Rugrats and Dirty Rugs

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 ...

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...

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-to...

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."

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 ...

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 mild...

"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.