October 15, 2007 by Marj Hatzell
There have been very few times in my life that I’ve had difficulty saying something. Very few. Like, less than five. Maybe less than two. In fact, except for some laryngitis in highschool (during which I had to use sign language and a pad of paper to communicate. This was a painful and traumatic experience for me since I have the gift of gab) I’ve never lost the ability to speak. I can chat with just about anyone. Unless I meet my match and end up talking to someone who doesn’t take a breath. I may prattle on incessantly but I’ve met a few who can top even that…at least I MEAN something when I speak, in a round-about-nonsensical-gonna-get-to-the-point-eventually-kind-of-way. Some people just jump from subject to subject and it is very difficult to follow…
What was I saying?
Oh. Reticent. Right. I’m proving that point, now aren’t I?
This weekend really wasn’t out of the ordinary. If there is an ordinary around here. See, our life is normally one big adventure after the next. New territory and pathways are discovered anew each time the sun rises. This weekend, then, was normal, if you can refer to it that way. Bugaboo got into stuff. Bug Boy played with Polite Boy. The girls teased the boys over the fence (Girls rule boys DROOL! SO THERE!). Darling did projects, I caught up on housework. The dog(s) slept, followed me, etc. (We had Cujo the wonder dog this weekend, I didn’t want to give him back again. Shadow was not sad to see him leave). I swear, they should both be named Shadow because they follow me. EVERY. STEP. ALL. DAY. LONG. Except where Shadow parks herself at the end of the hallway while I am straightening bedrooms and such, Cujo literally walks behind me every step. If I pace back and forth, he follows me. If I am going back and forth between the laundry basket and the dressers to put away clothing, he follows me between the basket and the clothes. And I’ve never stepped on him! NOT ONCE! Because I am a girl and I rule!
Bugaboo reached a new high in the “getting-into-random-crap-that-my-parents-never-thought-possible” category. See, our new fridge is a mixed blessing. It is great, since it keeps our food from spoiling and all. But whereas Bugaboo never paid much attention to the old fridge (except the freezer door on the bottom, which he used to swing back and forth like a ride at Isney-Day this freezer has a pull out drawer that he isn’t inclined to pull out. Instead, he is digging the fridge on the top, uses the freezer door to scramble into it and then pulls out random items that look interesting, like hot sauce, barebecue sauce, ketchup (or is it catsup?) and the like. You, things that he’ll never eat? He also likes to pull his juice bottle out. Every. Five. Minutes. So we were thinking of investing in a baby lock when he snuck into the house on Saturday afternoon while I was on doggie-doo duty and Darling was
being a bad influence on playing catch with the boys. Polite Boy slept over so basically he doesn’t leave my house from Saturday morning until Sunday night when his mother calls begging for his return. Bugaboo must have slipped into the kitchen unnoticed, decided to reach for his juice, and instead knocked a fresh gallon of homemade iced tea out of the fridge. Which spilled. All over the newly-mopped kitchen floor. Like, it was clean five minutes before that. Bugaboo slipped back outside and some time later (we think it was about twenty minutes) Darling yelled from the sliding door while I chatted over the fence with my equally-verbally-gifted neighbor and I ran to investigate. The floor was covered. Every square inch of my kitchen. Under the fridge. Under the stove. Down the step into the family room. Under the kitchen table. That was an hour clean-up job, believe it or not…
You know, I think I have a great life. I have two beautiful, happy little boys, a loving and supportive husband who thinks I am a total MILF, a family who helps out when we need them to and friends to hang out and have fun with . I live in a nice house on a nice street in a nice neighborhood with nice neighbors. It’s nearly Mayberry. But it sure would be nice if Bugaboo did not quadruple my house work. I know, I know, kids (boys!) can mess up a house. But whole boxes of cheerios dumped on the floor on a regular basis? Whole boxes of Q-tips scattered over the entire second floor? The whole bin of markers AND crayons AND colored pencils AND popsicle sticks arranged in his random stim pattern in the basement playroom? Water pouring through our kitchen ceiling? The contents of his diaper regularly all over him, my floor, my walls, you name it? I think I’d have less cleaning to do if he would just calm down for a few minutes. Or sit and play with something, like, I dunno, A TOY?
Naaaah. That would be too easy. I loves me a challenge. That is Bugaboo. He’s a challenge. A beautiful, smiling, pure-love challenge without a mean or hateful bone in his body. He may spike my blood pressure from time-to-time, but waking up every morning to that face, that smile, that hug…priceless.