Feisty Repartee

Me, Mini-Me, and Mini-Me II

A few weeks ago I treated myself to a new notebook computer and wireless internet.

Dear Lord, how did I ever live without these things before?

The absolute freedom these things allow is incredible. No longer am I ensconced at a computer armoire in my bedroom, tucked away from the rest of the family, plugging away on a cumbersome desktop.

Of late, I've taken over a small secretary in the hall of the foyer with a view through the glass front doors, as well as through the open living room and out the French doors and bank of windows along the back of the house. It's incredible. I love it.

An offshoot to my new location is my ability to watch and listen to the girls as they play, watch television, and interact with one another, seemingly oblivious to my presence in the foyer.

I'm a veritable fly on the wall.

I'm also amazed at how many of my words and phrases come out of their mouths.

This evening, Sweet One (Mini-Me) was doing homework at the breakfast table.

Not to be outdone, Wee One (Mini-Me II) decided she had "homework" as well and set out all of her drawing paper, pencils, markers, and crayons.

Within minutes, Wee One had overtaken nearly three-fourths of the table with her "stuff."

Sweet One complained and asked her sister to keep her stuff on her half of the table.

Wee One told her rather emphatically, "Life's not fair, the sooner you realize and accept it, the better off you will be."

Wee One is four.

They argued for a moment or two and Sweet One asserted herself and forcibly moved Wee One's things to her half of the table.

Wee One pouted and whined a bit, then told Sweet One if she did not "fly right" she was going to tell Mommy on her.

Sweet One informed the little one that if she told Mommy, then Mommy was going to be mad at both of them.

Lastly, she said to her little sister: "You may as well get happy, because if we make Mommy mad, both our bottoms are going to be sad."

Tough, Damn Tough

Wee One and I have been home this week because she has been sick.

We've had lots of "bonding" time.

As much as I love and adore her, I'm tired of reading books (bad mother that I am) and I've watched my fill of Sponge Bob (irrespective of his sexual persuasion), Caillou, Dora the Explorer, and Blues Clues; however, I have a special affinity for Lil' Bill. Probably because that show does not come on every five minutes.

Despite a fever and very sore throat, Wee One has been a trooper. She does not complain and the only way I know she may be ill is flushed cheeks and a thermometer.

Otherwise, she just goes great guns.

Yesterday, Wee One was coming down the stairs when she missed the fifth step from the bottom. As I gasped, she tumbled down the carpeted steps and landed "splat" at the bottom on the tile floor. OUCH!

I rushed over to check on her as she was standing up and brushing herself off.

When I asked if she was okay, she said: "I missed that damn step."

Not for the Faint of Heart

When I was twenty-one, I met the man I married. We dated for months and the time eventually came for me to take him home to meet my parents.

Actually, it was to meet my father because he had already briefly met my mother in passing when I took her to a LSU football game.

I warned him at the time that my father was a hard ass and he should be prepared for just about anything. I filled his head with story after story about what a SOB my father could really be.

It was a nice and cool fall morning when we drove to my childhood home from Baton Rouge. I was a nervous wreck.

When we arrived, my petite and very lady-like mother was in her old jeans and working clothes with a .22 rifle in one hand and a three foot machete trailing behind her.

As we stepped out of the vehicle, she walked up to my boyfriend and handed him the rifle and asked if he could shoot.

Dutifully, he said "Yes, ma'am" and looked at me quizzically.

I, in turn, looked dumbfounded at my mother. She smiled, leaned over, and whispered to me: "Do not show him up."

She then told my boyfriend to shoot two of the four white ducks she raised on the pond.

Specifically, she said to shoot two of the young ones and leave the old man alone. Apparently, she needed two to stuff for Thanksgiving and, by God, my mother insisted on fresh meat.

A crack shot, my boyfriend did as instructed and within minutes handed her two of the young white ducks.

On an old oak stump about four feet in diameter, she placed one of the ducks. With the machete she instantly dispatched one head from a body, hung it up to drain, and promptly did the same to the other.

With much efficiency of motion, she then dipped each duck in boiling water and within minutes had them both cleaned and gutted.

In awe, my boyfriend watched her work. He had even offered to clean the ducks for her, but she waved him off.

Within fifteen minutes of our arrival, all tasks had been completed.

As we began to walk into the house, my boyfriend shook his head, took my hand, and said dryly: "Can't wait to meet your dad."