Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Disappearing Drinks

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.