Rugrats and Dirty Rugs

Disappearing Drinks

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 04:02:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 03:48:00 +0000

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.

Pillow Cases Bad

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 16:11:00 +0000

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.

Vivid Imagination

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 23:15:00 +0000

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.

Celtic Warrior

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 17:50:00 +0000

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.

Dust Bunnies

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 14:24:00 +0000

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.

Bug Spray

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 17:40:00 +0000

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.

Snake Scare

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 22:39:00 +0000

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.

VISA Solution

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 22:33:00 +0000

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."

Ever-Lovin'

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 15:37:00 +0000

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!"

Ghastly

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 16:22:00 +0000

Ghastly.

I love that word.

It's the kind of word that you have to say with an English accent.

Ghastly.

Every time I hear it or read it, I laugh.

I can't seem to help myself. Just the sound of it rolling off my tongue emits giggles out of my mouth.

I then wonder how I can use it in my every day life.

What would I describe as ghastly?

Well, maybe the kitchen floor after dinnertime.

Yes. I would say that was ghastly.

Or, maybe the bathroom floor around the toilet after the boys have used it.

Definitely ghastly.

Even possibly, that one time when I was stranded on the road with five children and two flat tires.

That was definitely a time that exuded ghastliness.

Is that a word? If not, it should be. There are times in my life where that word should be used and laced with scathing sarcasm.

I wouldn't be averse to using it as a mild profanity, either.

It makes one feel quite brilliant actually when describing a scene that one would call revolting in the extreme.

Or just mildly disgusting.

The word ghastly should be used at all occasions of ghastliness if only to make one feel better.

Disgusting Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 18:32:00 +0000

"You know what, Mom?"

"What, Sleepy?"

"Inside your eye is disgusting stuff."

"Oh." I take a moment to laugh.

"Yeah. Bashful and Grumpy looked into my eye and said there is disgusting stuff in there."

Okay, then.

A Round, Little Plug

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 00:46:00 +0000

One evening, while visiting my parents, I decided to give my rank toddler a bath.

I plopped him down on the floor and looking into the tub, my face scrunched into confusion. This was an older tub and didn't have any mechanism to plug it up. I knew my parents had a special plug for it, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

So, I yelled down the stairs, "Mom! Where's the plug to the bathtub?"

To prove that I am getting old in more ways than one, I thought I heard her say it was on the floor next to the tub.

The only plug I could see was the toilet plunger.

"Huh," I muttered, and grabbed it.

I stuck that dang toilet plunger into the tub to see if it would plug up.

As I pushed it down, it popped right back up and I said to Sneezy, "They can't be using the toilet plunger to plug up the bathtub."

My face was a study in confusion as I yelled down the stairs, "Do you mean the toilet plunger, Mom?" just to make sure our wires weren't crossing.

In order for her deaf daughter to hear her, she raised her voice and said, "The plug is on the shelf in the bathtub."

"Oh," and there it was. A round, little plug.

This was definitely one of my dumbest moments.

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 00:41:00 +0000

Bashful comes in the house after having a rousing, good time outside playing with some neighborhood boys.

He bypasses the kitchen and troops downstairs to the bathroom.

He happily explains to me that there is yet another boy to play with while turning on the bathroom faucet.

I interrupt his dialogue to inform him that we do have cups in the kitchen and he is quite able to fill one with water from the kitchen sink.

The boy looks at me as if I have suggested something totally incomprehensible. His expression was like, "Why would I do something like that?" and proceeded to bend over and put his mouth in the running water.

I'm raising a bunch of barbarians.

Waiting for the Mail

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 19:09:00 +0000

This morning, I announced to the boys that two new movies would be arriving in the mail soon.

Happy anticipated this with bated breath.

He even knew what time the mail lady usually arrived and asked if he could go outside and get the mail.

He put on a mismatched outfit and shoes and trudged out the door.

After a while, I came out of my daze and noticed that there was no Happy exclaiming his excitement and waving the tell-tale red envelopes in the air.

I called and called for him in the house and then Grumpy noticed that Happy was still outside.

We realized that the mail hadn't arrived yet because Happy had decided to lie down on the ground and wait for it come.

No Time for A Sock

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 19:51:00 +0000

It was time to go to another birthday party.

We were rushing out the door as usual when I noticed that Grumpy had yet to put some socks on. I told him to go find some and went out to the car. I mentally crossed my fingers and thought, "He can find his own socks, for Pete's sake! He's nine!"

We sat in the car and waited for him to come out so that we could be on our way.

We arrived at the party all accounted for and I told the boys to take their shoes off when we got in the door.

I was talking to a friend of mine when she looked behind me and started laughing.

I turned around and there was Grumpy with only one sock on.

"Wha....where is your other sock?" I demanded huffily.

He sheepishly replied, "I couldn't find another one."

Chocolate and Exercise

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 22:50:00 +0000

A few months back, my husband bought an exercise bike.

Oh, joy.

I pointed to the general direction of the TV and said he better put it there if he expects it to be used at all.

I love to kill two birds with one stone.

I have neglected that poor bike and dust has settled over it for the past couple (okay, maybe a few) weeks.

Last night, I discovered a box of Ghiardelli chocolate-covered pretzels.

Considering my weakness for chocolate and the empty bag this morning, maybe I should dust off that exercise bike.

Nostalgic Chicken

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 22:30:00 +0000

One beautiful summer day, Doc, the boys, and I were visiting beautiful West Virginia and my family.

We were sitting out on the deck scattered around in chairs and Mom was making dinner for us all.

She made fried chicken and homemade French fries.

We sat outside and enjoyed our feast and ever since then, I've craved that meal with more than just hunger pains.

Tonight, I'm making a dummed-down version of that meal.......shake-n-bake......because I can't make fried chicken.

I am making homemade French fries, though.

I'm going to eat this meal with Doc and the boys and I'm going to miss you, Mom.

Now, I better go before I burn it.

My Buddy

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 18:26:00 +0000

My parents have the cutest dog in the world.

He is a cocker spaniel and his name is Buddy.

He is aptly named because he is my dad's buddy. He loves cuddling with him in his favorite chair or sleeping with him in bed.

Buddy is twelve years old now and deaf as a doorknob. (or is it doornail? Whatever.)

He is a barking dog and now that he is older there are times when he doesn't realize that there are people walking their dogs on the street and my parents will get a reprieve from the ferocious barking and snarling of teeth (a little exaggerated, of course, for dramatic purposes).

He will occasionally see the passing car by chance and bark his ever-lovin' head off and I'll hear my mom yell the usual, "Buddy!" and I often wonder if he even hears her. He can still see her face, though, and the firm, no-nonsense look she gives him quiets the dog, but I can tell how hard it is for him not to bark by the continued rumbling in his throat.

While visiting about a week ago, Buddy became my cuddle buddy. This wasn't a good thing, though. That meant Buddy was lieing on the couch next to me. Which wasn't allowed.

Oops.

I should have realized since Mom's couch is white.

White.

Buddy is black as midnight and has fur as soft as the softest stuffed animal. Grumpy would have been pea-green with envy. So, when Buddy jumped onto the couch and snuggled up next to me, I thought he was allowed and it was perfectly fine with me. I enjoyed running my fingers through his silky hair.

So, when Dad told Buddy to get off the couch, I joked, "I'm just his sister. He won't listen to me."

Throughout my visit, Buddy got to be bad. I think that's why he liked me so much. We spent the whole week cuddling together on the couch.

At the end of my visit, Mom took Buddy for a walk and he came in with dirty paws. He immediately jumped onto the couch and left Buddy-size paw prints on her very white couch. Since I was in the kitchen at the time all I heard was, "Buuuudddddyyyyy!!!" in a Mother-is-exasperated-voice.

Poor Buddy. I come to visit and now he's in trouble.

Body Parts

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 18:23:00 +0000

Sleepy and I were going over body part names this morning.

He asked, "What are these bumpy things on my hands called?"

I said, "They're called knuckles."

"Oh. Where's my chest?"

I pointed to the general area.

He was quiet for a second and then pointed to his head and announced, "And this is my melon!"

Worry Wart

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 00:37:00 +0000

Our Grumpy is a little worry-wart.

I have probably contributed to this with my own anxiety over certain things.

One of the things that he worries about is gas for the car.

We are always traveling on Sundays and I am always thinking out loud to myself.

One of the things I always need to remind myself about is making sure there is enough gas.

I always seem to be daydreaming and there have been times when I've gasped aloud and wheezed, "I'm almost out of gas!"

My son knows about my notorious absentmindedness and he has probably envisioned all six of us walking down the road looking for the nearest gas station in a blinding blizzard or drenching rain.

It's not a pretty picture.

Now, he is the one who makes sure I am aware of the gas gauge.

Soon after we get in the car, I often hear, "Mom? Do you need gas?" or "Mom! Don't forget to get gas!"

Doc has pointed out to the boy that he is too young to be worrying so much.

Sweet Little Arms

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 15:18:00 +0000

Doc and the boys have had to contend with a grieving woman in the house since I came back.

Since my grandmother's funeral, I have been a blubbering mess.

Yesterday was awful.

I cried for two hours on the way to church. After Doc's beautiful sermon, I sat on the toilet in one of the bathroom stalls and sobbed. I even had to leave church a little earlier than usual in order to weep almost all the way home.

My family has been witness to this new and different woman and I'm sure they are wanting the old mom and wife back.

At one point, I was sitting on the couch in Doc's office weeping away when Sleepy came in.

He sat next to me and put his arms around me and we cuddled while I talked with Doc.

After a little while, Sleepy looked at me and said, "Mom, you look so beautiful."

I know there will be more days when I will cry for my grandmother and my family that is thousands of miles away, but it helps to have sweet, little arms wrapped around me for comfort.

Spring Break 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 23:30:00 +0000

I've been away for a week visiting family.

You can tell by the look of my house.

Things have gotten a little messier and certainly crustier.

The boys had their spring break and spent their days being as lazy and carefree as possible.

Because everyone knows that doomsday is approaching and school will begin again so it's time to live it up!

They've had fun watching movies, playing PS2, and whatever sorts of games that boys play.

When I was greeted by them after a week apart, I could tell they needed a little mother's care. Happy wore jeans with gigantic holes in the knees with a shirt that didn't fit. Sleepy and Grumpy wore clothes that didn't match.

I did notice they all had socks on. Which is something.

I'm sure they've driven their father up the wall.

One time, I called and I heard the boys yelling and carrying on in the background. Bashful's shrill voice could be heard yelling, "Shut. UUUUUUP!!"

Doc told me that if he heard Sleepy yell one more time, "Dad! Happy bit me!", he was going to go upstairs and bang their heads together.

Yes. Things have been a little crazy around here without my tender-loving care. (Or you could call me the drill-sergeant.)

Grumpy even has a black eye.

Courtesy of Sleepy.

Are You My Sweetheart?

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 23:26:00 +0000

This morning, I was sitting in the front row in church with my boys.

I turned to Bashful, took his chin in my hand, and asked, "Are you my sweetheart?"

I'm his mom so I don't care that the kid is 12 years old now and I'm probably seriously weirding him out.

He didn't answer me at first and just kind of grunted.

I wasn't going to take that as an answer and stubbornly asked, "Are you my sweetheart?"

Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered, "Yes," probably hoping no one was listening.

To embarrass him further, I squealed, "Oh, goodie!" and smothered his face with kisses.

Brain Matter

noreply@blogger.com (Dee) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 23:22:00 +0000

We were in the car driving home from the airport.

I had spent the week in WV and Doc and the boys were picking me up.

Sleepy and Happy were telling me what they wanted to be when they grow up.

Happy wants to be an airplane pilot and a firefighter.

Bashful's response was, "Well, you'll be rich, but you'll be so busy your brain will explode."