May 16, 2008 by Marj Hatzell
TGI…oh heavens. I have no idea. Part of me is elated that this dreadful week is over and the other part? Let’s just say she could use one more day of quiet before the boys are home for the entire weekend, stuck inside. Lucky for us, it is quite warm and boots and raincoats go a long way. So do forts made of many blankets and pillows. So do glasses of wine. Glasses of lovely, sweet, happy wine that make snuggling in bed and working off stress even more funner (I did that to piss off the English Majors). But I digress.
There are a few things I need to clear up this week:
- About that Speedy Gonzalez thing. It depends on who you ask. Some of my Internet sources said mouse, others said chinchilla. And you know you can trust EVERYTHING you read on the Internets. I’m going with Chinchilla, just because I hate to be wrong. And because it makes sense. Because loony toons always made sense.
- Bug Boy and the teensy pill. He just won’t take it. Day two of me shoving in a microscopic, dissolving pill and him being all, “Oh. That was so easy.” and mommy being all, “GRRRRRR!” And, now that we’ve had the bi-Pap machine adjusted he’s much more willing to use it. Thank goodness. Although he’s still like a grumpy old man trapped in a seven-year-old body. We went for a walk last night and the whole way he’s all, “OMG! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ARE MAKING ME WALK! MY LEGS HURTS! ACK! IT’S SO FAAAAAR.” All two blocks of it.
- Bugaboo has been one happy camper this week. Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy. Smiley, loving and hugging and kissing everyone. Except for me. You know, the woman who had him in her pancreas for 42+ weeks and then labored for twenty-SEVEN hours with induction and then ended up septic and with an emergency c-section and placenta abruptia and losing four pints of blood? Yeah, chopped liver. I say, “Kiss Mommy!” and he bends his head down and makes a face like, “OK FINE. KISS ME AND GET IT OVER WITH! ACK! POISON!” And then goes back to his favorite pasttime of eating dirt and mulch and getting nekkid in my backyard and the neighbors going by and pointing and laughing because their kid does it, too. See, that makes me feel almost normal. Apparently (at least in my quasi-hippy town) it is NORMAL for little boys to strip nekkid and sit in the dirt and look like Lord of the Flies. Who knew? This is one of those things they do not teach you in that OH SO HELPFUL parenting class you take when #1 is coming. You know,”DON’T LET THE BABY SLEEP IN YOUR BED! THEY MIGHT DIE!” That one. Apparently that instructor did not have a two-week-old projectile vomiting in bed every two hours and then needing to eat more and then vomiting that and she didn’t get tired of walking down the *^$*% hall in the dark at 2am.
- The husband. I’m convinced he will have a nervous breakdown. He gets to do something he absolutely hates today. He gets to train two hundred people. The guy who talks every four days? Yeah, he’s training two hundred people. And it gets better. Part of it is by phone/internet conference. Because they are in China and India and England and The Netherlands. Which means they have accents. Which means he won’t understand a word they say. Which means he will be in rare form when he gets home. Which means I’M GETTING TAKEOUT TONIGHT!!! And a MILKSHAKE! w00t!
- The dog. It must be nice to sleep all day long on the couch in the front window and bark when you feel like it. I mean, people took vegetables off my porch all day yesterday and she’s all, “WhatEVER!” but I’m telling you, don’t you DARE take my trash off the curb or walk by my house. She’ll give you the hairy eyeball and we wouldn’t want THAT, now would we?
- rhubarb. What the heck do you do with rhubarb? I have strawberries and rhubarb from the CSA and might make a Strawberry rhubarb Pie. Or I might stare at the rhubarb for another week. One of the two.
- Me. It’s all about me.