December 27,2013: Who's in Charge of the Children?

Boo-Boo and Russell after they were corrupted

I have a confession. Well, technically WE have a confession. Robbie and I weren't being responsible. Once. Just once.

Hmmmm....let's further narrow it down to the holidays. There was this one time over the holidays that Robbie and I weren't exactly responsible. Not horrible, but not our shining moment either.

The Setting:
December of 1989. Apartment living off of 108th and Maple in Omaha, Nebraska.

The Cast of Characters:
Sandy: 22 years; Robbie: days shy of 22 years; Russell: 3 years; Brynnie: 18 months. Scott worked nights at the jail. Robbie went to surgery tech school and lived with Scott & Sandy during the week.

The Story:
It was a very cold early-December Friday night. Robbie and kids decided to stay the night in Omaha. Scott was at work until midnight. I thought writing Christmas cards was a good idea. Robbie agreed.

So we wrapped up the children in their warmest winter-wear and walked across the street to the closest grocer, Albertson's. With Russell and Brynn in mittened-hand, we carefully picked out boxed Christmas cards. And then we did what any mature 22 year-old adults would do; we bought a bottle of cheap wine. And a box of Chicken in the Biscuit crackers.

We then began our Christmas card writing adventure. Feeling every adult year of our twenty-two, writing Christmas cards seemed logical in our journey to adulthood.

With kids watching the Walton Christmas while nibbling boxed crackers, Robbie and I poured white wine into our glasses and began writing our cards. All was very adult sophistication-ish until we hit glass #2 of vino. Then we were officially giddy.

Robbie and I were clearly light-weights as we giggled while joyfully watching Grandpa Walton. Soon the card-writing got old as wine went empty. Little Russell and Brynn were little angels as they continued watching television. Their mother and aunt, unfortunately, did not follow their lead.

Like savages. we searched the kitchen for more alcohol. The frig contained beers left-over from a February Superbowl party. To anyone worried about an addiction problem, the fact that we had beers from ten months prior should subdue concerns.

As the toddlers listened to the Walton's wishing each other good-night, Robbie and I played quarters with the six remaining beer treasures found in my refrigerator.

In our giggling desperation, Robbie and I found the last remnant of alcohol in our little apartment; cooking wine. And we drank it. All while trying to write final Christmas cards in our attempt to be sophisticated.

Fail.

We were tipsy and giggling. Time to sober up and get serious. I suggested aerobics.

Robbie and I changed into colorful leotards with belts and tights. The kids thought this was an awesome idea and wanted to join in. So Robbie and I did what any responsible adults would do; we got out the mousse and spiked up the kids hair and turned up the music. Together the four of us exercised to "Take me Down to Paradise City" and REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It".

And then Scott walked in the door. Silence filled the apartment as he asked the obvious.

"Who is in charge of the children?"

Robbie and I, dressed as Jane Fonda want-to-be's, pointed at each other. Russell and Brynn grinned from ear-to-ear in their spiked tufts. Scott scowled.

Busted.

Scott tucked both the mothers and the children into bed that night.

Do note that some Christmas cards did get sent out the next day.

Robbie, thank-you for being my favorite partner in crime. Russell and Brynn, I'm sorry for my decision-making that night, but am happy to see you both well adjusted and not corrupted from your mom and aunt's youthful expression.

Final comment: Brynn, you pointed out that I would no longer be a Lane in the near future. Nope. Once a Lane, always a Lane. And Garrett Brucker concurs.

Love ~ Aunt Sandy Lane :)