Plinko, anyone?

Growing up, days off of school consisted of a few constants - a list of chores left by my mom, ramen noodle soup for lunch and a daily date at 11 a.m. with Bob Barker and The Price Is Right.

Though the show never seemed to get past the 1970s look, it captivated me. The lights, the excitement, the cool prizes and fun games. Everyone wanted to be picked. And if your name was called - you likely did The Price Is Right tango.  You looked around to get confirmation they actually said your name while simultaneously hitting your chest and stomping your feet. When enough people shook their head at you and pushed you up out of your seat, you'd stand up, stomp your feet some more and raise your arms in the air, busting out your best jazz hands. You'd shimmy your way past the other schmucks who congratulated you and hated you at the same time. When you got to the open aisle, you paused. This was your moment. Then, hands up on either side, you ran down the aisle, high-fiving the aisle-seat schmucks before making it to bidders row where the tango finale included hugging and jumping with the other lucky players who had been called before you.

It was gloriously entertaining.

On par with The Price Is Right Tango? Ryan's victory dance last night while shooting a kickball into an empty milk crate. On his first attempt, with Nate and I on opposite sides of the basement floor, he sunk the ball right into the crate. We looked at each other in amazement and gave Ryan an overdose of praise. I think he was as shocked as we were that he made it in. Add to that, both parents yelling, clapping and begging for high fives and you've given this three-year-old a glimpse of what it must be like to hear, "Ryan Bachman - Come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price Is Right."

He ate it up.

After that, each time he sunk the ball into the crate, it was like Bob Barker himself was in our basement taking auditions for the best rendition of The Price is Right tango. There was screaming, jazz hands, running, high fives and tears.

Tears?

Well, when Nate pointed out how much Ryan looked like a contestant from The Price Is Right, we couldn't help but replay the scene over and over until we were laughing so hard we were crying. All the while, Ryan was as happy as a middle-aged woman in spandex shorts and a fanny pack who just found out she had a chance to win "a new car!!!!!!"

The scene went on for about 15 minutes. And though I felt a little guilty for getting such joy out of my kid acting like a complete fool, that may be the closest he gets to feeling what it's like to be on The Price of Right. You're welcome, Ryan.

Please remember - help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered.

A Mile in My Shoes

A few years ago, when I was less-than-thrilled with my job, I decided I would create a reality TV show that would be my ticket out of here. I researched the right way to create and package a pilot, registered my idea with the Writer's Guild and sent out my concept paper to several different markets.

Guess what? It wasn't picked up. Shocking, right?

But I still contend the concept was good. The show would be titled, "A Mile In My Shoes" and would allow people who admit to having formed candid, perhaps even controversial, opinions of complete strangers an opportunity to experience that strangers life. They'd live in their house, interact with their friends, family and co-workers and perhaps even get a glimpse of what it feels like to be judged as that person. It's a social experiment on perception versus reality. Are they the same or are they vastly different?

Though it didn't make me millions, the concept of walking in another person's shoes is one I struggle with often - even in my role as mom.

Our morning started off wonderfully. Both kids woke up in good, silly moods. Lindsey decided today was the day she would pee in the potty for the first time ever (she was completely unphased by our excitement), the kids got dressed without incident, asked to dance to music and ate their breakfasts nicely.

As I puttered around getting ready to leave, I saw Lindsey take off her shoes and socks (it drives me B A N A N A S when she does that in the morning - and she thinks it's hilarious). But instead of taking them off for pure amusement, homegirl decided she was going to slip into my heels.

They suit her well - and she totally shuffled through the house without so much as a stumble.

Yep. This morning was wonderful.

Until Ryan wanted in on the action and fighting ensued, which lead to a fall, which lead to a bump on the head, more crying and screaming and more fighting over ice packs, which lead to clingy babies and "mommy" being stuck on repeat. All while I still had to make breakfast, pack a lunch, tidy up the kitchen, pour my coffee and get out the door. Oh - and part of the earlier, blissful morning included Nate and I sleeping in a little later than usual, which meant I was already vastly behind schedule.

So I lost it. I yelled - loudly - and almost started crying in shear frustration. The kids were stunned into silence. We eventually made it to daycare in one piece. I dropped them off, kissed their foreheads and waved goodbye before having a breakdown in the car.

They're kids. Kids cry and fight and whine and get clingy sometimes. They beg for attention, even when you're staring straight at them.

And maybe, just maybe, they have intuition. Maybe that whole act of putting on my shoes this morning, strutting through the house, was Lindsey's way of foreshadowing the chaos that was about to unfold. Maybe she was telling me, "Get ready, mom. Things are going to get ugly. But we're kids. We do silly, unexplainable things and have irrational reactions. Walk a mile in my shoes. Remember what it was like to be young, silly and irrational. And don't stress - this too shall pass."

My concept didn't make millions and I still forget, on occassion, to see things from another's perspective. But luckily I have two kids who will spend the next several decades reminding me to walk a mile in their shoes, to judge less, think more, react slower.