Just the Tip

Many of my readers have been asking me for parenting and housekeeping tips, since I clearly know a thing or two about both.  So to keep ya’ll happy, I am instituting a new regular feature here at The Bearded Iris called “Just the Tip Tuesday.”  From now on, every Tuesday, unless there is some kind of family or political emergency that needs to be addressed ‘a-sap,’ you can check here for some practical advice on everything from spouse management, to wrangling your nekkid toddler,  to do-it-yourself-exterminating.  I do it all. And usually in heels and a Wonder Bra.  

 

And since playing “Just the Tip” is probably how my sweet baby, Bucket Head, came to be, it is only fitting that my first “Just the Tip Tuesday” post be all about how I am managing his antibiotic schedule for the Double Ear Infection from Hell.  Have you ever been around an 18 month old with a double ear infection?  I believe I can best sum it up for you with a limerick (and thank you to Bernie B. for the inspiration!).  

There once was a baby in pain.
From shrieking he could not refrain.
His fever — extreme.
Now where’s my Jim Beam?
Vomiting sure leaves a stain.   

So yeah, I’m pretty sleep deprived right about now.  Hung over too.  

Alright.  Enough of my caterwaulin’.  Here is my hot parenting tip of the week: the key to antibiotics is consistency.  Lord knows I am not a fan of antibiotics.  They totally fuck with your digestive track, and everyone knows that a good daily dump is the secret to lifelong happiness.  But there are times, like when your sweet baby has a DOUBLE GOD DAMN EAR INFECTION, that you just don’t have a choice.  I don’t want this angel to suffer any more than he already does having me for a mama.  

Now, most of my life is just a hot, steamy mess.  I am not very organized.  (Who has time to tidy up when there is all this blogging to do?)  But I found out the hard way that if I don’t have a system in place to record medicine doses, I will forget to medicate my baby and then he won’t get better.  And that is how I came to invent my handy dandy Antibiotic Sticker Chart!  Here is what it looks like, for you visual people:

You will notice in my chart that there are 10 rows, one for each of the 10 days the little sicko will need to be medicated.  Each day has an AM and a PM sticker box.  Alls you do is give the child his dose of medication and then give yourself a sticker for being such a good parent!  Wooo-hooo!  It is that simple, honey.  Because I am such a giver, I’m gonna give you a copy for your own damn self.  Be right back. 

Shoot ya’ll, I don’t know a PDF from a PDQ.  Just make your own damn chart.  It is not that hard.  Truly.  

Look closely at this photo.  In addition to my kick-ass checklist, you’ll also notice a few alcoholic beverages. Please note, these are for the parent, not the sick child.  Trust me, a few libations can do wonders for pain management (again, for the pain of the adult, having to comfort the shrieking toddler all hours of the night, not for the pain of the infirm minor).  

In conclusion, keep lots of booze on hand, some stickers, and a medicine chart the next time you have a sick baby.  And remember, this too shall pass.  See you next week for another installment of “Just the Tip Tuesday!”  Please be sure to let me know if there are any particular topics you’d like to have covered in the upcoming weeks.  Thanks, ya’ll.  

Crafty Dog

 

This is my dog.  

As you may recall, he looks nothing like Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina.

This is my jar of Crayola Crayons.

Isn’t it pretty?

And this is what happened when the two got together for a little intestinal par-tay.  

Not my favorite way to start the day.  

At least this time we didn’t have to go to the vet.  My vet is on speed dial because of this dog and his dietary habits.  

Listen, this dog is trouble. He eats ANYTHING. Socks. Little People. Cat litter. He has a special affinity for dirty tissues….he’ll watch you blow your nose or wipe a kid’s nose and he’ll follow that dirty tissue with his chocolate brown eyes.  Then he’ll wait until you are distracted and he’ll snatch that booger-bundle right out of your hand.  He can wiggle his snout into the tightest or deepest of pockets for a tissue.  Then he’ll gobble it up and poop out a folded swan napkin the next day.  Not really sure how he does that, but it is a sight to behold.  

That reminds me of the time the kids and I were stringing popcorn garlands to hang on the Christmas tree. Oooh-weee, that makes me sound like such a good Mommy, doesn’t it?  Well don’t kid yourselves, I was probably drunk while we were doing it.  Anyhooo, we were using upholstery thread and real sewing needles and listening to The Chipmunks Christmas album (which is probably why I was drinking), and the next thing I knew, Klepto starts crying, “Mommy!  My popcorn is gone!”  That dog was stalking her…like a lion on the savannah, waiting patiently for her guard to be lowered, and then, the pounce and the dash.  That so’mbitch swallowed her whole garland: popcorn, thread, and needle, faster than you could say “Turn that God-awful music down and pour Mommy some more eggnog!”     

When I called the vet I learned that the needle wasn’t really the most dangerous part of this equation…it was the thread.  Apparently, if your pet doesn’t pass the thread all at once, it can cause the intestines to bunch up and lose blood flow.  If that happens, the animal will die.  So there are two choices, poop out the thread, or perform surgery.  Time is of the essence in a case like this.  It has to be passed within 24 hours, or the risk goes way up.  And intestinal surgery is risky at best due to the high likelihood of infection (poop = bacteria).  The vet advised that I “watch the dog closely for the next 24 hours and if part of the string comes out, no matter what, DO NOT PULL IT.”  Um, yeah.  Santa is practically on his way and Dr. Doolittle wants me to drop everything and study my dog’s ass?  I believe my reply was something like this:

“Hmmm, interesting idea.  Or, how ’bout this.  Why don’t I bring him to YOU and you all can watch him for the next 24 hours while I wrap presents and bake cookies.  It is five days before Christmas!  I have more important things to do than wait for this asshole, pardon the pun, to poop out my Martha Stewart Homemade Christmas Garland.  I’ll see you in five minutes.”  

Lord, I know that sounds very insensitive, but seriously, I didn’t ask that dog to eat the string and I shouldn’t have to be held hostage by his butt hole five days before Christmas while we wait to see if he is gonna live or die.  That is not the Norman Rockwell painting I envisioned when we adopted this dickwad from the Humane Society.  

Long story short, we got our Christmas Miracle that year.  The dog passed the garland: thread, needle, and all. He didn’t die.  And that was a “Good Thing.”

In summary:

Microwave Popcorn:  $2.49

Upholstery Thread: $0.99

Sewing Needles: $0.49

Vet Exam and Radiographs: $128

Not having to study my dogs ass or tell the kids that the bastard died 5 days before Christmas: Priceless.

ApocaLIPS

I apologize in advance, but it appears to be Vagina Week here at The Bearded Iris.  Maybe it is because I’ve gone off my meds and my libido is inching its way back up to sea level, or perhaps it is a result of watching Senator McCain be interviewed by those pussies on The View that has put va-jay-jays on my brain. (Joy Behar and Whoopie Goldberg…shame on you!  You were way too easy on that loose cannon.)  If you are just joining us and want to get caught up on all the shop talk, check out my recent vagi-centric posts:

Shiny (9/17/08) – all about my Brazilian Bikini Wax from hell

Show Me the Money (9/16/08) – a sexy money saving primer

Sweaty Bitch (9/14/08) – my adventure with Bikram Yoga, in spite of my frequently noisy hoo-hoo

Sticky Situation (9/8/08) – a detailed account of my five year old daughter’s riveting journey into the land of “I have gum stuck to my vagina” land. 

Are you up to speed then?  OK, good.  Moving on.  

Truly, I’m not obsessed with my va-jay-jay, all evidence to the contrary.  But just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about my anatomy, I discover that there is a whole (hole) ‘nother world of muffin maintenance that I know nothing about.  Ya’ll are never gonna believe this.  Did you know there is a new thing called the Wonder Woman Makeover™?  No kidding. It is not what you think, though.  If you go to a plastic surgeon and ask for a Wonder Woman, you will not walk out looking like Linda Carter. In fact, you probably won’t be able to walk at all for a while.  ’Cause get this: the Wonder Woman Makeover™ is a makeover for your goodie basket!  And by goodie basket, I mean ALL the fun parts immediately above and below where you hang your Lasso of Truth.  And by Makeover, I don’t mean makeup and a fashion update, although that is always nice.  No, we are talking Nip/Tuck, people. Apparently you can get your tuna noodle casserole tightened back up as if you never even popped out a puppy or two.  My good friend Cassie believes this disturbing trend is surely a sign of the apocalypse.  When women spend this much time, money, and energy on their vaginas, especially given the current state of the world, it is probably a good time for all of us to get right with God and prepare for the hereafter.  

So let’s talk specifics.  Here is the basic definition of the Wonder Woman Makeover™: multiple consecutive surgeries that include laser vaginal rejuvenation, laser reduction labioplasty, liposculpturing with Brazilian Butt Augmentation, and breast augmentation. “Huh,” you say?  Let me say it in American for ya, honey: this is a tuna-tightening, rear-raising, cellulite-sucking, boob-building smorgasbord.  Everything from your pits to your knees will be made “good as new” with this dealy.  Just don’t expect it to be covered by health insurance…this kind of thing is rarely deemed medically necessary.  Of course, if men requested this sort of work, doctors would be offering it at the drive thru window, with nary a co-pay, but that is a different story.    

Now, for my female readers who are either not mothers or who have had the benefit of a scheduled C-Section and are still as tight as a drum down there, you might be wondering, what’s all this emphasis on vaginal rejuvenation?  I can answer this best with a Haiku:

My babies were big,

and now so is my pussy.

Is it in yet, Hon? 

Sigh….so tragic.  Look, here is my point.  My husband is not complaining.  Even if sex with me is like tossing a baseball bat into the garage, The Mister is usually just grateful that he’s getting a chance to put the recreational equipment away once in a while, if you know what I mean.  But truth be told, sure, it could be better.  A study conducted by the famous Masters and Johnson research team revealed that sexual pleasure is heightened by an increase in friction.  Well, that can be a bit of a problem for us natural Wonder Women. Once you’ve pushed out three nearly-ten-pound babies the old fashioned way, sex feels more like a Teflon-coated Olympic luge event than squeezing a camel through the eye of a needle. (man, is it ever fun to quote from the Bible when I’m talking about sex!) 

According to the surgeons who specialize in it, Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation® (LVR®) enhances vaginal muscle tone, strength, and control.  It decreases the internal and external vaginal diameters as well as builds up and strengthens the perineal body (the area immediately outside the vagina and above the anus). Well, isn’t that nice.  So something like this could help me stop peeing when I laugh? Hmmm. Very interesting. Go on.  

Yes, vaginal rejuvenation can improve bodily functions.  But for some women, going this route is purely an aesthetic thing.  They simply want a pretty one.  Well, excuse me for saying, but that sounds a little oxymoronic to me.  Like Jumbo Shrimp. Nondairy Creamer. Holy War. Wireless Cable. The Patriot Act.  Since I’ve never spent a lot of time gazing longingly at this part of my body, I wasn’t quite sure what a “pretty one” looks like.  But yowza!  Look what I found!  Thank you Al Gore for inventing the Internet. 

Ladies, feel free to print this diagram out and use it as a teaching tool for those men in your life who don’t quite grasp the traffic patterns down there. Never pleasant. So anyhooo, THAT is a pretty one, eh?  Shoot. My poor husband!  He could SO do better than me.  What?  Don’t believe me? Here is what MY hot pocket looks like:

 

And in certain light:

 

And when I’m not shouting from the rooftops to remind the American public that
McCain was a member of the infamous Keating Five in the nefarious savings and loan scandal that cost taxpayers hundreds of billions of dollars, 
my pussy looks exactly like this:

 

 

Hey, don’t judge.  Remember, I’ve had three, count them THREE, very large babies.  My SMALLEST one was 8 lbs. 5 ounces and 22 inches long.  And I had an episiotomy with the first sack of potatoes that somewhat resembled the gutting of a fish.  Bygones.

OK, I get it.  This is a free country.  Whatever floats your boat, people.  Fine. Maybe you are all Loosey-Goosey and afraid your man is going to leave you for greener (tighter) pastures.  Fair enough.  But instead of going under the knife, I’m just suggesting you consider all the options.  How about asking HIM to get a penis enlargement instead?  Why not?  THAT is probably covered by insurance.  Or, if you are self conscious about the fact that your knockers hang to your knees and your stomach looks more like a Shar-Pei, then do what I do and simply turn off the lights…save your dignity AND electricity!   

My girlfriends and I joke around all the time about what stretched out old hags we are.  Good times.  I have one friend who swears she can tie a bow with her labia. Now that, I would like to see.  But if we all ran out and got vaginoplasty and tummy tucks and boob jobs and butt lifts, what in the world would we have to joke about?  

Oh, I suspect we’d find something….

Shiny

The Brazilian Bikini Wax.  Easily the single most humiliating experience of my life.  Way worse than walking home from high school one day with my private girl’s school uniform skirt accidently tucked into the back of my panties, thinking that all those honks and whistles meant that I was lookin’ SO cute that day. Ugh.  I guess if I knew then what I know now about what age and motherhood does to the bod, I would have showcased that package in public more often. Live and learn.  

But truly, in terms of unmitigated humiliation, nothing compares to letting someone wax your entire undercarriage.  Particularly if that someone is a perky college girl named Tiffany, wearing a sorority t-shirt and a Pebbles-esque ponytail on top of her head. The worst part was that I was about 8 months pregnant at the time, wanting to clean up the area before the big show.  But when you are that pregnant, and in your late thirties, and 50 pounds overweight, and bloated like a three-day-old floating corpse, the last thing you need to be doing is lying on your side naked from the waist down, pulling your top leg up to your chest, and letting a cheerful young college girl apply hot wax to your hairy asshole.  Dude, I am not kidding.  It didn’t even hurt that bad, it was just the utter embarrassment.  The complete and total knowledge that sweet young Tiffany was probably going to use that visual as birth control for many years to come.  

Now normally, I’m a big fan of the female anatomy and think that pregnant women are an especially lovely feast for the eyes.  However, the extreme close up and privileged angle afforded to the Brazilian Bikini Waxologist is not for the faint of heart, capisce?  There is a lot of stuff going on down there when you have 10 pounds of baby pressing down on your goody basket.  I’m talking veins.  I’m talking excessive moisture. I’m talking hemorrhoids.  Are you with me so far?  And oh, the debilitating fear that I would accidentally release a pregnant fart while she was down there with her hot wax.  I was just imagining my divine wind blowing her ponytail back and burning her eyelashes off.  Thankfully I was too stressed out and clenched up to let anything slip out. Thank you, Jesus! Note to self: the power of prayer is not to be underestimated.  

So I just want to say, “fuck you Gwyneth Paltrow,” for glamorizing the whole Brazilian bikini wax thing in that interview I read online.  I didn’t “glide” around my house afterward…I slumped.  And I scratched.  And I had nightmares for weeks about frightening my midwife with my angry red A-hole.  No, you can’t always believe what you read.  Particularly from a woman who named her first born after a piece of fruit.  So Gwyneth, when I see you on Oprah today, I’m not going to be able to think about anything but the fact that you have a bald, shiny, ripe apple under your dress.  Thanks a lot.  

 

Beauty and The Beast

or, what my vagina and Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina would look like side by side

Appliance Heaven

Girls, if you are ever feelin’ unappreciated by your man or gaggle of kids, Iris has a hot tip for you! 

Get all gussied up and go shopping.  And by “gussied up,” I mean the works!  Do your hair.  Shave your toes.  Grab your highest heels, your tightest jeans, your best engineered push-up bra, and some drop dead red lipstick.  Now this is important: I’m not suggesting that you go shopping just anywhere. At a time like this, you certainly don’t need some under-commissioned department store dickwad to tell you that the whole point of eyebrows is that you are supposed to have two of them. No ma’am, you need to high-tail it to the nearest used appliance store you can find and strut your stuff.

It is amazing how much better you will feel about yourself when you have a few hard working men dropping everything to wait on you.  Of course, testing out the used appliances by sitting on them like this might have something to do with all the attention you’ll get…

It also helps to have a good friend who is a photographer follow you around the shop, taking your photo doing all sorts of crazy things. This always attracts a lot of Looky-Lous, and nothing says “PAY ATTENTION TO ME, PEOPLE!” like having your photo taken in public. I also highly recommend wearing an apron on these outings.  Used appliances tend to be a teensy bit dusty and you do not want to soil your best hot pants just for the sake of a little public admiration.  Do be sure to choose a cute sassy half-apron that accentuates your outfit and not the ginormous, stained “Recipe? What Recipe?” apron your mother in law re-gifted to you for Christmas.  

Oh, another hot tip ladies, especially if you are having trouble getting a salesman’s attention…bring a juicy ripe peach with you and start eating it right there in front of God and everybody.  You may also try bending over a bit, while eating the peach, to inspect the merchandise a little closer.  Salesmen always appreciate a shopper with an eye for detail.  

Another crowd pleaser that I like to use once in a while on these shopping excursions is to bring a frozen tray of meat along with me.  Lord knows you do NOT want to buy a deep freeze and find out after you get it home that your meat is too big for it.  Don’t you just hate when that happens?  So do yourself a favor and bring your family sized value pak of the Other White Meat along for the ride.  By the time you get home, it will be nicely defrosted and ready to cook for supper.  And it is environmentally friendly too, as no polar bears will be killed in this process.

Naturally, bending over just a bit while you clutch your family pak of frozen pork will only help you attract the attention of the salesmen, and/or manager.  

Lastly, if all else fails and you are still not getting the attention you so desperately crave, grab your apron, your peach, and your tray of frozen pork, and lie down somewhere prominent.  Toss your head back and eat that peach, honey!  If you don’t get a little love from this maneuver, you must be doin’ it wrong.    

“The best accessory a woman can wear is confidence.” — author unknown

 

Sticky Situation

True story.

Yesterday we took the kids bowling at one of those family arcade joints.  We had a blast.  My only complaints were that real bowling is way harder than Wii bowling and the place was crazy loud.  Like Vegas. Bells, lights, chaos. It was “Cosmic Bowling” in black light…really hard to keep the 18 month old out of other people’s lanes, especially with his ball obsession.  Also hard to keep track of the kids in the arcade. Especially three…they had us outnumbered.  So, I must confess, there were moments when one child was unsupervised, but never for long. It was like triage…always keep eyes or hands on baby, know the general vicinity of the middle child, hope the best for the first born.  But overall, the kids did great.  They played the games, won a gazillion tickets, traded them in at the goodie counter for some lead-based, petroleum derivative, made-in-China choking-hazards, and then we went home for dinner.  

A couple of hours later, we were eating together and having a wonderful family discussion about politics. The kids know that Mommy and Daddy are voting for Obama and that we don’t approve of President Bush or McCain/Palin. Our 8 year old son was truly engaged and asking great questions about the difference between democrats and republicans. Our 5 year old daughter was hanging in there, trying so hard to understand our very basic explanation about taxes and helping others.  And the baby, well, he was throwing his pieces of chicken onto the floor for the dog and pointing to his facial features shouting “EYE!  EA-OH (ear)!  NO (nose)!  MOW! (mouth).”  It felt like our own hip version of a Norman Rockwell painting.  The whole family, eating a nutritious homemade meal together, discussing current events.  Ahhh….the good life.  Well, a moment of the good life, anyway.  It was suddenly interrupted when my 5 year old daughter shrieked “OUCH!  My panties are sticking to me!”  Then she got up, ran into the bathroom, and slammed the door.  

WTF?  My husband and I looked at each other across the table like “you go,” “no, YOU go.”  Then we heard her make a sound like an animal caught in a trap and I got up and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Honey?  Can I come in?”  I asked.

“OK.” 

“Why are your panties sticking to you?”

“I don’t know.  But it hurts!”  

“Can I see?”

“NO!!!”

“Please?”

“OK.”

So I gently pulled down her blue cotton Haynes skort and slowly tried to pull her little High School Musical panties away from her body.  It was no good.  They were indeed stuck to her.  Stuck like glue.  

“Honey.  What is in your panties?”

“Gum.”  

“GUM? How did it get there?”  I hadn’t given her gum in weeks!  Not since the dentist appointment…the dentist appointment from Hell.    

“Well….(long pause, eye shifting, here comes the lie)….when we were at the arcade….well, I accidentally slipped and fell down,…right on a piece of gum…and it went into my panties.”

“A chewed piece of gum?  There is a chewed piece of gum in your panties?”  

“Uh-huh.”

“From the floor of the arcade?  A piece of gum that someone else chewed and spit out onto the floor?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Honey.  (ahem) Did you pick up a piece of chewed gum off the floor of the arcade and stick it in your panties?  Tell Mommy the truth.  You aren’t in trouble, I just need to know the truth, ok?”  

“OK (quietly, eyes down).  I picked it up and put it in my panties.”  

(HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!! WHY IN THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO SUCH A THING?????  THIS WAS NOT COVERED IN MY PARENTING CLASS!!!  MY CHICKEN IS GETTING COLD AND MY CHILD HAS A PIECE OF SOMEONE ELSE’S GUM STUCK TO HER TWAT!!!)

“OK sweetie.  Thank you for telling me the truth.  Let’s see if we can get your panties unstuck.”  

So I slowly pulled the fabric away from her skin and sure enough there was a HUGE pink wad of chewed up bubble gum stuck right to her little va-jay-jay.  Right in front.  Front and center.  Oh for the love of GOD!  I didn’t know what was the grossest part….the fact that it was a piece of gum chewed and spit onto the floor by a random stranger, or the fact that this wad of germ infested ABC gum was stuck to her sweet little beaveroonie.  Do not panic!  Focus.  I peeled the gum away from her skin as gingerly as possible. This was no easy task.  It wasn’t like a bandaid…I couldn’t rip it off.  Her body heat had melted the gum and made it very gooey.  I had to slowly peel it and then pick away at the little bits left behind.  Poor little girl.  The vagina is definitely not the body part you ever want to have your Mother picking away at.  After what seemed like an eternity, I got most of it off; there was just a little pink sticky residue left, and that came off with the help of a little vaseline on a paper towel. (Got that? Try to get a tip like that from daytime TV! “Next on Rachel Ray: How to Remove ABC Gum from Your Vagina.”)

My poor sweet baby girl was rather embarrassed by the whole affair.  I stuck her right into the tub and she said, “Mommy. I’m really sorry.”  

“That’s ok, baby.  We all make mistakes.”  

“Mommy?”

“Yes, sugar pants? I mean, yes gummy-bear, er, sweetie-puss?!  DOH!  Yes, honey?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No honey.  I just want you to promise me something….promise Mommy that you’ll never pick up a piece of chewed gum again, OK?  It is very dirty and germy and gross.  You can get really sick from touching other people’s chewed gum.  OK?  And definitely don’t ever stick it in your panties again….K?  Double gross.”  

“OK.  I promise. (long pause) Does that mean I shouldn’t chew it either?”  

ARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Stop the Madness

Just when you think you know your kids, they go all haywire and switch bodies in the middle of the night. Do the Santa Ana winds reach North Georgia?  It is windy and hot here today and my children are acting very strangely. Cue the creepy music…something wicked this way comes.    

The other day we found a bizillion caterpillars devouring one of our oak trees.  No joke.  They were hanging from every leaf, defoliating entire branches at a time.  It was like a Hitchcock film.  You could literally hear the munching.  They are scary looking too….black and furry with horns (horns!) and when you knock one to the ground they thrash around violently.  These are not the sweet furry brown and black striped caterpillars I remember slowly inching across my driveway as a child in Pennsylvania.  These fuckers look like devil larvae.  They are clearly some form of pestilence and I’m hoping they’re not a punishment from God for writing that bitchy post about the homeschooling über-mom in my neighborhood.

 

As if the swarm of ravenous caterpillars wasn’t scary enough, the way my children reacted to finding them was even more bizarre.  

Normally, I would expect the first born kind and gentle 8 year old son to be all “Oh Mom, look!  Cool!  Can we keep a few?  Let’s study them!”  and my fierce and furious violence-prone kleptomaniac middle girl child to start plucking their antennae off and squishing them by the fist-full, but what went down was totally the opposite.  My boy grabbed the biggest rock he could lift with one hand and started smashing caterpillars and eggs like Godzilla on crack.  My girl, in response, began shrieking “STOP IT!  YOU’RE KILLING THEM! MOM, HE’S KILLING NATURE!”  She was literally in hysterics — huge tears rolled down her face as she begged for me to stop the madness.  ”But Mom, they are pests!  They are eating the trees!  The trees are nature too!” my son calmly countered.  

He had a point.  And I love it when he defends his actions with such intelligence and fortitude.  But my 5 year old daughter was beside herself witnessing the violent holocaust of the “calerpitters.”  And given her proclivity toward random acts of violence, I wanted to reward her compassion and newfound morality.  What is a mother to do?  They were both right.  Killing nature is not good.  But standing by and letting an unwelcome pest destroy our trees is also not good.  Think, dammit, think!  

So I did what every semi-sane Mom on the spot does.  I lied.  ”Guys – I think I just heard the Ice Cream Man!  Come on!  Let’s go get some ice cream!!!”  

Crisis averted.  Of course there was no Ice Cream Man, but I always keep an extra quart of rocky road on hand for emergencies.  

Later that night I scoured the Internet for information and discovered that they are called “Orange-Striped Oak Worms.”  They are indeed pests, but they are also good food for the birds and are not a big deal on a large tree that will lose its leaves in the fall anyway.  So, interestingly enough, the “do nothing” approach actually works in this case.  Sweet!  My favorite philosophy!  Do nothing.  Kind of like my current approach to house cleaning and skin care.