Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Easter Baskets and Ghost Children


I sure hope this lake isn't haunted. All I have is this paddle and a dry clean-only J Crew sweater....

Afternoon Readers,

I hope everyone had an amazing Easter.

Detox is the name of the game around here. Well, that and pulling plastic grass out of everything we own. Why do I talk myself into grass every year?

My Mental Easter Conversation:

Should I buy the grass this year?
No, it's demon grass that clogs the vacuum and makes me want to die.
But it looks cute in the baskets.
It also gets stuck in the heating ducts until Christmas.
I'll take five bags.

Besides wading through green, plastic misery, I'm just glad we survived another year of being woken up at 6am by children with chocolate streaming down the sides of their mouths and shouting about eggs.

"Mom. Mom? Mommy. We found all the eggs, but the dog ate jelly beans and he's not looking so good. Should we tell him to throw up in here or the hallway?"

"I'm up."

On its face, trying to care for kids on a candy high is one of the most frightening things about being parent, but I'm here to tell you it's not even close to number one. Not even in the top three. The most terrifying thing about being a parent is having to participate in various Children of the Corn moments that hammer you at the least expected of times. Like the one that happened to me a few nights ago. It's actually amazing I'm able to communicate with you guys today, because I was flirting with a bonafide heart attack. It's important that I write about it, if only for therapy's sake. Let's set the scene, shall we?

Imagine it's midnight. Imagine it's pitch black in the house. Imagine you're woken from a dead sleep by something banging around in your kitchen.

"What was that? The kids are all asleep."

Husband groggily rolled over and made a non-committal noise that was supposed to imply I was totally safe.

I wasn't having it. "Did you lock the door?" I asked.

He yawned. "What? Yeah. It's probably a mouse."

"Doesn't make me feel better at all."

"Then it's probably a ghost."

Slowly, I slid back down into the fluffy security of my comforter, before I squeaked out, "This is horrific. I married you to protect me against intruders, and here we lay, ready to be bludgeoned to death."

Husband's snoring shut me out, so while I still had a shred of courage, I crept out of bed and inched down the stairs, intent on checking all the doors. I'd prove Husband wrong, right before a shadowy stranger whacked me in the temple with the wooden cutting board I'd left on the counter.  My feet found the kitchen floor, and I padded through each room, tugging on door handles and trying locks. I made my way to the living room and tried the back door. Unlocked.

No!

As if in answer, a pot banged in the kitchen cabinets, prompting me to throw the lock shut and bolt back upstairs. I skittered back under the covers and waited to die. If it was a mouse, it was a big mouse.

A killer mouse.

Trembling, I crept back out from under the covers, sat up, and, poised to listen, tried to figure out what was going on downstairs. If whatever it was decided to crawl up the stairs, I could, at the very least, use Husband as a human shield.

After all, he'd left us to die while he slept. It was the least he could do.

Like any garden variety idiot in a horror movie, I stared at the open bedroom door for what seemed like an eternity. And, just as everything quieted, a shape ran past my door so fast, I left a wet spot on the bed.

I screamed while my brain processed what was going on.

A.) We had four children asleep and one ghost child.
B.) We had three children asleep and one roaming around.
C.) If A were true, we were moving.

Intent on not being trapped in The Shining, I hopped up and ran down the hall, while Husband laughed in bed behind me. The thought of ghost children, or any ghosts really, doesn't bother him. It's a ridiculous burden I must bear on my own. After a few confused moments, a quick check to make sure the walls weren't bleeding, and double checking that Redrum hadn't been smeared across the bathroom mirror in toothpaste, the wayward four-year-old was tucked back in bed. Doc has a habit of sleep walking. I will never get used to this.

So, here I sit, cramming Tootsie Rolls into my mouth and trying to wrap my head around it all.

Children are cute.

Children can also scare the crap out of you.

So, that's fun.


And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, February 2, 2017

If You Have Anxiety, Just Remember The World Is Full of Dog Hair


Morning Readers,

Well, it's time to get 2017 rolling.

And by "rolling," I mean skipping right over January, here at the blog, and jumping straight into February. You can do that when you're not famous. Besides, what really happened in January, anyway?

Snow
Cabin fever
I started watching Hell On Wheels, and I'm SO glad I don't live in a covered wagon. Can we just talk about that for a second? I'd like to give a huge shout out to the pioneers because: No indoor plumbing, farm work in dresses, hunting food on a daily basis, and hand-washing underwear.

I think we can all agree Paige Kellerman would've made it about a day before dying of cholera. And my oxen died of cholera. And then my whole extended family. So thanks, Early Settlers!

Now then, I mentioned, back in December, my anxiety was at an all time high. But you'll be relieved to know I was able to get it under control, package it, and carefully move it right into January, where I let it run its course. Sure, I did things to relax, like filing my taxes and cleaning food out from under the kids' beds, but, in the end, it was dog hair that broke up my pity party.

Let's rewind to last year....

Me: I'm ok with getting a dog, as long as it doesn't shed very much.
Husband: Understood. I don't think labs shed a lot.

Lies.

As it turns out, the Labrador Retriever, or Canis Familiaris, sheds enough to build several more Labradors. Consequently, any time I endeavored to feel sorry for myself in January, Ned Yost's coat activated and exploded on anything I remotely cared to keep clean. But, as with any animal Husband brings home, a year into the process is entirely too late to do anything to remedy the situation. Like mail him to Antarctica.

I'll let you be the judge as to which one I'm talking about.

Laundry time is my favorite time to reflect on all the ways life has been unfair to me, so of course this most special mental alcove of my day has been ruined by what dog information websites have informed me is, "moulting season." And it goes a little something like this...

"Ugh, student loans are due again. Why was it I needed higher education?"
*Opens washing machine*
"Because the interest is where they get you. Sure, the degree is nice, but maybe I should've looked into apprenticing as a blacksmith or a glassblower. Those people make a killing at renaissance festivals."
*Grabs wet laundry and strains to open dryer*
"Maybe I can barter some of this wet cra-"
*Stares at open dryer and lint trap in horror*
"Sweet mother of all that's good and holy."

Poof. And, just like that, I'm scraping eighty pounds of dog hair out of a machine, and piecing together a new, less mobile dog.  (Dog hair sculptures available on request.)

It's been extremely frustrating, having to push aside drowning in puddles of self-loathing, in favor of meticulously pulling chocolate hair off couches, beds, dishware, mobile devices, the refrigerator, toilets, and some inexplicably stray strands in a fresh sports bra. *falls over dead*

No one has time to feel sorry for themselves in these conditions. And that's just sad.



And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: