Zombies vs Hoarders

SCARE WARNING!

No children allowed to view this post.

Husband: "What are you trying to tape on the bedroom TV?"

Me: "Ummmm... You really don't want to know."

Husband: "Is it bad?" Stern look on his face.

Me: PAUSE "Yes."

Husband: "What? WHAT?! Is it “The Joy of Stress” again or Hoarders or something worse?"Me: "NO!" Crossing my arms over my chest.

Husband: "WELL?..."

Me, very sheepishly: "It's replays of Shark Week."

* silence *

Husband: "Well, I guess we don't have to like or be into everything that each other likes."

Me: "Like Nazi Zombie Killers on the XBox?"


Husband: "It’s called, Call of Duty. Like your addiction to ‘Hoarders’, ‘Say Yes to the Dress’, or Shark Week?"



Me: "Well, I'm glad we had this talk."

Me: "So, what are you going to do now, besides work?"

Husband: "Go play Call of Duty and you?"

Me: "I'm going to go re-watch Shark Week episodes."

Husband: "Alrighty then."


I forgot to add that I was going to fold his underwear and socks WHILE watching my shows. I'm sure he would approve then. Right?!

It's Therapeutic!

As long as I am on a sarcastic streak with my blogging, today's posting is about the fantastically awesome and oh-so-true website titled "Sh*t My Kids Ruined." It describes itself as "THE STRONGEST VISUAL BIRTH CONTROL ON THE MARKET TODAY." They "want to know about the shit your kids ruined. Perhaps your couch? Your TV? Your marriage? Your dreams? CONTRIBUTE. It's therapeutic."

It is a rollicking good time exploring the misfortunes of fellow breeders who blinked for the briefest of moments during their parental watch!

I was made aware of the website by a co-worker who thought, perhaps, I would have a few pictures of my own to share. Oh! You bet your bottom dollar I have incriminating pictures of ruined sh*t! I just don't happen to be organized or motivated enough to local them at this moment. However, now that I know this type of website exists -- I am so going to post the next pictures I take of ruined items AND, very unfortunately, I am positive there will be a next time for ruined items.

P.S. My nine-year old just read this posting and is very upset with me. She thinks the website is awful and "blaming children for things they didn't do on purpose." Which may be true... perhaps the kids didn't intend to ruin the stuff. Yet, it was ruined just the same and when said daughter grows up and reproduces her own hellions, she will better understand. Hugs!

Borrowed Material

As a parent who has children who refuse to sleep and are just plain ol' awful sleepers, I was thoroughly amused by this Daddy-Blogger's (Dorky Dad: Where testorerone and hope go to die) post about "The Child Wake-Up Theorem".

The Child Wake-Up Theorem

I need to talk about a serious problem that every parent faces. It's a problem that they don't tell you about in parenting books or in seminars or in the media. Nobody talks about it, because they know the moment they say something about it, you'll take a vow of celibacy to avoid having any children -- which, by the way, is the same reason nobody talks about potty training to would-be parents.

I'm talking about the fact that kids never, ever sleep in when you want them to.

This is the Child Wake-Up Theorem: The likelihood that a child sleeps in decreases the more that child's parents want them to sleep in.I had to wake both of my kids up this morning. They slept in because I didn't want them to. The Boy had a bus to catch, which provides me with a nice, stressful deadline, which is just what I need in the morning. (For those of you who do not know, I'm what one would call a "night person." And being a "night person" makes me "grumpy" in the mornings. Ergo, a deadline makes it worse.)

The Sequel was relatively easy to wake up. I just lift him from the bed and he is virtually helpless, especially when I'm an uncomfortable ride because I'm jogging from one room to the next trying to get everything done before I have to go to work.

The Boy is not so easy. When he decides it's time to sleep in, it frequently takes a series of pulleys and a team of big horses to extract him from bed. And you'd better make sure that the straps are on tight, because the skinny little thing will find a way out of them if you don't.

This never fails. When I need them to wake up, they sleep in. When I want them to sleep in, which is on most weekends, they insist on getting up as early as humanly possible, assuming they went to bed in the first place, so they can get their full day's worth of shouting and jumping and laughing and crying and leaping upon Dad's sensitive body parts.

I should be used to this by now, for I've had offspring for five years. But my body still expects to sleep in on weekends and on holidays and I feel cheated when I don't get to.

(By the way, I also feel cheated when I have to wear nice clothes to work on Friday, when we normally get to wear jeans; maybe I could just change whenever my dressy-uppy meeting is over ...)

So when The Boy or The Sequel wakes me up early on a weekend, he reduces me to a whimpering mass of humanity, a sad spectacle for anybody who holds fathers in high regard. I do what comes naturally -- I whine, I cover my head with the pillow, and I dive underneath the covers, all the while begging the kids to please, please, for the love of all that's right in the word go ... back ... to ... sleep.

But it never happens, and I'm afraid it never will. It's our curse, as parents, to this fate.

So maybe I should get to bed.

Beautiful

We had a beautiful day today! It was almost perfect. Woke up with the darling children; made a pancake breakfast; watched the gorgeous, large, puffy snowflakes float to the ground; all of the children cooperated with Husband and I as we made several trays of peanut blossom cookies.
Life was gorgeous... until nap time.

This might be the time to mention that today was also the day my husband chose to try to stop smoking. He had his last cigarette at 8:30am and started chomping away at Nicorette gum.

Perfect day ensues with my perfect children and my perfect life partner. Husband is generally the more even tempered and patient, stable parent. He goes cigarette-free and whoa there, cowboy! He turns into a daft, demented man lacking all sense of perspective.

I digress -- the perfect day is proceeding towards nap time. Suddenly, those four darling children went all Sybil - Linda Blair - Psycho on us as their parental units. We are taking heads swiveling, funky fluids flinging from orifices, multiple personalities switching out every few minutes. It was crazy. Needless to say, the Norman Rockwell picture-perfect day started to go down hill at break neck speeds.

Husband ended up needing a three hour nap while I dealt with non-napped two, three, and eight year olds. Our precious H was awesome and took a nap. (There is a God!)

As I enjoyed the day with my little lovelies, I looked forward to my pending escape at 5:30pm so I could join my sister, MJ, at the Monster Truck Jam.

Ah, yes! My dirty little secret... I LOVE the dirt, destruction, and mullet hair cuts of all my fellow red-neck, white trash monster truck lovers.

So, 5:30pm rolls around and I am whipping around the house, trying to leave and my Hubby walks up to me and says, "Honey?" [First indication that something odd is going to come out of his mouth.] "Will you go to THE STORE for me?"

"The Store" for my Hubby is code for only one of two things. 1)He is lacking Pepsi, or 2) he is lacking nicotine. Seriously?!

I have a very strict policy of never, ever, EVER purchasing those filthy cancer sticks for him. I guess Husband must have been excessively desperate to ask me to buy those awful things. Strict no-buy policy... Yet, I had pity on his retched soul and broke my rule. (Not to mention, I was a half hour late to pick up my sister for the absolute most phenomenal event of the year!) SIGH! I went to the gas station and picked up THOSE things.

Actually, truth be told... I was a weency bit afraid for Husband's sanity, as well as the children's safety, if he did not ingest large amounts of nicotine-induced smoke asap. After all, why should I be allowed to have all the fun?! I was about to ingest dirt, truck fumes, and antifreeze fumes, as I enjoyed the fabulous sound of revving engines or preferably crunching metal.