I even have two.
"I gonna cwimb on da shed and on da roof like Dad."
Yeah, just like Dad.
Um, she chose her socks, not I.
That's her cute teacher.
He was so excited and running to get in there--I could barely get him to stop and turn around for one measly picture.
We have the Green Dragons and Green Lightning.
...is what I had yesterday.
As usual, Lolly was late for school, but this time it was mostly my fault and because of the faulty Target-brand diapers I'm testing that so far have not held up overnight for S-man, for one. single. night.
Things were okay until I picked up Mr D from preschool. His teacher told me he bit some kids and he can't bite or he can't come to preschool. In other words, he'll be kicked out. My kid. Ugh. I shouldn't be surprised, except that usually, Mr D can be pretty sweet and nice...and the biggest stinker of a 4-year-old in the US of A. So that new bit of information didn't stress me out or upset me at all. (Things are going to get confusing tomorrow when my scheduled post about our first day of school shows up--just so you know.)
Then there was the usual day at the park. Mr D not listening very well. A bunch of kids chucking sand around and Mr D getting most of the blame--even with his own head full of sand. Oh, and whilst toiling in said sand (can I possible say sand one more time?), Mr D decided to strip to the nothings and streak around the volleyball pit in circles with his tiny white bum. Upon my inquiry as to why the naked-ness, he responded, "I haf a be na-ed." I guess sometimes we all do.
Surviving the park of exhibitionism, I came home to find the nastiest, rudest comment ever on yesterday's post. Oh, it was the cream of the crop--supposedly made by someone who's been impersonating the Seriously, So Blessed chick. But it was not what I needed. Plus, everyone knew that post was a joke, right? Those are the ultimate worse, disgusting spots in my house--we really don't live in squalor, even if I don't mop or clean the bathrooms as frequently as I should.
Anyway, so then I thought I was so good to actually get the kids to bed at proper times (well before 9 o'clock, which is our sad usual) all by myself while the overused and abused Scoutmaster was doing his weekly duty, only to discover several hours later that I forgot to put a diaper on the we-don't-stay-dry-all-night-yet Mr Destructo. Yeah, he'd wet the bed.
So today, I'll be scrubbing out my fridge, washing sheets, folding the massive pile from last week's laundry and washing more clothes because Mr D was running around in the buff again this morning upon finding no undies in his drawer, and leaving the baking soda mess the Real Simple book recommends on the oven tonight to clean it tomorrow. And finally, I might recaulk the tub, but that will have to wait until the weekend when we can better risk skipping a shower, waiting for caulk to cure. And the reason we haven't done it sooner? I didn't want to go to all the trouble when we have plans--albeit indefinite--to replace the whole nasty tub surround.
Oh yeah, and to top things off yesterday? My bangs wouldn't work. (That was for you Mom--like the time I tried to play hooky in 5th grade because the same old bangs weren't cooperating. How come you didn't let me just stay home and go to the beauty parlor?) (kidding.)
Now all I need is another visit from Child Protective Services, compliments of one of my ever-so-pleasant neighbors.
And maybe fix the bad caulk job we moved into.
(And more horror movie-worthy caulk. It was black when we moved in and I really have bleached it so many, many times.)
Faded tile mur-der.
So today at church while in the bathroom, I didn't lock the door all the way and got it opened on me. I hope that little boy wasn't scarred for life. It reminded me of the time I opened the stall door--yes accidentally--on myself in a very busy bathroom.
Yes, everyone, it is possible, and of course I did it.
Here's how:
Go to a stall where the door opens out.
Have a finicky lock that you think works on the first fiddling.
Don't do your business too quickly. This is crucial. You don't want to be in and out in a jiffy--you'll miss all the fun.
Think that someone is trying to get in, forget that the door swings out, and give it a good strong push to keep them at bay.
Have that plan of self-defense backfire in the worst way. Watch in horror as the door opens all the way--and quickly too.
Be glad you're not somehow accidentally in a men's room (don't put it past me--I have a long life to live).
Be slightly relieved you don't actually see the person going past, nor that you make eye contact with anyone in your ever-so-graceful state of exposure.
Then be very grateful to the lady who offers to hold the door shut for you.
Fiddle with the darn lock once it's back within your reach, until it actually clicks.
Except now I come to think of it, I'm not sure this door had a working lock--I think I was feeling lucky, hoping the door would stay in place--which it would have, if I hadn't jumped the gun.
I really have too much excitement going on in public bathrooms. Maybe I should spend less time in them.
And here's to two weeks to go, wishing it were two days. All the Braxton Hicks' are making me nutty.
...because i don't feel so very clever and witty lately.
There is a bum in my ribs. It feels like a big one. It's seriously hindering my slouching. Occasionally, there's a foot behind my ribs. Somehow, out of four babies, this is the first time I've had any stretch their limits. And boy, is he pushing it. I would like to say that with three weeks to go until D-day, there is a name for this kid--but the only thing sticking is a name my mom says is mean because of our last name. We'll find out if we end up using it anyway.
Today Mr Destructo got my Swiffer duster, extended the pole all the way, set a dining chair in the only open space of the kitchen floor and told me he was fishing. "I'm fishing to fill up my bu--et." He likes to skip consonants. And use w's for l's. Like, he wears wunderwear. Sometimes on his head. Once, popping up in the middle of church at the time we were supposed to be the very most reverent. Note: supposed to be. I do not set a good example of reverence. But the kids are so funny!
A month ago he went to Lagoon with his sister and dad and grandma and uncles. He came home unconscious--so tired he'd crashed in the car. I didn't know if he'd had fun until he woke me up the next morning at 7 fully dressed in Fly Lady style--down to his shoes--pulling on my arm to get me out of bed, saying, " C'mon Mom, we gotta go to Wagoon." In a "time to go to school" tone. He meant business. I think Santa should bring us season passes since we can't possibly need any more toys--considering there is no more room for them, especially when there's going to be a new roommate hanging around just eating, sleeping, and pooping and basically wanting everyone to cater to him and carry him around all the time and smother him with hugs and kisses. What a moocher. Kidding. The kids can. not. wait. Nor can their Grandma, I think.
Anyone want to lay odds he'll be born tomorrow so he can have a 9-9-09 birthday? Yeah, me neither, because I know I would lose, even if it would be nice to cut three weeks off this pregnancy. For now, I'll relish my sleep, and hearing the big kids hug and talk to the "new baby" (Lolly tells him she loves him and good-bye when she leaves for school--or anywhere--and Mr D tells him to come on when he's telling me to come too--I guess we move too slow for him, and the S-man just tries to find a comfortable spot when he wants to lean back and chill on my lap), and tiny feet in my ribs. And lungs, it feels like. And hope I don't knock my kids over with my belly too much. Yes, it's already happened--they just bounce off.
