If there is such a thing as post-traumatic camping disorder, I am suffering from it today. It is three parts sleep deprivation, one part laundry, and two parts I DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU AND DO YOU APPRECIATE IT? NO! YOU DON'T! I'M JUST YOUR MOTHER, SO OF COURSE YOU DON'T! Yes. It's like that. I totally NEEDED those marshmallows, man. Also this glass of wine that Otto so kindly placed on the corner of my desk before retreating to the safety of his own desk. In addition to my PTCD, I am also somewhat gripped with a screaming disorder today. Every other sentence out of my mouth is turned to...
This morning, in the pool: Monkey: I can do an underwater somersault! Look! *does a somersault* Monkey: Did you see it? Did you?? Me: I saw! That was great. Monkey: I can do a double! WATCH! *does a double* Monkey: See that? Chickadee: Yeah, well, SO WHAT. I can do a TRIPLE somersault! Me: I saw you, buddy, that was really neat. Monkey: Yeah, well, I can do a QUADRUPLE somersault! Chickadee: Yeah, well, I can do a QUINTUPLE somersault! Me: Oh YEAH? Well I can do a million somersaults in a row! Otto: Oh YEAH? Well I can--- Chickadee: YEAH, WELL, I HAVE A THIRD NIPPLE! She...
This week has been a slippery slide into "I hate everyone and everything" territory, much to the chagrin of my family. Whoops! Not you! I don't hate YOU! Except when you talk to me in that tone of voice. Or look at me that way. Or breathe. Do you have to do that quite so LOUDLY? I think we all hit the wall this week, and it's right and good and necessary, but that doesn't make it fun. We are all cranky and feeling adrift, I think. I would like a vacation. What? You say this IS my vacation? Oh. Right. Please kill me. Ahem. So in an attempt to get out of my current rut (that lovely low spot...
I've mentioned that we have children in our new neighborhood. Real! Live! Children! This is a novelty for us and an exciting one, at that. Boys Monkey's age! A girl Chickadee's age! Heaven. Well, it was heaven for about two days. Let's just say that I am learning a lot of patience and also exercising my boundary-setting muscles. Boy, am I flexing. FLEX FLEX FLEX. I am about two incidents away from standing out front with a rake and screaming YOU DAMN KIDS GET OUT OF MY YARD. And I seriously doubt anyone will bring me pie if I start doing that. I am already familiar with the notion that it's...
I wasn't kidding when I said that Chickadee learned how to dive. After three hours in the pool this afternoon, I think it's safe to say that the children are plumb tuckered out. Me, I'm just proud of my little fishies, even if I am hearing a Ricky Martin-esque version of She Dives, She Dives in my head as a result.
I bruise incredibly easily; I always look like someone has been beating me. It is because of this propensity for appearing battered (not to mention my fragile disposition) that I am apt to fan myself and declare that I'm a delicate flower. (Stop laughing.) So the other day, Otto reports that he was sitting at the table with the kids (I was next door, being told by a new neighbor that she'd meant to bring us some brownies but that they were "still in the box in the cupboard") (I liked her immediately) trying to get them to finish their dinner. The skies had just opened up, and they were...
Feel free to tell me that your children torment each other as much as mine do, because it will make me feel better and also greatly lessen the chances of my grabbing one in each hand and banging their heads together. Oh, you know I love my kids, and I truly believe them to be Good Kids and Nice Kids and for the most part they really do play well together. But apparently the displacement of being in a new house in a new state is carte blanche to ANNOY THE EVERYLOVING CRAP out of your sibling while also running to Mama to complain every third second or so. Needless to say, this is completely...
Hello! I would've blogged last night except that I was busy trying to extract my own eyeball and go to sleep. Simultaneously. In an effort to celebrate the 4th of July in style, we packed up the kids and headed to Joshilyn's house. Joss had put on her very best southern accent and assured me that they "do it up right 'round here" when she invited us a while back, and who am I to turn down such an invitation? I had mentioned to Joss (several times) that Chickadee was dying, and I do mean DYING, to meet Maisy. Chickie loves little kids. Well I guess this had been passed along to Miss Maisy,...
To my surprise and delight, both children slept through their first night here in the new house without a peep or a problem. We were all awakened this morning by the contractors (which may explain why the neighbors haven't come over to greet us, because before we moved in there probably wasn't any pounding happening at 6:30 in the morning on this block) and Monkey came downstairs and hopped into bed with me and Otto. "Hello!" he greeted us. "I had a good sleep!" As if he'd slept here a million times and hopped up to start the day with us the same way for the last year or seven. "Good morning...
