Vicki Baylis - Up There Around the Bend

To the husband who makes an impossible world possibleChris Baylis, forever my main man.

Pootin' and Tootin'

There are many unexpected things in this life we live. Things your mama may forget to mention. Things you swear you will never do. Things you will never admit doing when you accidentally do the things you swore you would never do. Oh, not you? Not me either. Okay, that was a lie. I'm talking about pootin' and tootin'.

Let's be honest, shall we? We have all been there and done that. Especially if you have little brothers and sisters. While I was growing up, somebody was always shouting, Mama, he pooted on me! My little sister and I used to share the tub time together when we were little. I insisted that stopped after the mystery guest started popping up all around me. I was minding my own business, lathering up the suds, cleaning behind the ears; and all of a sudden, I was surrounded by the enemy. Lord have mercy; I had no idea that was even a possibility.

Raise your hand if you have ever been walking through a crowded nurse's station and, all of a sudden, your body sounded off as if a tire were being shot out from under you. Sweet stars! You start questioning if there really is a God. How do you recover from that traumatic event? Do you grab your purse and clock outnever to be seen again? If you don't need money, sure, go on home. But for the rest of us poor folks, you just keep walking like you didn't hear a thing. Overlook the giggling staff. Like they ain't never pooted before.

On the first date with the main manvery first datehe pulled the car off Hardy Street, got out, and kicked the tires. I thought to myself, how odd this man was to do that. Months later, he confessed that was all about cleverly hiding a poot. Miss those days, I tell you. You know, when they would hide them?

It gets worse when you have kids. Why my mama never mentioned the word projectile is beyond me. If she had, chances are she would have two less grandkids right now. Something else she failed to mention, too, was a baby's first diapers. It was a long labor, and thankfully, I was passed out during the blessed eventbut the main man was not. Gee, I hated that for him. I had just endured nine months of growing that baby and a whole day of getting him to the outside world. The least he could do is change a diaper. I awoke to the most horrified look I have ever seen. He had scattered wet wipes everywhere and was yelling something about never-ending asphalt. This can't be normal. Help me, Jesus! he was saying while pacing back and forth between the wiping and the gagging. I thought we were going to have to change rooms before he got all that cleaned up.

I would love to say it got better, but I can't. On one of our few ventures out to a restaurant with a newborn, we experienced the mother of all pootin' and tootin' blowouts. Took us both tag-teaming to change that diaper. All the way home, my husband whined, complained, and gagged. I still smell it! he kept saying over and over and over. In his defense, he probably did. Surprisingly, a little dab of that blowout had somehow made its way onto his mustache.

Tag teaming is the only way to survive. This child walked past two bathrooms to throw up on my side of the bed. Good lord, it's on the walls. In my shoes! It's on me! Help me, honey! Of course I cleaned up his language a little, but it was true. I have no idea why this happens, but the first time we experienced it, I thought we should call a priest. Again, something else my mother failed to mention about raising kids.

I'll confess, one time during my kids' piano recital, my stomach was sounding off like some sort of construction project was happening inside my body. There was only one thing left for me to do. Chris, if my stomach sounds off while the piano is stopped, you best stand up and say Pardon me.' You got that right; I was going to blame it on him. I know it was not the Christian thing to do, but the room was crowded. And according to my husband, if he has to walk through your tootin' while he is browsing the aisle of the grocery store, you will hear him fussing about it. I can't breathe. Who did it? So it's best to toot and run away fast. He is not going to take the rap for you.

So there you have it. The side of marriage your mother may not tell you aboutpootin' and tootin'. While I'm at it, let me mention something else. From time to time, you may hear of a weight loss quick fix. Ignore it. Trust me when I say it will save your marriage. I'm not going to mention the name of the product, for fear of a lawsuit, but it was supposed to rid your food of all the fat. Sounded good to us. Of course, you shouldn't leave the house while taking itever. We know that now. I'm sharing this only as a public-service message. If you take this diet wonder and you work in publicsay, a big commercial warehouse full of employeesdon't trust a sneeze. That's all I'm saying. Before my husband got home, he had divorced me three times.

So to recap this unmentionable side of life, remember this: it happens to everyone. If you toot, keep walking. If they poottag-team. If you take diet pills, never trust the sneeze.

And That Was When I Realized It

By now, most of you know all about my mother. She can be a hoot, especially in publicold-school is an understatement. There are many a moment when I am chauffeuring her around town and I cringe at the words coming out of her mouth. Not just me, but my siblings too. Lord have mercy; I don't know how many times we must remind her about this new, politically correct society we live in today.

Mother, we can't use that word anymoreespecially so loudly, in a crowded restaurantin front of him, I reminded her.

That's what it's called, she answered.

Yes, I know that the medical term in the seventies, eighties, and probably the nineties was dwarf , but now we say something else.

I apologize, but in her defense, the words seem to change daily, and even if you weren't trying to be ugly, you can be accused of it.

This past week, my husband rode in the passenger seat as my mother-in-law drove in town for the first time since her surgery last fall. The main man said she did okay. Just like with mine, his mother has a routine too when it comes to town: library, drugstore, Walmart. I see it on Facebook all the time, toofolks my age taking care of their parents. Let me just go ahead and say it out loud: if you aren't doing it, then you ought to. In fact, God is expecting you to. I'll get back to this later on.

I've said it before; according to Mother, there is only one restaurant in this big city of Hattiesburg: Ward's. She gets the same thing every trip: little one, fries, and a Diet Coke. I think it's the only time my mother drinks a soda. A little one is a chili cheeseburger with onions on it. Other than that, it is water, coffee, green tea, and orange juice. On a recent trip to town, I found out she also likes Glucerna. She says it's good for her diabetes.

I'm supposed to be drinking them, but I don't buy them often because they are expensive, she tells me.

Up until this moment, I thought her idea of expensive and my idea of the word were slightly different. I'll get them for you. Put them in my buggy, I offered. Sweet stars! Turns out our thoughts about the word expensive are the same.

Good grief, Mother, what's in these thingsgold?

I don't know why she didn't tell us sooner that she needs them. Thanks to my sister, a case showed up on Mother's doorsteps a few days later.

Every trip to town is different. Take yesterday's trip, for instance. I mentioned to her that I needed to drop off some egg cartons at a former classmate's house. My high school friend has chickens, and I give her my empty cartons. In exchange, my friend gives me a carton of farm-fresh eggs. It's easy-peasy. Drive up, roll down the window, make the exchange, and then I'm on my way. Mother believes she will use this drive-through option to get her eggs from now on. Vicki, I think I will bring her my cartons too. This is easy, she declared. My apologies to the Brumfields. I'll try to remind her you don't really have an egg business. If you hear her honking the horn outside your door, just know I was not successful in convincing her. I hope she does not tell her church friends about this new egg business. Y'all may want to get a few more chickens because chances are she will tell them.