What’s worse than moving out to the country where there is no cable service and only dial-up internet? (Apparently farmers don’t need to check their e-mail or watch American Idol.) Hearing your son tell all of Wal-Mart that you forgot his birthday!

I have tried to explain to our son that it really isn’t his birthday and he is still 5 years old, not 6. No logic in the world can accomplish this task once a birthday party has been had.

Ethan’s pre-k class held a “summer birthday party” for all the children who’s birthday’s fall during the summer months. So he claims to now be 6 years old, although his birthday is not until July.

While at Wal-Mart (which also is far, far away) he proclaimed very loudly that I had forgotten his birthday. Once he had everyone’s attention, he went on to milk it by adding how he didn’t get any presents or any cake, that only his preschool class gave him a party.

I’m all for pretend play, but throwing a pretend birthday party is really wreaking havoc in my life!

The other day I went into Hobby Lobby to look at some poster frames. To my surprise they were on sale, had the black wood trim I was looking for and were the right size. Ethan has requested that his new room be a Star Wars theme and since he’s our only child we tend to spoil him some. Plus in all fairness, I choose the cars & trucks theme he’s been stuck with since he was born. So it is time for a change.

My brother gave Ethan some posters that were his a long time ago. They are still wrapped with cardboard behind them and in perfect condition. My problem had been finding frames to match the size. Online the frames were going to cost me anywhere from $89 - $110. I was thankful to find exactly what I wanted at Hobby Lobby, plus they were 50% off!

I wasn’t in a hurry so I stood in the only open line behind a lady with a young child, who upon first glance was extremely antsy. In front of her at the checkout was a woman with three cartloads of craft items that I heard her say where for Vacation Bible School.

So we all three stood there for a few minutes when another line opened. I moved my cart back so that the antsy woman could make a mad dash for the other register, but I stayed put.

The problem was that there were two older ladies who made it to the new line before the antsy lady. So she mumbled and jumbled, and finally decided to stay in the new line. Seeing that she wasn’t headed back to my line, I moved up behind the Vacation Bible School woman and waited.

I admit there are days and moments when I am not patient. That is not my strong suit, but I’m working on it. Situations like this are good practice.

Suddenly things sped up and it was almost my turn to check-out. The other line was now doing the dreaded intercom call, “I need a price check on aisle 4.” As I’m reaching for my frames, the antsy lady appears at my side and says, “I was in line here.”

Shocked I replied, “You were?”

“Yes, this is my line. Excuse me,” she said as she started to reach over my cart to lay her items on the counter.

“No. Excuse me. You left this line.”

“Don’t make a scene. It’s not like I’m cutting. We aren’t in third grade,” she said while laughing.

So I pulled my cart back a little to allow her to check-out. The older woman behind me who looked like a sweet grandmother and was purchasing a cart full of yarn loudly stated, “What a bitch!”

I almost spit my gum out, but contained myself enough to politely smile at her. (What it reminded me of is something my own grandmother would have said well above a whisper in a crowded store.)

After the antsy lady finished emptying her cart onto the counter, yet another cashier opened. I stayed put, but the grandmother behind me insisted I go ahead to the open line. While signing my receipt I notice that the antsy lady had an issue. Apparently, the register had locked up and it wouldn’t scan items. She shuffled back and forth in anticipation, and realized she was now stuck where she was.

Meanwhile the line she moved to the first time had cleared. The grandmother buying the yarn had already checked out after moving to that line and was headed out the door. As I pushed my cart out the entrance I politely smiled at the antsy woman and went on my way.

Sometimes it pays to be patient.

Who knew how much this little face would need wiped.
Thank God for letting me be his mother.

Today we did a lot of outside work at our new house. Since the weather was nice, most of the families on our street were doing the same things in their own yards. It was the first opportunity we’ve had to meet a lot of our new neighbors.

First impressions mean everything. To my own defense it was my first time on a riding lawnmower. Picture me mowing in our front yard, waving at the next door neighbor and then immediately running into a tree.

If anything they got a first impression of the true me.

I remember when I was pregnant that my fears weren’t about the pain of childbirth, breastfeeding or the unknown. Instead, I worried about the small stuff.

Several weeks after bringing Ethan home my mother-in-law visited and stayed with us to help. The kind of help that sits to the side and tells you everything you’re doing wrong and how she would do it. There was one thing she helped with and that was teaching me how to trim a newborns finger nails. I was terrified of using clippers and being a new mom I wasn’t aware they made these little curved scissors that work wonders on little bitty fingers.

Words cannot describe my fear of possibly hurting this small being. After the first year of Ethan’s life I became more comfortable and he became more active. As those of you with little ones know it’s like hitting a moving target.

Fast forward to present day. Ethan is almost 6 years old. At what age do they get over being afraid of getting their nails trimmed? Seriously? The kid is Mr. Drama when the clippers come out. You’d think I’d previously ripped his entire nail out by the way he acts. Or in his case performs.

I’m deeply afraid some day this will all turn into some freaky foot fetish. I have dreams about it at night - picturing him sitting with a therapist saying that his problems all began when his mother tortured him with the nail clippers. That is what he screams out when I trim his nails, that I’m “killing him.”

My belief is that all this started when he was younger and my mother would tease him saying she was going to bite his toes. He’d completely lose it, sometimes bringing tears and more drama. She will deny the relation between the two, but I see some coincidence there.

Whatever his own fears are, I’m fairly certain he inherited this anxiety from me. He doesn’t seem to sweat the big stuff, but the small things are constantly on his mind.

For instance, today he asked me if the trash man came on Christmas Day. I explained that they did not pick up trash on holidays. When I asked why he wondered that, he said that it wasn’t fair that the people who had pick-up scheduled for that day missed their turn.

The small stuff matters to him. That’s why the finger nails mattered to me.