I know I've had too much to drink when TLC gets me in the feels.

I was watching Sister Wives on TLC, and these women were, to represent their relationship(s), physically positioning themselves in reference to their husband- and essentially only in reference to him, and it's all awkward and some of them don't know where they should be, and there's a moment where one woman uses herself to link their husband to another wife (which is more than telling in itself), and another ends up behind him, and they wonk themselves into place, both so to speak and literally...

And then the husband says something along the lines of, "Well, fine, but... this is a family. And how does this work if I were to die? Because this is about all of you in relation to each other."

And then I teared up because, seriously, what the hell, ladies? Don't you get that the goal is a cohesive family, not you all as satellites to this (supposedly) reluctant planet? And shouldn't you, as the polygamists, grasp this better than I, the one who is pretty sure to cut a bitch, given the right ratio of "skank-flirting-with-my-husband" to "level-of-my-drunkenness-plus-proper-girlfriend-who'd-have-my-back-depending-on-how-many-friends-skank-has"? Math is only sometimes my strong-suit, but I'm pretty sure it's sound, here.

...so I booted his ass into the ditch.

Connor has to run a trivia game in one of his classes tomorrow. I insisted that he take candy for the winners because how can a game that ends in candy be anything less than kickass? So I picked up some Jolly Ranchers for him, Nerds for me, on the way home from his hockey practice. By the way, convenience store? You're welcome for his stinky self not coming in with me.

I tossed them into his lap when I got into the car:

Me: I got a whole ton of them. Might as well give them to everyone... You can make it raiiinnn. *rainy fingers*

He: Should I stand up on top of one of the desks?

Me: Duck and cover, bitches!

He: You're gonna get a call from my teacher if I do that.

Me: I'll just tell him, "It was funny at the time!"

And then after we giggled over this conversation, he had the nerve to try to hold my Nerds hostage...

I had to eventually throw the roll into the back seat of the car.

I was going on a bit of a drive to pick up the kids- off visiting the grandparents. I don't know how it was when you were growing up, but for me, the drive was all about the snacks. As I have zero self-control when it comes to food that is in my vicinity, I knew I was going to stop at some point and stock up on goodies of some sort, so I went with a preemptive strike and stopped before I left town. I got baked chips and Sprite Zero (which is kinda feh, but so is Sprite, thus it's actually somewhat close to the original flavor and is not nearly as aspartamey as a lot of those "zero" or low cal drinks (I'm looking at you, Ocean Spray Sparkling Cranberry.)).

I also got some SweeTarts. What I really wanted were Sprees, which, when I was a kid, was a competing brand to SweeTarts, but apparently Wonka owns them both now? Either Wonka (which I think of as a "he" instead of an "it" or "they") (and the "he" is Gene Wilder, not Johnny Depp) (much as I want to eat him normally) (Depp, not Wilder), is phasing out Sprees, or they are atrociously loathed in my small part of the world. They are not to be found anywhere. So, fine, I bought the SweeTarts. They were my absolute favorite as a child.

I categorically hated them.

I don't think they've changed since I was a child. I think this is my fault. No, wait. I take it back. It's Sam's fault. You see, those SweeTarts tasted oddly similar to those cheap, neon-colored, fruity drinks you get in restaurants that have a "bar". Mind you, I'm not talking about restaurants that have a bar, but a "bar". You know, cute young chick behind the taps who is excellent at twisting a cap off a beer bottle, but you order a martini, and she cocks her head to one side like a confused dog and asks, "Uhm, do you mean an appletini?" No, bitch, I do not.

So then she goes to pull the bartender's guide out from under the bar and you know you're up shit-creek. Here, sweetie, let me teach you an essential life skill. This is a jigger. No, seriously, even if you do find a bottle marked "martini mix", you just leave that where it is.

Now, I admit that there was a short time in my young life when I would have been, "Ooh, yummers! Appletini! Or maybe do you have something pink?"

And then Sam became deeply interested in all things alcohol- including how to mix virtually any cocktail, and stocked our cabinet with thegoodstuff, and now I'm known for returning improperly made margaritas, y'all. Also, there's the possibility that, sometimes, every once in a while, rarely, you might catch me instructing the waiter to have the bartender "taste this" with a sneer on my face.

This takes us back to my car drive and the disturbingly dissatisfying SweeTarts. I taste the first one. Ew, gross. I try a different flavor. Okay, gross, too. Hate blue, skip that. Nope, gross and gross. Okay, lesson learned. I don't like any of the SweeTarts. I know, let me have another one. Yuck. Let's have another. Ohmygod, what is wrong with me? I have no self-control!

Let's have one more.

Spellcheck does not recognize the word "epilator". It would prefer "depilatory", "ventilator", "dilatory", or "mutilator". All are oddly fitting.*

Today, ladies and gents, we are delving into the world of epilators. We begin with a brief explanation of just what an epilator is (I do have one or two male readers, I think). It is a hair-by-the-root removal device. Too brief? Let me elaborate.

This is a torture device, fit for baby rapists and puppy bakers. Only I could never do this to another human being, even if they were a baby rapist or puppy baker. It's inhumane. This is coming from me- a woman who would gladly slit your throat and watch you bleed through your grasping fingers if you were to ever touch one of my children. But I would not use an epilator on you. You're welcome.

It took me weeks to get through the first pass. I could only ever bring myself, when venturing from the knee up, to do the smallest area of skin at a time, and once I had finished a patch, I had to skip the next night. I could not mentally take the pain two days in a row.

There is all sorts of hell to be found between my knees.

I'm sort of proud of that sentence. I'll let it soak in.

The inside of the knee is just about as sensitive as it gets. I would hazard to say that it has more pain receptors than the inside of the elbow or even the philtrum. It's obviously not the most tender part of the body (gee, Sarah, glad to hear that), but it's by far the most sensitive place from which I will ever remove hair.

Truth be known, it's so much easier, months later. When epilating, I can feel it still, below the knee, but it only registers as a tiny pinch instead of "I'm pretty sure this thing is actively searing my skin off my body." (This is not an exaggeration, by the way, because there were times that I did stop, just to be sure that I really wasn't actually ripping skin off. I would tentatively move the epilator out of the way with "please god, let it still be skin and not raw flesh" chanting through my mind.) Above the knee, it's still not fun, but I no longer have the tourettesy outbursts that caused the paint to peel from the walls and the children to go running from the room, legs scrambling frantically through the air like Scooby-Doo characters trying to gain traction.

And the results? I like it muy mucho (Aladdin quote, anyone?). I'm even willing to wear skirts and shorts in public. Sam is so pleased that, whenever I venture into this realm, he brings me wine and painkillers. More wine? Can I refill your glass? The pain killers kicking in yet? He's also not so scared of snuggling with me at night- no cheese graters under the blanket to defend his own legs against.

All in all, a winning choice. I just had to wait for the blood-red haze to die away to see it.

*It is depilatory; you think you need a ventilator while using it because you are going to die; I was very dilatory in completing the job because ohmygod the agony; and, well, mutilator, no explanation needed there.

I know, another other-driver-on-the-road complaint. Skip it if you want; no one's holding a gun to your head.

To- okay, more like "at"- a truck driver who had parked half on the shoulder, half in the lane of a major road, and then also had his driver side door open, thereby taking up the entire (and only, in that direction) lane- on yet another blind curve, which was also on the top of a blind hill*,

Me: Way to be a moron, Ohio Idiot. (Because he had an Ohio plate, of course.)

Ethan: Who, me?

Connor: Yes. That is your new nickname. "Ohio Idiot".

*A lot of blind stuff around here lately, huh?

And this is just the stuff I remember because I dug through my old chats with Cassie. Probably I should get a diary.

Most of the time, in this house, I am not involved in the better conversations. Sometimes, sometimes I am blessed enough to be a witness. Frankly, even when I'm part of the the conversation, I'm still usually just a witness.

Rule number one: Ethan is always a participant.
Rule number two: The conversation is always just two people.
Rule number three: Usually, the second party in the conversation has to be doing something completely unrelated to anything, especially whatever Ethan is doing at the time.
Rule number four: It must be quiet.
This is because these are the conditions in which the true Ethan emerges.

Connor is drawing a monster. Ethan is creating his own... whatever. Probably a diorama. That's how he rolls.
Ethan: Is it a man-eater?
Connor: Yes.
Ethan: Good. I'm a boy.

Sam, short on time and temper: Now you guys get out in this hallway and pick up your clean clothes and fold them and put them away!
Ethan: Good morning!
Sam: Good morning!
Ethan: Guten Tag!
Sam: Bonjour!

Ethan: Oh, Daddy, you're wearing your wedding ring!
Sam: Yep.
Ethan: Do you always wear your wedding ring?
Sam: Sometimes.
Ethan: You sometimes always wear your wedding ring? That doesn't make any sense.

Ethan: Mommy! While I was going to the bathroom, I figured out there are 22 letters in my name!

Emily: Pohtahto is just a stupid, fake way of saying potato.
Ethan: Nuh uh! The guy on Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares says it that way!

Sam: Hoohoo! Hoo hoo hoohoo!
Ethan: Raaawwwwrrrrr!
Sam: No! I'm making bird noises.
Ethan, deadpan: Tweet. Tweet. I tawt I taw a puddy-tat.

Ethan, eying a banana suspiciously: Bananas don't deserve to have stickers on them. ^rip^

Ethan: (Uncle) Jason asked me to get him a soda.
Me: Okay.
Ethan: And I did.
Me: That's good.
Ethan: Connor told me I should shake it.
Me: What'd you do?
Ethan: I didn't shake it.
Me: Good decision.
Ethan: Because it's not good to put soda on the ceiling. Or Jason's face.

Ethan: When is Father's Day?
Sam:Next weekend. But Father's Day isn't as important as Mother's Day.
Ethan: Why?
Sam: Moms are just more important.
Ethan: Well, you're special to me, Daddy!

From upstairs: BAM!
Me: What was that?!
Ethan: Nothing!
Me: Did you break some-
Ethan: NO!
Me: Whatnow?
Ethan: Why would you think I broke something?

Emily: I promise.
Ethan: Right hand to god with your left hand in front. And don't cross your toes. And don't cross your eyes and don't cross your arms and don't cross anything!

Ethan's playing with a batman colorform set. Connor comes over, peels one off, re-affixes it.
Ethan: What are you doing!?!?
Connor: Fixing it. He was upside down.
Ethan: I know! I put him upside down! He hit his head!

And this sampling doesn't even include times when he manages to debate an adult into a puddle or when a conversation is going on around him, him seemingly completely ignoring everything but what he's super-concentrating on, then suddenly pipes up with an opinion that he truly shouldn't have.

You want to know what really went down at any given time? Ask Ethan.

I just paid eighty bucks for the doctor to tell me to put my daughter on the BRAT diet.

Because apparently letting her eat fried chicken and grapefruit with an upset stomach is a bad idea.

Apparently.

Go me.

I'm an awe-inspiring mother.

Merry Christmas... and yes, he was back in at 6:20, and I expect him there again in five minutes.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring... oh, wait...

3:08am

*Knock Knock*
"Go back to bed," I say, groggily.
"But I threw up."
"Oh, no."

Poor Ethan. What a way to start Christmas. Poor me. Is there any possible way to get puke out of a mattress? Especially at three in the morning?

I set him up in a little nest right outside the bathroom door. He refuses the light being turned off, though. He's up again at 4:20. And by "again", I don't mean to imply that he sleeps in the intervening time...

5:10am

There is whispered conversation. Connor greets Ethan.
"I'm throwing up."
"On Christmas?!"
Because he has a choice in the matter? He didn't take into account the scheduling conflict?

Emily and Connor wait while Ethan throws up again at 5:20. There's nothing for it. We give up on the notion of sleep and go down to rip open some presents.

We've finally given in and given Connor his cell phone. I decided to put it in his stocking, since it's normally the last thing they tear into, yet it's the first thing he does. I hurriedly grab the video camera to catch his reaction. He's shocked into silence for a solid three seconds. A record. I look down. The friggin' camera is paused.

Moving on, I pull a large present out from under the tree to give to Ethan. Apparently this is the keystone gift. The tree decides it would prefer a horizontal life. It dumps water everywhere, breaks a tree-side's worth of ornaments, and irreparably damages the tree stand.

I think it's time to break out the espresso flavored vodka for my coffee.

I hope this morning is going better for everyone else.

I Told You So From the Beginning

At soccer today, one of the opposing team kicked the ball right into the crowd, hitting the mother of a teammate of Connor's.
This teammate, in turn, yelled, "Hey! You nailed my mom!"
At which point my mind went in the completely wrong direction.
And this is why- soccer mom I am not.

Wolverines!

This post is dedicated to The Bloggess- who is insane, but only in a way that makes me worry for her, not for me or my children. If you've never read her stuff, you must, if for no other reason than that this post will make no sense to you. She makes up words, fights with her husband, and very occasionally offends a major religion in her blog, and I swear I am talking about someone other than me.

Anyway, her bit that actually applies to this post is here, and it's from a while ago, but, damn y'all, I can't plan life. It just happens this way.

My kick-ass niece Bailey, who just turned 12- happy birthday, Bailey!- inherited from her mother the ability to rock a crane machine. I think she's kinda addicted to them (she got a mini one for her birthday, and that's the one thing she shared with me when I called her), but that's okay- we're talking quarters here, not dime bags of illicit drugs.

When we were last visiting her house, she told us how she had scored a Wolverine toy (boys hate it when you call their play-things "dolls", even if it is a friggin' doll), but not just one Wolverine. Girl had managed to get three of those suckers all at once! I told you, she can rock a crane machine. This is how Ethan ended up with two of his very own- those and a Batman. Kick-ass and generous, she is.

So we're cruising the parking lot of the soccer fields (yes, I'm there all the effing time- I am aware of this, shut up) and the kids are playing/bickering in the backseat and repeatedly I hear references to "wolverines" (Ethan's choice for entertainment during Connor's game that night) and The Bloggess just suddenly pops into my head and I let out a cry of "Wolverines!!" and all three of my kids, with no pause, simultaneously respond "Wolverines!!" and that is why I not only have a kick-ass niece, but three kick-ass kids, as well.

Scared and Pissed at the Same Time: A Normal Set of Emotions for a Mother

Connor beats me home on school days. Usually. With no warning, however, he did not today.

Me: Hi, my son Connor is in seventh grade there. He didn't come home and I'm just wondering if there's an after-school activity he might be attending?
School Secretary: Connor... hmm, actually, yeah. Dark hair, it's longish kinda...
Me: Shaggy, yes, that's him.
SS: Yeah, I was up there earlier, and I think he's staying after school for the book group.
Me: Ah, okay. Thanks so much, I'll beat him when he gets home.
SS: Alrighty, have a good day.

You Can All Just Leave Your Keys Right Here in This Bottomless Pit

I know that anyone who reads my blog is too smart for this information. Perhaps, though, you could just send a link to the people in your life to whom you know this advice pertains.

And, for those of you who arrived at this post through a link in a friendly email or perhaps after following a url from a crumbled piece of paper shoved hurriedly into your hand by a well intentioned if not all too subtle relative... they didn't mean you needed to read this... yeah. They meant they were sure you knew someone who knew someone who should read this for their own good... right. Uh huh... maybe you could just take a quick skim-zy over it anyway?

So, let's say your driving along a highway. For simplicity, there are, on this highway, two lanes of traffic headed in the same direction, this is the direction you're headed, too! There are many, many signs along the road. They say something along the lines of "55 (or 65/75/80) STATE SPEED LIMIT". For starters, let me interpret "STATE SPEED LIMIT" for you. This means "I will make that little arm on my speedometer hit said number". I know it seems like what that sign is saying is "limit means no more than, so just make sure you do 55 or less", but that's not what it means. The "or less" must go. Holy hell, just hit the speed limit. If you can do fifty, you can do fifty-five. Why? Because I goddamned said so.

(For those of you who are now yelling at the screen, "Fifty-five? What do you mean fifty-five?! They should be doing over that!", okay, I get what you're saying. Shut up now. You're scaring your family with your incoherent screaming. A? I'm not advising anything illegal (regardless of what I do in my own life) because the hell if I'm gonna get sued because some moron can't identify a state trooper when they see one. And B. Isn't it enough that I'm just getting these assholes up to the limit? Plus, I'm about to give the more important advice, so settle down.)

Okay, class. Eyes over here. Back to the highway. You are now traveling at the speed limit. Of the two lanes, which one are you traveling in? The left lane? Wrong, Johnny, sit the hell back down. The right lane is for normal driving. The left lane is for PASSING. What's passing? That's what the rest of us are currently doing to you. Or would be, if some other idiot- and I'm not naming names, *cough*JOHNNY*cough*- wasn't in the left lane keeping pace with the right lane. Let me explain further. Have you ever wondered why there are so many other assholes out on the road? Why they all seem to come flying up from behind you, ride your ass for a minute, then veer out from behind you, into the right lane, get ahead of you, only to veer back into the left lane? That's because they aren't the assholes in this scenario. They're hoping you will suddenly come to your senses, then, within a minute, they've learned their lesson, and have to get around you by passing on the right. Get the eff out of the left lane! Are you passing someone? No. This is a highway, not a free-for-all. Move. Over. Now. The interesting thing about this part is this is not just common sense. It is not just basic decency. It is not just a regular courtesy, some made-up rule that the rest of us abide by because some how we are in sync with each other. In a ton of states, it's an actual law. And it's not even one of those pesky ones they never tell you about. The have signs. They post those signs- at regular intervals, even. Sometimes that sign seems to be more apparent than the speed limit signs I kindly pointed out earlier.

So let's say, now, class, that you are driving the speed limit, you are in the right lane. You are approaching a car in the lane ahead of you. They have not listened thus far in the lecture, and are traveling at a less than reasonable speed. What to do? Change lanes? Okay, that's right- and you'll move back to the right lane after you've passed the other car? Good, good. Now how are you going to change lanes? (You know what, Johnny? Don't even bother giving me whatever stupid answer was going to come tumbling from your pie hole. Just go stand in the corner.) The correct answer is, "I will not only signal my lane change and check my blind spot, I will make sure I'm not about to cut off a car that is already passing in the left lane, especially if that person has chosen to do so at a higher rate of speed than I." You can signal using these lights on the outside of your car that are wired to that little stick thingy that sits behind the steering wheel. They let the other drivers around you have the slightest bit of warning before you pull some jack-assed maneuver. Your blind spot is this little space just back and to the side of your car that you cannot see using your rear view mirror- you do use your mirrors, right?- so you must actually turn your head in order to see this area. I know, I know, actually using muscles within your body to do anything besides flip someone off seems like a lot more effort than it's worth. Give it a shot, though. It might save you something in insurance premiums.

Okay, that's it for today. Next time, we will discuss how allowing someone to merge in ahead of you in traffic does not make you less of a man, why it's impolite to keep your brights on when you're behind someone, what to do on the highway when there are three lanes of traffic (god help us all), and why you do not always have to lead the pack. 'Til then, turn in your licenses and stay the hell off the road. Thanks in advance.

This is Another Post About Accents

Every year, the local kids' soccer association hires a couple of soccer "professionals"- the quotes are because, honestly, I don't know what makes them professionals or if they really are or what professional what they are- to come in for several days and give all the kids some really good coaching before the season begins.

The really nice part about it? They're always young British men. Yay for accents! Yay for soccer bodies! Okay, football bodies, since I assume they were developed in England. Interestingly- but not surprisingly- one of them told me that coaching American fifteen year olds was the equivalent of coaching 8 year olds in England. This was one of the coaches from last year- a beautiful man, oh so lovely- fun to listen to and to look at!

This year, the guy is not so beautiful. Okay, if I'm being honest mean fair, I wouldn't even notice him in a crowd. But he has the accent, and damned if he doesn't also have the soccer calves. (Football calves?) And as a supportive mom, it's my duty to sit through practices- until the Brits leave, anyway.

Yay for soccer!

The elephant in the room is that the crap-gangville-strip is the famous Route 66. They should be embarrassed.

One evening of our trip, we go to a fantastic mexican restaurant. They make a margarita to end all margaritas. Normally I'm a frozen margarita girl because it needs to be frozen to cover up the nasty syrupy mess that most places serve. This one is excellent on the rocks, no salt necessary.

At one point, a woman comes over and says "Quieres mas? You have limonda o agua?" Now, as I have neither lemonade nor water, I pay no attention. (Or maybe it's because I'm nose-deep in my big-ass margarita glass.) Until I notice there's been no response.

"Uh, Alex," I say. "Do you want more lemonade?" "Oh. Sure." He passes his glass over, and I look curiously at Sam. "Why are we not responding to the waitress?" "Well I know I didn't get what she was asking." Huh. Over the years, I've tried to maintain some semblance of the remedial Spanish I took in high school. Paid off, I guess, as I barely notice the Spanish-English merging that she uses as she comes and goes from our table. I'm sure she's dumbing it down (Enlish-ing it up?) some, but I'm still understanding her perfectly. I'm proud of (read: full of) myself for my bad-ass bilingual-ness. Even from the bottom of my second delicious big-ass margarita.

And then we end up at Wendy's a few nights later. "Welcome-to-Wendy's-I'll-take-your-order-whenever-you're-ready-unless-of-course-you're-a-dumbass-gringo-in-which-case-you're-not-understanding-a-word-of-this-and-I-will-treat-you-like-crap," comes through the speaker. In Spanish. I assume. Because I? Don't speak a single word of Spanish. Apparently.

"Uhm... hi?... Can I... get two orders of nuggets?... And..." "Anything else?" she says. I'm sorry? Since when does "and" mean "I'm not in the middle of a sentence"? I know I'm slow here, but I'm thinking of how effed-up "nuggets de pollo" would sound. Eventually I finish and she gives us our total- I think?- and, we assume, asks us to pull up. Except I can't understand a word she says in English, either. I'm so flustered that I screw up the order and have to ask her to add on some junior bacon cheeseburgers at the window.

Now this is a personal insult. Right? It must be because the holy-bitch grows fangs. Sam hands over what I believe is way too much money, but it must not have been because we only get a dollar and change back. Huh. But then frostys come through the window (wee!), and then she yells at us. Something about nuggets de pollo? She shuts the window and Sam stares at me. "Pull up?" I say. It's really an odd sensation, the combination of fear, confusion, and growing pissed-off-ness. The woman is being heinous, but she's holding my nuggets de pollo hostage, y'all.

Eventually she comes out and- I am not kidding- throws the bags of food through the car window before dashing back into the restaurant. Thank god we got our frostys before we pulled up. And pissed-off wins the emotion battle that has been roiling within me. Heinous-holy-bitch is lucky because Sam is the one in the driver's seat and pulls away before I can go jump the woman.

It's not until we're almost back to the hotel eight miles on the other side of the crap-gangville-strip that we had to traverse (at ten-thirty at night) to get there (because of the lying-liar signs at the exit that said Wendy's was right here) that I found the receipt stapled to the bag. She had short-changed us by ten bucks. If I didn't live two thousand miles away? She and I would have words. Of course, we wouldn't be able to understand each other...

Jubilation!... Right?

Emily was in desperate want of a CD player, and I promised that the next time we went somewhere that sold them, I'd get her one. Steel trap, her mind is when it comes to promises. She had one within two days.

Grasping it to her chest like gold, she and I caught up with the boys at a music/movie store.

Sam, looking suspiciously at the obvious money expenditure: What's that?
Emily: Mommy bought me a CD player!
Sarah: Traitor.
Sam: What for? Does she even have any CD's?
Sarah: She has some audio books.
Sam: Well get her some Simon and Garfunkel so I don't have to play it in the car for her anymore.

I found her a greatest hits set, used, for twenty bucks. She proceeded to learn every song.

Fast forward to a few days ago in the car. Emily is singing random non-word nonsense.

Sarah: If you're going to sing, make it something real.
Emily, singing: Cecelia! You're breaking my heart! / You're shaking my confidence daily! / Oh Cecelia! I'm down on my knees! / I'm begging you please, to come home!

As she continues singing, Sam suddenly grips my thigh. In my mind, I begin to fast-forward through the lyrics. Unfortunately, Emily beats me to the problematic bit.

Emily, singing: Making love in the afternoon with Cecelia / Up in my bedroom! Making love! / I got up to wash my face / When I come back to bed / Someone's taken my place!
Sarah, screeching: PARSLEY, SAGE, ROSEMARY, AND THYME!
Emily: That's not in this song!
Sarah: Well, sing this other one instead.

Yes, I am aware of how much trouble I'm in for in the future.

Everyone Needs Their Mommy

As we left a plant nursery yesterday, I was boasting about how awesome I was for having only spent four dollars on two plants- this is as opposed to the just slightly over a hundred the last time. Sam didn't realize that he was supposed to be impressed- this only encourages me to spend money, I gotta say.

To shorten up the progression of the conversation, it turned from the money to specific plants to bees being attracted to certain plants to me being allergic to bees to Ethan not being allergic. This is a good thing because the kid seems to get stung more often than average. Connor, apparently completely oblivious to this fact, said something about him never getting stung.

I decided to take the moment and turn it into a learning experience because I'm such an outstanding mom. I needed to compliment Ethan while at the same time not embarrassing him by giving Connor something to make fun of Ethan for and take a dig at no one specific yet everyone at the same time- frankly, every member of this household can be such a drama queen. "He's been stung plenty," I said. "He just handles it like a man."

"Yeah," said Ethan. "I just run and tell Mom."

Because god forbid we don't try to put our mother over the edge with our constant fighting.

Ethan: Yeah, well you can't do that, Connor. (Because god forbid something comes to pass without our making a comment.)

Connor: Ethan! MYOB! (Because god forbid we speak nicely.)

Ethan: What does that mean?

Me: Mind your own business.

Ethan: But I wanna to know!

Car: Beeeeeeeeeep! (Because I just face-planted into the horn.)

Ever been vacuuming & look back at your work & think, "My vacuum is broken!", & realize, no, the carpet is just so eww that it needs double vacuuming?

It's that kind of day.

I Also Don't Bother Explaining Wreaths

Emily was helping unload the dishwasher. As she went to put away the bulb portion of a turkey baster, "What's this thing?"

Ever tried to explain half a turkey baster? Not worth it. I would have had to search for the other portion, which I probably already destroyed if history rings true. No idea why, they simply don't last in this house. So I went with the normal mom answer. "Don't worry about it."

And Emily went with the normal Emily... "It looks like it could suck your eye!" She then proceeded to squeeze it, press it against her eye, and release. Floop! "OW!"

Yeah. That's about right. For crying in the night. At least she still has her eye.

I've Escaped My Fate, Yet Again!

Alternate title: Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, for my Children Don't Curse Like Pirates

Ethan comes down the stairs while getting ready for school, half dressed.

Ethan: Mommy? Emily said a bad word.

Balancing my desire to not have them tattle-tale and my need to handle the children, Me: Okay. What word did she say?

After a pause, Ethan: The S-H word. The one you told Connor he couldn't say.

In my head, Me: Oh dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Suddenly, Ding! Outloud, Me: Shutup?

Ethan: Yeah! To me!

Me: Oh, I'm sorry. She shouldn't have said that.

Walking away, Ethan: Yeah.