Flicking Etiquette

I am always looking for opportunities to teach my children manners and etiquette.

"When someone says 'Hello', it is polite to say hello back."
"If you see a piece of trash on the ground, you should pick it up and throw it away. It's just the right thing to do."
"If you see a young or old woman opening a door, you hustle over there and hold it open for her. It's what gentlemen do."

That's how they will learn.

Well, I was at a loss the other day.

We pull into the Target parking lot, right up next to a really nice, gray car. I was careful not to bump it with my door, because a ding just isn't nice. I'm unloading my baby when one of my boys, who shall remain unnamed, flicked a booger...and it landed on the car. The fancy-schmancy car.

This was no small booger, mind you. Oh, no. I will not describe it to you; I will spare you that much. But suffice it to say it was big and it was ugly. And it was on the car door.

"..... that is just gross," I scolded! "Next time grab a tissue. Booger flicking just isn't cool." Apparently I need to teach them a little more about personal hygene and proper disposal of nasal discharge.

So now what? What is the right thing to do next?

Do you leave a note, apologizing for the thoughtlessness of my booger-flicking son?

Do I try and remove it, risking a car alarm that would most definitely draw attention to the sticky mess?

Or do I walk away, hoping that there are no passangers who will see it before the wind can blow it off?

You guessed it, folks. I took the high road.

I quickly loaded my kids into the cart and hot tailed it into Target, looking over my shoulder to make sure no-one could associate me with the said booger.

High road, indeed.

What would you have done??

...but luckily, nothing happened.

This morning was cuuuu-ray-Zee! I woke up panicked because I was supposed to bring treats to the music class my kids go to and I didn't have anything that would work. So I was in a rush trying to get to the store.

But not until I had gotten my three older kids clothed, shoed, lunched, angered, prayed and out the door. Not an easy task considering... Considering nothing. It isn't easy no matter what the circumstances.

So, after shoo-ing them off and clothing the younger two, we load into the van only to see that annoying, orange light blaring at me. You know the one.  The "Sorry honey. I forgot to tell you that the van is out of gas, but I didn't have time to fill it up" light. Do you have one of those lights? Yeah, well, I do and it was on.

So I hustle to the gas station, paying careful attention that the pump and gas tank opening on my van matched up. I put the car in park and look back at my two dirty faced hooligans and turn on the music. I get out, cell phone in hand, and begin to fill 'er up.

I love that the pump has those notches that allow you to fill up and text at the same time. So convenient. It's almost like they knew that my husband was deaf.

Soon I hear "Click." All done. Wonderful. Back in the hatch. No, I don't want a carwash. Yes, I want a reciept. Keys. Ummm...where are my keys. Wait a second.

Is that my car running?

Oh. My. Heck!!!!

I left the car running, with my children in the car and proceeded to fill it with gas. Was I trying to kill my children?

At first I felt a little panicked. Then a little perplexed. Wasn't my car supposed to blow up or something? Don't get me wrong. I was thrilled that it hadn't... for several reasons. But isn't that one of the warnings on the pump? "Turn off engine before filling up, you idiot! Your car could explode!!" or something like that.

But it didn't.

Huh.

Perhaps it just isn't advisable. Kind of like using a cell phone while pumping. Or smoking a cigarette, although that one is just plain idiosy.

So I guess you could say, I'm a survivor...

...because nothing happened.


Double links today with Mama Kat and Jen Matlock...Check them out!

So I Married a Deaf Man: Olive Juice

"Olive Juice."

Don't you remember that game? A person stands a few feet away and you mouth "Olive Juice" and ask them what you said. They are bound to say, "I love you." Why? Because it looks the same on your mouth.

There are plenty of deaf people who can read lips. And they are very good at it. So good it is almost scary. Hubs is not one of them.

I think it is a huge misconception that if you are deaf, you can read lips. The amount of training that is required to learn this skill is unbelievable. Trying to understand a spoken language that you have never heard. Ever. And all they have to go on is how the word looks on the mouth. That's it.

They don't know that B and P make different sounds because you can't see it on the lips. They look identical. Go ahead. Try it. The difference is in how you move the air in your mouth. And you can't see air. This is the same for T and D, Z and S, F and V.

So if Hubs asks me, "What took you so long." and I speak back to him, "I was stuck on the train," he could possible interpret that as "I was stuck in the drain." Huh? 

There are times though that I wish he could read my lips. You know, like when I am in the middle of changing a poopie diaper and I need him to grab more wipes. "Could you get more wipes? Please?"

But instead he sees, "Hood you ate mo why peas please."

Or when a child of mine has hit his head and is bleeding, I could say, "I need a wash cloth."

But instead, he hears, "I nee a was claw."

How about when I am nursing my newborn baby, which in my case requires two hands, I could tell him, "Look out! Your boys are killing each other."

But instead he only gets, "Lou ow! Yo bows ah gill eat otter."

Not great communication, if you ask me.

Probably the only thing that my husband can lipread it the phrase, "Can you read my lips?"

At which point he will sign back, "No. Can you read my hands?"

There is no Arizona...I mean California

Who here doesn't hate needles? Okay, you are just weird. Honestly, I don't hate needles. I just don't particularly like them. Unless they are the needle that administers an epidural. But as a general rule, I don't love them.

My sister once stepped on a needle and half of it broke off in her foot and she had to have surgery. But that is a sewing needle and that's not the type I am talking about today.  

I am talking about the needles are used to puncture your skin and suck things out of or squirt thing into your body. Lovely, beautiful and down right pleasurable.

This is what I keep telling my 4 year old. He is super duper small for his age. We found out that he has delayed bone age and has had blood drawn two different times. He is now terrified of doctors and needles. Also showers, but that is irrelevant.

Well, I just found out that he has low growth hormone levels and so he has to have a growth hormone stimulation test. This involves not only a needle but an IV being put into his teeny tiny arm and being left there for about 2-3 hours.

Did I mention that he isn't supposed to eat for 12 hours before the test? Oh, and the test may have to be done at 6am. Such a lovely time to wake a four year old and tell him that he can't eat for another 3 hours. Can I tell you how excited I am?

Mostly, though, I am wondering how I am going to break the news to him.

"Hey, you know how you hate needles. Well, good news..."
or
"I promise. We are going to the zoo."
or
"Maybe this time it won't hurt."

There just isn't a good way to tell a kid. I choose honesty, because that's the kind of mom I am.

"Yes, it is going to hurt."
and
"Yes, you are brave."
and
"No, we can't skip town."
and the obvious
"Please don't pee on Mommy this time."

Needles...

Let's keep it in California, shall we?

It was an accident, I swear!

I grew up in a family where swearing just didn't happen.

Okay, well, that isn't entirely true. My mom was raised on a farm and that gave her an excuse for her little slips here and there. At least that is what my dad would tell us.

But overall, most of the time, unless you saw a guarder snake in the sewing room, there wasn't much swearing that happened in our house.

Oh, wait, unless you were my older sister and had had it up to your eyeballs in house work, that you felt you were doing all alone. She would, from time to time, for sheer shock value, say hell or damn.

Nope, there was no swearing in the Lee household. It just didn't happen.

Okay, there was that one time when we were in a car accident and dad swore at us. "I knew it would get you out of the car faster," was the reason he gave.

But, really, we didn't swear at my house. Or maybe I should rephrase that. I didn't swear at my house growing up. Never. Not ever.

Do you all remember, a long time ago,  there was a program called Shick that was supposed to help people who smoked quit? I do. I remember its commercial would come on in the mornings when I was waiting for Gilligan's Island or something to come on.

Well, my sister and I were playing around and I, instead of saying Shick said.... you guessed it, the S-word. My sister stood up and said, "You just cussed!! I am going to tell Daddy what you said when he gets home."

I am not quite sure why she was going to wait for my dad to come home, because mom was there all day. Maybe she thought it would be lost on the whole farm-girl excuse and I would not be properly punished. But she waited. And I, the sweet little girl that I was...and I was sweet, fretted all day long.

Well, when Dad walked through the door, she ran to him immediately and told him what I had said. I explained what I had meant to say and didn't get into trouble.

Now that I am a mom, there is no swearing in my house. My children are not allowed to swear. And they don't. Yet. I don't swear. Ever.

Except when I am at work and am interpreting others' conversations. I swear like a sailor then.  But that is it.

I swear.

Remember to flush...

If you want to take a shower, your child will want to come with you.

On the way to your shower, he will find a toy that he simply can't live without.

Once in the bathroom he will play with said toy until he sees the toilet paper.


Seeing the toilet paper will remind him that toilet paper belongs in the toilet, and what a fun game a toilet can be.


He will take the extra roll of toilet paper and throw it into the bowl. He will giggle and giggle.


Giggling will make remind him that he has a toy in the bathroom somewhere.


Playing with the toy will make him giggle some more.


He will glance in the direction of the toilet. Hmmm.

Toy.

Toilet.

If you give a child a toy in the same room as a toilet, he will probably flush the toy down the toilet to see what happens.


Seeing all the water on the ground will cause much freaking out and screaming.


Hearing the child scream will cause you to rinse at the speed of light and exit the shower .


Seeing the water on the floor near the toilet will make you growl inside and cause you to mutter, "Not again."


You will probably throw on some clothes, comfort the child and proceed back into the bathroom to clean up the mess.


Cleaning up the mess will make you wonder, "What the heck did he put in the toilet?"


You will remember that there had been a toy in the child's hand when he entered the bathroom. Ugh!


Because if you give a child a toy,


Chances are....


He'll want a toilet to go with it.

...and I didn't die.

All mommies have battle scars. They are called children. And don't we, as laboring soldiers, have the right to tell our stories? Ummm...you bet we do. Especially if we have our own blog.

With all of my children I have had epidurals. I have absolutely no desire to feel my child ripping his way out of my body. Nope, I am perfectly fine with being numb from the belly button down, watching a movie and intepreting for my husband. That is the way I have babies.

Or maybe I should say that is the way I used to have babies. That was before Briggy.

My contractions started in the morning and continued throughout the day. By evening, some of the contractions brought me to my knees...literally. But then they would go away. We had my brother and sister-in-law come over and she and I took a walk. That did it. Less than 3 minutes apart.

So we headed to the hospital. I was sure they were going to send me home because all the way there the contractions were 7-10 minutes apart. We get there and I go into triage to get checked. I asked her if they were going to send me home.

"Nope. You are at an 8. You are not going anywhere." An 8? Seriously?
So my next question was, "When can I get an epidural?"
"You can't. The anesthesiologist is in a C-section and you will be done by the time they get out."
To which I replied, "You don't understand. I don't have babies without epidurals."
To which she replied, "Blah blah- blahdidity blah...." I stopped hearing what she was saying. And everyone else, for that matter.

No epidural!! How was I going to make it through this? Seriously. I simply couldn't wrap my mind around it. Are you serious? How? How? No, really, how??? Look at a spot and concentrate really hard. Are you kidding me?!?

Hubs was trying to be supportive. "You can do it. You've never tried natural. It will be a good experience."

Good experience? Let's take your hand and hit it with a hammer. I wouldn't call that a good experience. Would you?? I would much rather have my hand completely numb, wouldn't you? Yeah, that's what I thought. But I didn't say that. I just said nothing. Speechless...for the first time in my life.

If they could promise it would be over in 30 minutes, (which it was) I think I could have handled it. But there were no promises, no timetables. Luckily, the midwife who was to deliver my baby was able to get the epidural man to squeeze me in. Whew, I thought. Let's roll.

Only, he should be fired. I felt it all. ALL OF IT. Lucky for me it was fast. I whined and cried and then cryned (whinned and cried...in case you didn't know that word.). Then out he came. And he was and is beautiful.

I didn't die. I made it through.

And have the cute little 20 month old scar to prove it!

Thanks, Mama Kat, for letting me re-live the pain.

So I Married a Deaf Man: Mistaken Identity

Surely everyone has heard of Helen Keller. You know, the amazing woman who couldn't see or hear but was able to learn how to communicate via sign language. I have yet to read her book, but no worries, I will.

I am not sure if it is because of her story that many many many people confuse deafness with blindness...But... for those people (none of you, of course) who don't understand the difference, let me clarify.

If a person is deaf, it means they have substantial hearing loss. In my husband's case, he is utterly and completely deaf. Stone deaf, if you will.

If a person is blind, it means that they can't see or have some visual impairment.

My Hubs is deaf. Not blind.

I can't tell you all the wacky questions I get when people hear that I am married to a deaf man.

"Oh, so can he read braille?"
"Do you have to buy those books with large print?"
Etc.

The most common question seems to be this: "So, can he drive?"

Yup. You see there are no laws stating that you have to hear to drive. If there were, then there would also be laws prohibiting radios, DVD players and hands-free devices. More than likely children wouldn't be allowed in cars either because, let's admit it, they are the biggest distraction. School bus drivers would be out of work... But I digress.

 Yes, deaf people can drive. No, blind people can't. Now that would be scary.

But the funniest story of mistaken identity happened right after Hubs and I were married. My best friend got married and so we drove down to Arizona to be at her reception. We sat up the night before and talked with the bride and her family. It was great fun.

When we left, her mother leaned over and said to her, "Hubs seems like a nice guy. You can't even tell that he is blind."

"Ummm, that's because he isn't."

Wipe Out

I have had a lot of roommates in my lifetime.

My freshman year in college I lived with 9 other girls in a house known as "The Passion Palace." Yeah, I know. What kind of parents leave their 18 year old daughter in a place with a name like that? Uh, mine.

I've had roomies from outside our country, and some from within. Roommates who could hear, roommates who could not. Roommates I loved. Roommates I liked. Roommates I never really got to know.

But there was one roommate that just sticks out. She wasn't a horrible person. In fact she was my sister's best friend. But she wasn't a great roommate. Example:

With 6 girls living under one roof, you can imagine how fast toilet paper runs out. So we set up a rotation of buying toilet paper. No big deal. Seems fair? That's what we thought.

Only this particular roommate refused to buy toilet paper.

"I am never here. I don't use the toilet paper here. So I don't think that I need to buy it."

What!! Okay, I had never really paid attention as to whether she used the toilet there or not, but I am pretty sure everyone has to go in the mornings when they wake up. I know I do and I have two bladders, for Pete's sake.  I am sure she didn't go outside and find a bush to water.

And most of us use the restroom before we go to bed at night. And if she didn't, then surely she would need to use it in the middle of the night. Maybe she was sneaking in, using one square at a time so none of us would notice.

"Oh, please," I said. "You totally use the bathroom. As much as the rest of us do. That's just lame!" (This was back when using the term "lame" wasn't lame.)

I can't remember if she ended up providing toilet paper or not. It was such a trivial thing, and yet I still get riled up when I think about it.

That is just something that I just don't have to deal with anymore. Instead I get to deal with other things:

"You are no longer allowed to stand when you pee because you aren't that good of an aim, son."
"If you are the one who uses the last piece of toilet paper, you need to be the one to replace it."
"Thanks, but saving the last teaspoon of milk really isn't being thoughtful."

The difference between these last roommates and the first is this:

I love them.

The Love Note

Having a dog sounded like such a great idea at first. The kids were excited, Hubs was excited, she was excited.

"Great idea my foot," she thought after she saw what he had left upstairs on her white bedroom carpet.

"Of course it would be on my side of the bed," she pouted out loud for no-one to hear.

“This is never going to come out,” she thought as she scrubbed at the spot on the worn carpet.

Just then, Rufus, sheepishly walked into the room and watched as she cleaned up his love note.

She looked up at his sorry eyes and said, "You're in the doghouse tonight, Mister."

"How about that for a great idea?"


(Participating in Jenny Matlock’s Saturday Centus. It's fun. You have up to 100 words to tell your story which must inclued the prompt. You should try it. It's a great idea!)

"You're such a baby!"

There is nothing cool about the way it happened.

I was leaning on the back of a chair in the kitchen, listening to my younger sisters talk and watching my older sister clean the floor. The chair unexpectedly  slipped and so did I.

It hurt. We are talking "Can I get an epidural in my arm" hurt.

I cried.

They laughed. Oh, and called me a baby.

In their defense, my nickname was "Pale Face" and it wasn't because I am fair skinned, though I am that. I had a tendency to cry...a lot. You would never know that now, but it is true.

In my defense, my arm was, at that moment, shaped like the letter U.

I picked myself up and walked into the front room, to lick my wounds alone. At that moment, my mom and other older sister walked in the room. (Cue hero/ Indiana Jones music.) Mom took one look and knew a normal arm shouldn't look like that and we headed to Urgent Care.

Tammy, my rough tough older sister, wrapped her coat around my shoulders and gave me a piece of her Double Bubble gum. Such a tender gesture. Gum was a much sought after commodity in our house, and she gave me hers.

I remember walking up to the Urgent Care sobbing. I remember walking in and seeing all these people staring at me, and I was suddenly able to control it.  They took an x-ray because the U-shaped arm wasn't enough, and sure enough, it was broken.

The worst part was getting the bone placed. It was jammed pretty bad.

The best part?

Self-induced sister guilt.

What would you expect?

Things you would expect to see at a Dairy Queen:

Things that are unexpected:

Expected:

Unexpected:

Expected:

Unexpected:

Yes, apparently at this Dairy Queen, they pay attention to detail. It's the little things, I guess. 

But a real high chair? 

Really?

You can say that again.

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny....ahem...not so much.

Awkward. That is how I describe myself in a bathing suit these days.

It hasn't always been like this. Back in the pre-kids days, the only thing I had to worry about in a bathing suit was my white legs.  I am pretty fair. But now there is a little more of me to go around and so my swimsuit and I are more aquaintances than friends.

That being said, I refuse to let my body rule my life. I am where I am and I don't want my kids to suffer because of my insecurities with my body. So we live our lives. And sometimes that includes taking a swim...which involves a swimsuit.

A few months ago we had one such occasion. We were all getting on our bathing suits and I had just bought a new suit that was not as comfortable as I had expected. Oh well. I just went with it.

As we were gathering things I asked my kids what they thought of it.

My daughter looks at me and lovingly says,

"That's okay, Mom. There will be other fat people there too."

Good to know.

 Now I feel better.

Thanks for the awkward moment, Mama Kat.)

So I Married a Deaf Man: Sam I am

"Who is that girl over there?"
"I'm not quite sure. I have never seen her before."
"Oh, wait. Isn't she Hub's wife?"

That is apparantly my new name. I took on two names when I married Hubs. Hub's-wife Burns. That's me.

You think I am kidding, but I so am not. 

You see, without him, my connection to the Deaf community isn't strong enough to warrant full acceptance. But, because I am married to Hubs, I am tolerated to a higher degree. Appartenlty being Stef just isn't enough.

Oh, and it also isn't enough to just be married to a deaf man. Nope. You need to be either a CODA (Child of Deaf Adult or the more politically correct term is "Father Mother Deaf"), or an interpreter. Certified interpreter. Nationally certified interpreter.

Here is a typical conversation between hubs and other deaf friends:

"So, Hubs. Are you married?"
"Yes, I am married. See that knock-out over there?"
"She deaf?"
"No, she can hear."
"Really? Can she sign?"
"Yes. She is an interpreter."
"Wow! Cool."

Do I sound bitter? I am not. Not in the least. You see, my personality runneth over. They are gonna love me whether they like it or not. Usually within 2 or 3 months I have earned my own name back. I am that kind of person. Not overbearing at all.

It must be said that Hubs really is quite charismatic. Really. Not only is he good looking, but he is really friendly and people are drawn to him. Everyone loves Hubs. Everywhere we go. He is the one to be remembered.

Me, not so much.

So when people ask me, "Hey, aren't you Hub's wife."

I simply answer, "Why yes. Yes I am..."

"...Stef, I am." 

It's a trap!!

You turn the corner into a residential area and there it is, in the middle of the road. A large orange. No-one is around to claim the abandoned fruit. It's there for the taking. So you turn your wheels just so...making sure that your tires will hit the orange dead center, sending freshly squeezed orange juice in all directions. Score!!

You know you do this. Confess!

I admit it. I feel that urge. And sometimes I give in. But, I am wondering if I am the only one who has these weird thoughts pop into their head:

"What if that orange isn't really an orange? What if it is a bomb disguised as an orange and some sicko is sitting around the corner just waiting for someone to give in to that impulse?" Stupid terrorists.

Am I the only one who thinks this way?

There-in lies my inner conflict.  Do I risk my life and the life of all my children, who are innocently buckled in their seats, trusting that I am going to keep them safe, simply for the thrill of crushing the bajonkas out of that half full coke bottle?

Sadly, most of the times I will risk it. So far I have never hit a bomb. I guess I live on the edge, narrowly escaping that imaginary bomb threat. Every. Single. Time.

On a different but similar note, when I was in high school I was driving home from somewhere with my mom, two sisters and brother. There, in the middle of the road was a pumpkin, a nicely decorated jack-o-lantern. In the middle of the road.

Because this was before the imaginary bomb threats were even a thought in my head, I of course crushed Mr Jack into oblivion. Sah-weet!!. There was pretty much nothing left.

I was proud of myself, until my little brother hopped out of the van and came back sobbing. That was our pumpkin that I had splattered across the road.

My mom gave me that look.  You know that one. The one that says, "Look what you've done. You made your brother cry. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I wanted to say, "I didn't know it was our jack-o-lantern! Did you forget that it was laying in the middle of the road? Who was the genius that put it there? Sheesh."

But I probably just said, "Ooops. Sorry."

Resist the urge.

You could get grounded.

Or worse, killed.

Doesn't she know the difference?

I was not sure who to believe.

I got a note in my kindergartner's agenda from his teacher that reads:

"Could you please talk to Brody about not pretending to shoot the children in class. He would not stop after we asked him several times. He had to sit out recess."

Wonderful!

So when I sat down with him and asked him what happened, his response:

"She lied. I wasn't shooting them. Diego was shooting them."

Hmmmm. This is the little boy whose birthday was yesterday. This was the little boy who got a really cool Star Wars gun toy. This is the little boy who was playing with said toy minutes before he went to school.

Now you tell me. What's a mother to do?

"Well, she seemed pretty certain it was you. Why would she write me a note in your agenda if it wasn't you? Why would she lie to me about that?" I asked.

"I wasn't shooting them with a gun...."

Big sigh....

"...it was a light saber."

Lead me not into Temptation

Today is my son's birthday. You know what this means, right? Treats for the whole class so that everyone will think he is cool and he will know just how much I love him. Of course this visit has to happen right smack dab in the middle of baby's nap. Of course!

That's alright. I can just have baby wait to go down for another hour. That would have worked out super, except that upon dropping Birthday Boy off at school this morning I was told they would be having a fire drill during the normal snack time and could I come in a little later. Baby cakes can't wait that long for a nap.

Drat! I so don't want to bring everyone with me plus drinks plus the snack. I would have baby in one arm. Camden straggling behind and my sick daughter...

Wait a second... Idea.

My daughter, who is 8 years old is home sick with the stomach flu. The school is seriously 2 blocks away. I would only be gone for 15 minutes, tops. She knows my cell phone number. We have a dog. Baby is sleeping....

But what if someone breaks into the house.

Or what if the clothes dryer catches on fire and burns down the house.

What if baby wakes up and throws up and Kyla freaks out and runs out into the street crying, "Mommy. Why did you leave us?! Help!! Can some one please help me!"

But what are the chances of that happening? I mean, really?

2 blocks. 15 minutes.

A lifetime of Mommy guilt.

Temptation.

Miss me??

I have a great life. Really fantastic. Love being married. Love being a mom. Love love love.

That being said, there are those times, when I remember the single life. Or at least life before children. Because once you have children, you will always have children. (Unless you are some kind of psycho and get rid of them, then you would no longer have children, but you would be living up your single life behind bars.)

As wonderful as children are, and they are wonderful, there are some things that I miss. Let me name just a few.

I miss...

...alone time.

...skinny jeans. 

...sleeping in.

...all laundry done in one day.

....cars with just two doors.

...dates.

...sleeping in.

...daily showers.

...long daily showers.

...no sag.

...carefree road trips.

...uninterrupted conversations.

...sleeping in.

...smudge-free walls and windows.

I wouldn't give my life up for anything.

But I would like a few of these things back...

...someday.


(Another one of Mama Kat's great prompt ideas! Check her out!)

So, I Married a Deaf Man: Bump in the Night

I wake up to the sound of my front door opening and slamming shut.  "What was that? Am I hearing something?" Nah, it's only my imagination. I close my eyes and attempt to go back to sleep.  Moments later, I hear the door open and then slam shut, again.

I roll over to inform my husband that someone is in the house and he needs to get his man armor on and protect our home and children. He isn't there. "Oh, great," I think to myself. "Someone has taken my husband and is now coming back for the rest of us."

"Slam. Slam. Slam." I hear cupboards opening and closing all around the kitchen. "What kind of intruder is this?"

Then I hear my husband's unique noises indicating he is the culprit. The squeaky dog toy gives him away. He is playing fetch with the dog? I roll over. "What time is it, anyway?" 2:00am! You have got to be kidding me!!

You see, my husband isn't aware or forgets just how loud things can be. Whether it is the cupboards slamming, the dog toy squeaking or running the vacuum late at night, those things make noise, noise that he can't hear.

I can't tell you how many times I will just be laying down for bed when I hear the t.v. come on, shouting for all my sleeping children to hear. He may not have been the one to turn it up that loud, but there he sits, unaware of the need for a volume adjustment. The same thing happens with the computer. "If you don't see the circle with a line through it, the volume is still on."

During daylight, the noises aren't really an issue. In fact, they are barely noticeable above the raucous our crew makes. But when all are in bed, and things are much, much quieter, his unintentional noise-making is magnified.

It is amazing how loud a person can be while unloading a dishwasher. Who knew that pulling a chair across the floor could make a noise that would echo through the whole house. Squeaky toys, though small, are actually quite scary things to wake up to.

So, in my house, when I hear a bump in the night, chances are it is my husband...

...looking for something to eat.

Two weeks

Two weeks. 14 days. A lot can happen in that amount of time.

My baby can become an amazing artist, using my walls as his canvas. I have the evidence to prove it...in every room of my house.

My children can learn to hate homework,again. And then proceed to tell me...every...single...waking...moment. Homework = parental torture.

Hubs can go down a whole pant size in a measly 2 weeks. Me, I can go 2 months and not even lose one pound. Chances are I will gain. Darn scale!!

In just 14 days, my schedule has gone from taking my time doing what I want, whenever I want to a million different activities in a million different places with specific beginning and ending times.

But, as my 4 year old puts it, the bestest thing by far?

It didn't even take 2 weeks for the "my-stomach-hurts-so-bad-I-am-gonna-hurl-on-you" bug to hit our house. 2 weeks of school, my friends and that darn thing is making the rounds.

Maybe it will be gone soon.

I'll give it two weeks.

To tip or not to tip

I have never thought of myself as a cheapskate. I pay my babysitters well because I want them to come back. When it comes to paying tips I think I am right on. I usually give money equal to the service I receive.

Well, my nephew worked at Sonic this past summer and when we were visiting he mentioned that he had earned a lot of tips that night.

What?

At Sonic??

I didn't know I was expected to tip there. I mean, it is pretty cool that they can balance the food on a tray while riding roller blades. That is impressive...seeing that I can't even ride rollerblades and push a stroller at the same time without falling.

But in my mind, they are the same as the cashier at McDonalds. It never crossed my mind that I was dissing my carhop.

My Saturday confession: I have never tipped at Sonic. And am not sure that I ever will.

Have you??

Spare parts?

Have you read this book?

It is such a great book! I love it. It's about a boy who finds a few pieces of his hair in his brush and becomes terrified that his body is falling apart.  If you haven't read it and do not own it, go get it. It is a classic. Okay, maybe not a classic, but it is a great book!

I feel like this guy. Due to the allergies I never had until I moved here, I have eye leakage like you can't imagine. It is driving me bonkers. My kids think I am crying all the time...though sometimes this works in my favor.

"Could you please do your homework?"
"I don't want to. It is so bori... Are you crying? Okay, I will do it."

"You need to pick up your room, son."
"Gosh, Mom. I didn't know that it was that important to you."

However, when I am at work and the deaf caller says, "What is wrong with your eye. Your wiping is really annoying me,"...not so good.

The side of my eye is now chapped so bad from the wiping that the tears from my eye burns, causing more tears, causing more burning, and so on. My glasses constantly have those little white dried tear spots on them. I have temporarily suspended all make-up application to that eye except when necessary.

I'm falling apart, people.

Does anyone have a plug??

It burns!

Merry-go-rounds are dangerous. They scalp children.

So is sitting in the grass. Don't believe me? Ask my 4 year old.

Camden was so excited to go and watch Brody play soccer. He put on the extra shin guards, put on his tennis shoes and brought himself a ball. Even made sure he had his very own water bottle. He was s-e-t set!

Before we get to the field, my contacts decide to go bonkers. Luckily my friend's son is on the same team and so I ask her if she minded keeping an eye on Camden while I went and got my glasses. "No problem!" Super!

I head home. When I get back, I get out of the car and all I hear is Camden scream crying. You know the sound that isn't really a cry but isn't fully screaming either. He was scryming. So I hustle to get out Baby and hot tail it over to see what was going on.

I guess that he had the audacity to sit down on the grass. Only there, hidden under the grass was a huge fire ant hill. They latched onto his arm pit and the under part of his arm. He cried, but was ready to just be brave when he started to scream again. My friend  rips off Camden's shin guards and there are a couple enjoying a snack called "His Leg!!"

This is when I show up. I comfort him and we head home to make it better. How do you make that better? Those suckers hurt. Bad. Really bad. And they burn. Hence the name...fire ant. I put some cream on it and gave him some really cold wash clothes to put on the bites. It seemed to help.

All of a sudden he starts scryming again. I grab him, strip him bare and there, in his shorts, was the culprit. He had bitten my son like 15 times in two seconds. Poor Camden.

I grabbed that ant and I killed it. Then I killed it again. And just for good measure I killed it again.

You see, sitting is grass is dangerous. So is biting my son a billion times.

And so are merry-go-rounds.

(Brought to you by Mama Kat prompts)