Yeah. That's because two times in as many days (this counts as yesterday's night because the sun has not risen and I want to be asleep for the night) I found myself cleaning up vomit.
Now, I'm not going to go into great detail (you're welcome). This is because I was reminded today of a little life lesson- although I really didn't need it. This one was not new information to me. However, take heart, mothers of young children. Here it comes. If I do not have a major role in your child's life (ie grandmother or... well, that's about it) or I do not currently have a child the same age as yours, I am not interested in your child's bodily expulsions. I have, in fact, the opposite of whatever open active interest is. Okay? Sure, I'll cheer for you if Little Jessie finally poops in the potty! But don't go into any smidgen of detail. That's far enough, right there. Your toes? They're kissing the line. (This lesson brought to you at 1:30 in the morning by that woman at work today who felt it necessary to describe what her daughter was coughing up. Godssake!)
So! Once again, cleaning up vomit. Poor Ethan. I'd love for him to actually make the toilet. This time it was the door knob (door KNOB) of the bathroom. (Ugh, cleaning out the lock with my lysol-wipe-guarded fingernail.) As I'm cleaning, Ethan is showering. Life lesson for Ethan! Dear child, whom I love with greater ferocity than the brightest sun burns, do not seem so cheerful as I'm on my hands and knees cleaning puke. I love you, but you test me.
Life lesson three. I need to work on my lung capacity (ie, how long I can hold my breath while cleaning before having to charge out of the bathroom to inhale). Apparently, it sucks.
As I settled Ethan in a nest on the floor of his room (as a head start), trash can at hand, I told him that it was for if he had to throw up again. And, if he thought he could make it to the bathroom, take the trash can with him, just in case he's wrong. "Like those other times," he said in reply. Life lesson number four. A little more humility, a little less matter-of-fact-with-a-little-smirk-thrown-in. Don't push it, kid.
So. The Wii Fit. The... video game. Yeah. Video games should not hand your ass to you, much less your sore ass. And thighs. And also, it's rude! The board- the board- made some jab about me tripping while just walking. This was after it gave me crap for my BMI- said it was fair and then trashed me anyway, frickin' thing. That was after it weighed me and blew up my mii, just expanded it on the screen- not a lot, grant you, but really, does any woman want to see a representation of her balloon even a little? Frankly, if it's going to be attacking me from the get-go... I just don't need that kind of pressure.
This thing has games. And by "games" I mean "one to two minute trials that make me feel fat, lazy, and somewhat whale-like". I admit, some of them are fun- right up until the end of the round where it actually says "uncoordinated" on the screen. The hell? Screw you, meanie bully video game.
And then there's also this whole test where you have to hit a soccer ball with your head, which supposedly has something to do with balance, but I don't know what getting hit in the head with cleats and panda heads (panda heads!) has to do with me showing that I have the ability to stand on my two feet.
There's also breathing. A section on breathing. There is a timed, scored section on breathing. Did you know it's okay to breathe out through your mouth but you really should breathe out through your nose? So they say, but you don't get a higher score for it, as they haven't made a controller small enough to fit up your nostril. Yet. So, really, if they're not going to give me more points, then I see no reason to do it their way.
But! It's not a waste! There are bonuses! (Other than the supposed health benefits and weight loss. We'll see, cruel exercise board.) There's a "bank". That bank keeps track of my minutes. And when I have collected enough minutes, I get a prize! (More workouts. For God's sake. Kill me.) No matter the prize suck-mastery, I'm still a winner!
Last night, I finally got to see our new president's inauguration speech (because I work for a Republican who didn't hold with playing that kind of nonsense on his radio) (and, apparently, there are certain stations and websites that don't think that kind of rebroadcast would be, i dunno, historic).
At last, I am represented by someone who I feel actually represents me.
Frankly, I was tired of the retarded second cousin standing for the family.
Our Christmas tree stayed up for a long time. A long time. And not because it was pretty or I'm religious. Just lazy. And then Sam said something about "fire hazard" and pulled the ornaments off and threw the tree out the door. (Fifteen minutes later, Connor came back in from shoveling the sidewalk bearing an ornament. Being the me that everyone loves and adores, I had to mock Sam and then he pointed out that I've likely thrown ornaments out every year myself. I've seen no proof.)
The stupid happy-birthday-Jesus tree left forty thousand needles all over the carpet (I know, I counted), and Sam decided to try to murder my vacuum with them. So I grabbed the broom and dustpan. So Sam wanted to trump me with the shopvac. Only, our shopvac is also a leaf blower- aka a blow-the-melted-snow-out-of-the-garage-er. This had been its most recent occupation. So the triumphant slamming down of the shopvac next to the pile of needles that I was constructing was mildly less triumphanty, due to the fact that the shopvac was, indeed, missing the motor. Anyway, by the time he made it back in the house, toting the leaf blower (which was still its current composition) I had already scooped the majority of the needles into the garbage bag held by the ever useful Ethan.
Needing a reason to have brought in the leaf blower, it became a way of drying Ethan's already dry hair and clothes. Which was fine with me. But then he turned it on me. Which was decidedly not fine with me. So then I decided to shake the excess needles off the broom. Over Sam's head. Because I'm that kind of bitch mature. The entire scene was melodically accompanied with Ethan's cries of, "Battle! It's a battle!", while he jumped up and down, cheering.
Sam came downstairs, a little exasperated. Seems Ethan was the only one that had made significant progress on the cleaning of his room.
"Call him down," I said. "Tell him he gets candy because he's doing so much better on his room than his siblings. And he can take it upstairs with him. He'll be sure to rub it in their faces."
Sam called him downstairs, I told Ethan. He chose a full pez dispenser.
Fifteen minutes later, back down the stairs he came. "All done!"
"With your room, or your candy?" I figured I knew the answer.
"Both!"
I congratulated him on it. Problem was, neither of the other two kids had come downstairs to kvetch about not having received candy. "And did you mention to the other kids that you got candy?"
I got an eyebrow raise. "No."
"And don't you think you should?" He happily ran off. The two remaining kids' bedrooms were done within a half hour.
We went to the bus stop this morning and waited. And waited. And waited. For the second time this school year, there was a school delay that I did not know about. Because I didn't bother to look for a delay. Because I assume that they have school when I don't even have to shovel the driveway at all. What, because it's cold??? It's WINTER, PEOPLE! It's SUPPOSED TO BE COLD.
Possibly, I'm more pissed about sitting at the bus stop for ten minutes then the whole actually having a delay... No, it's the delay. These people are ridiculous.
When I was a child, whenever we traveled, we would stop at just about every Cracker Barrel we saw. This, of course, was when the food was good- I'm nothing but disappointed by them now. (Take note, Cracker Barrel bigheads! Just in case, somehow, no one has mentioned it to you, you are ruining your own business with the crap that you now serve. You give down-home cookin' a bad name!)
I'm sure, among many of its other fine qualities, one of the reasons my mother would stop there often was the store's ability to shut us (read: loud, obnoxious brats all a-quivery with pent up energy from being in the car for the last seven hours) the hell up. Plenty to look at, enormous checkers games, and, at every table (and several at ours because mom would, ahem, acquire them from the surrounding tables) were those triangle peg games. The ones where you leap one peg with another, and then take the jumpee off the board until only one remains. I used to challenge myself by starting the first empty space at odd places around the board because it was so easy.
And behold! Linky lovin' from my sister!
...Holy hell. When did I get so stupid???
