Since the death of our dishwasher, I have compromised with my oldest boys and have decided that if I want to make sure the pots and pans are done properly, I should do them myself.
Washing the dishes is one of those chores that makes me want to gag just because it is galling to have to do it in the first place.
I'd rather just thumb my nose at the tree huggers and buy styrofoam plates and cups.
Really. Please. A seven-person family!!
No way am I going to save the world.
Anyway, one day I was doing my duty and scrubbing away when I was distracted by throwing some things away to clear off the kitchen counter.
I came back to the sink to continue the dreaded chore and realized the washcloth had disappeared.
I'm not kidding. It was no where in sight.
Up and left.
Gone.
Like dust in the wind.
This phenomenon brought to mind a time in the past that I had forgotten about.
Our little family had gone to Mickey D's one time and Doc gave Bashful and Grumpy the job of taking the cups over to the soda pop dispenser and filling the cups with their preferred drinks.
On the way to the drink dispenser, the cups disappeared.
When Doc brought the food to our table, he questioned the boys about the cups.
"Where are the cups?" was met with dumbfounded stares.
It was amazing to Doc and me how those cups could just up and disappear on the way to the drink dispenser, for Pete's sake!
As I stood in front of the sink thinking about that little family episode and looking everywhere for my washcloth, I realized the apples didn't fall far from the tree.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Death of the Dishwasher
My dishwasher has died.
It refuses to help me out anymore, the dang thing.
I'm really mad at it. I mean, doesn't that thing understand that this is a seven person family? Does it realize how many dishes we use per day? Washing dishes by hand is a thing of the past, for Pete's sake! Not having a workable dishwasher is like going back to the dark ages.
I really tried figuring out what went wrong with it, but not being a professional plumber has decidedly not helped.
Tinkering with the stupid thing made me realize that I should've gone to trade school before I got married. Considering all the other little things that need tinkering with in this house that would have been a definite plus.
Hindsight.
After verbally blistering the machine in my kitchen for an hour, I came to the conclusion that I had to give in.
I looked on the bright side, though. I have five little dishwashers in the making.
I put the oldest two to work immediately.....with an evil, little grin.
I set to work teaching them how to do the monumental task of making sure the dishes we eat off of do not contain anymore germs.
Like potty-training, this is going to take some stubborn persistance on my part. For instance, teaching them to not to get water all over the floor.
It refuses to help me out anymore, the dang thing.
I'm really mad at it. I mean, doesn't that thing understand that this is a seven person family? Does it realize how many dishes we use per day? Washing dishes by hand is a thing of the past, for Pete's sake! Not having a workable dishwasher is like going back to the dark ages.
I really tried figuring out what went wrong with it, but not being a professional plumber has decidedly not helped.
Tinkering with the stupid thing made me realize that I should've gone to trade school before I got married. Considering all the other little things that need tinkering with in this house that would have been a definite plus.
Hindsight.
After verbally blistering the machine in my kitchen for an hour, I came to the conclusion that I had to give in.
I looked on the bright side, though. I have five little dishwashers in the making.
I put the oldest two to work immediately.....with an evil, little grin.
I set to work teaching them how to do the monumental task of making sure the dishes we eat off of do not contain anymore germs.
Like potty-training, this is going to take some stubborn persistance on my part. For instance, teaching them to not to get water all over the floor.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Pillow Cases Bad
Now that Sneezy is two-years-old, he has attempted to communicate more. Sometimes, he will say words, sometimes sentences, and even occasionally the scream of outrage.
Last night, I had decided to put on a clean sheet for his crib and put a pillow case on his pillow. I had just finished with the crib sheet and began putting the pillow case on when Sneezy let out a wail of horror.
I put him in his crib and tucked him in, but the kid was still horrified by what I had done. I knew immediately it had something to do with the pillow case, but for the life of me I couldn't understand why in the world the child would not want a nice, clean, soft pillow case on his pillow to cushion his face while sleeping.
I decided to ignore the ranting and raving hoping that he would eventually realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a pillow case on his pillow. I crossed my fingers and prayed the child would pass out soon.
After ten minutes of wailing, I finally went in there, grabbed the pillow, ripped the case off and said, "There! Are you happy now?"
The boy immediately shut up by putting the ever-present thumb in his mouth and cuddled with his pillow.
Yeah. I guess so.
Last night, I had decided to put on a clean sheet for his crib and put a pillow case on his pillow. I had just finished with the crib sheet and began putting the pillow case on when Sneezy let out a wail of horror.
I put him in his crib and tucked him in, but the kid was still horrified by what I had done. I knew immediately it had something to do with the pillow case, but for the life of me I couldn't understand why in the world the child would not want a nice, clean, soft pillow case on his pillow to cushion his face while sleeping.
I decided to ignore the ranting and raving hoping that he would eventually realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a pillow case on his pillow. I crossed my fingers and prayed the child would pass out soon.
After ten minutes of wailing, I finally went in there, grabbed the pillow, ripped the case off and said, "There! Are you happy now?"
The boy immediately shut up by putting the ever-present thumb in his mouth and cuddled with his pillow.
Yeah. I guess so.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Vivid Imagination
Fear can be quite insidious.
It creeps up on you without you realizing it is happening and then....BAM! You are thinking all kinds of crazy things.
Take for instance me and my vivid imagination.
All it takes for fear to creep in is my husband coming home late.
I like to think of myself as a usually easy-going person. I like to give my husband space. I'm sure the poor man doesn't want a nagging woman asking the five W's like a seasoned reporter the minute he walks in the door.
Of course, I'm yelling in my head at him all the same. After all, he didn't come home just a little while after his normal time.
We're talking LATE, people.
It was dark outside. The kids were getting ready for bed. I was starting to think about calling hospitals.
Of course, I'm telling myself not to worry. It's a sin to worry after all. I'm not putting my trust in God. I have to trust that my husband will be alright and nothing bad is going to happen to him. Everything is just peachy.
And then that insidious voice of fear says, "Yeah, right. He's probably all mangled up in his tiny, little unreliable vehicle after having been smashed to smithereens on the highway by a truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel."
Oh, I have all kinds of scenarios running around in my head.
By the end of the night, I had the man's funeral planned out.
Not kidding.
I had to give myself a good smack in the face after that.
It creeps up on you without you realizing it is happening and then....BAM! You are thinking all kinds of crazy things.
Take for instance me and my vivid imagination.
All it takes for fear to creep in is my husband coming home late.
I like to think of myself as a usually easy-going person. I like to give my husband space. I'm sure the poor man doesn't want a nagging woman asking the five W's like a seasoned reporter the minute he walks in the door.
Of course, I'm yelling in my head at him all the same. After all, he didn't come home just a little while after his normal time.
We're talking LATE, people.
It was dark outside. The kids were getting ready for bed. I was starting to think about calling hospitals.
Of course, I'm telling myself not to worry. It's a sin to worry after all. I'm not putting my trust in God. I have to trust that my husband will be alright and nothing bad is going to happen to him. Everything is just peachy.
And then that insidious voice of fear says, "Yeah, right. He's probably all mangled up in his tiny, little unreliable vehicle after having been smashed to smithereens on the highway by a truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel."
Oh, I have all kinds of scenarios running around in my head.
By the end of the night, I had the man's funeral planned out.
Not kidding.
I had to give myself a good smack in the face after that.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Celtic Warrior
We went to visit the doctor the other day.
Of course, in our house that is not an unusual occurrence.
In this particular instance, Happy needed stitches.
The boy had decided to stand on top of a kitchen stool. Said stool decided to tip over and fall out from underneath him. The poor kid's forehead slammed into it and he bled all over himself.
Being the expert in "do we need stitches or not", I took one look at his head and knew we needed a doctor since I am not an expert in stitching up rambunctious boys. My bedside manner would be decidedly lacking.
Everything went as expected until it was time for Happy to feel the sting of the needle. Things didn't go well after that.
The doc had decided to put a paper-like material over his face while he stitched him up and Happy was not happy with that.
The kid started screaming his head off.
It wasn't the kind of "Help me, this hurts!" kind of screaming. It was the extremely angry Celtic warrior kind of screaming. It was the "How dare you do this to me!" kind of screaming.
The screams continued throughout the procedure and it rattled off the walls of the entire building. Intermittently, everyone heard, "Get this thing off of me!"
Needless to say, it was no picnic.
Of course, I felt compassion for the boy, but after the 50th scream, my patience was at an end. I ended up hissing at the child to please knock it off and sometimes not with a please.
Once the material came off his face, Happy immediately calmed down. We all breathed a sigh of relief and I rattled my ear with my finger to try and get rid of the ringing.
As soon as I could, I hustled the boy out of the building apologizing profusely to everyone all the while. I had to keep in mind that, after all, the kid is only four.
Someday, I will tell him that when he goes into battle he may be scared. I will remind him of this day and tell him that he may be scared, but he has a warrior's heart.
And a warrior doesn't let fear stand in the way.
Of course, in our house that is not an unusual occurrence.
In this particular instance, Happy needed stitches.
The boy had decided to stand on top of a kitchen stool. Said stool decided to tip over and fall out from underneath him. The poor kid's forehead slammed into it and he bled all over himself.
Being the expert in "do we need stitches or not", I took one look at his head and knew we needed a doctor since I am not an expert in stitching up rambunctious boys. My bedside manner would be decidedly lacking.
Everything went as expected until it was time for Happy to feel the sting of the needle. Things didn't go well after that.
The doc had decided to put a paper-like material over his face while he stitched him up and Happy was not happy with that.
The kid started screaming his head off.
It wasn't the kind of "Help me, this hurts!" kind of screaming. It was the extremely angry Celtic warrior kind of screaming. It was the "How dare you do this to me!" kind of screaming.
The screams continued throughout the procedure and it rattled off the walls of the entire building. Intermittently, everyone heard, "Get this thing off of me!"
Needless to say, it was no picnic.
Of course, I felt compassion for the boy, but after the 50th scream, my patience was at an end. I ended up hissing at the child to please knock it off and sometimes not with a please.
Once the material came off his face, Happy immediately calmed down. We all breathed a sigh of relief and I rattled my ear with my finger to try and get rid of the ringing.
As soon as I could, I hustled the boy out of the building apologizing profusely to everyone all the while. I had to keep in mind that, after all, the kid is only four.
Someday, I will tell him that when he goes into battle he may be scared. I will remind him of this day and tell him that he may be scared, but he has a warrior's heart.
And a warrior doesn't let fear stand in the way.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Dust Bunnies
We seriously need a normal backyard.
You know. The kind that is fenced-in all around and six-feet tall. The gate is padlocked and no one in his right mind would dare venture forth with a German shepherd in the yard.
One that happens to be the neighborhood terror right now.
I need a normal backyard, people.
One with thick, cool grass and tall, bushy trees to give shade. Lots of them.
Instead, I've got a backyard that brings in four boys covered from head to toe in dirt after an afternoon of play.
They literally come inside looking like dust bunnies. Large ones.
Enduring their mother's horrified reaction, they are asked, "What in the world are you doing out there? Rolling around in the dirt?!" As if that were something to be looked upon as insane.
Which, to them, is an absolutely normal thing to do.
Come to find out, they like to take the tricycle to the top of the bluffs and roll down the hill.
It's all about the high-risk sports.
Who wants a normal backyard when you can fly down a hill and risk breaking your neck?
Next thing I know, they'll be jumping out of airplanes.
You know. The kind that is fenced-in all around and six-feet tall. The gate is padlocked and no one in his right mind would dare venture forth with a German shepherd in the yard.
One that happens to be the neighborhood terror right now.
I need a normal backyard, people.
One with thick, cool grass and tall, bushy trees to give shade. Lots of them.
Instead, I've got a backyard that brings in four boys covered from head to toe in dirt after an afternoon of play.
They literally come inside looking like dust bunnies. Large ones.
Enduring their mother's horrified reaction, they are asked, "What in the world are you doing out there? Rolling around in the dirt?!" As if that were something to be looked upon as insane.
Which, to them, is an absolutely normal thing to do.
Come to find out, they like to take the tricycle to the top of the bluffs and roll down the hill.
It's all about the high-risk sports.
Who wants a normal backyard when you can fly down a hill and risk breaking your neck?
Next thing I know, they'll be jumping out of airplanes.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Bug Spray
I often wonder if the liberal testosterone running through their veins aides in the shut-down of the brain.
They are such violent creatures at times and often their hands are in permanent fists. Even Sneezy has perfected the fist with his tiny, little baby hand.
I would swear they try to think up ways to perfect their masculinity, but often they end up with escapades that border on the moronic.
I have said to myself more often than not that I am surrounded by morons.
Case in point.
Due to the extreme critter conditions we find ourselves here in southern Colorado, we have the ever-present bug spray in the garage.
This is not the kind you find in a dinky, little can. It's the kind that you carry and has a hose attached to a spray nozzle.
Heavy-duty stuff here.
After all, we want to KILL the spiders, not numb them.
We keep it high up off the floor because after all we do try to be responsible adults and keep poison out of reach of children.
It even has it in big, bold letters on the product itself: KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN.
So, we thought it would be safe on top of the fridge in the garage totally not realizing that our children may be getting taller, but they still require parental supervision.
One day, 7 year old Sleepy comes to tell me his daily observations of life in general when I noticed he had a peculiar rash on his face.
My forehead scrunched in confusion and with great exasperation yelled, "What happened to your face?!"
He calmly replied that Grumpy sprayed him with bug spray. He went on to show me the various body parts that had gotten in the way as well when I pulled up his shirt to check.
"Grumpy?! Grumpy did this?"
You may well wonder why I ask this question, but I always thought Grumpy was more intelligent than this.
Thus, I wonder at this point if maybe the testosterone got in the way of his brain.
After Grumpy was found, he was brought to the firing squad.
He looked quite disconcerted to find his mother just staring at him with her mouth open and fire in her eyes for a good minute before she started into lecturing.
When his mother gets going, it could be a good ten minutes before she starts winding down. After all, this is poison we're talking about. It needs a good ten-minute lecture if not more.
All the while my mouth is streaming forth with all sorts of outraged motherly noises, I'm thinking, "Dumb. Just dumb. I'm surrounded by morons."
The I wonder about the things I don't know about.
It's enough to make me shudder.
They are such violent creatures at times and often their hands are in permanent fists. Even Sneezy has perfected the fist with his tiny, little baby hand.
I would swear they try to think up ways to perfect their masculinity, but often they end up with escapades that border on the moronic.
I have said to myself more often than not that I am surrounded by morons.
Case in point.
Due to the extreme critter conditions we find ourselves here in southern Colorado, we have the ever-present bug spray in the garage.
This is not the kind you find in a dinky, little can. It's the kind that you carry and has a hose attached to a spray nozzle.
Heavy-duty stuff here.
After all, we want to KILL the spiders, not numb them.
We keep it high up off the floor because after all we do try to be responsible adults and keep poison out of reach of children.
It even has it in big, bold letters on the product itself: KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN.
So, we thought it would be safe on top of the fridge in the garage totally not realizing that our children may be getting taller, but they still require parental supervision.
One day, 7 year old Sleepy comes to tell me his daily observations of life in general when I noticed he had a peculiar rash on his face.
My forehead scrunched in confusion and with great exasperation yelled, "What happened to your face?!"
He calmly replied that Grumpy sprayed him with bug spray. He went on to show me the various body parts that had gotten in the way as well when I pulled up his shirt to check.
"Grumpy?! Grumpy did this?"
You may well wonder why I ask this question, but I always thought Grumpy was more intelligent than this.
Thus, I wonder at this point if maybe the testosterone got in the way of his brain.
After Grumpy was found, he was brought to the firing squad.
He looked quite disconcerted to find his mother just staring at him with her mouth open and fire in her eyes for a good minute before she started into lecturing.
When his mother gets going, it could be a good ten minutes before she starts winding down. After all, this is poison we're talking about. It needs a good ten-minute lecture if not more.
All the while my mouth is streaming forth with all sorts of outraged motherly noises, I'm thinking, "Dumb. Just dumb. I'm surrounded by morons."
The I wonder about the things I don't know about.
It's enough to make me shudder.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Snake Scare
We've lived in this particular house in southwest Colorado for about three years now and have not seen the mythical creature called the rattlesnake.....until last night.
My parents have come for a visit and brought a trailer with them to the delight of the boys.
They parked it in our driveway and we all have beaten a path to and from the house.
Last night, Mom was tired and decided to call it a night. Two seconds after she walked out the door, she walks back in and nonchalantly says, "Okay. Someone go out there and kill the snake."
Pandemonium breaks out.
Everyone just has to see the snake outside and lo and behold, after some inspection to the thing on the sidewalk with big boots and a monster flashlight, the verdict was a baby rattlesnake had decided to visit.
Oh, joy.
With Unca Gug smashing it with a baseball bat and Doc holding the gun on it just to make sure, the wiggling mass of snake was finally put to rest.
I think I will be walking to the trailer on my tippy-toes next time.....and maybe I'll bring Doc's gun along with me just to be on the safe side.
My parents have come for a visit and brought a trailer with them to the delight of the boys.
They parked it in our driveway and we all have beaten a path to and from the house.
Last night, Mom was tired and decided to call it a night. Two seconds after she walked out the door, she walks back in and nonchalantly says, "Okay. Someone go out there and kill the snake."
Pandemonium breaks out.
Everyone just has to see the snake outside and lo and behold, after some inspection to the thing on the sidewalk with big boots and a monster flashlight, the verdict was a baby rattlesnake had decided to visit.
Oh, joy.
With Unca Gug smashing it with a baseball bat and Doc holding the gun on it just to make sure, the wiggling mass of snake was finally put to rest.
I think I will be walking to the trailer on my tippy-toes next time.....and maybe I'll bring Doc's gun along with me just to be on the safe side.
VISA Solution
Grandma and Grandpa have come for a visit and they have been imparting some of their wisdom and advice to the boys.
Grandma asked the two older boys (9 and 12) if they have thought about where they will take their girlfriends on a date.
Of course, their reply was an adamant no, so Grandma decided then and there to give them some advice.
She told them to take their girls to a nice restaurant with sit-down service and nice silverware and then after that take them to a movie.
She informed them that a good date would cost them approximately $80.
Grumpy replied, "Wow! That costs about as much as a bunny rabbit!" (His mind is always full of future plans for buying his own pet rabbit.)
Grandma said they would need to get a good job so they could afford to do this.
Grumpy said, "Or I could just use a VISA."
Grandma asked the two older boys (9 and 12) if they have thought about where they will take their girlfriends on a date.
Of course, their reply was an adamant no, so Grandma decided then and there to give them some advice.
She told them to take their girls to a nice restaurant with sit-down service and nice silverware and then after that take them to a movie.
She informed them that a good date would cost them approximately $80.
Grumpy replied, "Wow! That costs about as much as a bunny rabbit!" (His mind is always full of future plans for buying his own pet rabbit.)
Grandma said they would need to get a good job so they could afford to do this.
Grumpy said, "Or I could just use a VISA."
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Ever-Lovin'
There is a phrase that I am fond of repeating.
Actually, I have no choice because the reason for my favorite phrase happens on a daily occurrence.
I have five sons who scream just to hear themselves do it.
It seems to be their favorite pastime.
Throughout the day, I am constantly yelling, "Shut up!", or "Stop it!", or "Be quiet!", or when I've really had it, "Shut the *&%$ up!"
Well, not really, but that's what I'm thinking by the end of the day while I'm grabbing my hair and pulling what is left of it by the scalp.
There are times when I've given a blow-by-blow description of my day to Doc and my usual phrase ends up in the conversation.
"He was screaming his ever-lovin' head off!"
Again, this is a daily occurrence and I am forever repeating that particular phrase.
It's no wonder that Grumpy has picked it up himself.
Sneezy was ready for his nap this morning and we all knew it was time because the child made his bad temper more than obvious.
Grumpy took it upon himself to deposit the bad-tempered tyrant in jail, er bed and shut the door.
After he trooped downstairs, he informed me, "He is screaming his ever-lovin' head off!"
Actually, I have no choice because the reason for my favorite phrase happens on a daily occurrence.
I have five sons who scream just to hear themselves do it.
It seems to be their favorite pastime.
Throughout the day, I am constantly yelling, "Shut up!", or "Stop it!", or "Be quiet!", or when I've really had it, "Shut the *&%$ up!"
Well, not really, but that's what I'm thinking by the end of the day while I'm grabbing my hair and pulling what is left of it by the scalp.
There are times when I've given a blow-by-blow description of my day to Doc and my usual phrase ends up in the conversation.
"He was screaming his ever-lovin' head off!"
Again, this is a daily occurrence and I am forever repeating that particular phrase.
It's no wonder that Grumpy has picked it up himself.
Sneezy was ready for his nap this morning and we all knew it was time because the child made his bad temper more than obvious.
Grumpy took it upon himself to deposit the bad-tempered tyrant in jail, er bed and shut the door.
After he trooped downstairs, he informed me, "He is screaming his ever-lovin' head off!"
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