna start needing more than just tweezers.

Caution: Baby

Cheyenne and Kendra were here visiting recently and when that happens Aunty Chloe gets all excited and hogs all the baby holding time she can as if Kendra were her own personal American Girl Doll.  Chloe will hold her non-stop and only put her down to sleep. 

The other day I walked into my bedroom and found this:

Apparently when Chloe put her down for a nap on my bed, she was so worried that because Mark and I are now decrepit grandparents,  that our declining vision would obscure the fact that our granddaughter was asleep on our bed.  So she solved the problem by making us this nice sign.  A sign in large print no less.

Cautious Chloe--and a little life saved by a pink marker!

Commitment-Phob

I must confess that I have serious commitment issues.  Long term relationships are just not my thing.  The one exception is for my husband Mark. Bless that man. I'm not sure any other guy could put up with me or my bizarre shenanigans so I'm fully committed there.  But all other commitments I am quite terrible at. This is why I don't have a manicurist, a hair dresser, or even a doctor that sees me regularly. I just can't commit to seeing other people on a regular basis--even my extended family only sees me on the rare occasion. So my nails are boring and plain, my hair gets cut on a whim by any hairdresser that's open (which occasionally goes really wrong like the time a lady mistook the word "LAYERS" for "MULLET"), and my doctor only sees me when I get sick--which is never--because I can't even commit to having the flu for more than 24 hours. Appointments looming in the future just freak me out. The fact that I've promised to see someone at a specific hour and date sometime in the future just makes me squeamish. Weird, I know.

But it seems that life over 40 is soon going to force me into going steady.  I keep finding gray hairs and I worry that this sort of demonized lamentation will eventually force me to succumb to a rolling appointment schedule with a hair-colorist. I break out in a sweat just thinking about having to schedule time to do this every six weeks. With the SAME person no less, because she's the only one who knows how to "mix my color just right" or so I'm told. But what's a graying girl to do?

Most gals love having their hair done but I've always been one of those awkward no-fuss sorta gals. I like to wear make-up and look nice to some degree but I just don't like gossiping with a gaggle of girls in a salon permeated with stink while I forge my meager attempts to get pretty. But the gray is coming in and I fear a crisis is unavoidable, my care-free non-committal days are numbered.

Unless I just go gray.

Seriously, it's been done. But really? Has it come down to that? Personalities like Stacy London embraced the gray with that bizarre streak in the front of her head but I think she looks like Johnny Depp in Sweeney Todd--and she's MY age for pete's sake. Doesn't Stacy know that those misplaced gray patches bring to mind folks like Bill Clinton's mother NOT forty-somethings--and most especially NOT for forty-somethings named Stacy.

But Lady Gaga even went gray and so did Kelly Osbourne, some sort of weird trend that seriously just made them look drab and old. Even Pink did it. But in my opinion they crossed the line into decrepit agedness waaaaaay waaaaaay too early.

But with all this gray-gone-wrong...Maybe it's time to c...c...c...I can hardly say it...(gulp) ...commit.

But then my mind starts to invent all kinds of random scenarios on why seeing a hairdresser on a regular basis could be bad.  Like the whole prison issue, for one. What if I start coloring my hair and then end up in jail?  Seriously, this sort of possibility is no laughing matter. I've seen women on TV doing interviews from jail with 3 inches of ghastly grow-out upstaging their prison-televised diatribes. And while I certainly have no plans to break the law and end up with a parole officer, these sort of problematic possibilities creep into my graying head. WHAT IF? Because once you start coloring your graying head of hair you are in for life. There is no parole there, jail or no jail. You've got to maintain it FOREVER.

Or what if you color your hair for so long that when your eyes go bad you don't even know you've turned yourself into a certified real life blue-hair? This is all seriously dangerous territory.

So here I sit, totally indecisive, on the border between my carefree days of non-committal youth and a wretched future of appointments with a slew of folks I pay to help me curb the rapid decay of old age that is suddenly creeping up, growing out, or sagging.

There are lots of decisions to make.  Grow old GRAYsfully or fight it all the way? And of course, I just can't seem to commit to either plan.

The Tooth Fairy is a Slacker

Seriously, what is up with the Tooth Fairy these days? If you or a loved one has lost a tooth recently, perhaps you've noticed she has gotten a bit scatterbrained. The Tooth Fairy I remember from my childhood was a fairy that was on top of her game. Always prompt, always had cash, and always showed up in the right place and always  right on time. But nowadays it seems to me that she has lost her toothy touch. My poor children Chloe and Connor have seen a far cry from the one I remember. Of late, she's visited the wrong room, suffered some confusion on exactly which pillow to look under, and even skipped over them entirely, only to shamefully show up after three or four attempts on our part to leave a dang tooth. It is all very disturbing.

Take our last dental dilemma for instance.  Chloe lost a tooth and straightaway put it under her pillow.  She even popped it into a cute little envelope and wrote a note on it--albeit a passive-aggressive note from a kid who appears to be destitute for a little extra cash:

Now perhaps the confusion over our latest tooth submission may have started because Chloe has a guest sleeping in her room and so she was sleeping in Connor's extra bed. However, bed swapping or not, according to Chloe this shouldn't have caused even the slightest of problems for our fairy-ed friend since she had heard from several sources that "the Tooth Fairy has "X-Ray Vision". I've heard this little tidbit myself many times and I'm inclined to think it's reliable information. Everyone knows the Tooth Fairy has stealthy eyes and can see really well in the dark. But x-ray vision or not, the Tooth Fairy missed Chloe's tooth completely. We were both bewildered in the morning when poor Chloe discovered she had completely forgot her sealed up tooth. It was very disappointing. Chloe was sad because she'd been skipped over, and me--quite frankly, I started to get a little worried about the mental clarity of our little tooth taker.

As I pondered the dilemma, I felt a little empathy for the Tooth Fairy, it certainly can't be an easy job. So I suggested to Chloe that we should cut her a little slack--perhaps she may not be getting enough sleep these days. I even proposed to Chloe that she might brighten her evening rounds by leaving her some chocolates along with the lost tooth and see if that doesn't help put us all in her good graces and solidify us as her all-time favorite donors. I assured Chloe that she would likely never forget us if we give her a little incentive.

But this tooth tardiness was serious business and Chloe and I came up with an equally serious plan to remedy the situation: we decided to write a "strongly worded note".  The Tooth Fairy probably needed a little direction and should clearly be told that Chloe had a guest sleeping in her room and that she and her lost tooth could be found in Connor's room. I had Chloe go and find me some paper DOWNSTAIRS while I grabbed a writing utensil UPSTAIRS, and then upon Chloe's return we began our lengthy epistle to the Fairy.   As I was writing,    it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps the Tooth Fairy may have simply left her dental deposit beneath the wrong pillow. I told Chloe to go and check under her guest's pillow in her bedroom--just in case. Sure enough, as I was penning the words "cease and desist", Chloe shouts from her room that there was indeed two whole bucks under the wrong pillow! [heavy sigh.] What a relief! She had not forgotten at all! She had just had a momentary lapse of x-ray vision. And believe me, this can and will happen as you get older. It is something I have in common with our mysterious fairy.

Luckily it turns out that the Tooth Fairy may not be the biggest slacker after all. Bad vision? Yes. Occasionally forgetful? Yes. Suffers from pillow confusion? Yes. But I have a feeling she'll be more prompt next time now that she knows there's a little dark chocolate incentive waiting for her on her next pick up.

Premature Granding

Old people.  I really never planned on being one. Unfortunately it happens without your consent and in my case it officially happened four weeks ago, the day my oldest daughter Cheyenne turned me into the "G" word.

G-G-G Grandmother.

Honestly, it still stings to say it. My ears ring and my vision worsens and the only thing that makes it feel better is holding my new grand baby. And frankly, when this little baby is near, in the swirl of my new Senior-ity, it's actually pretty sweet--just don't tell anyone I said that.

My Premature Granding began with a phone call. Chey rang to say the doctors had decided to induce her labor two weeks early because she was showing signs of pre-eclampsia. As a result, Mark began running around the house groaning with his own set of pains which he then described as an acute case of  pre-GRAMPsia. (Good one honey.) With one phone call I suddenly found myself packing up my car and heading south, literally and figuratively. I was officially becoming old. And I actually had to get in my car and drive to it--my official old-ness. After 10 hours speeding my way to a far off delivery room, narrowly escaping the mother of all traffic tickets, I arrived in time for the big moment.

Little baby Kendra was born. 7lbs. 4oz. 19-inches.

This grandmother thing, it's terrible. It's turned me into a complete and utter sap. I coo, and fuss, and even occasionally talk baby talk. It's totally pathetic...and yet absolutely wonderful all at the same time. Who knew?

While I held this tiny little girl, somewhere in a glorious intoxication of new baby smell, a small hushed whimper, and a loud boisterous baby burp (a belch that completely outmatched her size), I realized something.  This grandma gig ain't that bad after all.  It was then that I had a vision--albeit a blurry grab-your-reader-glasses kinda vision--but a vision nonetheless. I began to picture a whole new me. Far from the pragmatics of parenthood, being a grandparent allows you to loosen up a bit. Bedtimes, well-rounded meals, these things aren't my problem. The whole idea of breaking all the rules from regular parenting and spoiling the child rotten has real appeal.    An evil grin spread across my face and I realized I could do this grandmother thing. Like Michelangelo painting the Pope's ceiling, this could be my greatest work.

With that thought in mind I decided that from day one this little baby and I were gonna have some fun. And although we spent the first couple of weeks with poor little Kendra in the NICU (which would explain my long neglected and barren blog) I didn't let it stop me from enjoying my new found calling: Gregarious Grandma.

 For the first few days Kendra had to wear an eye mask...

...so I stole a Sharpie off the nurses desk and made it prettier,

then I told everyone she gets her eyes from her grandma:

And when they finally let her wear clothes, 

I fished through the NICU's pile of onesies and

decided she needed something adventurous to wear:

Any baby girl can look cute and precious,

but I thought she should sport a little attitude.

Soon I became known as "that grandmother" amongst the nurses. But I left a little levity in an otherwise gloomy hospital, and little baby Kendra and I were having as much fun as you could possibly have with a PIC line in your head.

Happily little Kendra has been paroled from the hospital and is healthy and dreamy as ever. And me? I'm finally back home and indulging in my new found hobby: Unorthodox Grandma.

A Very Selfish Birthday Gift

I've sunk to a whole new low.  I've defied the natural laws and true spirit of gift giving.   The fact is that I recently gave a birthday gift that I put A LOT of thought into, however, my sad confession is that I wasn't really thinking of the person who was to receive the gift as much as I was thinking selfishly about myself.  It was all perniciously premeditated and, well, a bit narcissistic on my part.

But I justified the whole nefarious affair by categorizing my gift as "friendly philanthropy" instead of calling it what it really was:
An "egotistical endowment".

We're not talking about a pricey gift mind you.  Just a package of socks as a matter of fact.  But the important part of the whole gift was that they were LOW CUT socks.

These low cut socks were for my big brother's 43rd birthday.  He's just two years older than me, which was an extremely important factor in my decision to give him this sort of practical yet highly necessary gift.

My decision for this purchase was based upon that fact that he has, to my great shock and horror, spent the better part of the summer sporting summer shorts with ghastly TALL WHITE socks and paired them with an even brighter more jarringly white shade of tennis shoes. (yep, that's him in the hat...)

I cannot think of anything that screams "OLD GUY" more than that.  Of course if he wants to flaunt his aged-ness it really should be his right, right?  WRONG!

Wrong because he and I are practically the same age.  We were one year apart in school for goodness sake!  So if he's sporting the crusty old man look already what in the heck does that say about me?  His not-too-much-younger sister?  For the love of all that's youthful, can't he think about others?  Particularly me?  And if not me, perhaps he should consider his poor wife Wendy.  She's still a hot and youthful mama.  Therefore sporting such an offensively old look really tarnishes not only his sister's but his wife's youthful appearance.  That's two counts of premature aging.  Short of locking him up, I think this sort of public sock spectacle must be stopped.  And so stop it I did...with a simple and thoughtfully deliberate birthday gift.

And next year, I plan on giving him a new and less Amish-looking hat.

Blinded by Pride

This past Sunday I found myself sitting on a church pew, sandwiched between Mark and a friend-both of whom had their readers perched proudly-boldly-and OLD-ly upon their noses.  When it came time for hymn singing, these two nice gentleman graciously held the book open for me to share.  The only problem was, I'm still waging my "fight aging to the death" campaign, which means I still refuse to wear my new readers in public.  This posed an even bigger problem-- it meant that they could both see and therefore they held the book up WAY TOO CLOSE for me to read!

So to cover my wretched aged-ness, I simply lied and said I was so overcome by "the spirit" I just couldn't utter a single note.  When in fact, what I was REALLY overcome by, was my decrepit vision.  I couldn't see a damn word on the page. 

Soon,  I realized that I'd both LIED and SWORE under my breath
IN A CHURCH.  Now I'm old AND a sinner.  Two very bad things.  So now I've got some serious repenting to do.  Which is fine, I suppose, as long as I don't have to do any public reading.

The Sheralyn Experiment

I was doing some reading the other day and happened to have my [ahem] reading glasses on.  And because I am still young enough to feel the shame that comes from finding myself amidst this messy business of needing spectacles to read, I absolutely refuse to wear them in any fashion that would lead people to conclude that they are what they really are.  Which is basically grandma glasses minus the dreaded neck chain.

Happy was the day when I bought some readers that could easily pass for regular glasses.  But, as I have posted previously, for one to complete the facade, a little "smoke and mirrors" must be involved, which is to say,  they cannot be worn on the tip of the nose nor can the wearer tilt their chin so as to gaze over the rims.  These are both dead giveaways that you are wearing readers.

So on Sunday I was sitting at home cozy-ed up with a book.  The fire was roaring and I was blissfully content in a swirl of a thick soft quilt.  With glasses on, I turned from my book to stare across the room and read the clock.  It was all a blur.  My dilemma at this point was this: do I lift the glasses to rest on the top of my head or do I quickly lower my chin and peer over the rims, since, after all, no one was in the room with me?  The former seemed like a lot of work.  The latter seemed like a slippery slope to a bad habit that might habitually make its way into public life and I just couldn't chance it.  In my extreme refusal to peer over the rims, I have had, of late, many a conversation in public with blurry people.

Suddenly I had the realization that my niece Sheralyn is no stranger to the world of blur.  She sees this way every single day.  She wears glasses and without them the poor girl is practically blind.  Every single morning she wakes to a hazy world completely out of focus and has to get her glasses on before she does anything else.  Just recently, she forgot to bring her glasses with her to swim practice.  She's on the high school's varsity swim team and when she lost the contacts in the pool she had NO backup plan.  She literally had to crouch down towards the floor and follow the lines beside the pool, like she was reading braille, in order to find her way back to the locker room! 

So with that in mind I decided to spend the rest of my Sunday in what I call, "The Sheralyn Experiment".  A day in the life.  This should keep me from my aging pity parties and make me appreciate that fact that I can at least see everything far away.  Just not up close!  So, I kept my reading glasses on for the rest of the day and navigated life precariously impaired.  In order to read the clock I had to walk to it, past the blur of furniture and get within a foot of it so I could read it.  By the time the day was over I had a new appreciation for my niece and the remaining eyesight I do have left.  But I also had sore and stubbed toes, and a giant whopping headache!

With a new outlook on the challenges of aging eyesight,  I am now worried about some serious things that were called to my attention during my "Sheralyn Experiment".  If, in my decrepit future, my vision gets really really bad, how in the heck will I...

• See to put on my make-up?
• Stay "in the lines" if I have ever reach the age when I have to trace on my eyebrows?
• Continue to have conversations with blurry people who I identify only by the sound of their voice if suddenly my hearing starts getting bad too?

And now I'm starting to wonder if...

• I will have to get one of those phones with giant buttons?
• If I can't see to even find my readers, will I end up caving in and buying a chain to hang them about my neck like an albatross drowning me into the sea of wretched decrepitude?
• And if so,  is it possible that eye wear chains will ever be considered "Bling"? 

Oh, yes, the "Sheralyn Experiment" did me a lot of good.  But it also raised a lot of questions and an ill-drawn eyebrow or two.

Creature Comforts

Chaperoning an overnight field trip comes with serious occupational hazards.  Perhaps this is why this sort of extravaganza is operated on a volunteer basis.  And perhaps also why the school does an extensive background check on every volunteer's criminal and driving records.  Because wrangling children who you cannot threaten to beat, is a serious challenge.   And those with parole officers will not get through these sort of challenges smoothly.

That's why Mark was a shoe-in for Chloe's most recent school field trip.  His record is squeaky clean and he is far more patient than I.  In my own personal opinion, I believe it's his old age that makes him so docile around the little people.  (Once you perch old man glasses on the tip of your nose, you risk being stereotyped by your wife-on her blog, for the rest of your life.)

Which is also why, when Mark told me his plan to bring along the Aero-Bed on the kid's "Zoo Snooze" field trip,  I mocked his embarrassing plan.

"That's a dead give-away that you're getting old." I told him.  Then I pointed out how bulky and heavy smuggling in such contraband would be.  And how lame he would look sprawled out  comfortably on the floor of the Portland Zoo's classroom while the rest of the boys huddled uncomfortably on thin sleeping pads in what little space would remain of the floor.  "Tough it out old man!  It's only for ONE night!" I chided.

Well, I thought my little diatribe settled things.  But today during Connor's baseball game, a few of the "Grandstand Moms" who went on the field trip enlightened me on the subject.

Apparently he startled many of the kids and chaperons when he fumbled into the boys classroom and parted the sea of boys with his queen-sized mattress.  Boys had to scamper and flee from the gigantic mattress as Mark plugged it in and let the motor blow.  The poor boys took their thin little sleeping pads and bags and groveled for what little space remained.  I can just imagine the scene:  a refugee camp of displaced boys with Mark snuggled up all cozy and carefree on his posh queen mattress, right in the center of it all.  AWKWARD!

Naturally Mark did not take any photos of this sad little scene.  I guess he didn't want me to get wind that he went ahead with his devious scheme despite my pleadings.  Nor blog it I suppose.  But that's what's so great about the unauthorized part of this blog confessional.  And what he didn't count on was a few of my blog readers/spies who can spot a post in the making and filled me in on his every-man-for-himself plot!  Next time ladies, get some pictures!!

Word spread quickly there a queen size bed had been smuggled in.  I'm not sure if the other chaperons were shocked or impressed by the rumor, though Mark swears it's the latter.  And he thinks he's started a new trend of opulence for overnight chaperoning.  He says a new standard has been set, the bar has been raised,  the bed has been inflated! 

And if everyone follows suit next year, where will the kids sleep?  Perhaps there's room in the tiger sanctuary.

Here's a few pics Chloe took at Zoo Snooze:

Whoa!  Look at all those kids! 

There's something to be said for having 

a sketchy background check. 

Hope the kids liked this sanctuary...

They may be sleeping in there next year if 

all the chaperons bring Aero-Beds.

Uh...look closely at this next one.  
I would have asked for my money back 

after visiting this "habitat"...

Apparently Chloe was alarmed at the Poser Penguins too...

Does this classroom look big enough for 30 boys
AND a queen-sized Aero-Bed??

This subject was apparently a little too tall for such a short photographer...

So while the kids studied the habitats of all the zoo creatures, we too learn one very important lesson:  The habitat of a contented over 40 dad on an overnight field trip must include lots of creature comforts!