The Amy Binegar-Kimmes-Lyle Book of Failures: A funny memoir of missteps, inadequacies and faux pas

by Amy Lyle

  We make Savannah, the licensed driver, chauffeur her three siblings around and have been getting complaints about their experiences as passengers. “She drives super-fast even if it’s raining or if there are a bunch of orange cones.” When her brother, PJ, told her to slow down, she told him to “shut it” because she was “the only person in the car that has a driver’s license.”

  When I asked Savannah about the dangerous driving, she gave me the same response she had given her brother: “They don’t have their driver’s licenses so how would they know if I was doing anything wrong?”

  I tried to appeal to her logically: “If we were in a plane and it started hurling toward the ground … I’m not a pilot but I know something is not right.”

  Regardless of what we are asking our children to do, they have two go-to responses “Well, that’s your opinion,” and “At least I’m not on heroin.”

  Oftentimes it’s a combination of the two. I’ll say, “You need to be responsible for your own room; you are a citizen of this house.” They reply, “That’s your opinion. At least I’m not doing heroin.”

  People who say they don’t believe in spanking have never spent time with our children.

  NO NEED TO SHARE EVERYTHING

  At dinner one night, our middle daughter, Maddy, who is seventeen, shared that she had tried strawberry-flavored vodka at a party and “really liked it.” I have mixed feelings about our kids confessing their sins to us. It does create an opportunity for discussion, but also brings about nonstop worry.

  For my husband’s birthday, we had a (grown-ups only) seventies party. My girlfriends and I dressed up as Charlie’s Angels so we had a sea of Kate Jacksons, Farrah Fawcetts and Jaclyn Smiths. The men showed up as sports stars: Bruce Jenner (pre-surgery), Mark Spitz and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar to name a few. We played Diana Ross, the Bee Gees and Led Zeppelin while eating ambrosia salad and cheesy dishes out of crockpots. We had two guests sleep on our lawn, but other than that, no issues.

  Some party props.

  During dinner Maddy says, “You lied to me.” I have lied to the children many times so I stayed quiet to see what I was going to be accused of. “You said you NEVER did drugs.” Everybody at the table was quiet as we waited for her to expound on her claim. “Remember the other night when I called you while I was watching The Talented Mr. Ripley?”

  I did remember because I was out to dinner and she had called me multiple times in a panic: “Tom Ripley beat Dickie to death with an oar!” then “He’s a serial killer! He murdered Freddie and Peter!” and “This movie is freaking me out!” At the time, I thought her reaction to the film was quite strong, but she’s the middle child and melodramatic.

  Maddy continued her story. “You have weed lollipops in your drawer,” she accused me. I looked at my husband, who had coughed on his chicken, possibly because it was very, very dry but also because he was caught off guard. I, however, had no idea what anyone was talking about and gave everyone the confused puppy look.

  Confused puppy look.

  “I have never done drugs. That’s the truth. What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You’re hiding weed lollipops in your drawer and I KNOW they are weed, Mom, because I ate one and I felt really, really loopy.”

  It was true that I was a habitual hider of caramel, Twizzlers and sometimes taffy (but mostly chocolate items) in my drawers because we have so many kids that anything with sugar disappears in twenty seconds. I had recently switched to hiding my candy stash in the produce drawer because no children ever check under the kale. I knew there was still some candy in my drawer because I had thrown a bunch of lollipops in there that I had taken from the bank to use as decoys, but they weren’t weed for God’s sake.

  Peter finally filled me in. “One of the guests from the party left you two special suckers. I hid them in your bedside drawer.” I immediately knew who he was referring to: one of the funniest, nicest women on the planet who recently, had traveled to a weed legal state. She’s super generous and must have shared her stash with us as a party gift.

  As I ran to my bedroom, I screamed at Maddy, “How dare you go through my drawers!”

  I ate the other weed lollipop while soaking in the tub watching The Talented Mr. Ripley on my iPad. Tom Ripley clubbing a swimsuit-clad Dickie with an oar did seem to come to life under my mild cannabis high.

  Georgia voted “no” to the legalization of marijuana, which really stinks. Certainly, with all my conditions—being forty-five, trying to break into Hollywood, managing a family and a high- maintenance dog, all while trying to please the Lord—I would qualify as one who suffers and would gain access to all things

  420. Dang Baptists.

  THE ONLY SON

  PJ was born with a rare x-linked recessive disease that many children do not survive. At any given time, only a handful of people in the world are born with WAS; he was misdiagnosed for over a year. It looks like eczema, a common rash children get, but PJ also had extremely low white-blood-cell counts that required him to live at Duke University for close to a year to get blood transfusions. Finally, after a year of being misdiagnosed, a DNA evaluation revealed the issue, Wiskott–Aldrich syndrome,{33} better known as WAS.

  The only cure for WAS is a bone-marrow transplant and no one in the family was a match. When it was suggested that Peter reach out to his birth family (Peter had been adopted as a baby) for a matching donor, Peter agreed. His birth parents were not a match, but it opened the door to two new families. It’s remarkable how, in the darkest of times, light is sometimes revealed.

  The bone-marrow match ended up being PJ’s sister, Savannah, who was five at the time. No one had thought of screening her but when she announced, “I’m going to save PJ,” she was tested and was a perfect match. He’s very fortunate to be so healthy, as most kids with WAS have lifelong health issues.

  Savannah now uses her life-saving bone-marrow donation as leverage to get to eat the last piece of dessert or ride shotgun in the car. “Really PJ, you are taking the last piece? I SAVED YOUR LIFE.” He normally acquiesces.

  PJ had a period of arson and thievery when he was younger. He said he liked to “borrow” things from people’s garages, but he never returned anything unless he got caught. When grounding him and making him do chores did not curtail the larceny, I decided to take him to jail.

  A police officer met with us and told PJ about how the condemned live. “You never get to pick what you eat and you have to go to bed at the same time every night.” This really didn’t scare PJ because he currently had similar living conditions at our house. Only when the officer said the incarcerated took group showers and had no Internet access did PJ start to sweat. As the police officer walked us out he gave PJ his last words of warning: “Son, everybody hates a f****** thief.”

  The courthouse was within walking distance so we went and watched the judge sentence people for a couple hours. Witnessing police officers handcuffing and escorting kids—many just a few years older than himself—to jail curbed his sticky- fingers stage.

  Don’t write off your kids if they go through a rough patch. PJ is finishing up his final Eagle Scout requirements and works extremely hard in school. He has grown into a kind and generous kid, even though we do seem to have issues with common sense. During the Olympics, we were listening to the coverage of water polo. PJ asked with complete seriousness, “Water polo? How do they get the horses in the water?”

  He also informed us, after a physician visited his school and spoke about the health risks of red meat, that he immediately wanted a diet with more “sea meats” and less “land meats.”

  HELEN

  When Anna, my youngest daughter, and I were visiting Kristin in China we toured a facility that cared specifically for orphaned children that had heart issues. Kristin’s sweet oldest daughter had selected the organization for her “Passion Project” for school.

  The five children that lived in the orphanage were very well cared for by an equal number of employ
ees. Each child had been given a more American/European-sounding name, in the hopes of making the child more appealing to adopt. Anna and I took turns holding Emily, Frank, Helen, Ashley and Walter while the director of the facility talked to us about the adoption process. “In China, you can only adopt a baby if you do not have any children of your own, but children with special needs are an exception.” All five of the children were already in the process of being adopted by American families. Regardless, Anna wanted us to take either Helen or Walter with us.

  I can’t handle the four kids I’m already responsible for and assumed my husband would know that I was teasing him when I sent a picture of Anna holding a little girl with a text saying how great the facility was caring for the children with cardiac issues and finished with “Let’s adopt a Helen!”

  There’s a twelve-hour time difference between Beijing and Atlanta so I didn’t get an immediate reply. Kristin was hosting a cooking class at her house later that afternoon so we spent the day preparing for that. I was so busy I didn’t check my phone until I was in bed for the night. I had a string of texts from Peter.

  5:00 a.m. (Beijing Time)

  Peter to me: How old is Helen? 5:01 a.m.

  Will she need additional surgeries? 6:00 a.m.

  Are you there? Ames? We’re getting ready to put four through college, a new baby?

  6:01 a.m.

  I have been praying about why you were called to China and this must be it. You were meant to bring home Helen.

  6:45 a.m.

  We are fortunate to have the resources to help this child, we can do it.

  Peter called me several times, but I was asleep. He left a message.

  “Are you not getting my texts? Does Helen have a file that you can forward? I talked to all the kids and Savannah and Maddy are willing to share a room so you can bring Helen home. Call me!”

  I finally checked my phone to find a stream of texts about all the plans he was making in preparation for Helen.

  1:00 p.m.

  Peter to me: We could modify the loft upstairs and make it into another bedroom and then adjoin the bathroom, if you hate that idea, the Clark’s house just came on the market and it has a small bedroom on the main floor, but they have that sort of a brownish granite in the kitchen, we’d have to pull that out ... Call me.

  2:00 p.m.

  PJ thinks you are kidding about getting a Chinese baby, are you kidding? Text me ASAP.

  3:00 p.m.

  I’m at work and have made a few phone calls. There’s a pediatric cardiologist in Atlanta! He needs details on Helen’s situation.

  “Oh my gosh! Peter thinks I really want a Chinese baby!” I read the string of texts to Kristin and she teared up because she thought it was so sweet that Peter was completely open to adopting a child based on one text from me saying Let’s adopt a Helen!

  “You have to get a Chinese baby now, Mom,” Anna said.

  Kristin looked at me and said, “Anna really wants a Chinese baby.”

  I asked Anna, “How about a cute Chinese dog instead of a baby?”

  “Oh Mommy, that‘s a great idea! When can we get it?” Kids are so fickle.

  My husband, who had lost his first wife to cancer and almost lost a son to a very rare syndrome was still willing to take on a child with severe health issues and all the financial obligations that would accompany it. Peter is a very loving man and has forgiven me.

  ATLANTA LAWN AND TENNIS ASSOCIATION (ALTA)

  If you play tennis in Atlanta, you play in the Atlanta Lawn and Tennis Association (ALTA) League. It’s lovely. Every Thursday the members of your team get decked out in adorable tennis outfits and visit swanky country clubs to play tennis and eat small, delicious sandwiches.

  It was toward the end of the season and our team was neck and neck for points with our opponents, the ladies of a neighboring club.

  Our opponents’ tennis cabana sat on a steep incline, allowing for great views of their neighborhood and courts. The table was decorated with matching plates and napkins and a nice selection of sandwiches, salads and desserts. I was enjoying a ham, brie and apple sandwich with a side of homemade pasta salad when we heard The Scuffle.

  We all lined the cabana to investigate the commotion. What had seemed like a strategy session of our opponents had turned into an outright fight. I’m not sure what they were saying because the ladies were speaking Japanese, but they became louder and more animated as the argument ensued.

  We watched in bewilderment as one Asian woman started poking the other in the chest. The victim of the poking seemed to be taking the high road and headed for her bench. Seconds later, the player we thought was taking the high road grabbed the cooler and clocked her teammate in the face. We all raced down to what had developed into a wrestling match on the court. Below: not the actual cooler but one very similar.

  Initially, the two captains tried to break up the battle, but it escalated to a 911 situation when there was bloodshed. The tiny, angry, Japanese ladies were still swinging at each other when they were cuffed and stuffed. We finished our gluten-free brownies and left.

  They will have to sit the next tennis season out, as All unsportsmanlike behavior will be reported to the League Office is listed clearly in the ALTA rulebook.

  HOT ITALIAN GUY #1 (NOT THAT INTO ME)

  In college, I met a super-hot Italian guy named Rafello Hieronomo Graziano. Just kidding, his name was Brent, and we had French 101 together. In addition to being tall, dark and handsome, he was from Louisiana, could cook crawfish etouffee and had an adorable Creole/southern accent. All my friends loved him and he loved all my friends. The only person he seemed not to love was me.

  Brent was in love with his ex-girlfriend, Lyndi. A clue that he was still in love with her would have been that he said on our first date, “I love girls with dark hair and blue eyes.” Before I could even say thank you, he added, “My ex-girlfriend, Lyndi, had dark hair and blue eyes, too,” and then showed me her picture that he kept in his wallet. I also knew about his lingering adoration because of all the evidence I uncovered while snooping through his stuff. I found notebooks of love letters to her, saying that he couldn’t wait to “walk her down the aisle” and that their “children would go to the best schools.”

  I recognize that I was naive, spending a year with someone that so clearly was still in love with someone else. I’d argue that I’m optimistic. “He is so going to fall madly in love with me … any minute now.”

  Eventually, I figured it out. One night at Brent’s house, while getting some ice from the freezer, I heard grunting noises behind me. I turned to see Lyndi struggling to fit through the doggie door.

  “What the F***?!”{34}I screamed.

  Brent heard the ruckus, ran in and dropped to the floor to help her. “Lyndi, angel, why are you on the floor?” he asked while caressing her cheek and smoothing her drunk and trying to squeeze through a doggie door crazy hair. She smiled a big drunk smile and rested her head on his shoulder, still entangled in the door.

  “Fine,” I said, grabbing my purse from the counter. I wanted to make a dramatic exit but I had to open and close the door several times, all the while Lyndi’s head was jolting back and forth. Finally, with both hands, I shoved her face and she fell backward, onto the garage floor.

  I stepped over her and never looked back.

  HOT ITALIAN GUY #2 (TOTALLY INTO ME, THEN NOT SO MUCH)

  After pining for Brent to no avail for over a year, I was in a mood best described as man-hating, and my appearance reflected it. Why bother waxing your eyebrows and trying to be fit if you get nothing but heartbreak? I stopped coloring my hair so it was half-natural, half-not, like a poor woman’s ombre.

  To cheer me up, friends invited me to go skiing for the weekend, so we bundled up and headed to the exclusive ski slopes of Ohio. Everyone (except me) had their boyfriends with them, and one of the guys had brought a friend along, super-hot Italian Danny.{35}

  Danny looked like he had jumped out of an A
bercrombie & Fitch ad, which he sort of did because while working for A&F, an agent had spotted his chiseled face and offered him a contract to do local ads and stock photos. Imagine a showered and shaved Collin Ferrell that’s more Italian and less Irish. That’s what he looked like.

  I was thick in my misanthropy period and did nothing but make snarky comments to Danny (when I wasn’t just ignoring him) for the weekend. Turns out, he fell madly in love with me. All the advice about looking your best and being sweet to get a man … could be false. Being caustic and slightly dirty{36}was working wonders for me.

  For a while, Danny was the best boyfriend ever. He would take me to the ballet or foreign films and say things to me in Italian. In return, I would boss him around and complain about everything. His mother hated me. Even though she spoke very little English and I didn’t know exactly what “Molto skinny Americano no Cattolico!”{37} meant, I knew it wasn’t welcoming.