chuckle, chortle or maybe just grin. Just Jules has a meme tag going that begs us to admire the funny that becomes this life. Here is my turn:
1. What could serve as physical evidence that you sometimes lose focus?
On any given day physical evidence that I lose focus (not sometimes but regularly) rests in my laundry room or scattered down the hallway in the form of unfolded laundry. Worse yet is the unbooted laundry that ends up being washed twice because, um, it sat in the washing machine too long. Other evidence that convicts me of being the "mouse with a muffin" is the number of times I have to walk into a room and then walk back out to repeat the steps hoping to trigger the memory of why I went in there in the first place.
2. What could serve as physical evidence that you are loved?
Three great boys who hug me regularly throughout the day. Mostly to measure themselves against me and boast in how tall they are, but hey, I'll take it.
3. What could serve as physical evidence that you’re from wherever you’re from?
According to Jules, that physical evidence would require a conversation with me. Apparently I have a darlin' Southern accent. Maybe it's more in the heat of a rant I slip in and out of the dialect that pings me as fixing to let you have a piece of my mind. When I find it all. See #1.
4. What could serve as physical evidence that you went anywhere this past week?
I drive a minivan. Conveyor of all things boy and their droppings. Mine too for full disclosure. Currently the Starship Odyssey is holding state with a stinky towel from soccer practice, a Bible and bulletin from church, napkins from Chick-Fil-A, worksheets from co-op, a dirty sock, artwork from co-op, a library receipt of books currently checked out, a shopping bag with workshop supplies and a piece of cardstock that did not get laminated for name tags.
5. What could serve as physical evidence that you recently caved in to temptation?
The empty king size bag of Skittles in the school room trash.
Check the tag list at Just Jules and feel free to blog us some smiles.
Showing posts with label Bellylaughs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bellylaughs. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Heard in the van...
on Saturday after a soccer game:
Pele: Is that stink us?
Me: Yes, it is.
Pele: Wow, that is really horrible!
Me: Yes, it is.
Pele: Is that stink us?
Me: Yes, it is.
Pele: Wow, that is really horrible!
Me: Yes, it is.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Boys, bowels, and bathrooms...
make excellent blog fodder. This one is for Lora Lynn in light of her musical toilets escapade.
Long, long ago when no one under 3 feet could wipe their own bottom, I decided we needed to go to the library and check out some books. No one under 3 feet could read, but it seemed like a really good idea. At home.
Chess was 3, Pele was 2 1/2 and the Chairman was an under 6 months nursling. Chess and Pele were in the midst of potty training, but full success had not been declared. This combo of characters required the packing of diapers, pull ups, wipes, tissue, butt cream, changing pad, change of clothes times three, burp cloth, receiving blanket, sippy cups, snack cups and the miscellany that finds its way into diaper bags of this sort.
The plan was simple. Go into the library, check out some books, go home. Everyone was taken to the bathroom before we left the house, and the baby's diaper was changed. I was on a water fast because moms don't go to the bathroom for the first 9 months after birth especially when you have other littles with you. Public stalls are not big enough for the crowd.
We made it into the library and were comfortably seated on the floor between the stacks looking at books. I had a nanosecond of motherly glow over my little brood before the Chairman decided it was time to eat. Curious George or not. I was an experienced in public nursing mom so no problem. I unhooked, hitched and latched on and not even the man in the yellow hat knew anything had occurred.
Nursing produces two things, stomach satisfaction and bowel loosing. The rumbling sounds were quickly displaced by the growing smell. I unlatched, unhitched and rehooked all while persuading Pele not to wander off and convince Chess that yes, he could carry the diaper bag for Mommy. We headed into the bathroom to discover that there was no changing table.
There were three stalls and two sinks. Not even a chair to concoct an adaptation of a changing table. This taxpayer began to complain under her breath about where the money was going in public libraries. While in there, Pele decided that he needed to try to use the bathroom. I settled him in a stall with the usual don't touch this, don't spin that, and keep it pointed down instructions. Chess was backed up against the wall because he had an overactive fear of the sound of industrial strength toilet flushing. His hands were pinned to his ears. Chairman was slung over my shoulder and the door to Pele was slightly open so I could make sure the this, that and it instructions were being followed.
Pele, taking his smelly time, must have inspired Chess to try too. He did not want to go into the stall at all but when the poo poo dance began in earnest, I required it. He refused to take his hands off of his ears so I did a delicate balance with the Chairman while pulling down the entirety of Chess' drawers because he would go no other way. The Chairman was more than mildly displeased that his britches were still unclean but there was no way in Timbuktu I was going to lay him down on the bathroom floor so I nursed him while standing and waiting. Which brought more rumblings.
Both boys finished around the same time so the wiping and redressing commenced while balancing the Chairman. Pele loved to flush the results but Chess was terrified of the industrial flushing sound. I told him to cover his ears and stand against the wall. The sequence ensued. Pele flushed, Chess screamed and ran out the door into the library. I was split. One child admiring the flushing toilet, his hands not yet washed and a screaming child somewhere in the library, complementing the now screaming baby in the bathroom. I ordered Pele to the sink and dashed into the library to grab Chess.
Hauling him back into the bathroom, everyone was washed and dried. To this day I think we may have left a toilet unflushed. I apologize. The nerves were jangling.
Heading back into the library I still had the Chairman to deal with so back to the Curious George stacks we went. Out came the impromptu changing table. Translation: pad on the receiving blanket on the library floor. I was sure that the Chairman was done. I was positive.
Until the last wipe revealed a picture not unlike a long ago play doh ad. Legs up and here it comes. Of course, I all ready had the clean diaper underneath him and it was clean a scant 1.3 seconds. Wiping up that mess caused another little boy reflexive action fondly referred to as the fountain. Smack in the smacker, on the floor, and on a book. The only thing close enough to grab was his outfit which stemmed the stream but now necessitated an entire outfits change.
Chess and Pele had during the show decided that pulling stacks of books off the shelf was a good idea. As good as the one that had started this trip of a fiasco. By now, the commotion had caught the attention of the children's librarian who was headed her way towards us. With a less than child-friendly look on her face.
I quickly finished dressing the Chairman, disposed of the detritus in the diaper bag, grabbed the books and somewhat neatly stacked them on top of the bookcases and with more of a motherly sweat than glow hauled everybody out of there.
At some point I made a solemn vow to never return to the library until everyone could wipe their own bottom and flush the toilets without screaming. Me included.
Long, long ago when no one under 3 feet could wipe their own bottom, I decided we needed to go to the library and check out some books. No one under 3 feet could read, but it seemed like a really good idea. At home.
Chess was 3, Pele was 2 1/2 and the Chairman was an under 6 months nursling. Chess and Pele were in the midst of potty training, but full success had not been declared. This combo of characters required the packing of diapers, pull ups, wipes, tissue, butt cream, changing pad, change of clothes times three, burp cloth, receiving blanket, sippy cups, snack cups and the miscellany that finds its way into diaper bags of this sort.
The plan was simple. Go into the library, check out some books, go home. Everyone was taken to the bathroom before we left the house, and the baby's diaper was changed. I was on a water fast because moms don't go to the bathroom for the first 9 months after birth especially when you have other littles with you. Public stalls are not big enough for the crowd.
We made it into the library and were comfortably seated on the floor between the stacks looking at books. I had a nanosecond of motherly glow over my little brood before the Chairman decided it was time to eat. Curious George or not. I was an experienced in public nursing mom so no problem. I unhooked, hitched and latched on and not even the man in the yellow hat knew anything had occurred.
Nursing produces two things, stomach satisfaction and bowel loosing. The rumbling sounds were quickly displaced by the growing smell. I unlatched, unhitched and rehooked all while persuading Pele not to wander off and convince Chess that yes, he could carry the diaper bag for Mommy. We headed into the bathroom to discover that there was no changing table.
There were three stalls and two sinks. Not even a chair to concoct an adaptation of a changing table. This taxpayer began to complain under her breath about where the money was going in public libraries. While in there, Pele decided that he needed to try to use the bathroom. I settled him in a stall with the usual don't touch this, don't spin that, and keep it pointed down instructions. Chess was backed up against the wall because he had an overactive fear of the sound of industrial strength toilet flushing. His hands were pinned to his ears. Chairman was slung over my shoulder and the door to Pele was slightly open so I could make sure the this, that and it instructions were being followed.
Pele, taking his smelly time, must have inspired Chess to try too. He did not want to go into the stall at all but when the poo poo dance began in earnest, I required it. He refused to take his hands off of his ears so I did a delicate balance with the Chairman while pulling down the entirety of Chess' drawers because he would go no other way. The Chairman was more than mildly displeased that his britches were still unclean but there was no way in Timbuktu I was going to lay him down on the bathroom floor so I nursed him while standing and waiting. Which brought more rumblings.
Both boys finished around the same time so the wiping and redressing commenced while balancing the Chairman. Pele loved to flush the results but Chess was terrified of the industrial flushing sound. I told him to cover his ears and stand against the wall. The sequence ensued. Pele flushed, Chess screamed and ran out the door into the library. I was split. One child admiring the flushing toilet, his hands not yet washed and a screaming child somewhere in the library, complementing the now screaming baby in the bathroom. I ordered Pele to the sink and dashed into the library to grab Chess.
Hauling him back into the bathroom, everyone was washed and dried. To this day I think we may have left a toilet unflushed. I apologize. The nerves were jangling.
Heading back into the library I still had the Chairman to deal with so back to the Curious George stacks we went. Out came the impromptu changing table. Translation: pad on the receiving blanket on the library floor. I was sure that the Chairman was done. I was positive.
Until the last wipe revealed a picture not unlike a long ago play doh ad. Legs up and here it comes. Of course, I all ready had the clean diaper underneath him and it was clean a scant 1.3 seconds. Wiping up that mess caused another little boy reflexive action fondly referred to as the fountain. Smack in the smacker, on the floor, and on a book. The only thing close enough to grab was his outfit which stemmed the stream but now necessitated an entire outfits change.
Chess and Pele had during the show decided that pulling stacks of books off the shelf was a good idea. As good as the one that had started this trip of a fiasco. By now, the commotion had caught the attention of the children's librarian who was headed her way towards us. With a less than child-friendly look on her face.
I quickly finished dressing the Chairman, disposed of the detritus in the diaper bag, grabbed the books and somewhat neatly stacked them on top of the bookcases and with more of a motherly sweat than glow hauled everybody out of there.
At some point I made a solemn vow to never return to the library until everyone could wipe their own bottom and flush the toilets without screaming. Me included.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Exercise routines....
Friday, March 26, 2010
Ooh, ooh, ooh, I have a bodily fluids...
post! Why the excitement? Well, with my guys at almost 13, 12 and almost 9, the days of major bodily fluid expression is mostly past. I certainly have my depository of stories that involved days of round the clock laundry, quarantines, happy meal boxes used in a pinch to hold vomitus eruptus. Or my favorite was certainly the night that the boy in the top bunk bed threw up while coming down the ladder and managed to soak the boy in the bottom bunk. Plus a solid 2 foot diameter circle of the surrounding floor area.
Yes. That was a night for the history books.
Yesterday and today though I got to keep friend's two little guys, ages 3 and 15 months. It was something else to run errands with 5 in tow. The mantourage was cute from top to bottom. I do believe my chest was a bit puffier. And not from water retention. They all behaved beautifully and I haven't had such sympathy looks since that famous trip to the grocery store with one in sling and two tied to the cart, all screaming their heads off. Including me.
While yesterday was mostly tame, I did get to have the poopy underwear event after nap. Today was a reminder that while 40, I may still have it in me to deal with the dudes and their bodily fluids.
Full disclosure, I only had the 3 year old today. The day has been swimmingly great. Homeschool coop, pie baking class, lunch, chatting with friends, home again and naps. Me too. After nap provided the excitement.
Caleb got up to play outside with the big boys. He said he was a little thirsty so we were headed downstairs for a cup of water. We walked all the way down the carpeted hallway, down the carpeted part of the stairs, and bingo, right there at the wood stairs, he let it fly, watched it toss, hit the fan, spewed the mood. He hit 5 out of the 7 stairs.
Majestic! I would have given Mimi's eyeteeth for a picture of my older two sons' faces. Shock and awe! Yee haw! I lifted him to the bottom and ushered him into the hall bath, threw the lid open and bullseye! he hit the swirly with a doozy. One hand holding him in front of the bowl, the other hand grabbing for and wiping his cherub cheeks with the hand towel. There was no spillage of the spewage. Awesome.
I ordered the older two to grab bath towels and start scooping and wiping the stairs. Sweet payback right there, folks. It was all over in a matter of minutes. Wiped everything down with 409 and everyone was outside playing within 15 minutes. Who cares if he throws up outside? We have a hose.
My point not being only bragadocious but to encourage you young moms in the trenches with the unending of bodily fluids. It does reach an end. Only God and the life He gives is eternal. You will amass skills you never knew you had. You'll earn the badges, eat the chocolates and wear the crown. Hoo rah.
I'm proud of you, friends. And one day, you'll be having your olders clean up the youngers' spew and you'll think back on the good old days.
And be thankful they are gone. Smooches! Non-contagious ones.
Yes. That was a night for the history books.
Yesterday and today though I got to keep friend's two little guys, ages 3 and 15 months. It was something else to run errands with 5 in tow. The mantourage was cute from top to bottom. I do believe my chest was a bit puffier. And not from water retention. They all behaved beautifully and I haven't had such sympathy looks since that famous trip to the grocery store with one in sling and two tied to the cart, all screaming their heads off. Including me.
While yesterday was mostly tame, I did get to have the poopy underwear event after nap. Today was a reminder that while 40, I may still have it in me to deal with the dudes and their bodily fluids.
Full disclosure, I only had the 3 year old today. The day has been swimmingly great. Homeschool coop, pie baking class, lunch, chatting with friends, home again and naps. Me too. After nap provided the excitement.
Caleb got up to play outside with the big boys. He said he was a little thirsty so we were headed downstairs for a cup of water. We walked all the way down the carpeted hallway, down the carpeted part of the stairs, and bingo, right there at the wood stairs, he let it fly, watched it toss, hit the fan, spewed the mood. He hit 5 out of the 7 stairs.
Majestic! I would have given Mimi's eyeteeth for a picture of my older two sons' faces. Shock and awe! Yee haw! I lifted him to the bottom and ushered him into the hall bath, threw the lid open and bullseye! he hit the swirly with a doozy. One hand holding him in front of the bowl, the other hand grabbing for and wiping his cherub cheeks with the hand towel. There was no spillage of the spewage. Awesome.
I ordered the older two to grab bath towels and start scooping and wiping the stairs. Sweet payback right there, folks. It was all over in a matter of minutes. Wiped everything down with 409 and everyone was outside playing within 15 minutes. Who cares if he throws up outside? We have a hose.
My point not being only bragadocious but to encourage you young moms in the trenches with the unending of bodily fluids. It does reach an end. Only God and the life He gives is eternal. You will amass skills you never knew you had. You'll earn the badges, eat the chocolates and wear the crown. Hoo rah.
I'm proud of you, friends. And one day, you'll be having your olders clean up the youngers' spew and you'll think back on the good old days.
And be thankful they are gone. Smooches! Non-contagious ones.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thankful for dead bugs...
the names in this post have not been changed to protect the innocent, because the guilty deserve to be charged. I'm feeling no grace here, people.
The Complete Thought household mourns the presence of two completely indoor cats. I could tell you why they are completely indoor, but that would mean a 647 word post on what grief does at the 23rd month, but we do not want to go there today.
Being completely indoor, you would think we could keep away fleas. Hardee-har-har, she maniacally snorts. Once a year we seem to perversely celebrate the Fall Flea Festival. Without candy corn or face painting. I could tell you all the previous attempts that have been made to rid the house and cats of fleas or rid the house of cats, but that would involve a 1,647 word post on what insanity does in the 36th-39th years. And we do not want to go there either.
Invitations must have been mailed out about 2 1/2 weeks ago because the fleas showed up in force on Monday. Knowing that all previous attempts of flea riddance have summed themselves up into full house fogger fumigation being the only cure, I resigned myself to one day this week being (as my mom-in-law does say) "one mell of a hess".
Yee-haw, Sleep In Thursday was picked. Because "hesses" aren't really fun unless you're also overly tired. You and the three boys that is.
Oh, and lest I forget, Flea Riddance 2009 also includes the special premier event of force feeding flea shocker pills to two cats. I'll be there in a minute.
This morning I rose way too early to get started on all the prep work. Everything we've ever put our mouth on, might put our mouth on, or would like to put our mouth on has to be covered, hidden, or plastic wrapped. This explains why I find the bananas in the oven at 375 next to the plastic microwave cover. All on fire.
I had purposefully neglected to tell the boys that Sleep In Thursday was canceled last night because I could not handle the truth. Waking them this morning was all sunshine, guns n' roses. I did go so far as to bribe them with day old vanilla iced doughnuts though to try and take the edge off. Starbucks with Vanilla Chai Spice for me.
Then preparations for the cats were next. I had put off the deed as long as I could. Chess rounded them up into the kitchen so I could prepare the concoction of flea shocking stuff. Blue or Puff Daddy or Stupid Cat or Duke of Hazards will eat anything hidden in Fancy Feast so he was quickly choking down his potion. But Raisin or Khaki Cat or Me-ow or Still Stupid But Older and Knows Mom's Tricks Cat was very wary of her potion. She sniffed it and nonchalantly began to slouch away.
Chess caught her again so the real fun could begin. First I tried to take the pieces of pills and manually put them on her tongue. She spit them out. I put the pill pieces into wet cat food and put them on her tongue. She spit them out. I put the pill pieces in wet cat food and with one hand prying open her mouth and the other hand with wet-cat-food-pill-pieces-slathered finger that I stuck at the back of her throat. And she spit them out.
This was repeated 631 times. With baby spoon. With more than one finger. With more cat food. And, she spit them out. Meanwhile, Blue is thoroughly enjoying himself in this show and hoping he could get in on the action. So he did by licking up the wet cat food Raisin had spit out onto the floor and Chess' pants and my shoes.
So I just gave him her bowl and went at her with the second pill. Which mercifully I got into her on the second try. Probably because I was finally holding my tongue right.
Into the boxes they went. Clean the cat food spit upon kitchen and out the door to board the pets. Did I mention our two guinea pigs as well? Oh yes, I gave Pele and the Chairman the job of getting them into the portable pen and into the minivan. There may have been some yelling of instructions.
17 hours and 43 minutes later we are cleared to return home for the super! fun! job of cleaning up all the dead bugs that were apparently co-existing quite happily with the fleas. On the way back home with all the now flea free pets, the boys asked if I could smell that funny smell. I've had olfactory fatigue with that van for so long, I answered no.
Once home, Chess took the cat boxes straight up to the laundry room, their home for the day, and we began to unload them. Raisin was out first and looking for who she wanted to bite first. Next came Blue, who as I opened his box, the "smell" hit me. He had pooped and peed in. the. box. In the 12 minutes it had taken to pick them up from the boarding place and drive back home.
Ohmygoodness. So now I'm holding big, puffy, long-haired stupid cat with a big wad of youknowwhat attached to his back end, his back legs pedaling which is spraying the youknowwhat around and we do not have the litter box ready yet. Chess takes off running to get it. I'm yelling. Blue is yowling. And Raisin thinks maybe she should bite me for canceling Sleep In Thursday. And also for repeatedly sticking my finger down her throat.
I swing youknowwhat fuzzy buttocks over to the linoleum side of the laundry room and wait for Chess. He arrives just in time to see USA Network call and tell me they have decided to do a spin off of Monk, with me as the star. It was nothing but bleach time then, baby.
Clean the cat. Clean the laundry room. Clean the sink. Clean the cat again. (Why can we put a man on the moon but cannot teach a cat to use a bidet?) Clean and scrub and clean and scrub my right hand. Which, btw, I'm only using now for typing and then will never use again.
Fall Flea Festival 2009 has ended. Hopefully. I'm smacking into next year the next one that scratches. And that goes for the humans too.
I am thankful for dead bugs. And it only took me 1089 words to say it.
The Complete Thought household mourns the presence of two completely indoor cats. I could tell you why they are completely indoor, but that would mean a 647 word post on what grief does at the 23rd month, but we do not want to go there today.
Being completely indoor, you would think we could keep away fleas. Hardee-har-har, she maniacally snorts. Once a year we seem to perversely celebrate the Fall Flea Festival. Without candy corn or face painting. I could tell you all the previous attempts that have been made to rid the house and cats of fleas or rid the house of cats, but that would involve a 1,647 word post on what insanity does in the 36th-39th years. And we do not want to go there either.
Invitations must have been mailed out about 2 1/2 weeks ago because the fleas showed up in force on Monday. Knowing that all previous attempts of flea riddance have summed themselves up into full house fogger fumigation being the only cure, I resigned myself to one day this week being (as my mom-in-law does say) "one mell of a hess".
Yee-haw, Sleep In Thursday was picked. Because "hesses" aren't really fun unless you're also overly tired. You and the three boys that is.
Oh, and lest I forget, Flea Riddance 2009 also includes the special premier event of force feeding flea shocker pills to two cats. I'll be there in a minute.
This morning I rose way too early to get started on all the prep work. Everything we've ever put our mouth on, might put our mouth on, or would like to put our mouth on has to be covered, hidden, or plastic wrapped. This explains why I find the bananas in the oven at 375 next to the plastic microwave cover. All on fire.
I had purposefully neglected to tell the boys that Sleep In Thursday was canceled last night because I could not handle the truth. Waking them this morning was all sunshine, guns n' roses. I did go so far as to bribe them with day old vanilla iced doughnuts though to try and take the edge off. Starbucks with Vanilla Chai Spice for me.
Then preparations for the cats were next. I had put off the deed as long as I could. Chess rounded them up into the kitchen so I could prepare the concoction of flea shocking stuff. Blue or Puff Daddy or Stupid Cat or Duke of Hazards will eat anything hidden in Fancy Feast so he was quickly choking down his potion. But Raisin or Khaki Cat or Me-ow or Still Stupid But Older and Knows Mom's Tricks Cat was very wary of her potion. She sniffed it and nonchalantly began to slouch away.
Chess caught her again so the real fun could begin. First I tried to take the pieces of pills and manually put them on her tongue. She spit them out. I put the pill pieces into wet cat food and put them on her tongue. She spit them out. I put the pill pieces in wet cat food and with one hand prying open her mouth and the other hand with wet-cat-food-pill-pieces-slathered finger that I stuck at the back of her throat. And she spit them out.
This was repeated 631 times. With baby spoon. With more than one finger. With more cat food. And, she spit them out. Meanwhile, Blue is thoroughly enjoying himself in this show and hoping he could get in on the action. So he did by licking up the wet cat food Raisin had spit out onto the floor and Chess' pants and my shoes.
So I just gave him her bowl and went at her with the second pill. Which mercifully I got into her on the second try. Probably because I was finally holding my tongue right.
Into the boxes they went. Clean the cat food spit upon kitchen and out the door to board the pets. Did I mention our two guinea pigs as well? Oh yes, I gave Pele and the Chairman the job of getting them into the portable pen and into the minivan. There may have been some yelling of instructions.
17 hours and 43 minutes later we are cleared to return home for the super! fun! job of cleaning up all the dead bugs that were apparently co-existing quite happily with the fleas. On the way back home with all the now flea free pets, the boys asked if I could smell that funny smell. I've had olfactory fatigue with that van for so long, I answered no.
Once home, Chess took the cat boxes straight up to the laundry room, their home for the day, and we began to unload them. Raisin was out first and looking for who she wanted to bite first. Next came Blue, who as I opened his box, the "smell" hit me. He had pooped and peed in. the. box. In the 12 minutes it had taken to pick them up from the boarding place and drive back home.
Ohmygoodness. So now I'm holding big, puffy, long-haired stupid cat with a big wad of youknowwhat attached to his back end, his back legs pedaling which is spraying the youknowwhat around and we do not have the litter box ready yet. Chess takes off running to get it. I'm yelling. Blue is yowling. And Raisin thinks maybe she should bite me for canceling Sleep In Thursday. And also for repeatedly sticking my finger down her throat.
I swing youknowwhat fuzzy buttocks over to the linoleum side of the laundry room and wait for Chess. He arrives just in time to see USA Network call and tell me they have decided to do a spin off of Monk, with me as the star. It was nothing but bleach time then, baby.
Clean the cat. Clean the laundry room. Clean the sink. Clean the cat again. (Why can we put a man on the moon but cannot teach a cat to use a bidet?) Clean and scrub and clean and scrub my right hand. Which, btw, I'm only using now for typing and then will never use again.
Fall Flea Festival 2009 has ended. Hopefully. I'm smacking into next year the next one that scratches. And that goes for the humans too.
I am thankful for dead bugs. And it only took me 1089 words to say it.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The things children say...
will cause you pause.
Our family devotion this morning was on the topic of sheep and goats. In our discussion afterwards, this was the conversation:
Chess: Am I a lamb or a sheep?
Me: Because you're a child, you're called a lamb. When you are an adult, you will be called a sheep. But if you are wicked, you are a goat.
Chairman: And if you're young and wicked, you're a kid!
Hmmm, interesting etymology there.
Our family devotion this morning was on the topic of sheep and goats. In our discussion afterwards, this was the conversation:
Chess: Am I a lamb or a sheep?
Me: Because you're a child, you're called a lamb. When you are an adult, you will be called a sheep. But if you are wicked, you are a goat.
Chairman: And if you're young and wicked, you're a kid!
Hmmm, interesting etymology there.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Jeans at Old Navy...
are on sale this week for $10.00 a pair. That's kids' jeans mind you. So last night we headed out to the O.N. to dig through the piles and hopefully come up with three pair for our three guys. I mean, you just can't beat $10 jeans for boys. Boys who always need jeans for the stuff boys do.
Husband was with me, thank goodness, because after another long housebound day--my van is in the shop a.g.a.i.n.--I wasn't sure how much *potential* moaning and groaning I could endure. Without harming somebody.
On the way to the store I told the boys to be prepared to have to try on jeans. I told them to mentally fortify themselves for that instruction and understand with prior warning that the words, "Oh, great," would not be received well by me.
Once there, the finding of the jeans wasn't too hard. Although the stacks were fairly jumbled, we did successfully find the right sizes. Husband was even willing to do the running back and forth from stacks to dressing room while I sat in the dressing room and checked waist gappage, hem length, and seat baggage. I am not too proud, nor the boys too aware yet, that we can't buy slightly larger and roll up. "You'll grow into it," is a common refrain in our clothes buying process.
Jeans were tried on, fading timelines discussed and decisions made. The process actually went so well that I felt giddy enough to sniff around in the women's section for moi. Homeschooling moms do have a uniform you realize. It's called comfy clothes in our house.
A good portion of the women's clothes were either on clearance or some type of sale. My hopes began to rise. Then I saw the jean jacket I've been looking for the past three years. And it was on sale. The first one, the size I almost always wear in O.N., was too small. A little surprised but undeterred I simply went up one size. Chess was standing there with me when I put it on. It was really big, sleeves hanging past my fingertips. Seeing the look on my face, he cheerfully said, "Hey, Mom, you can grow into it."
Then, seeing the pained look on my face, he said, "Oh yeah, I forgot, you don't grow that way anymore."
Sheesh.
*I did finally find my size. Apparently not every size medium jean jacket is equal in its mediumness. Now, if I just won't grow out of it.
Husband was with me, thank goodness, because after another long housebound day--my van is in the shop a.g.a.i.n.--I wasn't sure how much *potential* moaning and groaning I could endure. Without harming somebody.
On the way to the store I told the boys to be prepared to have to try on jeans. I told them to mentally fortify themselves for that instruction and understand with prior warning that the words, "Oh, great," would not be received well by me.
Once there, the finding of the jeans wasn't too hard. Although the stacks were fairly jumbled, we did successfully find the right sizes. Husband was even willing to do the running back and forth from stacks to dressing room while I sat in the dressing room and checked waist gappage, hem length, and seat baggage. I am not too proud, nor the boys too aware yet, that we can't buy slightly larger and roll up. "You'll grow into it," is a common refrain in our clothes buying process.
Jeans were tried on, fading timelines discussed and decisions made. The process actually went so well that I felt giddy enough to sniff around in the women's section for moi. Homeschooling moms do have a uniform you realize. It's called comfy clothes in our house.
A good portion of the women's clothes were either on clearance or some type of sale. My hopes began to rise. Then I saw the jean jacket I've been looking for the past three years. And it was on sale. The first one, the size I almost always wear in O.N., was too small. A little surprised but undeterred I simply went up one size. Chess was standing there with me when I put it on. It was really big, sleeves hanging past my fingertips. Seeing the look on my face, he cheerfully said, "Hey, Mom, you can grow into it."
Then, seeing the pained look on my face, he said, "Oh yeah, I forgot, you don't grow that way anymore."
Sheesh.
*I did finally find my size. Apparently not every size medium jean jacket is equal in its mediumness. Now, if I just won't grow out of it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
My iPod has hijacked a meme...
and here it is. I mean really hijacked it. I saw the original on a blog and Facebook. However, my iPod cannot leave well enough alone--it belongs to a Mom. So, here is the Mom version, composed in comfy clothes on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, dedicated to the Moms investing in the lives of their children. Enjoy and laugh today.
1. Put your iPod (or MP3 player) on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag some Moms you admire who could use a laugh and a song.
HOW DID YOU BECOME A MOM?
Joy To The World by Crystal Lewis (Holiday)
WHAT DID YOU THINK THE FIRST TIME YOU SAW YOUR BABY?
E Chiove by Andrea Bocelli (Romanza)
WHAT DID YOU DO THE FIRST MORNING AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT?
Love And Learn by Steven Curtis Chapman (Heaven in the Real World)
WHAT DO YOU SAY WHEN SOMEONE COLORS ON THE WALL?
O Come, O Come Emmanuel by Selah (Holiday Favorites)
HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH A TODDLER'S BODILY FLUID ISSUES?
Different Wings by Trans-Siberian Orchestra (The Lost Christmas Eve)
IF SOMEONE SAYS "Can I have a snack?" YOU SAY?
60B Etown Theme by Nancy Wilson (Elizabethtown)
IF SOMEONE LEAVES THEIR STUFF ON THE FLOOR, YOU SAY?
Permanent by David Cook (David Cook)
IF SOMEONE ISN'T SICK TODAY, YOU SAY?
Puttin' On The Ritz by Sinatra (The Crooners)
HOW DO YOUR KIDS ENJOY YOUR COOKING?
Deeper Than The Holler by Randy Travis (It Was Just A Moment)
HOW DID YOUR KIDS DO IN SCHOOL TODAY?
Why Lady Why by Alabama (Greatest Hits)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF WHILE SITTING IN CARPOOL LINE?
Plaisir D'amour by Charlotte Church (Charlotte Church)
HOMESCHOOLERS, WHAT IS THE FIRST SUBJECT TAUGHT OF THE DAY?
I Love The Way You Love Me by Eric Martin (Mad About You)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS WANT TO BE WHEN THEY GROW UP?
Who's Crying Now by Journey (Escape)
WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR KIDS TO BE WHEN THEY GROW UP?
Our Love Is Here To Stay by Rod Stewart (As Time Goes By)
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY AS A MOM?
Peroxide Swing by Michael Buble (Totally Buble)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE AS A MOM?
Don't Worry by Crystal Lewis (The Bride)
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO AS A MOM?
La Cucaracha by The Hit Crew (Latin Fiesta)
HOW DID YOU KNOW YOU WERE REALLY A MOM?
See That Girl by The Righteous Brothers (Anthology)
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT MOST OFTEN AS A MOM?
Invisible Sun by The Police (Every Breath You Take)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY AS A MOM?
Serve the Lord by Carman (The Absolute Best)
WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET AS A MOM?
Fields of Gold by Sting (Ten Summoner's Tales)
WHAT IS THE BEST THING YOU'VE EVER DONE AS A MOM?
O Freedom by Chris Rice (Peace Like A River)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Don't Censor Me by Audio Adrenaline (Don't Censor Me)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Lessons Learned by Carrie Underwood (Some Hearts)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Nature Boy by David Bowie (Moulin Rouge)
HOW DO YOUR KIDS DESCRIBE YOU AS THEIR MOM?
It's All Right With Me by Cole Porter (Michel Legrand)
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
The Living Daylights by Starlite Orchestra (Best of James Bond)
WHAT WILL YOUR MOM OF THE YEAR CERTIFICATE SAY?
Dream On by Michael Johns (American Idol)
I have giggled myself silly through this one. I hope you enjoyed the hijacking. I'm tagging Jules at Everyday Mommy, Lisa at Lisa Writes, Kelly at Love Well and JSM at Pragmatic Compendium. If you choose to join this hijacking, please let me know in the comments so I can come over and laugh with you.
1. Put your iPod (or MP3 player) on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag some Moms you admire who could use a laugh and a song.
HOW DID YOU BECOME A MOM?
Joy To The World by Crystal Lewis (Holiday)
WHAT DID YOU THINK THE FIRST TIME YOU SAW YOUR BABY?
E Chiove by Andrea Bocelli (Romanza)
WHAT DID YOU DO THE FIRST MORNING AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT?
Love And Learn by Steven Curtis Chapman (Heaven in the Real World)
WHAT DO YOU SAY WHEN SOMEONE COLORS ON THE WALL?
O Come, O Come Emmanuel by Selah (Holiday Favorites)
HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH A TODDLER'S BODILY FLUID ISSUES?
Different Wings by Trans-Siberian Orchestra (The Lost Christmas Eve)
IF SOMEONE SAYS "Can I have a snack?" YOU SAY?
60B Etown Theme by Nancy Wilson (Elizabethtown)
IF SOMEONE LEAVES THEIR STUFF ON THE FLOOR, YOU SAY?
Permanent by David Cook (David Cook)
IF SOMEONE ISN'T SICK TODAY, YOU SAY?
Puttin' On The Ritz by Sinatra (The Crooners)
HOW DO YOUR KIDS ENJOY YOUR COOKING?
Deeper Than The Holler by Randy Travis (It Was Just A Moment)
HOW DID YOUR KIDS DO IN SCHOOL TODAY?
Why Lady Why by Alabama (Greatest Hits)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF WHILE SITTING IN CARPOOL LINE?
Plaisir D'amour by Charlotte Church (Charlotte Church)
HOMESCHOOLERS, WHAT IS THE FIRST SUBJECT TAUGHT OF THE DAY?
I Love The Way You Love Me by Eric Martin (Mad About You)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS WANT TO BE WHEN THEY GROW UP?
Who's Crying Now by Journey (Escape)
WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR KIDS TO BE WHEN THEY GROW UP?
Our Love Is Here To Stay by Rod Stewart (As Time Goes By)
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY AS A MOM?
Peroxide Swing by Michael Buble (Totally Buble)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE AS A MOM?
Don't Worry by Crystal Lewis (The Bride)
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO AS A MOM?
La Cucaracha by The Hit Crew (Latin Fiesta)
HOW DID YOU KNOW YOU WERE REALLY A MOM?
See That Girl by The Righteous Brothers (Anthology)
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT MOST OFTEN AS A MOM?
Invisible Sun by The Police (Every Breath You Take)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY AS A MOM?
Serve the Lord by Carman (The Absolute Best)
WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET AS A MOM?
Fields of Gold by Sting (Ten Summoner's Tales)
WHAT IS THE BEST THING YOU'VE EVER DONE AS A MOM?
O Freedom by Chris Rice (Peace Like A River)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Don't Censor Me by Audio Adrenaline (Don't Censor Me)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Lessons Learned by Carrie Underwood (Some Hearts)
WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Nature Boy by David Bowie (Moulin Rouge)
HOW DO YOUR KIDS DESCRIBE YOU AS THEIR MOM?
It's All Right With Me by Cole Porter (Michel Legrand)
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
The Living Daylights by Starlite Orchestra (Best of James Bond)
WHAT WILL YOUR MOM OF THE YEAR CERTIFICATE SAY?
Dream On by Michael Johns (American Idol)
I have giggled myself silly through this one. I hope you enjoyed the hijacking. I'm tagging Jules at Everyday Mommy, Lisa at Lisa Writes, Kelly at Love Well and JSM at Pragmatic Compendium. If you choose to join this hijacking, please let me know in the comments so I can come over and laugh with you.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Monday, June 30, 2008
Details and headlines...
is a catchphrase in our house. It comes from one of those Christian speakers on marriage issues and the differences between men and women. I forget whom.
Some years ago, Husband and I came across the phrase and laughed heartily at how well it described our respective conversational styles. So much did we enjoy the phrase that when one or the other of us became bogged down in the talking points, the listener had permission to tell the talker "details" or "headlines" so that the proper information was conveyed.
My paraphrased rendition, with appropriate apologies to the speaker for forgetting your name but hey, look how long your point has stuck, goes like this:
If you take a newspaper, you will see headlines announcing just the facts of the story. For example, "Bank Robber Caught on Main". The details of how he was caught, who caught him, with what was he caught, and what will happen to him now that he has been caught are within the actual article. You have to choose to read the article though to receive those details.
Men usually prefer the headline style of conversation. They want the just the facts version.
With that information alone a man can be perfectly satisfied.
Women, though, usually prefer the detail style of conversation. We want the relational aspects version.
And on and on. The more information the better for us.
When you combine those two styles in marriage though and a detailer is trying to tell a headliner something or vice versa, there can be frustration exemplar. A headliner may feel swamped with all the information and not really know what was the point of the story. A detailer may feel deprived of information and respond with 101 questions.
This has been known to actually happen. In this household.
Today though, the shoes were on opposite feet, and I couldn't help but chuckle. A good friend of ours just took a new job flying crop dusters in another state. We are very excited for him and his family. His wife emailed a picture to me of him standing beside his plane. It is a very bright, yellow plane. And he looks quite proud standing beside it.
Thinking myself being a good wife, I emailed the picture to Husband. Without details because he prefers the headlines.
When I talked with him on the phone later he began to ask me all about the plane. What type of plane? Is it an Agtractor? What's the horsepower? Does it have one prop or two?
I didn't know anything about the plane other than what I just typed to you in this blog post. A very bright, yellow plane. And doesn't he look proud standing beside it. When someone's wife has a baby, I count myself fortunate to discover the gender of the child, let alone any actual details on weight, length, or time of birth.
So I went back to the email to check for additional details, because I can find them if you must have them, this is what I came across.
Like I said, a very bright, yellow plane. And doesn't he look proud standing beside it.
Some years ago, Husband and I came across the phrase and laughed heartily at how well it described our respective conversational styles. So much did we enjoy the phrase that when one or the other of us became bogged down in the talking points, the listener had permission to tell the talker "details" or "headlines" so that the proper information was conveyed.
My paraphrased rendition, with appropriate apologies to the speaker for forgetting your name but hey, look how long your point has stuck, goes like this:
If you take a newspaper, you will see headlines announcing just the facts of the story. For example, "Bank Robber Caught on Main". The details of how he was caught, who caught him, with what was he caught, and what will happen to him now that he has been caught are within the actual article. You have to choose to read the article though to receive those details.
Men usually prefer the headline style of conversation. They want the just the facts version.
What? A bank robber was caught on Main? Well, good to hear that our police force is doing their job.
With that information alone a man can be perfectly satisfied.
Women, though, usually prefer the detail style of conversation. We want the relational aspects version.
What? A bank robber was caught on Main? Which bank did he rob? How did he do it? Was anyone hurt? How much money did he take? How did the police catch him? Why did he say he robbed the bank?
And on and on. The more information the better for us.
When you combine those two styles in marriage though and a detailer is trying to tell a headliner something or vice versa, there can be frustration exemplar. A headliner may feel swamped with all the information and not really know what was the point of the story. A detailer may feel deprived of information and respond with 101 questions.
This has been known to actually happen. In this household.
Today though, the shoes were on opposite feet, and I couldn't help but chuckle. A good friend of ours just took a new job flying crop dusters in another state. We are very excited for him and his family. His wife emailed a picture to me of him standing beside his plane. It is a very bright, yellow plane. And he looks quite proud standing beside it.
Thinking myself being a good wife, I emailed the picture to Husband. Without details because he prefers the headlines.
When I talked with him on the phone later he began to ask me all about the plane. What type of plane? Is it an Agtractor? What's the horsepower? Does it have one prop or two?
I didn't know anything about the plane other than what I just typed to you in this blog post. A very bright, yellow plane. And doesn't he look proud standing beside it. When someone's wife has a baby, I count myself fortunate to discover the gender of the child, let alone any actual details on weight, length, or time of birth.
So I went back to the email to check for additional details, because I can find them if you must have them, this is what I came across.
It's a B model Agcat with 600 hp supercharged Pratt & Whitney radial with 2 blade Hamilton standard prop.
Like I said, a very bright, yellow plane. And doesn't he look proud standing beside it.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Did you hear the one about?
I went into 2nd and 3rd son's room to wake them up yesterday, and this is the conversation that followed.
Me: Good Morning, Guys!
2nd: Hey Mom! I had this really weird dream last night about an elephant riding on a motorcycle.
Me: Wow. That must have been a really big motorcycle.
2nd: No. It was just a regular motorcycle.
3rd: (From the depths of sleep, or so we thought.) Well, it must have been a really small elephant then.
Me: Good Morning, Guys!
2nd: Hey Mom! I had this really weird dream last night about an elephant riding on a motorcycle.
Me: Wow. That must have been a really big motorcycle.
2nd: No. It was just a regular motorcycle.
3rd: (From the depths of sleep, or so we thought.) Well, it must have been a really small elephant then.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Well, it wasn't on...
my Bucket List, a caudal epidural block that is, but it's now officially a part of my medical resume. (Does anyone know how you put that little accent marky thing on the "e" in resume? Or do I just have to write it out re-zu-may?)
Back to the point of dribble I'm making here. My actual re-zu-may, if I ever really wrote one, is infamous for being quite eclectic. My medical re-zu-may has stories of its own making. Consider the following a cheap form of entertainment.
The caudal epidural block is not all that bad. I would do it again. In fact, I am doing it again this next Thursday. After that we, meaning the doctor, the Husband, me, and the DDD, will decide how to proceed. I expect that meeting to be riveting.
Anyway, the word "epidural" usually causes me to hyperventilate and not because of overweening excitement. I was one of those people with my first pregnancy who did not want an epidural. I was an all naturelle girl and smugly proud of it. I loved being pregnant, I breathed through labor, and gave birth to a nine pound son while laughing. Epidural, schepidural--I didn't need or want it.
Fast forward to James' first bone marrow transplant, and I was his donor. I was breastfeeding and naively clung to the idea that mother's milk elixir alone would correct James' immune system. I was insistent that I still be able to breastfeed, and so I refused the general anesthesia after being told that it would seep into my breastmilk and affect the baby. The amount of bone marrow necessary to harvest from a donor for a transplant cannot be taken from a conscious donor--unless of course Jack Bauer is involved. The anesthesia team awakened me to this point and offered me an epidural. I consented to that knowing that thousands of women received them every day for the birthing process, and what could go wrong anyway?
Sometimes you should actually ask those types of questions out loud.
The epidural was given, and the southern region went numb. A relaxant of some sort was given, and the northern region went happy. The bone marrow was harvested while all of us, the PA, the surgical nurses, the anesthesiologist, and yours truly, all had a friendly conversation. I was quite entertaining, I was later told. Being wheeled into recovery I remember fuzzily thinking that those evil epidurals weren't all bad and maybe with a subsequent pregnancy I would almost consider it.
The party occurred in the next 24 hours. I was quite sore waist down from the harvest, but quickly forgot about that pain as my head began to throb. The throbbing was accompanied by light sensitivity that brought along its playmates of sound sensitivity, nausea, and vomiting. Eventually any position but prone, and I mean completely prone, induced projectile vomiting. I was in the hospital room with James and Husband. Husband was running back and forth between us about to lose his mind. It was Bedlam of Bodily Functions. James had copious diarrhea, and I was throwing up my brains.
Diagnosis: epidural tear of the spinal sheath with spinal fluid leaking out causing brain to bounce around inside of hard skull. That was not the technical diagnosis. Epidural headache, spinal headache, worst pain I'd ever known headache--take your pick.
However, my mom was flying in from Chicago, and by the time she arrived, Husband was in a state of panic, James was crying, and I was delusional. Quick conferencing led to the decision to put me in a wheelchair and take me via shuttle train, from the South hospital wing to the North hospital wing to be seen by an anesthesiologist. A nurse was called in to stay with James while Husband pushed the wheelchair, Mom held the bucket, and well, I filled it up with dry heaves.
Relief came at the needle of the anesthesiologist who shot me up with IV happy juice cocktail followed by a blood patch procedure to resolve the dural tear followed by the unwelcome news that I now had a fever of over 101 degrees and they were afraid I might have an infection in my spinal column. I was admitted to the North hospital wing, while James was in the South hospital wing. Husband stayed with me. Mom went back to James. 48 hours of IV antibiotic went into me.
Oh yes, and remember that I was nursing? Well, that was put on hold for 72 hours. I was as big as....there are just no words.
So, it was within those days of medical nightmare that I vowed to never, never, never have another epidural. Until this past Thursday, of course. But in my defense of keeping vows, a caudal epidural block goes in a whole different place, with a much different effect, and I'll be doing it again. That seems to happen when I say never.
I'm very grateful for everyone's well wishes, prayers, and encouragements. The Body of Christ has been a sweet fragrance through this trial. I know myself to be blessed, and continue to look forward in hope to how God will work these things to His sovereign purpose.
Back to the point of dribble I'm making here. My actual re-zu-may, if I ever really wrote one, is infamous for being quite eclectic. My medical re-zu-may has stories of its own making. Consider the following a cheap form of entertainment.
The caudal epidural block is not all that bad. I would do it again. In fact, I am doing it again this next Thursday. After that we, meaning the doctor, the Husband, me, and the DDD, will decide how to proceed. I expect that meeting to be riveting.
Anyway, the word "epidural" usually causes me to hyperventilate and not because of overweening excitement. I was one of those people with my first pregnancy who did not want an epidural. I was an all naturelle girl and smugly proud of it. I loved being pregnant, I breathed through labor, and gave birth to a nine pound son while laughing. Epidural, schepidural--I didn't need or want it.
Fast forward to James' first bone marrow transplant, and I was his donor. I was breastfeeding and naively clung to the idea that mother's milk elixir alone would correct James' immune system. I was insistent that I still be able to breastfeed, and so I refused the general anesthesia after being told that it would seep into my breastmilk and affect the baby. The amount of bone marrow necessary to harvest from a donor for a transplant cannot be taken from a conscious donor--unless of course Jack Bauer is involved. The anesthesia team awakened me to this point and offered me an epidural. I consented to that knowing that thousands of women received them every day for the birthing process, and what could go wrong anyway?
Sometimes you should actually ask those types of questions out loud.
The epidural was given, and the southern region went numb. A relaxant of some sort was given, and the northern region went happy. The bone marrow was harvested while all of us, the PA, the surgical nurses, the anesthesiologist, and yours truly, all had a friendly conversation. I was quite entertaining, I was later told. Being wheeled into recovery I remember fuzzily thinking that those evil epidurals weren't all bad and maybe with a subsequent pregnancy I would almost consider it.
The party occurred in the next 24 hours. I was quite sore waist down from the harvest, but quickly forgot about that pain as my head began to throb. The throbbing was accompanied by light sensitivity that brought along its playmates of sound sensitivity, nausea, and vomiting. Eventually any position but prone, and I mean completely prone, induced projectile vomiting. I was in the hospital room with James and Husband. Husband was running back and forth between us about to lose his mind. It was Bedlam of Bodily Functions. James had copious diarrhea, and I was throwing up my brains.
Diagnosis: epidural tear of the spinal sheath with spinal fluid leaking out causing brain to bounce around inside of hard skull. That was not the technical diagnosis. Epidural headache, spinal headache, worst pain I'd ever known headache--take your pick.
However, my mom was flying in from Chicago, and by the time she arrived, Husband was in a state of panic, James was crying, and I was delusional. Quick conferencing led to the decision to put me in a wheelchair and take me via shuttle train, from the South hospital wing to the North hospital wing to be seen by an anesthesiologist. A nurse was called in to stay with James while Husband pushed the wheelchair, Mom held the bucket, and well, I filled it up with dry heaves.
Relief came at the needle of the anesthesiologist who shot me up with IV happy juice cocktail followed by a blood patch procedure to resolve the dural tear followed by the unwelcome news that I now had a fever of over 101 degrees and they were afraid I might have an infection in my spinal column. I was admitted to the North hospital wing, while James was in the South hospital wing. Husband stayed with me. Mom went back to James. 48 hours of IV antibiotic went into me.
Oh yes, and remember that I was nursing? Well, that was put on hold for 72 hours. I was as big as....there are just no words.
So, it was within those days of medical nightmare that I vowed to never, never, never have another epidural. Until this past Thursday, of course. But in my defense of keeping vows, a caudal epidural block goes in a whole different place, with a much different effect, and I'll be doing it again. That seems to happen when I say never.
I'm very grateful for everyone's well wishes, prayers, and encouragements. The Body of Christ has been a sweet fragrance through this trial. I know myself to be blessed, and continue to look forward in hope to how God will work these things to His sovereign purpose.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Bedrest learning...
is intensive to say the least, in a laidback way.
No, I couldn't resist. Sharpening wry humor has become its own goal. I'm still working on it.
Anyway, so that I can keep dodging my Husband's piercing question, "What is God teaching you through all of this?" I thought I would comprise a top 10 list of some other things that I have learned, while on bedrest.
10. Captain Crunch is still a comfort food from my childhood. I have been crunchatized.
9. Cats will seek the warmest spot on the bed with me for their daily 22 1/2 hours of sleep. The warmest spot is usually on top of my legs, effectively pinning me to the same spot, since turning over is still a bit of an exercise in teeth clenching.
8. A queen sized bed can somewhat comfortably hold me, two cats, a blanket, an afghan, a doubled over body pillow, a backrest pillow, a comfort foam pillow, two regular pillows, a bed table, my Bible, a legal pad, a history book, a novel, my calendar, my Bible study notes, a note pad, a Reader's Digest, the mail, 3 pens, 1 pencil, a pack of gum, a bottle of water, some chick flick DVDs, a CD, and my laptop. But that's all.
7. From my downstairs bedrest spot in the guest bedroom, I can still see the pine straw on the floor, just at the edge of the kitchen, to the right of the doorway, next to the dirty cloth napkin (also on the floor). But no one else can see it. Or the napkin.
6. The boys are becoming great waiters, carrying plates and glasses, back and forth, from bed to kitchen. Although they insist on being called Linguine.
5. I've decided to write my own chick flick where the girl/guy falls for the guy/girl, there's a conflict/natural disaster, a snarky roommate/best friend, and they live happily ever after the election/plane lands/volcano stops. I think it'll be a blockbuster.
4. All the reading I'm supposed to be doing has been replaced by blogs, blogs, and blogs.
3. Steroid packs make me crave chicken.
2. I have a lot of good friends who make really good chicken dishes.
1. My wry humor still needs sharpening.
No, I couldn't resist. Sharpening wry humor has become its own goal. I'm still working on it.
Anyway, so that I can keep dodging my Husband's piercing question, "What is God teaching you through all of this?" I thought I would comprise a top 10 list of some other things that I have learned, while on bedrest.
10. Captain Crunch is still a comfort food from my childhood. I have been crunchatized.
9. Cats will seek the warmest spot on the bed with me for their daily 22 1/2 hours of sleep. The warmest spot is usually on top of my legs, effectively pinning me to the same spot, since turning over is still a bit of an exercise in teeth clenching.
8. A queen sized bed can somewhat comfortably hold me, two cats, a blanket, an afghan, a doubled over body pillow, a backrest pillow, a comfort foam pillow, two regular pillows, a bed table, my Bible, a legal pad, a history book, a novel, my calendar, my Bible study notes, a note pad, a Reader's Digest, the mail, 3 pens, 1 pencil, a pack of gum, a bottle of water, some chick flick DVDs, a CD, and my laptop. But that's all.
7. From my downstairs bedrest spot in the guest bedroom, I can still see the pine straw on the floor, just at the edge of the kitchen, to the right of the doorway, next to the dirty cloth napkin (also on the floor). But no one else can see it. Or the napkin.
6. The boys are becoming great waiters, carrying plates and glasses, back and forth, from bed to kitchen. Although they insist on being called Linguine.
5. I've decided to write my own chick flick where the girl/guy falls for the guy/girl, there's a conflict/natural disaster, a snarky roommate/best friend, and they live happily ever after the election/plane lands/volcano stops. I think it'll be a blockbuster.
4. All the reading I'm supposed to be doing has been replaced by blogs, blogs, and blogs.
3. Steroid packs make me crave chicken.
2. I have a lot of good friends who make really good chicken dishes.
1. My wry humor still needs sharpening.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
So my mom's...
birthday was this past Tuesday, and my sister and I concocted a plan to meet at her house, the midway point for an impromptu cousins' slumber party. The end goal being that we would leave early in the morning when her boys woke up and proceed to swoop in on my Mom's house as a surprise. Only my Dad was apprised of the details. His job was to have Mom unaware, and of course, there. It's all so easy when it's in the planning stages.
The additional details, er, um, complicating factors are always in the number of children, their ages, and have mercy, whether you can get the DVD player properly strung between the headrests in a way so that every child can both see and hear with plasma TV quality. Right.
At one point, I realized that the superhero quality I should have is that of being able to pull extra speakers and a widescreen out of my......nose. It wasn't happening.
This is where I want to rant that I remember having to ride across the country and back on car trips with nothing but a couple of hardback Nancy Drew's to keep me company, and being perfectly content to do so. If I had things to gripe about, it was that my sister had crossed over the clearly visible to me, physically invisible line that so definitely separated her Strawberry Shortcake paraphernalia from my much more essential Snoopy dress up dog. That's all stuff worth griping about. Right.
Anyway, part one of the plan worked well. My sister's children who are part rooster, woke up at 5:00 a.m. Figuring that lying in my bed trying to ignore their crying was not the most sisterly or auntie thing to do, I dragged myself from bed to begin the Travel Day.
Our goal was to leave the house by 8:00 a.m. which should have been well covered given that we were up before 6:00 a.m. Remember the previous complicating factors I mentioned? Add into the equation now that both my sister and I are descended from a long line of upper crust Southern bag ladies. Do you know this type? Are you a fellow sister?
For those not as blessed, allow me to elaborate. Everything must have its place, or bag in this case, and everything in its place, or bag. So that makes a bag for each child. (I'm a rebel on this because I throw all the clothes of 3 boys into one bag.) Then there is a bag or two for each mom. The moms are allowed to either subdivide their bag between clothes and toiletries or can choose to bring along a separate bag for toiletries with lots of cute little bags inside containing the subsets of toiletries. Then, there is a bag for snacks, a bag or three for drinks (this breaks down into bottles for the baby, big milks for the preschooler, water bottles for the older boys), a bag for shoes, and a bag for toys/entertainment per boy. You must have a bag for books/DVDs/CDs/iPods and accessories. Throw in a sleeping bag for each boy, plus pillows which don't fit into a bag, unless you count the pillowcase as the bag. And you can see where screenwriters got the idea for the Clampetts moving scene. And why Vera Bradley has such a raging Southern girls fan club.
However, this is where having lots of boys comes in handy because I am all about training these sons to be good Southern husbands having lived the motto, "Mama packed it, and Daddy makes it fit into the car." Off they were like so many, three actually, ants that toted bag after bag after bag to the van. I stood at the back and made "suggestions" about how and where to place the bags for maximum bag fittage.
8:08 a.m. we left the driveway, and were off. To Starbucks.
8:28 a.m. we left Starbucks, and were off. The baby started screaming his head off, having been up since 5:00, the tyke was tired. The boys in the back couldn't hear the movie, there was a glare, the baby was too loud, and how much longer anyway?
I turned to my sister and informed her that I was going to pour the Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte into my ears, believing that it would do more good there than down my throat.
Let's wrap this up. The baby did fall asleep. The boys were content to "see" the movie once I started to hand them the hardback Nancy Drew's, and the traffic ran to our favor. We arrived safely, thoroughly surprised Mom, and celebrated with a nice lunch and afternoon.
We then repeated the above events for our return Friday, with yet one more complicating factor. But that's another blog post for another bag, I mean, day.
The additional details, er, um, complicating factors are always in the number of children, their ages, and have mercy, whether you can get the DVD player properly strung between the headrests in a way so that every child can both see and hear with plasma TV quality. Right.
At one point, I realized that the superhero quality I should have is that of being able to pull extra speakers and a widescreen out of my......nose. It wasn't happening.
This is where I want to rant that I remember having to ride across the country and back on car trips with nothing but a couple of hardback Nancy Drew's to keep me company, and being perfectly content to do so. If I had things to gripe about, it was that my sister had crossed over the clearly visible to me, physically invisible line that so definitely separated her Strawberry Shortcake paraphernalia from my much more essential Snoopy dress up dog. That's all stuff worth griping about. Right.
Anyway, part one of the plan worked well. My sister's children who are part rooster, woke up at 5:00 a.m. Figuring that lying in my bed trying to ignore their crying was not the most sisterly or auntie thing to do, I dragged myself from bed to begin the Travel Day.
Our goal was to leave the house by 8:00 a.m. which should have been well covered given that we were up before 6:00 a.m. Remember the previous complicating factors I mentioned? Add into the equation now that both my sister and I are descended from a long line of upper crust Southern bag ladies. Do you know this type? Are you a fellow sister?
For those not as blessed, allow me to elaborate. Everything must have its place, or bag in this case, and everything in its place, or bag. So that makes a bag for each child. (I'm a rebel on this because I throw all the clothes of 3 boys into one bag.) Then there is a bag or two for each mom. The moms are allowed to either subdivide their bag between clothes and toiletries or can choose to bring along a separate bag for toiletries with lots of cute little bags inside containing the subsets of toiletries. Then, there is a bag for snacks, a bag or three for drinks (this breaks down into bottles for the baby, big milks for the preschooler, water bottles for the older boys), a bag for shoes, and a bag for toys/entertainment per boy. You must have a bag for books/DVDs/CDs/iPods and accessories. Throw in a sleeping bag for each boy, plus pillows which don't fit into a bag, unless you count the pillowcase as the bag. And you can see where screenwriters got the idea for the Clampetts moving scene. And why Vera Bradley has such a raging Southern girls fan club.
However, this is where having lots of boys comes in handy because I am all about training these sons to be good Southern husbands having lived the motto, "Mama packed it, and Daddy makes it fit into the car." Off they were like so many, three actually, ants that toted bag after bag after bag to the van. I stood at the back and made "suggestions" about how and where to place the bags for maximum bag fittage.
8:08 a.m. we left the driveway, and were off. To Starbucks.
8:28 a.m. we left Starbucks, and were off. The baby started screaming his head off, having been up since 5:00, the tyke was tired. The boys in the back couldn't hear the movie, there was a glare, the baby was too loud, and how much longer anyway?
I turned to my sister and informed her that I was going to pour the Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte into my ears, believing that it would do more good there than down my throat.
Let's wrap this up. The baby did fall asleep. The boys were content to "see" the movie once I started to hand them the hardback Nancy Drew's, and the traffic ran to our favor. We arrived safely, thoroughly surprised Mom, and celebrated with a nice lunch and afternoon.
We then repeated the above events for our return Friday, with yet one more complicating factor. But that's another blog post for another bag, I mean, day.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The tooth fairy...
has been exposed. What you are looking at and wondering about is this author's collection of baby and permanent teeth that either fell out, were pulled out by moi, moi's parents or a quite terrifying dentist. There's even two wisdom teeth in that little box that were cut out by the oral surgeon who mercifully knocked me out and left me senseless of the trauma on my 21st birthday.Is it any wonder that I still have dentaphobial issues?
Anyway, lest you think that I collected these dentaline jewels, I did not. My parents presented them to me over Christmas. Of course, I also received a Bella 3-n-1 griddle, grill, and Panini maker, so the teeth were just bonus. Heh.
My parents being of great sentimentality and believing that at any point this AV adapter, that plastic partitioned drawer, or this box of teeth, (okay, not so much) are going to be needed, keep a lot of stuff. This mindset of course means they have historically not been purgers of stuff. They are not hoarders per se, but the name packrat does come to mind.
However, many great kudos to my folks as over the last few years in a supreme effort to simplify their lifestyle and to downsize their housing expenses, have begun a concerted, even herculean, effort to clean out their closets, drawers, garage, and attic of the extraneous, sentimental, and what the heck? stuff. They have been ruthless in their pursuit. They have also been ruthless in the bringing of various boxes of this stuff to me and my sister.
I admit to my own buried streak of sentimentality that causes me to pause over my first grade writings and my Beta Club induction photo, but then I'm paralyzed by the same dilemma that probably caused my mom to keep those things in the first place. Will I need this later? Will my boys want to see my fifth grade spelling test? What if one day I'm supposed to contribute to a time capsule but I have thrown away my Donny Osmond picture?
When the boys were in traditional school bringing home scads upon scads of construction paper turkeys, doily cards, and paper bag puppets--all fashioned in the name of education--I had to come up with a management plan or be buried alive under recycled paper. I bought two underbed storage boxes and throughout the year put everything in them. Absolutely everything. Then at the end of the year I would climb through the piles and keep my very most favorite pieces. One day I think they will enjoy seeing how their art, creative writing and handwriting skills have progressed. (Let us hope for progression.) But all of the rest went into the circular file. Along with the mommy guilt. Because frankly, there are too many things to have mommy guilt over and I refuse to have construction paper creations be one of them.
I want my children to know that I love them from how I care for their needs, from what I teach them about God, and from how I love them in His image. A Picasso styled fingerpainting that I keep for 28 years does not necessarily reflect godly love.
Anywho. I bear no resentment for my parents having kept this box of teeth. And I certainly know that my parents love me regardless of what they have kept or tossed. I continue to find the contents of stuff that they bring fascinating. As for this box of teeth, it has actually been the focus of timely discussion in our home as the Chairman is about to lose his very first tooth, ever; and he is extremely curious about all the ad nauseum details of how, when, where and does it hurt questions.
I guess if I participated in a blog show and tell Friday, this would count. Otherwise, it's just a box of teeth.
P.S. I really must learn to crop these photos for the new year of blogging. Sigh.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thanks, blogger friends,...
but especially Clemntine and Rosemary for the whole plumping up the sitemeter. You get the award for making me giggle out loud. I guess that would be GOL. Since my head remains unfocused in writing substantive material, I'd like to dedicate this post to the blogging readers that faithfully stop by and entertain me with their funny and insightful comments.
Being quite tongue in cheek (TIC), I've decided half-heartedly to up my trivial knowledge of all things trivial this year, starting with computer and texting abbreviations of acronymial shorthand. To be even more ambitious, since setting goals is the point of a New Year--right?-to also create some of my own. I figure since I delight in making up new words, why not also make up some new abbreviations and acronyms. My husband used to be in the army so I've practically all ready completed an assistantship of sorts in acronymnology. Feel free to contribute your own ideas in the comments. It's not ebonics, but let's take back the language, friends. (TBTLF)
For example, in honor of Clem and Rosemary's comments, they've all ready given me two new ideas for acronyms that could contribute greatly to the whole sensation that is blogging. As time is such a precious commodity in the lives of bloggers, this texting shorthand should really begin to invade the blogging media as well. Commenting could take on a whole new view and practice.
In recognition of a sitemeter plump, I propose the abbreviation BUS (Boosting Ur Sitemeter). It has the double entendre of slang for a quick kiss, as in on the cheek, in a whole friendly sort of way. Plus it gets extra points in using Ur for Your. Using BUS, we've internet tagged a friend with a quick comment--kissy, kissy.
Another suggestion is to shorten a comment that will inevitably be of the sort, "I agree with what she/he said." We can more quickly type MT (Me Too). Think deeply on this one's extra meaning of when two minds meet, or agree, as in "what she/he said."
In some sideways way, a similar thought occurred last week when I received a family magazine in the mail that had on its back cover a list of text messaging abbreviations for parents to be aware of in regards to their children's texting habits. Abbreviations like sup = what's up, otp = on the phone, and pos = parents over shoulder. Not disregarding the import of parents knowing these things, I have of recent known myself a bit snarkified in relation to lack of schedule due to holiday events that leads to intensified parental interrogations. In other words, when I'm regularly teaching school to the boys, and they're given a break for that day's work, they really appreciate and exercise the break instead of shotgunning for the brain cells left to their mom.
So again, here are some thoughts for parental texting and or blogging comment abbreviations and acronyms:
LTP = love this post (easily interchangeable with liked this post, if you prefer)
LUB = love ur blog (can be expanded to a whole fan club of LUBBERS = lovers of ur blog)
ICAM = I couldn't agree more (Apple hasn't come out with this yet, so it must be still in the works)
TMMT = this made me think (very similar to TNT as in explosives, because thinking does require neuron firings)
KAMQCTRN = kids asking me questions, can't think right now (need I say more?)
KIRCBRN = kids in room, can't blog right now (which when pronounced sounds like a mild Scottish non-profane expletive)
TOPABAST = talking on phone and blogging at same time (because if multi-tasking isn't involved, it doesn't get done)
Lastly, I submit HNYBF = Happy New Year Blogger Friends (but I did holler it at the computer as well!)
Being quite tongue in cheek (TIC), I've decided half-heartedly to up my trivial knowledge of all things trivial this year, starting with computer and texting abbreviations of acronymial shorthand. To be even more ambitious, since setting goals is the point of a New Year--right?-to also create some of my own. I figure since I delight in making up new words, why not also make up some new abbreviations and acronyms. My husband used to be in the army so I've practically all ready completed an assistantship of sorts in acronymnology. Feel free to contribute your own ideas in the comments. It's not ebonics, but let's take back the language, friends. (TBTLF)
For example, in honor of Clem and Rosemary's comments, they've all ready given me two new ideas for acronyms that could contribute greatly to the whole sensation that is blogging. As time is such a precious commodity in the lives of bloggers, this texting shorthand should really begin to invade the blogging media as well. Commenting could take on a whole new view and practice.
In recognition of a sitemeter plump, I propose the abbreviation BUS (Boosting Ur Sitemeter). It has the double entendre of slang for a quick kiss, as in on the cheek, in a whole friendly sort of way. Plus it gets extra points in using Ur for Your. Using BUS, we've internet tagged a friend with a quick comment--kissy, kissy.
Another suggestion is to shorten a comment that will inevitably be of the sort, "I agree with what she/he said." We can more quickly type MT (Me Too). Think deeply on this one's extra meaning of when two minds meet, or agree, as in "what she/he said."
In some sideways way, a similar thought occurred last week when I received a family magazine in the mail that had on its back cover a list of text messaging abbreviations for parents to be aware of in regards to their children's texting habits. Abbreviations like sup = what's up, otp = on the phone, and pos = parents over shoulder. Not disregarding the import of parents knowing these things, I have of recent known myself a bit snarkified in relation to lack of schedule due to holiday events that leads to intensified parental interrogations. In other words, when I'm regularly teaching school to the boys, and they're given a break for that day's work, they really appreciate and exercise the break instead of shotgunning for the brain cells left to their mom.
So again, here are some thoughts for parental texting and or blogging comment abbreviations and acronyms:
LTP = love this post (easily interchangeable with liked this post, if you prefer)
LUB = love ur blog (can be expanded to a whole fan club of LUBBERS = lovers of ur blog)
ICAM = I couldn't agree more (Apple hasn't come out with this yet, so it must be still in the works)
TMMT = this made me think (very similar to TNT as in explosives, because thinking does require neuron firings)
KAMQCTRN = kids asking me questions, can't think right now (need I say more?)
KIRCBRN = kids in room, can't blog right now (which when pronounced sounds like a mild Scottish non-profane expletive)
TOPABAST = talking on phone and blogging at same time (because if multi-tasking isn't involved, it doesn't get done)
Lastly, I submit HNYBF = Happy New Year Blogger Friends (but I did holler it at the computer as well!)
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Kids have a way of saying...
the most proverbial things. My dad sent me a list of these well-known proverbs a few months back. A first grade teacher in Virginia had interviewed her students to hear their endings. I filed it under "blog ideas" but felt now while trying to return to complete thoughts, it might be the inspiration needed.
I told Jules at Everyday Mommy about them, and she interviewed LoveBug. Read his answers here, very funny!
So I had to go and interview my three sons as well. My sons are almost 10, 9 and 6 years old. Here are the results:
Don't change horses......if he's still going.
Strike while the..........ball is near.
It's always darkest before........you have light.
Never underestimate the power of........God.
You can lead a horse to water but.......make sure he doesn't run away.
Don't bite hand that........bites you back.
No news is....that good.
A miss is as good as a........toss.
If you lie down with dogs, you'll.........get licked.
Love all, trust........God.
The pen is mightier than the........pencil.
An idle mind is..........a bad mind.
A penny saved is.......better than no penny.
There are none so blind as..........sinners.
When the blind lead the blind........nothing happens.
Better late than........early.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Just the laugh I needed...
I don't know who wrote this gem of an essay about public restrooms but I received it in an email today from a friend. Somehow she must have known I needed a belly laugh like this one. Thanks, friend. Hope you enjoy it as well.
Public Restrooms..........
When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of
women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn,
you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't
matter.
The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's mom, no
doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook,
if there were one, but there isn't - - so you carefully, but quickly,
drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put
it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance." In
this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd
love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat
or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance." To take your mind
off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the
EMPTY toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mom's
voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have
KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more. You remember
the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's
still in your purse. That would have to do. You crumple it in the
puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Some one pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The
door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your
chest, and you and your purse topples backward against the tank of the
toilet. "OCCUPIED!" you scream, as you reach for the door dropping your
precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your
footing altogether, and slide down directly on the TOILET SEAT. It is
wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late.
Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life
form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper -
not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. You know your
mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain,
her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, "frankly,
dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get." By this
time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that
it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that somehow
sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet
paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At that point, you
give up.
You are soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're
exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket
and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. Now, you can't figure
out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe
your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of
women still waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the
very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from
your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from
your shoe, plunk it into the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here,
you just might need this."
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and
left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and
why is your purse hanging around your neck?"
This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restroom
(REST??? - You've got to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men
what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly
asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the
other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex
under the door !!!!!!
It's almost over...
the standarized testing that is, hallelu! And the flu/viral/crud stuff is over for future great numero uno. As I write this, the three pal ponnies are running around outside pretending to be the nobles of King Artaxerxes court, requesting an audience for Nehemiah.
Yes, life is good.
This week even with its requirements and illness has been a precious one of extra rest, extra time, and extra blogging. I'll really have to enact the self-discipline next week as regular routine kicks in.
Update on the Niagara disaster: Hubs was not too concerned at all. He calmly placed the dehumidifier in the bathroom and let it dry things out. Three years ago he had tiled the floor, necessarily replacing all of the subfloor and stuff so he was thankful that we weren't spending today pulling out soggy carpet. Yuck!
The boys have been instructed on toilet paper (can you write that on a mommy blog?) standards. "Spare a square" being the new motto of action. We'll see if it takes! *eyes rolling*
I didn't grow up with brothers. I only have one younger sister and the bathroom was inner sanctum of mysterious delights like perfume, hair things, the radio, and makeup. I remain astounded at the difference with boys. To them the bathroom is just one more room for experimentation with um, aim, and ahem, acoustics.
Giggle and snort! I've been with these guys too long--even just writing that I both blush and laugh!
Aaaah! Composure, please.
Regular intelligent blogging will resume later. Giggle!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)