"Honey, I Painted the Mini-Van Pink"

...and other things you just shouldn't inform your husband about.

The other night, I was outside playing with the kidlets.

The occasion was none other than playing ball in the front yard because A) supper was in the crock pot and not quite done, or B) Daddy wasn't home from work yet, or C) bedtime wasn't quite available yet or D) we just needed some playtime.

Now, this particular night hailed the occasion of A so you can imagine the hungry herd of kidlets they were.

Not to be outdone by their famished state of being, each kidlet excretioned incredible amounts of fun and energy, as young little people are apt to do.

Landon zoomed on his bike in an impressive manner. Janae rather careened her way around objects and would rustle the romper on her young brother, Alex, as she spled (blend of "fled" and "sped") past him. It was the same idea as the wind rustling leaves, if you know what I mean. Seriously, some kids should just get speeding tickets; they're such a threat to society when they're on bikes.

I'm seriously thinking of installing a braking system that allows me to use a remote control to slow her bicycle down from a distance. She has two speeds on that bike: faster and fastest. She knows no danger when it comes to being on her two-wheels-with-one-functioning-training-wheel bike.

One day, I watched Janae hit Alex's trike going west down the sidewalk. She pretty much just bumped merrily over the back part of his poor mode of transportation, turned around and 14 seconds later, hit the same Alex's bike going east down the sidewalk. This time, she didn't bump merrily. Rather, she toppled to the ground with a rather dramatic and dangerous thud (kids can get concussions, I've heard). She wailed gustily through tears of heart ache, pain and regret as she laid in pieces under her bruised and bashed up bike, "I don't like this house, or this driveway." (Yeah the house and driveway really have a lot to do with the fact you can't seem to avoid hitting things with your bike.)

Meanwhile, I was thinking, "Watch out." I really try to be plain and simple when it comes to giving pieces of advice to my children -- I really do -- but I've realized it tends to come too late or if it is on time, they can't hear me for some reason. This was one of those "too late" times.

Another time I remembered watching Janae hit our neighbor's yard rock. It's like this huge, massive thing that's been there ever since before Janae was born learned how to ride bike but it seemed to escape her memory as to it's general location on this particular day.

As Janae was sailing at top speed down the sidewalk, she veered off into the neighbor's yard (who knows; maybe there's an imaginary slope there that pulls her bike off the beaten path) and just like that, WHAM! she hit the thing so hard, it bounced her back 2 feet. She came to a very sudden but upright stop. (notice, I said UPRIGHT.)

She giggled with glee, turned the wheel and took off in the intended direction she should've been going.

(To all you PETR --People for the Ethical Treatment of Rocks-- no rocks were harmed in the making of this scenario.)

So. As I was saying, I was outside playing with the kids while we waited for supper to finish cooking

Landon and Janae were zooming up and down the sidewalk, dodging each other and other objects such as that younger brother, while I played catch with that younger brother.

As I threw Alex (the younger brother) the ball and attempted to catch his throws (my catch is poor; his throw is impressive), I stumbled in the yard (no surprise there) and twisted my ankle.

Ouch.

(If you don't know what I mean by "ouch," you have obviously never twisted your ankle.)

I continued to play, chalked up the twisted ankle to my klutziness, and attempted to throw/catch another ball. While performing an amazing circus act catching that particular child's ball, I suddenly did this impressive awkward move in a desperate lunge at the ball and began to notice an equal amount of pain in my left knee and right elbow at the same time.

Weird, I thought, a two wheeled truck must've just come out of no where and hit me.

Then it dawned on me that my elbow had actually made an unnatural contact with my knee and the impact of both coming together, caused an unnatural reaction. There's nothing like hitting yourself with yourself because then you have automatic pain in two locations.

Not to be outdone by my advancing klutziness nor to give in to my growing embarrassment as I made a spectacle of myself to all the neighbors, I showed the kids my amazing skill of throwing the ball up on the roof and then catching it as it rolls down. I can be pretty quick witted, you know.

You should've seen their faces: they were impressed. The look of pride in their eyes as they watched their sports-man-ship-like mom, was worth the effort it took to learn the skill of How To Throw A Ball On The Roof.

They were amazed. I was like this hero, or something, to them.

As I threw, rolled and caught the ball, I continued to get braver and braver. I'd throw harder. Faster. Less-like-a-girl Stronger. The entertainment level was at 5+stars and boy, were we all happy.

Just then, the unthinkable happened: the ball got lodged between a gable-end-eave and the porch roof. (If you don't know where that location is, you are obviously not married to a roofer.)

Not to be outdone by the little set-back in our performance for the day, I grabbed a wrangled stick and poked and prodded and stabbed and swung the stick at the lodged ball. I needed a couple more feet of height --among other things; like I'm sure a brain would've really come in handy right then-- and had to come up with another plan.

So I grabbed a garden rake.

The garden rake was a marvelous idea. Until it scratched the flashing. Oops. (If you're married to a roofer, you realize the danger of scratching the flashing.)

I marched back to the garage and found a gazillion-foot-long piece of quarter-round-trim (if you're married to a carpenter, you'll know what that is.)

I poked and prodded and stabbed and swung the trim at the lodged ball. I still needed a brain height and heard Janae say, "Nope, you're not gettin' it Mom."

Thanks, Janae. It's so kind of you to point out the obvious. (Her perception amazes me.)

3 blunders on the yard playing ball, confirmed my klutziness. 3 attempts at removing the ball from it's inconveniently lodged location, confirmed my inability to coordinate ball-rescue attempts. Plain and simple, I was a doomed failure.

As Janae continued to zoom dangerously up and down the sidewalk on her bike, I recognized the finality of supper's cooking and called the kids in. We sat down to eat, gave thanks and dug into our meal. Everything was perfect until I began to tell my husband, that dear darling man, my 3 acts of klutziness.

When I got to the part about the elbow-colliding-with-the-knee, it all seemed too outrageous to even be legal. He was too confused to understand how that could happen.

It makes me have to excuse my daughter for her inability to avoid bouncing her bike off of the neighbor's landscape rocks because seriously, with a mom like me, she comes by it naturally... the poor child.

And poor husband... me re-enacting at the supper table how my elbow-hit-the-knee, couldn't be any worse than if I were to paint the van pink.

Or could it?

Do's and Dont's This Mother Learned the Hard Way

(The following outlines, are summaries of true stories that happened to our family. At our house. In our home. Around us. To us. etc. These are facts not based on imagination or fiction; these are real-to-life tales of innocent children parents with adventurous children.)

Never buy sheet sets for your child's bed. Never. Simply purchase a plush mattress pad, a plastic bed liner and make sure your child has a bed-bug-less pillow with a half decent pillowcase. You're then good to go. IF there should ever be an "accident" on the bed during the night while your child is sleeping, the amount of laundry you have to do will be minimal. And you won't have to dread changing sheets on the top bunk anymore.

Never buy shoes for your child. They'll just lose them and insist on going barefoot anyway.

Never discourage your child from talking to strangers. That way when they see their own grandfather for the first time in 6 months, they won't be afraid to sit on his lap.

Never treat the stains on clothing with stain remover. Before you have a chance to wash laundry, that clothing item will grow mold. Unless you wash laundry more often than every 2 weeks.

Never change your vacuum-cleaner-bag in front of your child. The child will think he has free access to the vacuum-cleaner-bag whenever he wants. If the said vacuum ever malfunctions, check the said bag for complete connection. The said child may have disconnected the said bag.

Never use a glass jar of any kind for your daughter to put her fireflies in. You will lose all rights to your canning jars during your child's entire childhood because each jar will be used (and broken) all for the sake of insects.

Never plant seeds in your garden in front of your child. They may be tempted to go back to the garden later and try to find all your seeds that you buried.

Never buy sidewalk chalk and expect your kids to use the side-walk chalk ON the sidewalk. Instead, they will use it in buckets of water to make paste, as bullets in their "guns" and will throw it up in the air just to see it shatter in a million pieces when it hits the cement sidewalk.

Never teach your kids how to ride bike. They will expect you to take them on a bike ride every evening before supper for the rest of their child hood.

Never tell your child they must stay in bed until 4pm for their nap. They will lay awake staring at the clock until 4pm.

Never allow your child to play with straws in the bathtub. That way, in the event they should poop in the tub.... well, it's just better if they don't have straws.

Never allow your child to play a game on your cell phone. They will remove any phone protectant cover you have on the phone.

Never allow your child to play a game on your cell phone. They will delete your entire chat history with all your IM friends.

Never allow your child to play a game on your cell phone. They will call the police with the phone instead.

And The Point Is....?

I thought when I started back into blogging a few weeks ago, I would be divinely inspired with an ability to blog on a regular basis. It's funny how I base my plans on mere thoughts that hold no promise of fruition. Real funny.

So I tried to think up some blogging material. You know, something that held the slightest indication that it could make sense. Or be worth reading.

It dawned on me I could write about everything I've been doing offline around here. But, my life really isn't THAT interesting and I haven't taken pictures with my camera lately. So. No pictorial update today. Or journaled account of my life, for that matter.

(I have no idea where this blog is going just now and I can't guarantee anything that won't be mumble jumbled. You are welcome to go on to the next blog in your bloglines if you wish to do so. Feel free to check your friends' facebook status too. Or even take a walk out to your mailbox and see if there's any "snail" mail waiting for you.)

It's funny how in our day and age, we have to indicate what electronic device we used to take pictures. We also have to indicate what kind of specie-of-living-thing identifies with our mail out in THE mailbox (ie., snail.) Don't get lost with me here... let me explain...

You may notice I said in one of the paragraphs above that "I haven't taken pictures with my camera lately." That sounds like a rather redundant and pointless thing to point out. What else do you take pictures with, right? The question you should consider is, "What do you do with a camera besides to take pictures?" Because there are more devices to use to take pictures with than just a camera. And there are more devices to hold mail than just a mailbox at the end of your driveway.

The one device I'm thinking of in the "take a picture" department is an item that starts with "p" and sounds like "f." Real tricky clue, I know. When you get that word figured out, you are welcome to read on.

The mail thing I'm thinking about is something that starts with "in" and ends with "box." Why don't they just call end-of-your-driveway-mailbox-mail mail and that "inbox" mail stuff "instantmail" or"cheetamail" or "superchargedandfullofcaffiene racehorse mail" etc.? Why do we have to call good, old fashioned mailbox mail, snailmail? It's just not fair to change the name of something that's always been.

Seriously though, sometimes I wonder what kind of age of technology my kids will have when they grow older. Will there even be such a thing as a laptop computer? Will phones even slightly resemble the contemporary phones we have now? Will mailboxes only be used for yard decoration? Will the tires on our cars today be displayed in the next generation's landscaping just like those old iron wheels are displayed in our yards? Will you be able to open a door without pushing a button? What about chairs... will they still have 4 legs?

It's weird how technology, as nice and good as it is, only instills fears of uncertainty in some people. It doesn't always bring the kind of hope and change the computer engineers would like us to think there is.

Education will probably change too. Pencils and old fashioned rulers will be replaced with, well, who knows what. Kids will never learn how to read Roman Numerals. Such a shame. Especially since us adults use Roman Numerals everyday of the week, all the time, all day long. Seriously, what would we do without Roman Numerals?! And arithmetic... will kids even know that word? I have this feeling that math books will be condensed in fancy, schmancy, rigged up calculators. Which really isn't a bad idea because seriously, have YOU used algebra since you graduated from high school?

And blogging... will there even be such a thing as blogging 60 years from now? What if a person's thoughts were immediately flashed onto an electronic device and published to the entire world for all to see? What if there were no filter between a person's brain and their expression of thought? What if their fears and inner most thoughts about mail and education and cameras just spilled out in a mumbled jumbled form and any person subject to reading it had to decipher the logic behind it?

What an awful way to live that would be...

My Blogging Debut

So, I decided to make a come back. You know, a come back to the blogging world. I have nothing to blog about today but since I do have a blog, then certainly I'm entitled to blog about whatever I want. Even if it means to blog about nothing.

My brain is like a wilted flower that got too much rain and then stood in the sun for too many days without rain until it got completely dry and then was suddenly watered on by a dog. Just kind of limp and burned out and wilty. If you don't know what that looks like, plant a flower, over water it for 6 days and then set it on the picnic table to dry out in the sun. When it's dry, set what's left of the flower out in the middle of the yard and just wait for a willing neighbor dog. Take a picture and tag it with my name. Now you have an idea.

There's no reason why I'd have to look like this either. Or feel like this. I mean, we did only have a nasty cold for a week and if Toby wasn't getting me up during the night to mumble at me in some strange language, Janae was trying to slip into MY side of the bed for a middle-of-the-night snuggle. Not to mention the fact that my normal eleven-o-clock-bedtime was rudely switched to 2am. I know; my bad.

But that cold was sure a doozy. We all had it but my dear Toby had it the worst. He didn't take too well to my doctoring abilities since I also was under the weather and seemed to fail to remember any type of effective cold treatment. I caught him guzzling cough and cold syrup right out of the bottle one day and soundly scolded effectively reasoned with him as to the anti-health benefits of such practice.

When my head cleared a bit, a faint memory of something called Bite A Man Sea flashed a merry tune in my head. I kept hitting my forehead trying to remember why I was experiencing Deja vu all over again when it dawned on me that the memory stick in my brain was a little coated with snot cold drainage and I was hearing the message unclearly. So, I de-coded the message and sounded out "Vitamin C!" I took that as a sign that I should give Toby some vitamin C. And I continued to do so until the promptings ceased.

The kids fared pretty well. They all got sick a few days before their parents did so when we were at our sickest, the kids by that time were back to feeling pretty perky. Real perky. Like, poop-all-over-the-house perky. Of course it would figure that I'd get a phone call at the same time, have a text to respond to on another phone and find out right then that my husband was leaving for the rest of the morning. I've tried to space out such abnormal happenings in my day but it never works. It's like the phone call just can't wait for the poop to get cleaned up and my text blocker just doesn't activate automatically when it's obvious I'm doing 23 other things right then.

Sunday rolled around and we were desperate for social interaction. You know, like church or something. Of course, hacking and sniffing and blowing snot everywhere wasn't a very presentable way to go to church so we decided that just getting out of the house would be the best idea.

We went to the lake and got a good dose of sun, 'presh air' (as Landon calls it) and water. We caught a couple dozen little fish because Toby accidentally dropped his line into a school of fish. I didn't know fish went to school on Sunday. Come to think of it, maybe they were having church...

Apparentely the preacher was preaching on the dangers of hooks with worms. Or maybe it was a teacher teaching the class on what to look for in a worm. Either way, Toby was an excellent assistant and aided the preacher/teacher in teaching the church/school the dangers of fishermen. The preacher/teacher used that time to inocculate the audience/class to the wilds of a baited hook and since each one of the parishoners/students were too young for the frying pan, the preacher/teacher was confident they would learn their lesson AND gain permanent freedom. So now there's an entire church/school of fish in a lake in Nebraska that will never bring joy to a fisherman's heart thanks to the hands-on, life-lessons they learned that day.

We played "catch and release" for an hour or so and the kids were thrilled with each little fish they pulled out of the water. I did the honors of pulling the hook out of the fish's mouth and was pleased with my abilities to handle live fish, bloody worms and staring at fish tonsils over and over. While I did that, Toby was casting in another line and setting the next kid up for their fishing experience. The four of us had a regular system down while Alex ate sunscreen fresh out of the tube. He's a little over cautious about the effect of a sunburn on his tongue.

My late grandpa, who was an avid fisherman, would be impressed with my fishing skills. I owe all my luck talent to him. I think it's genetic because nothing in me enjoys pulling sharp objects out of paper thin lips and reaching my fingers into toothless mouths of living things while they stare at me with huge, beady eyes. But when it comes to casting the line in, well, we just won't go there yet. (My Grandpa would NOT be impressed...)

The wind was blowing pretty strong that day (welcome to Nebraska) and there were hundreds several speed boats on the lake. That combination made for some pretty impressive waves. Bear in mind that I've never been to the ocean so it doesn't take much to impress me when it comes to waves. Even my bathtub can produce some pretty sweet waves.

The combination of the beautiful day (it wasn't too hot), the sound of the waves, the 'presh air' and the nice time to just be out together like one little happy family on a lake, made for a peaceful and relaxing day.

Not to mention that subconsiously it created many blogging moments. Which gave me a ticket back into the blogging world. Which is a good thing since how can a blogger have a blog if they never blog like a blogger should?

"I'm back," said the little fish as he swam swiftly from the treacherous shore. Never mind there's a hole in his lip and his scales are a little messed up; he's off the hook and no longer a fish-out-of-water. He's happy to dive right back into the life he loves.

And so am I.

FLEXIBILITY 101

If I could, I would take a class that would give me an education on the #1 important ingredient to life, health and the pursuit of happiness. And that ingredient I would learn would be called:

FLEXIBILITY

My highly educated teacher would lecture on the following statement:

"We all realize that there are more than just ONE important ingredient to life just like there's more than one important ingredient in chocolate chip cookies. Take flour for example... flour is usually the first ingredient listed on the recipe requirements for cookies. We all know that. Another important addition is baking soda because it's vital to the leaven needed to produce a slight raise in the structure of the cookie itself. The chemistry the baking soda produces causes the cookie to manufacture fibers in which it raises at a certain temperature and then conforms and holds to the shape it grew to. We also need sugar. Sugar appeals to the taste buds and takes the cookie out of the "health food" category and puts the cookie in a "dessert food" category. This is important to the life and welfare of the cookie because how many meals in our country today automatically offer a "health menu" at the end of the entree? None. But you will find a "dessert menu" offered at most diners today. This is important to the production and consumption of each individual cookie destined to be created. But chocolate... chocolate is vital to the purpose, the value and the final completion of the chocolate chip cookie. What would the blend of flour and baking soda and sugar be without chocolate chips? It would be a lump of flour, baking soda and sugar. This is proof we need chocolate, students."

Of course, the point of the professor would be understood by all and it would so obviously apply to the topic in our class that day: Flexibility. It would also apply to any student studying how to become a professional chocolate chip cookie maker. And it would appeal to the general public that insists on funding the production and education of good chocolate. It would be a great class to take because so many people with so many different educational pursuits, could benefit from such a knowledgeable professor.

The tests I'd take after that class would reflect my understanding of the concept of Flexibility through the professor's thorough presentation and I would probably pass the test with flying colors... like a parrot passes by high in the sky.

My education of this would give me strong beliefs that being flexible should effect our everyday life like the h2O we drink effects our general health. Without flexibility, we will never learn how to bend over backwards. And we all know how handy it is to bend over backwards when we need to reach the floor behind us without turning around

Flexibility will influence the following:

How and when we look at freedom... "Do I need this shower or am I just looking for a break?"

How and why we look at fat... "Do I need to lose weight or do I just not like the way my stomach bulges and folds and hangs over my waistline."

How and where we look for fun... "Is there true purpose in an expensive vacation or do I just not like getting the mail everyday?"

How and what we call our favorite... "Am I eating this ice cream because I like it or is it truly my favorite?"

These and other attributes play into how we're flexible.

When we're flexible, we eat ice cream because we need a break and can't find the bathroom under the pile of toilet paper the two year old piled in the toilet.

When we're flexible, we walk to the mailbox every week or two so we can check the "in a weekly exercise program" box on the doctor's form.

When we're flexible, we enjoy noticing the way fat clings to our bodies like a school of jelly fish because it helps take our mind off the beach side vacation we'd really like to go on.

When we're flexible, we enjoy being cooped up for days in our house with sick kids because we embrace the slogan, "Freedom is never free."

Flexibility lends itself in many different ways to our perspectives, our entertainment views, our attitudes and our over all mental health.

Like when your daughter comes gasping and banging and pounding on the door, hardly able to catch her breath so she can scream hysterically tenderly call for her mother. And you get to the door and you find her wildly hopping on her feet like she's painfully jumping on hot coals. You notice she's gasping and huffing like something horrible is happening and you realize she's possibly getting her feet chopped off. And so you ask her what's going on in her young little life as she bounces energetically in a six foot circle on the cement porch floor. And you ask with concern in your voice because you care for her well being and you want her to know that you really do think she's a normal child. You articulate your question carefully as if an acting-out-of-her-mind-child would be able to answer your question sanely because you enunciated the 't' in "WHAT HAPPENED."

And she replies in a breathy way, like a jogger sounds when they're jogging, "H-h-h-h I h-h-h-h-h-h h-h-h-h-hurt h-h-h-h-h-h-h my-hhh-h-h-h fo-h-h-ooo-h-h-ttt h-h-h-h-h." (translated: I hurt my foot.)

You observe her with a keen eye and notice that the foot she's huffing about would have to include at least one of the two feet she's bouncing wildly on.

Because you forgot that stand up comedy usually has some form of sense and sanity to it, and you really don't want to go crazy from all the excitement your children cause in your life, you find yourself laughing hysterically that your child would choose to express her pain in such an energetic and healthy way. While using the banged up, chopped off foot to propel her into the air.
Flexibility gives you the ability to accept the comedy of the situation as you turn to go back inside the house while your banged-up-foot-child bounces off the porch and down the steps, nursing what she believes to be a badly hurt foot. While jumping on it.

Flexibility forces you to see the obvious when all you notice is everything that's not there. Like when your son drills you about the moon as if he thinks you're some scientist or something. He begins a breathless string of questions on if the moon could crush the house and what would happen if you shot the moon and does the moon roll and how does the moon just stay up in the sky and does it just 'stick' there and how big is the moon and can you shoot the moon, can you?

Flexibility helps you see that your child is not a mad scientist even if he has every indication of becoming one.

Flexibility helps you understand the deep and vast brain behind the erratic and usually irrelevant questions.

Flexibility helps you embrace the opportunity of gazing lovingly into the pool of dark brown eyes that look up to you and sincerely believe with all their heart that you, of all people, are the wealth of knowledge they've been searching for all of their 5 little years of life.

Flexibility is such a great tool to carry through life and something everyone should get a PHD on. An education in Flexibility would give great resume references because everyone would want to hire the Flexibility person.

But, I would learn that Flexibility forces you to understand that you will probably never be able to take a class on Flexibility because there is no class out there devoted primarily to the topic of Flexibility. Flexibility is just too hard to teach. Frankly, flexibility does not fit in a box or a text book. It's just too flexible to do so.

But by accepting this hard, cruel fact, I am proving my understanding of Flexibility.

And I'm flexible enough to accept that I will never get an education on the #1 important ingredient for life: Flexibility.

On Alex, Forks and Cats... and other things

Today is one of those days where you make coffee in the morning (as usual) and then by mid-afternoon you make another pot (not as usual) in order to survive.

And no, I'm not dealing with the pandemic flu scare either -- I am educated and well informed as you can be too. Nor am I under stress or overwhelmed with circumstances out of my control.

Rather, I am merely surviving. Swine flu has nothing on me today, seriously.

It all started this morning when this little 2 1/2 foot-tall guy was tenderly carried upstairs in his daddy's arms. The darling little stinker had WMD (Worst Morning Doo-doo) and since that can tend to wreck havoc on the surrounding air circulating our home, I knew it would be the traditional WMD if I didn't do something about it fast.

It was either change the diaper or light a bonfire of scented candles to cover the awful small. I knew the candle part wouldn't be ideal since we do have small children in the house so I opted for plan A: change the diaper.

That's when it all started.

He refused to be cleansed from his iniquity putrid, dirty diaper. Knowing my child would love to spend the day with doo-doo smeared all over his as-soft-as-a-baby's-butt butt, I denied him the privilege, crossed his boundaries and cleansed the tender skin of the harsh toxins that naturally make up WMD. I was also thinking of the house, which I know is selfish of me.

After that, everything just went down hill from there.

He mutilated his much-starved-after banana, smearing entrails of banana on his tray. Yes, "banans" (as Alex affectionately calls them) have entrails. I'll take a picture next time if you don't believe me.

Then I gave him a strawberry. A delicious, juicy, RED-all-the-way-through, strawberry. He took a few chomps, chucked a bite under the dining table (which was across the room from where he safely sits in his high chair) and then slung the rest across the top of the table, smearing the whole way until it landed in front of his sister. It left an impressive trail of nice, juicy, red juice.

(That boy has quite the throw. And aim.)

Entwined through-out the banana and strawberry feast were loud, robust, healthy, deafening shouts of "MOM!" If you want to know what it sounds like, tell the person sitting closest to you to shout "mom" as loud as they can. Then ask them to repeat that for at least 20 minutes. And then hope your phone rings so you can try to carry on an important conversation with an important person. But make sure that the person sitting closest to you continues to yell "mom."

Around that same time in the morning, the originally planned appointment for later in the day to have our gas line repaired (since our house was beginning to smell like a propane plant, thanks to some leaky pipes), was suddenly moved to 5 minutes from right then. A path needed to be cleared through the toys artfully arranged left laying on the family room floor.

By this time, Alex was standing on his high chair tray, still yelling, shouting and hollering "mom."

Now, Grandpas are a great thing, they really are. And when it comes to having 2 1/2 foot-tall people like Alex around, Grandpas are a REALLY great thing. Amazingly enough, we actually had such a Grandpa on hand to rescue Alex from his high chair and set him free to have the run of the house. Alex was happy and so was the Grandpa. They had a brief time of enjoying the morning together and admiring each other but then as soon as Grandpa stepped away from his desk, Alex returned the favor Grandpa had previously shown him and proceeded to climb up to the desk and tear apart random pieces of important things. Grandpa was amazed with Alex's speed and swift thinking in handling the opportunity to sabotage Grandpa's important desk.

(Grandpas are too forgiving and very biased.)

After that, Alex climbed up to the silverware basket and with a look of glee and contempt on his innocent determined little face, he selected a sturdy fork and trailed the cat down. I'll leave you to your imagination as to what happened next because I'm sure you understand that a 2 1/2 foot-tall person, a fork and a cat are not a good combination. Especially when it's all located behind the couch.

As I continued to tackle my day... cleaning the bathroom, making lunch, saving the cat, answering phones and cleaning the kitchen... Alex kept his schedule going as well. He made a trek to the basement and checked out Toby's computer, offering a few insights on the important business document Toby had open in Word. Or maybe that was Quick Books? Whatever it was, Alex had it done in less than 7 seconds so obviously the program isn't very child proof.

Alex was greatly interested in the kind gas people that were here to repair our old gas lines and showed his appreciation by climbing their ladder and checking out their tools.

Then he came upstairs, sat sweetly smugly next to the very-bloated-with-pregnancy-cat and held onto her tail in a very affectionate manner. It was a very strong bond. As in a I-will-love-you-forever-and-never-let-you-go kind of way.

Soon after that he became ravenously hungry for cheese and demanded a piece of the moldy cheese I was carving off of a cheese block. So I put him in his high chair, selected a pinch of healthy cheese and allowed him a good protein snack. Of course, that was all after he said "please" for the cheese.

That arrangement went well until Alex's dear and favorite sister innocently snitched a single string of the pile of cheese on his tray. He voice broke out like a rash on a poison ivy victim.

Over lunch time, Alex refused to eat his cheesy mashed potatoes. I coaxed him. I forced him. I urged him. He refused the bites of food or would take take them into his mouth, mix a nice blend of saliva with the spuds and then smear the entire biteful out on his hand. Like lotion. He also soaked himself with the leak-proof sippy cup of water proving that even sippy cups now days aren't child proof.

When his dad came home (after I had labored fruitlessly on training him to eat his food), Toby simply looked at him and said, "Alex, you take a bite." Those were 5 magic words that Alex understood to mean, "I must shovel my food in now or I may forever lose all of my third-born privileges in this family."

Disheartened by my lack of ability to train this child to eat a small pile of mashed potatoes, the Grandpa assured me not to worry; he said it's the male image that a father has which imparts godly fear on a young child. Bummer for me since I don't tend to have a very male image.

As the afternoon rounded to a close and nap time began to appear more obvious in the horizon of this beautiful day, Alex disappeared. Enjoying the lack of stress excitement for a few brief minutes, I tried not to be too anxious as I looked for him. He had been under Grandpa's bed earlier affectionately chasing the cat the down so I wasn't too worried. I comforted myself with the illusion that he was still there and hoping that cat was smart enough not to be there.

Just then Alex came screeching across the house at top speed with wet hands. He's such a smart little inventor and his energetic spirit towards life is so inspiring. Unfortunately, I noted immediately that he was heading directly from the bathroom.

Upon investigation, the bathroom I had just scrubbed down earlier was in need of more cleaning. A yellow-tinted color of liquid blended with the water in the toilet bowl and around the perimeter of the toilet there were flecks of generous sprinkles of liquid. It all had a familiar faint tinge of a certain smell too.

Nice. What an adventurous child I have.

So, I disinfected his hands first and held him at the sink trying to control the water pressure as he lunged for each faucet handle and showered himself and the vicinity with a powerful spray of water that neither he nor I nor the vicinity expected.

After that, my mind went blank. Overall, I have vague memories of swimming against white water rapids underwater finding him at the top of the bunk bed ladder 2 seconds after I turned my back (something he's NEVER climbed before) and I have another memory of him escaping out the front door, across the porch and down the steps all within the perimeter of about 9.5 seconds.

He continually peppered his daily activities with affectionate cat care, close examination of important documents on Grandpa's desk and snatching food items out of the fridge in a blink of an eye.

Fearing for his life and concerned with the wild adventurous nature Alex had suddenly possessed, I denied him anymore opportunities to try his hand at more inventions.

With a bright smile on his face and soft, cuddly "ganky" under his chin, he drifted off to slumber land while I groped feebly to the faint smell of coffee wafting through the air in my mind's nose.

So now you understand why I'd make coffee in the middle of the day and enjoy it to the fullest with rich, creamy caramel syrup, cool whip, a shot of caramel flavoring and real fresh whipping cream. And you'd also understand why I didn't feel guilty while drinking it: Alex gives me every reason to enjoy life to the fullest.

Just look at his example.

"WARNING: This Building is Under Baby Monitor Surveillance"

Our house is fairly small in it's structural frame but it boasts a sound barrier feature few homes are capable of possessing. And though it is ideal for certain times of the day, there are other times when it's not so nice.

I'm thinking specifically of the 9pm to 9am time frame that's it's not so nice.

In our house, all members of the juvenile category typically take up residence at 9pm in their segregated rooms: boys go to the boys room and girls go to the girls room (we only have one girl; the plural part of "girls room" is something yet to be born.)

Then the adults have free time to relax, clean, sleep, do a project, etc. The sound barrier feature in our house is so functional you could even take up a vacuuming hobby or tackle that Tchaikovsky piano piece you've always wanted to play.

But, then when all is dark in the house and everyone is in their own respective beds and rooms, it is physically impossible (without sonar hearing) to detect any sound coming from the juvenile quarters of our home. So, unless the child in distress shrieks loud, long cries from his room or just comes upstairs, turns on all the lights, strips his night clothes off and sits at the dining room table screaming his head off while re-enacting an alien abduction, his cries are not heard. (A scene played out more than once by a certain child in our home.)

That's where the Baby Monitor comes in.

A great invention, the Baby Monitor is, keeping parents informed of all subtle and secret noises coming from rooms undetected by the natural ear yet not transmitting any sounds into the sleeping children's rooms.

And last night was the first night we slept with peace of mind knowing our home was under the listening ear of the Baby Monitor.

As the last glow of light dimmed to complete darkness, Toby fell asleep and I was attempting in my feverish pursuits to follow soon after. The quilt and down comforter and other quilt and heavy pillow sitting next to me coupled with the warm, sleeping man on the other side of me, all were helping relieve the shivering air I felt in my cozy bed. And just as soon as I began to feel comfortable and a bit dozy, a sound began to come through on the Baby Monitor.

That was when I wished we had a sign on the outside of our home saying, "Warning: This Building is Under Baby Monitor Surveillance" because all non-illiterate potential intruders would read that sign, and would never succumb to the title of "Intruder" but would remain innocent bystanders or perhaps be part of the Moonlight Joggers Association.

The sound was identical to a steak knife chopping a bedroom window lock. Or similar to a screw driver hacking a hole into plexi-glass window panes. I never heard the aluminium window blinds hanging on both children's bedrooms windows for security purposes give their signature metallic rustle. I also never heard gun shots either so I assumed if the intruder was indeed using pre-historic measures to enter the premises of our home, I predicted I had ample time to address the situation in a post adrenalin frame of mind.

That's when the sound stopped.

The warm, sleeping man laying next to me let out a guttural sigh in his sleep about 7 minutes later. It was identical to what the potential intruder downstairs would've made and in a mad frenzy, I almost grabbed a broom went in stealth mode and snuck down stairs just to make sure the intruder didn't take another breath really wasn't an intruder after all but then I remembered that the sound didn't actually come from the Baby Monitor but rather from the warm, sleeping man laying next to me.

My heart resumed normal beating.

Several minutes later, the chopping sound began again. Apparently the potential intruder had taken a bit of a coffee break between attempts at breaking open my children's windows. I laid there wondering how long it would take for the steak knife to get dull or the aluminum window blinds to send me their signature signal.

The sound stopped.

Several other mysterious noises transmitted clearly over the Baby Monitor for the next few hours. A machete scraped a metal lock somewhere in our basement. The classic metal on metal made me realize the intruder had upgraded his tools-for-the-trade and would soon make an appearance.

Alex cried a time or two and in my fitful sleep I failed to recognize the risk his life was in considering that if an intruder would be lawless enough to break into a sleeping home, he'd be cruel enough to pluck hair from my baby's head leaving him to writhe in agony.

With each vocal sound heard over the Baby Monitor, the warm, sleeping man laying next to me would jump from his pillow and loudly declare a string of unintelligible long words at the Baby Monitor. A sense of urgency would overcome him but he'd always fall back on his pillow and toss himself back into a fitful slumber of sleep.

At one point, Alex made himself known loud and clear on the Baby Monitor and shivering under the blankets held tightly around my neck, I poked the warm, sleeping man next to me who was uttering garbled English words at me that I didn't understand. I plead with him to check on the youngest member of our prodigy who was being heard routinely over the baby monitor but my requests were met with noncooperation.

He stubbornly refused since he's a second born, you know.

As my fever progressed into the night, my mouth became perpetually parched. Weird dreams playing over and over in my head finally thrust me to the edge of my bed in a sitting position. I groped to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for a cool drink.

Disgusted that my second born husband was too stubborn to go down and check on our wailing child earlier, I clung tightly to a heavy bathrobe and stumbled down stairs, shivering with a fever.

Amazingly, all was well in each child's bedroom.

As I was just turning around to leave the girls room, a wild haired and wild eyed man dashed into the room. His manly composure signaled he detected certain danger yet he groped undirected around the room.

It was Toby. I scolded him quietly, expressing the fact I would've never come downstairs to check on the kids if I would've known he was going to do it anyway.

He apologized profusely, explained he never heard me ask him to go downstairs. He seemed quite sympathetic towards his feverish wife so I excused his behaviour and forgave him because I'm just that way.

As we headed back upstairs, he scratched his head and with a confused look on his face said, "I came downstairs because I thought I heard something."

A wonderful thing, that Baby Monitor is.

Highlights Things I Learned While Being Sick

:: If your regular body temp is barely above 97F, and you happen to find out that you have a body temperature of 99.6F, you are definitely sick.

:: When you suddenly feel achy all over for no obvious reason, you have either come down with the flu or you have the first symptoms of an incurable terminal illness.

:: Ibuprofen is God's gift to mankind: use it wisely and take it rarely.

:: Just because you feel better after taking ibuprofen, don't fool yourself into thinking that you are indeed better. It's a hoax.

:: Pesto sauce is good to eat when you're sick. It can't look any worse coming up as it does going down.

:: End-of-day frappiccinos are a good way to lift every one's spirit. And use up milk that will otherwise go bad tomorrow.

:: If your head hurts, your eye sockets are charged with pain, your eye balls shoot shards of agony down to your toes, the backs of your legs have that post-marathon-ache to them and you'd just rather sleep all day, don't worry: you have the flu.

:: Blogging in bed is not for the weak. Trust me on this, I know.

:: Just because no body believe you're sick, doesn't mean you're not sick.

:: The longer you keep the old fashioned mercury thermometer in your mouth, the higher the mercury rises. Weird.

:: If you're sick of being sick, don't use the mind-over-matter method on yourself. It doesn't work. You will end up sicker.

:: If your symptoms disappear for a few days and you think your better, watch out.

:: A dull, throbbing back ache, 99.6F fever and a post-marathon ache in your legs are three prime symptoms of sickness. Especially if you haven't run a marathon any time recently. Just be glad your eye sockets are better.

:: Vacillating between being cold and hot is a good practice system for young women. I bet it helps prepare you for menopause.

:: Never underestimate the power of a shower. Take one every hour to keep from being sour.

:: Short term memory loss is synonymous with a fever and it's not, um, I can't remember the point I was going to make... never mind. I can't even remember what synonymous means for sure right now. I must've learned that word pretty recently.

:: If you make your bed while harboring a fever, you will automatically lose favors in your day. People just assume you must not be THAT sick if you can make your bed.

:: 24 hour flu bugs are definitely better than 168 hour flu bugs.

:: Don't think hard; use calculators as much as possible. Especially for big numbers... like how many hours are in a week.

:: If you make mental notes in your head like how you're going to get from point A to point B and you notice that point A and point B are only a few feet apart, you probably have the flu. Or a dreaded incurable illness.

:: If you think you have spinal meningitis and can barely squint at the computer screen you just staggered to in order to read the list of symptoms, save yourself the hassle: without an incredibly high fever and frequent bouts of nausea, you are fine. Well, you're fine in the sense that you don't have spinal meningitis. Welcome to the flu.

:: If you never get sick, don't say that.

:: I had a little birdy, her name was Enza. I opened the window and Influenza!

:: Don't hang around sick people.

:: When everything hurts, don't forget to breath.

:: Always wash your hands after using the bathroom, wiping your nose, scratching your back, putting on your socks, touching a door knob, licking your fingers, scratching your ear, fixing your hair, sorting dirty laundry, sweeping the floor, brushing your teeth, buttoning your shirt and making your bed. You never know how the flu is going to spread.

:: Finally, at all costs, avoid the flu.

When Foggy Brains and Guinea Pigs Don't Mix

Today Janae was holding our one and only breed-able female guinea pig.

And as she sat on the floor holding our one and only breed-able guinea pig in her lap, the guinea pig did what guinea pigs do: it jumped. And kinda started to run. You know, away from us.

Janae did what Janae does at all the wrong times. She just sat there. Now, had it been church or mealtime or a place and setting that requires "just sitting," she would've responded in a different manner. Or I should say, she would've likely responded in a different manner... I'm not God so how can I accurately predict the behavior of a person? Especially if the person is my own daughter, right?

As I lunged for the guinea pig and repositioned it in my daughters lap, I imagined a worse case scenario where the one and only breed-able guinea pig WOULD jump and run away and stay gone. And I mentally calculated the best formula that could be used to catch the run-a-way-pig.

In my sleep deprived, it's-been-a-long-day frame of mind, I decided the best solution would be to also let our one and only breed-able male guinea pig loose and hope he could find our one and only breed-able female guinea pig. Surely fate instinct would lead them together.

Then, the two of them could do, well, what guinea pigs do best and from that union would likely spring forth an average of about 2-3 baby guinea pigs and voila: we'd have about 5 chances of catching a guinea pig thus improving our chances of catching a wild loose pig.

My math skills have always been poor but I was impressed with the mental calculation that redundantly played over in my foggy brain that day. I concluded that our chance of retrieving a live pig and adding it to our diminished herd of guinea pigs would best be achieved if there were more than just one pig loose, but rather a generous amount of five.

As I assessed the repercussions of such reproductive activities, I wondered what the cat would think about this idea. Not that there's a connection or anything but when I thought of the cat, I was also reminded of the building inspector, should we ever need him for future projects. And what about the bank inspector should we ever decide to refinance? Or the tax assessor? Or even our friends should we ever have any of them over?

I decided an investment in live traps would be the most economical option because seriously, who wants to be involved in the topic of wild rumors of guinea pigs or to be known as The People Who Live In The House Crawling With Real Live Guinea Pigs?

For some reason, I sure don't.

I would hate to use our home as a guinea pig for what happens when guinea pigs get loose. That's not the Guinness-Book-of-World-Record's-page I would like to hold a title to. And if not even I would be impressed to hold that kind of popularity, who would?

A Feline Frenzy

I live with this guy who likes cats. And since this guy also happens to be my husband, I have to choose to like cats too. The only other option available is to hate the cat. But I have a sneaking suspicion that such arrangement would leave me feeling a little stressed out all day long. And I really don't want my husband to have to deal with that.

So I choose to like the cat. End of story.

Now, if it's a nice cat that always uses it's litter box on a regular basis and doesn't tear apart the leather recliner and doesn't infest the house with fleas, I can be cool with such a cat. I guess I assumed my litmus test for cat standards was just limited to those three things.

Until recently.

Actually, quite recently.

About 4 minutes ago, I realized that a fourth requirement has been evaluated and definitely certified for the Domesticated Feline Litmus (Aptitude) Test (Exam) -- or the DEFLATE test:

In order for the domesticated female feline to survive it's entire feline lifespan, it must never participate in the practice of fertility sounds and rituals. These sounds and rituals include but are not limited to:

• Vocalized purring
• Incessant meowing
• Loud vocalized cat sounds that sound slightly robotic
• Weird vocalized cat sounds performed with lots of feline body movement
• Pounding on OUR bedroom door at night (especially during the 12:00am - 4:30am range)
• Insisting on pounding on said bedroom door at night
• Resuming annoying cat sounds
• Never stopping the vocalization of fertility mating call and feline body movement
• Vocalized purring blended with ghost-like-sounding meowing
• All above descriptions combined

If only I had started a college fund for my kids. Because, IF I had such a college fund, I would find it well worth it to spend on spaying this about to be killed annoying cat: who wants a parent who is known by the neighborhood children as the mom who killed the pet house cat with her bare hands?

I know my children sure don't. But right now, I really don't care...

"Here kitty, kitty..."

Another Thing the Banks do Wrong

Have you ever dreaded going to the bank? Even to deposit a check? Or cash a check? I'm not talking about having to make a payment or groan over plummeting financial amounts or check in your savings account to find a dry barrel. I'm talking about going to the bank. Period.

I dread it. Every time. Even to cash or deposit a check.

And the dread has a little something to do with that basket of candy sitting by the drive-through window that my kids covet.

Why can't it be an option to give the kids a sticker? Or a pen? Or even an unused envelope they could lick and then taste the stuff that adheres the envelope shut? Why candy? All it is is cavity-causing-hyper-reactive sweet stuff on the end of a card board stick. Or, in other words, Dum-Dums. (perfect name, by the way.)

I put off going to the bank for days, simply because I don't want to have to go through the drive through, get candy, not give it to the kids (because it's meal time/they already have 4 cavities/they'll get sticky... etc.) and then have them chew me out the whole way home because their candy is not with them.

The latest convincing conversation I had with a certain then-four-year-old (he's 5 now) was, "Mom, I can reach it!" as he strained as far as he could in his strapped in car seat at the very back of the van. He was definitely a good 17 feet away. Okay, not quite that far but it may as well have been. I strained back at him with the candy in my hand and we were still 14 feet apart.

Don't worry; I avoided swerving into the oncoming traffic but had my hand slipped a mere inch, the catastrophe the Dum-Dum would've caused would be cause for a ban on Candy Giving Bank Ladies.

This is serious stuff, people. Somebody needs to stop the impending disaster those "sweet" ladies are liable to cause. I call for a boycott on banks until the baskets of candy are put in a secure metal location with a black rubber lid on top. In other words, in the dumpster.

Maybe this would also help the economy as well since mothers wouldn't be stretched to the end of themselves because their candy craving kids are begging them for the bank candy resulting in mothers making unwise business decisions like whether or not she should let the kids have the candy while she treats herself to $4 iced caramel machiatto on the way home from the bank.

When Life Dictates Your Blog

So I haven't posted in a week and a half. I know. You try raising 3 kids during the Christmas season and keeping up on laundry while you remodel your basement at the same time and then let me know how much time you have for blogging.

Seriously though, in all factual honesty, the basement has little to do with my life right now. Except for the pile of paint samples sitting in the van I mean hanging in a Menards bag actually they're now stacked on the piano bench oh, I guess they're on the table. (My kids keep moving them around, in case you couldn't tell.)

The phase of work we're on right now with our basement has been hired out to a professional. Judging by the "technique" my husband, Mr. Roofer, naturally has for mudding and taping, our drywall would've ended up looking like something between stucco and a earth quake survival test. So, we changed our budget to accommodate a more professional wall finish and skipped the kitchen remodel altogether. For now.

And that's fine with me actually because the kitchen was supposed to be remodeled a year ago so if I can wait all this time and still be content, who cares if it's another 10 years before the kitchen gets a little extra counter space? If we can have a basement finished in the meantime, I'll take that offer gladly, Mr. Roofer. Anything is better than nothing.

Oh, and not to expound on all the exciting details of my life, Mr. Drywall-guy guarantees that he'll have the mudding and taping and sanding done in four days. That's FOUR literal, 24 hour days. I seriously can NOT believe that.

Mr. Drywall assured me he was not that impressive. He said that if he tried roofing his house, it would take a whole year. I know a Mr. Roofer who could probably get it done in a day. So yeah. Mr. Drywall really isn't as good as I thought in the first place... or so I say in order to not become delusional into thinking that he must work magic in order to complete a drywall job in 4 days.

Honestly folks, do you know how long Mr. Roofer would've ended up taking drywalling our basement because his method is so much more lengthy? Yeah. We won't even go there right now.

Not to change topics or anything but since a mighty eighteen-month-old is playing catch with me and seeming to soundly hit my computer with everything he tosses at me, I'm going to have to rapidly move on to other topics in order to actually finish this post tonight before my computer screen becomes punctured by flying objects being hurled in the air by a fat baby and then my computer will have to go back to Best Buy where the Geek Squad will take 3 months in order to finally write on our repair list that the screen on this computer was punctured but is now fixed.

They say honesty is the best policy so I'm shooting for the best policy right now and going to be blunt and straight to the point: I have not felt like blogging. at. all. How's that for an excuse?

Let's just say that nothing in my life or brain have been conducive for a mentally sound blog post. I am not a mental person at least I don't want you to think I am and I know that's hard to believe but I do know when and how to keep my mouth shut. Seriously, I do. Just look at the history of posts on this blog in the last week.

And if I had blogged, it would've been chaotic too. Kinda like the football that keeps hitting my arm as I type right now. (It's that eighteen-month-old harassing me again.)

So, as I focus on the Christmas season and the reality that my offspring have woken up to the wonders this season brings, I am reminded at the brevity of life. (And a small plastic plate is hurled up at the computer while I try to re-live the Christmas spirit. I love that eighteen-month old.)

To think that for only a few more short years, my kids will understand Christmas the way they do now. The wonder of a baby born in a barn. The irony that angels came to earth. The mystery of the wise men riding "wumps" to see the baby Jesus. (Thank you Dr. Suess for permanently altering my child's ability to recognize a camel.)

As I hurl the football into the other room in order to give me a few lines of peace and quiet while that eighteen-month-old runs for the ball, I am gathering my thoughts quickly in order to remember where my train of thought was originally headed.

Bummer. The football wasn't as interesting as the foam dry eraser he has now decided to entertain my life with. The bad thing about that is no matter how hard I throw this little piece of foam, it doesn't go nearly as far as that football did. So basically, he picks it up and throws it back and pants and squeals in anticipation for me to throw it back to him.

Before I put my arm out of socket from wildly swinging futilely throwing a small foam object 27" from my foot, I should just say that with all due respect, I am not dead, dying, sick or gone. I am just not in a blogging mood. Actually, I was sick and even went to the doctor but that probably has something to do with the fact that when I merely enter the bathroom, my children's small world falls apart. Literally, I shut the door and it seems like the Gestapo is beating down the door demanding to enter the premises in order to search for illegal documents in the bathroom. And all I'm doing is trying to... oh, never mind.

So, I avoid that tiny cubicle like the plague since it tends to cause my children to re-in act Gestapo raids catastrophe where civilization inhabits. Did you know that not going to the bathroom when you need to, you know, go will actually make your UTI worse? Yeah, it's a proven fact. But, some people seem to forget that.

Maybe I am mental?

Questions I Should Probaby Only Ask My Therapist

Please take notes while reading the following post. I need all the advice I can get.

I understand that children typically survive childhood but do their moms survive it too?

How do moms with more than one child learn how to take individual time with just one child at a time and not cause sibling rivalry?

Sometimes, we have a girls go with girls policy and a boys go with boys (just ask Janae). But, doing a little bit of mixing takes creativity and effort that sometimes is lost and forgotten in the shuffle of car seats, diaper bags, potty stops and crying. How do you learn how to manage bonding times better without going crazy?

Is it normal for moms to distract their kids and then sneak to the bathroom for 20 seconds?

Is it normal to run into the bathroom like a mad man is chasing you and then lock it fast behind you? Of course it's only 6 little feet trying to catch your apron strings but still, am I a bad mom?

Can the world really fall apart in the 20 seconds Mom is using the bathroom?

If a child is happy with the yogurt he is smearing in his hair, on his face, in his clothes, on the wall and all over the high chair, is it safe to let him do that for as long as he's happy? Not that it ever happens or anything, I was just wondering.

When kids won't stop fighting and the baby is crying and dad is late coming home from work, is it commendable defensible excusable ideal okay to put them in the van, strap them in their car seats and drive around your itty bitty small town for like an hour? (I do realize you'd have to go down some of the same streets twice in order to drive for a whole hour but really, there's nothing illegal strange about that, is there?)

Even though my dream has always been to have lots of cute kids and a warm house in which to raise them, why do I feel like I'm going crazy now that I have both?

If your kids have it in their heads that they must go outside and play and they honestly have no desire to put on a coat even though it is 40 degrees out, is it okay for them to do that? I would hate to see this happen at our house but in case it does, I just want to know if it's okay. Will my kids survive?

What if you see your little girl digging dog poop out of her sandal and she's using her finger. Should I de-worm her? Disinfect her? Or is washing hands with hand soap enough to get rid of any toxic waste?

What about wearing underwear for more than one day. Is my child going to catch a weird illness if I realize that his favorite pair of underwear have been worn, re-worn and worn again without washings in between? I've heard of kids doing this and I just wonder if it's okay.

When my child seems to enjoy the taste of baking powder, should I assume she has an aluminum deficiency?

How do you teach your kids not to assume that every time they see a police officer, the COP is not about ready to pull his gun out and shoot? What if your daughter is anxiously waiting for the shoot out? Should I give her a warm bath, read to her some gentle bed time stories and have her sip chamomile tea until she forgets about how badly she wanted to see the COP pull a gun out and start shooting? I mean, she is only 3. Is this normal?

If you look outside on a cold, autumn day and you see your children playing with the hose and spraying water on the dog, themselves and each other, should I just call the vet or should I contact our pediatrician too? Is it that easy to contract pneumonia?

Is it ever my husband's fault that my kids are so naughty are so cute?

Should I assume that having reoccurring bladder infections just might be related to the fact that I put off going to the bathroom because everything falls apart when I'm in the bathroom? Is this perhaps a health issue I should address above and beyond the risk it might be to my child to climb the pantry shelves while I'm in the bathroom?

Is my voice really that quiet that I must repeat things several times in order to be heard?

How normal is it to put a kid in the bathtub just so you can load the dishwasher without them taking everything out that you just put in?

Why do kids always find everything you hide? Is their sense of smell that great?

If your 3-year-old daughter catches crickets and gently plays with them, does that bother you? Does it bother you when she smears their guts with her own fingers 20 minutes later simply because she was "done playing with them?"

What about a 4-year-old that slices the couch open with a utility knife. Should he be expected and required to go out and get a job in order to replace the couch? If a kid thinks he's big enough to play with a knife, isn't he big enough to have a job then?

Not all of these questions are hyperbole and yet not all of them are serious either. Unfortunately, all have happened at least once several times. If you have had experience in any way, shape or form, you are qualified to give advice.

Please use the comment box and feel free to give personal experience. Our moderator is waiting to moderate your unmoderated comments involving a blog post lacking in moderation.

The Technicalization of Civilization

I'm beginning to think that with all the mumble jumble computer talk, my toddlers really aren't that far off from reaching the success of having learned the English language.

Take Google for instance. What a funny name. It's like what you say to a baby, "Goo-goo-ga-ga..." (or maybe that's supposed to be what they say to you.)

Or a nano. I don't have one of these. I have never downloaded one of these. I don't listen to one of these. I have never seen one of these. What is a nano?

Or Blog, even. When I first heard the word 'blog' I thought it referred to some marshy styled website that computer savvy people had.

Or Widget. That is so far from anything English, I can't compare it's sound to anything familiar. Except for a witch crossed with a gadget maybe.

Or Digsby. What a name. And how do you pronounce it? Dig-z-by or Dig-z-bee?? And how on earth does it's name indicate at all what it's definition might be?

Or Digg This. What is this?? Some universal gang-banger-street-talk-made-trendy because a guy in a suit and tie certified the term 'digg it' and made it into a universal hyperlink found on pretty much every web page. If you say it fast, it sounds like a bad word. I just don't dig 'digg it.'

Then there's the iPod. The problem I see with the iPod is that it's spelled funny. When I was a kid in school, we were taught to capitalize the FIRST letter of every word, not the second letter. It should really be spelled Ipod. There.

Or Facebook??? The very thing I teach my kids NOT to do... "Don't throw that book in your brother's face!" But Mom! YOU have a 'Facebook.' (Okay, that was lame...)

Really, Facebook has more weird terms than a person could ever come up with. It's like they must've taken a whole basket full of goodies to a little kid and said, "Kiddo, what do you call this thing?" and then the first sounds that came out of the kid's mouth, were made into Facebook lingo.

Okay, so you can 'poke' people. You can throw sheep at them. You can wrap them in bubble wrap. You can send them 'flair.' You can 'tag' them in pictures. You can comment on their status message. Try explaining to someone that doesn't have Facebook what a status message is and why anyone would need to comment on it. Getting updates on your news feed (on Facebook, of course) that your friends who had a wedding 10 years ago are "now married" is a huge relief. I guess because Facebook makes it look "official" after all these years, it's somewhat of a comic relief.

And the best thing about Facebook is that you can even write on people's wall. It's like a whole society committing themselves to the greatest form of illegal communication: graffiti. But, it's all legal of course.

Moving out of the topic of Facebook, the internet (and just the computer in general) still has tons of things to consider. Even simple things like 'docking a page.' Is that the same as docking a boat? Or are they referring to a medical type of thing as in "doctoring?" Or maybe it's something entirely different.

And does anybody know what AIM actually stands for? Even though I can't remember what it stands for, the letters AIM automatically make me think of "aiming" an instant message at a friend. And of course that is the purpose of AIM: instant messaging people. But the acronyms I don't know their definition for sure. Does the "A" stand for "automated," the "I" for "instant" and the "M" for "message?"

Oh and 'Google Talk' does not mean you sit and talk googly. It's a phone system connected via internet and you use your computer's built in speakers and microphone in which to communicate with people. It's like a computer based speaker phone system. And you can talk about whatever you want, not just goo-goo-ga-ga stuff.

Same goes for 'Google Chat' but of course you must not forget that in the twenty-first-century, "chat" indicates a type of communication done with typing, not an audible voice type of communication. Thankfully, you CAN chat about anything, not just goo-goo stuff... though I know the name is confusing: Google Chat.

Blogger has it's own unique terms as well. Does anybody know what all a blogger "Dashboard" is capable of? One little tip: it does not have a steering wheel so don't be disappointed when you can't find one.

Then there's blogger "Feeds" but don't expect it to ever have chili. Or anything else pertaining to physical sustenance.

About the time you think you have a basic grasp on modern internet lingo, terminology and other such technical details, don't get too comfy: in our day and age, a thing like a tinyurl can definitely shorten a link but man, how on earth does that make sense? What is the point?

I think there can come a point where we technicalize (how's that for a techy-made-up word?) everything to the point that we must simplify in order to retain pertinent information. But then when we do that, it only complicates the situation even more because ultimately, we must add more information in order to keep what we have and yet change it to something more "simple."

Seriously, I shouldn't be talking. Do you know how many times I have had to look up my blog address just to make sure I was spelling "Coeur d' Court" right?

Yeah, all I can say is that I'm thankful for my favorites list and a hard drive that works as long as my computer is on.

Oh, and the reason I'm not replacing my new made up word "technicalize" to something more technically accurate in spelling is because the following words were also not accepted by my spell check:

Nano.
Disby.
Digg.
Facebook.
iPod.
Tiny Url.
Coeur.
internet.

How pathetic is it when my internet based spell check doesn't even know it's own component's correct spelling? So, maybe technicalize really IS a word...?

When a Bathroom Lock Is All You Need

Some people need a vacation. Or a walk in the park. Or even a cruise. Just give me a bathroom door lock and I'll be good for the rest of the day.

It only takes 2 minutes too. Or even less if catastrophe happens on the other side of the Lock and Door but truly, the mere seconds to breath without talking is like breathing a breath of fresh air.

There's the times too when you're taking a shower and while the children sit at the breakfast table, you hear a screech that you can't quite decipher. It was either, "The house is on fire." Or it's, "Alex has a pacifier."

And then when you ask for clarification, you find out the real question was, "Are there more muffins than this?" and you know that life is never quite as serious as a 4-year-old makes it out to be.

Certainly, it can be intimidating to be in a bathroom and have the door locked only to hear picking and prying on the other side. Seriously guys, your mom is only "gone" for two minutes, what emergency can't wait two minutes?

But, when you go out the door you learn quite quickly that the only thing the child needed was to have his tool pouch tied back on to his waist. And you wonder as you tie it what it must be like to have the whole world revolved around you, your life, your tools and your tool pouch now wrapped snugly around your waist.

As you go about your day and chase kids, make meals and wash laundry, a quick dash to the RESTroom is always a welcomed reprieve. Unless of course, the kids jam every piece of metal imaginable into the door lock and your bathroom doorknob takes on an "antique" look.

But hey, at least they haven't learned how to actually pick the lock, release the spring that keeps you sane and enter into the habitation of your brief oasis.

Of course when you come out all of two minutes later, don't be surprised if you find the kids got into the hidden Christmas gifts, laid a large mirror on the top of your bed and then walked on your feet with cowboy boots as you intervened in their exploration of a new discovery.

I'm not saying that ever happened or anything, just thought I'd warn you because I have a pretty good idea it could happen.

A Monster in the House

So it's that time of year month week to do the unthinkable. To just get it done. To write it on a list and cross it off. To just set your mind to it and do it. Even if you don't feel like it. Even if it just doesn't seem right. Even if you want to do something else instead but you don't know what that something else is. Still, it's time to just do it.

I'm not talking about blogging either. Although, that is something that needs to get done soon. *goes to jot that down on imaginary to-do list.*

As I was saying, it was time to do it.

And it looked like it too. Although, I think a few more weeks days hours probably would've been okay to wait, it was likely to not be okay. That risk was too great to take.

See, I was noticing a huge monster growing in the middle of my house. And my house is much too small to allow growing monsters to inhabit it. The brainy-let's-figure-out-how-to-resolve-this-issue-me came up with a great idea: I stuffed the monster in an out-of-site-out-of-mind place. Brilliant plan, wouldn't you say?

Unfortunately, that place soon had begun to expand since the monster continued to grow. So, I opened the top, allowing for more space. Eventually the opened top was not helping at all helping minimally so I began a pyramid technique that Egyptians used eons ago. Basically, you start it out wide at the bottom and peak it at the top. Kinda like a triangle. Gradually I was shaping my monster like an ancient Egyptian used to shape things. I felt adventurous, ancient and arrogant able bodied.

I was envisioning selling tickets so people could see my Pyramid Monster and thought getting a parka would be a good way to help advertise for my monster.

Unfortunately, floor space allowed for minimal width at the base so our monster had assumed a rather freaky tower shape. And by freaky it looked like it was liable to tumble at the slightest vibration. So much for the pyramid.

I then became desperate virtuous and came up with an ingenious plan of Disectation (is that a word?) of the Monster. But, not wanting to have Monster entrails all over my house, I knew I had to get rid of the kids first. So, I stuffed some of them away, put some others up on shelves and gave the rest away put them to bed. Then, I got to work.

Slowly the Monster took shape of something entirely different and my eyes were completely opened to a whole new concept. The concept I speak of is quite disturbing: I had laundry that when stacked and piled just right, was taller than me. A monster in my house bigger than me.

As I sit here blogging instead of laundering I must ask myself the question that I know you all must be asking: If I have laundry so bad why am I blogging?

The only answer I can come up with that makes a lot of sense is that I must be scared of monsters.

(Shhhh, don't tell my kids.)

What Roofers Can't Do, Plumbers Can

We had this pipe in our basement. And it leaked more weeks than I wish to count for days. Dripping in our basement making a gigantic puddle causing some condensation, this pipe continued to drip. And drip. And drip. You know how pipes do that every once in awhile just to let a little pressure off because they're old?

Well, this pipe started dripping and like most pipes do, it continued dripping. For some reason, it is not a self correcting/sealing pipe.

So, considering the plumping expertise of the people that live in this house, we began utilizing an amazing feature. I mean seriously folks, I can't believe this plumbing repair option is not marketed yet. A person could really make a lot of money off advertising this, not to mention doing seminars, classes and home demonstrations.

What this Amazing Plumbing Repairs For Dummies involves is a strategically placed bucket that is positioned exactly in the precise angle and latitude and longitude of the impending drips coming from the invisible leak in the pipe. It takes quite a bit of concentration and investigating and calculating but once you do it a time or two, it is worth the effort.

My well experienced recommendation (and believe me, I have a lot of experience with this) would be to get several buckets and place them in the general vicinity of the drips. Although one bucket is better than none, several are better than one.

As mentioned already, this leak had been going on for several weeks a few days and the man of the house determined after some encouragement from his wife on his own that it was probably a good time to contact some professional help. AKA: plumber.

Of course, you can always hope that a leaky pipe will fix itself and I am pleased to say that we definitely gave this pipe time to heal his leak. We are such patient people, in fact, that we waited for a really long time. The Automated Reseal in the pipe just didn't happen.

Amazingly, the leak got worse. Instead of dumping the bucket a couple times a week, we were dumping it several times a day.

So the plumber came on Thursday and in no time flat, he has conquered the leaky pipe that was rotting the floor joists, growing mold up above it in the bathroom and sopping the basement floor with it's continual dripping.

Now, I hate to succumb to the "I told you so" mentality that often befalls those of us that "Told them so" but when "they" didn't listen and then it turns up that "I told you so" was right... well, the only thing you can say is, "I told you so."

What makes me refer to this is that prior to calling the plumber and prior to the plumber getting to our house and prior to finding mold in the bathroom, I had mentioned to the man of the house that perhaps he should just double check and make sure this wasn't a homeowner repair job. Toby had already decided on that and thought it would be wise to personally investigate the leak because you know how a person hates to pay an unnecessary plumbing bill, right?

My dear, brave husband checked it out one day and diagnosed the problem as an Overspilling Copper Dilemma (OCD). Considering he does not have the tools for OCD (such as a torch and other copper repairing tools), he deemed the plumber invasion a wise idea.

"You know how I am with plumbing, honey," he said. To which I calculated in my head: Toby + Plumbing = Disaster. This mental picture had built so vividly above my head that Toby could see it too so I had to immediately delete that explicit picture and say, "Leaky Roofs + Toby = Paradise." He breathed a sigh of relief to know that I am still the cheerleader for the team he's on.

Bob the Plumber is a really nice guy. He really is. Once he took pity on me and our snake filled yard and he told me how he had hit a snake with his own lawn mower and never had snakes in his yard again. I took his advice. It worked. This guy knows his stuff. And Thursday was no exception.

He had a truck full of copper fittings and copper pipes and copper this and copper that so he was ready. Entering the house armed with a flashlight, he went right downstairs to the problem. Within no time, he was upstairs and in the bathroom.

His diagnosis?

Well, you know that pipe-tube-thingy that attaches your toilet to the water supply right behind the toilet? Yeah, go look in your bathroom and you'll see what I mean. That gray/silver (depending on the year it was made) pipe-tube-thingy had malfunctioned. So as the water entered the toilet, some of it slipped out and ran down the OUTSIDE of the tube-pipe-thingy and followed down through the narrow hole in the floor drilled just for accommodating that tube-pipe-thingy and then it dripped downstairs into our Bucket Invention right past that OCD copper pipe.

The repair plan?

Unscrew the tube-pipe-thingy
Toss in bathroom trash can
Screw in new tube-pipe-thingy
And then empty that bucket in the basement one last time.

I looked at Toby and smirked smiled gleefully lovingly but didn't say a thing. I could tell what he was thinking.

The mold is gone. The basement is dry. The pipe-tube-thingy gleams a bright shiny silver behind the toilet. So pretty. It feels good to have such a modern upgrade in our old house.

A Week Gone A-Wry

So it wasn't exactly the most productive week of my life, but by Friday, at least we had all 50 toes and 50 fingers accounted for before the next week began.

And that's saying a lot. If you would've been hanging around the place and getting a full scoop of what happened, you'd be checking on your fingers too.

First off on Monday, we ha----- no wait. Let's start on Sunday...

While away on leave for Britt's wedding, I got the word that I am the new teacher for my new Sunday School class. And what that means is that I have to count the students ladies in my class, tally the offering and then start the lesson. Not a huge deal at all -- it's not like I have to stand behind a podium and give a chalk talk or anything. Teaching that first Sunday's lesson I actually enjoyed. A lot. I think I tend to talk way too much to not enjoy something like this.

The only time this designated responsibility may become a difficult thing is when one of the kids wakes up sick Sunday morning, the dog runs away, the van won't start and I can't find my Sunday School book 5 minutes before class starts. Other than that, I think it'll be okay for at least a year.

Like we always do on Sunday afternoons, we enjoyed nap time. Well, Janae and Alex enjoyed nap time; I attempted to enjoy it while Landon attempted to not enjoy it. Let's just say I had a pretty disturbing nap.

Monday came like it usually does after Sunday and what did we find but rain! rain! and more rain! That automatically entitles Dad to a day of bookwork in the basement while the green grass outside grows greener. After a full day of putting in a pretty big quota of bookwork, I dragged the half-decomposed-man up from the basement where he had practically fermented and we went on a nice family walk.

So, not much exciting has happened in the week so far. Wait till you hear about Tuesday...

Okay, so Tuesday comes and before I was even out of my early morning bed, I learn the dreadful news that my dear loving husband is SICK! With the flu. As he dresses for work and heads out the door I strongly suggest lovingly imply that perhaps today would be a good day to take advantage of those sick days he never uses when he's sick and call the boss and tell him he thinks that this time he may just have a rare and infectious disease and should perhaps stay home so as not to start an epidemic or anything.

I have a few strong feelings about Toby's boss and my conclusion is that the guy must be a work-a-holic who drives his workers to near fatality. Why? Because Toby rarely calls in sick. Oh wait... I guess he is the boss. Well, never mind on that theory then.

So, he goes out the door with a can of toxic waste pop and leaves. Just like that. He's gone. I wave to my "in sickness" husband while I watch him wearily head to the work force.

About an hour later, I call him. You know, just to make sure he's still breathing and everything. I could hear the strain and pain in his voice when he weakly informed me in just a few words, "I'm coming home, honey."

I made every effort I could to not retaliate back, "I TOLD YOU SO," but the only thing I seemed to stifle was, well, I guess it all came out like that. (I wanted him to know that I'm always right that I was going to be glad to see him.)

He came home and though I made every effort to dote on him, he resisted all suggestions of health and wellness that I recommended and instead, went back down to the fermenting basement and had a pretty steady PC Diet. (Eat as much Pop and Candy while using the Personal Computer.)

Now folks, I should've put my foot down, really, I should've. But apart from nailing my foot to the floor, it just doesn't stay down. But, by Wednesday, my normally submissive spirit exploded into a fervent devotion to my husband's well being and I did just that: painfully nailed my foot to the floor.

He soon was happily stuffed full of vitamins and tea and everything else in the kitchen that I knew he'd hate eating that was supposed to help him feel better. By bedtime on Wednesday, he was feeling much better.

But, back to Wednesday... so I'm running around like a beheaded chicken trying to keep the kids in line, keep Toby alive and get my work done.

Alex was a bear. Janae was playing wedding. Landon was hunting in the backyard. Okay, now all three of those activities take a lot of focus on my part. And in the midst of all that, Alex got ink written on his face, Janae had ink circles on her arm, Landon found the scissors, and Janae's very own quilt that I made for her got cut in half.

I was pretty much beside myself with with feelings of anger and retaliation shock but I kept my feelings on my sleeve in check and made it quite clear that SCISSORS were off limit as well as FINGERS and QUILTS and anything that was designed to be used more than once. Basically, they can play with Styrofoam plates and empty toilet paper rolls.

So then on Thursday, Toby says he feels better and I am strangely looking forward to having a normal day again. While he gets ready to leave for work later in the day and not in the usual early morning (because the weather man called for rain all morning), I am moving around the house doing typical mom things. You know like making lunch, fixing my hair, finding a piece of wet-fruit-fly-covered-toilet-paper behind the toilet, cleaning the bathroom, noticing white fuzzy stuff on the bathroom wall, you know typical mom stuff...stuff? STUFF? growing on the bathroom wall? As in like fur stuff coming right up the wall?! What is going on? I thought this was America?

And then I remember that call someone (who's name I won't mention) made recently to the plumber. The Plumber that should've been here weeks before but he wasn't called until, well, like yesterday. (at a later time and a later date, I will perhaps delve into the details surrounding the leaky pipe.)

So then Friday and Saturday and Sunday roll around like they usually do on the weekend and with them came more rain. Thankfully, other than the rain, nothing was too eventful until Sunday night when Landon crawled in bed next to me with a bad stomach ache. A really bad stomach ache.

Deja vu? All over again...

All's Well That Ends Well If All Ends Well

Being home all day alone with my kids, really isn't that big of a deal. I mean, c'mon: it's my JOB. But, I usually tend to draw a line when it comes to being alone in the evening with the kids. Which is what happened recently.

Slated on schedule for the local jail ministry, Toby came home from work in time to grab a bite to eat, shower, say about 147 words to the kids and I (that is not very many words... trust me) and then he was off like a dirty sock to the county jail.

What was I supposed to do for 3 hours alone with his our kids? Yeah, I asked myself that a few times too.

First we went for a walk. But, on the walk, I felt guilty for leaving a foot of grass evenly standing in the front yard. Especially considering we just spent forty-some-bucks getting the lawn mower fixed not to mention that the grass had been mowed pre-wedding trip. (ie., 17 days ago.)

I debated mowing though; we have gone longer than 17 days between mowing's so was it a worthy investment to use a precious fuel propelled blade evenly across the yard? What about the budget? (what budget??? Toby is wondering as he reads this). What should I do with the kids while mowing? These questions and many other life altering questions stared me in the face as I trudged home with a kid loaded stroller and 3 wheeled bike strapped to my arm.

Entering the garage was my first insurmountable feat. Don't ask why but there's a stack of lumber in the garage designated for a certain house in our neighborhood. I guess the people are getting rooms built in their basement AND getting a remodeled kitchen. Lucky people! Why the lumber is in our garage is beyond me because we certainly have no need for new bedrooms and a kitchen.

Did I just say that?

Anyway, sitting in a nice neat stack of wood in our mouse laden garage is the future of my new kitchen and expanding finished basement. My dreamy eyes made it difficult to calculate the fact that I would in no way be able to cram the lawn mower between the wood and other garage paraphernalia so I did what most wise people crazy women do, I attempted to pick up the lawn mower. You know, just bend down, pick it up and carry it. Let's just say it was pretty heavy.

Plan B meant I had to go out the side door. But that didn't just mean open a door and push the mower out, end of story. It was a lot more complicated.

As I contemplated the brevity of mowing twelve inches of grass in our front yard, I was impressed to realize that my mind had the whole situation all calculated in my brain in the "Plan B Mow Yard" file. As complicated as that plan clearly was, it made me desperately want to scratch Plan B. So I tried a little harder with Plan A and literally tried to pick the mower up like I would pick up a laundry basket. That was just not an option.

Before I could open the door and push the mower out, Plan B style, I had to run into the house through the front door, charge through the house and out the back door, lock the dog in her kennel, open the twelve feet of side fence (which meant moving a basket ball hoop first), unlock the garage side door from the back-yard-side of the door, painstakingly shove the lawn mower precariously out the side door, perform a hair pin curve maneuver between the garage side door and through the narrow opening allowed by the 12 foot of now leaning green treated fencing and plow the mower down the driveway through the eight inches of fine gravel that some brainless person dumped in times past while my feet sank up to my knees past my shoe soles in the weighty, quick-sand-like gravel that was never intended for driveway use. Especially when you are alone with kids and attempting to mow with a push mower by yourself alone with the kids. (did I already say that?)

Anyway, primitive.

I mowed like a crazy person. Designing roads and alleys for the kids to run their dump trucks through was a blast. The grass was so high you could barely see their little heads bobbing up and down out in the middle of the yard, it embarrassed me. I knew their freshly mowed "roads" were well defined and they loved the exploration found in our little suburbia yard.

And I knew where they were the whole time; their squeals and screams of delight made it easy to keep an eye ear on them and did nothing to drown out the mower. My mower didn't hit any snakes (for once) and I patted myself on the back congratulating my decision to mow in the evening instead of the day time, thus avoiding the sunning snakes. The only thing to worry about were the huge crickets stampeding the yard. The blade got all wadded up with juicy cricket bodies and cricket guts were flying everywhere. Good fertilizer, I guess. That could explain why half way through, the self propelled mowing feature locked up. And we just payed part of that $40 to fix that. Must've been those crickets jamming things up inside the mower.

While Landon asked me deep, profound questions on who gets shot at jail when they're naughty, I worked hard on trimming the edge of the grass where the sod meets the sidewalk. That was a huge mess. A certain person I know (who's name I will not mention) has a deep infatuation with Roundup. He tends to use it pretty much where most people would use a Weed eater. We have an embarrassing yard uniquely designed edge all along our yard and it has turned a dead ugly brown an interesting color in about a fourteen inch strip all around the circumference of our yard. This was a one-of-a-kind display that I hope was a one-time-only application. You know, I'm all for personal individuality in landscaping and design but this was just a little too original.

Most people try NOT to have dead grass in their yard; this person attempts getting MORE dead grass in his yard. Most people spray FERTILIZER in their yard; this guy refuses to let his wife even WATER the yard let alone make it grow healthier with some hormone induced grass growing formula. Why? Because he hates mowing. He'll be the first to say it too -- just ask his wife or mother. Or you could ask the neighbors too; they know it pretty well... the poor souls they are having to put up with such an eye sore of a yard on their civilized street.

He hates mowing, like I said, and it's evident in the fact that his poor wife has no choice but to drag the kids out to the yard, strap the baby down in a safe place and then proceed to spray twelve inches of grass clippings and cricket guts all over their little plot in the universe while he the grass killing man reads the Bible to a law breaker.

But, after we got it all done, we celebrated with story time and popcorn. An innocent celebration, keen for peoples of all ages, but deceivingly dangerous I found.

While innocently retrieving an innocent mug from the innocent cupboard in which to innocently melt butter for the innocent popcorn (this was nothing illegal, folks), I did the most stupid thing inevitable: I smashed my face with the opening door. Like an innocent bystander with a clean record, I was punished for something I never did. I mean, yeah it was my hand swinging the door but what had my face done wrong to get a smack like that?

I learned the hard way that when you put your head close to the door, swing the door at your face at a very high speed and then lift your chin in order to peer up at the top shelf where the mugs are, you can result in hitting the left side of your right cheek bone. It leaves an immediate mark too, which is worth it so that the witnesses that didn't SEE what happened can know that you honestly did just crack your face open and you have proof of it for them to see now after the accident has taken place. Just try it and then look in the mirror quickly.

Landon saw the whole thing take place and calmly sat in his chair at the table watching me wishing he could have as much fun in the kitchen as I do impressed with my smart kitchen moves. The smart kid he is, he wisely asked me what I was doing. As if he couldn't tell that I was running around the house, banging my head on hard, wooden objects??! Such a fitting question, I mused in my fuming head that was pained by the sharp shooting pain caused by the violent door.

After popcorn evenly coated the dining room floor I had just vacuumed earlier that day, Toby came home. After he got the kids in bed and I was comfortably rubbing his feet, he wondered what I had occupied my time with while he was gone. Not wanting to think he didn't see the battle scarred face of his normally fair complected, loving wife and not wanting to believe that he could not decipher the smell of fresh cut grass I had arranged to greet him when he stepped out of the vehicle he had gone to jail in, I rubbed his feet pleasantly harder by taking all my aggravation out on his feet I navigated my eyeballs back to their sockets from where they had jumped from and vowed right then to invest in a whole barrel of Roundup.

Not wanting to discourage me when he heard me mumble something about mowing grass, he assured me he appreciated my effort but I should understand that in the dark he couldn't tell that I had mowed in the back behind the garage (!!!) because he came in the FRONT door.

"Honey, whoever said anything about behind the garage?" I asked him. Not waiting for his answer, I assured him... "Next time you mow, you won't have to worry about the front yard because I took care of that tonight."

He tried to look satisfied but I don't think he believed me until he went to work in the morning and saw for himself that yes, the crickets were dead the yard was mowed.