Rugrats and Dirty Rugs

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...

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...

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, gr...

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...

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 scream...