Last night we surprised our daughter with Hanna Montana tickets. It was an early birthday present that we thought she would love. For anyone without a pre-teen daughter, Hanna’s real name is Miley Cyrus…as in Billy Ray’s daughter. Now, if you had asked me ten years ago if I would ever go to a concert with the name Cyrus on the ticket, I would’ve told you absolutely not. As a matter of fact, when my husband and I got married back in 1997, we specifically told the DJ that Achy Breaky Heart was NOT to be played.

But, our daughter LOVES this Cyrus kid. So we were pretty surprised with she opened her present and just sat there and smiled. No yelling? No jumping? No bouncing off the walls? WHAT? Because, when I wasn’t much older than her and I got Jack Wagner tickets…well, I was a mini-maniac. And, when he touched my hand at the concert…sigh…I vowed to never wash it again.

But, our kid was calm and we just sat there looking at her, asking if she was happy. Prodding her to at least pretend to be thrilled. I gotta tell you, I was a bit disappointed.

When I took a phone call a couple of minutes later, she was still just sitting there. But, slowly it hit her, and I looked over to see her eyes welling up with tears. Then she took a pillow, put it over her face and screamed. Soon she was jumping around the room, giving me and her Dad alternating hugs, with, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” in between. She ran upstairs, tried on an outfit for the concert, then hugged her Hanna Montana poster.

What a relief that was. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see her acting like a hysterical fool.

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A few nights ago, my kids were in the bathroom and suddenly things got quiet. Now, every parent who knows anything, knows that silence is not golden unless you’re in the car, where everyone is safely strapped in their seats. Silence in the car isn’t golden, it’s platinum. But, silence in the bathroom is not usually good, so I don’t know why I didn’t yell the frequently asked, “What are you doing in there?!!”

Before I could use my motherly instincts to sense doom, my daughter yelled, “Mom! You’re not going to be happy.”

Now, what could that mean? Coming from the bathroom, I assumed it was that my son had pulled down the towel rack, or that a full trash can had been tipped over. The worst scenario in my mind was a backed-up toilet. We live in an old house, so that happens a lot.

But,no! That would just require a plunger and some elbow grease. Instead, my daughter informed me that after she had pooped and wiped, but before she had flushed, her brother threw an ink-pen in the toilet.

At first, I just stood there looking at it. Like, what am I going to do about this?!! But, I quickly went to work, looking for something with which I could easily retrieve the pen, and then dispose of.

I thought about tongs, but tongs aren’t really disposable. I thought of the box of surgical gloves we have, that I use for projects around the house, or for when my son had his tonsils removed and we had to shove acetaminophen suppositories up his patootie, but they seemed too thin and I didn’t want to think about sticking my hand in there. Not even with a glove on.

So, I did what any logical person would do. I took two bendable straws and positioned one under each end of the pen which had luckily not speared anything. With a keen sense of straw-balancing, I was able to lift the pen out of the pot. I threw it, and the straws, into the trash can I had placed right next to the toilet.

And, there you have my latest Mommy-Invention. A poopy-pen-retrieval-system. It sure won’t make me rich, but at least it kept my hands clean.

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Since I’ve been working, a few changes have been made around the house. The biggest of which, is that my husband now gets our son ready in the morning.

The other day, I mentioned to my husband that he needs to make sure our son is getting himself dressed…and not to help him too much. Even though he’s five years old, he had a rough start in life, and is still behind on some of his motor skills. He needs consistent practice in order to master every-day tasks. My husband admitted that he had been helping our son get his clothes on, because he’s usually pressed for time.

But, that afternoon when I picked up my son at school, I saw that our boy had indeed dressed himself. Though, I’m guessing they were running late again…and that my husband never noticed that he sent our kid to preschool with his pants on backward.

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