July 4, 2011 by Marj Hatzell
We’re nearing the end of the countdown. Ten days of school break for Ian and we’ve managed to get through it. Somewhat. Sort of. A little bit. I should just shut up while I’m ahead, though, because I know I just jinxed myself. We still have twenty hours to go.
Honestly, this is probably the best one we’ve had (Hush yo mouth before you jinx it). We managed to stick to a decent sleep schedule (turns out Bugaboo will sleep until 8 or 9 if we let him. He normally gets up at 7 for school). He only wet the bed, well, every single night since we went to the pool, well, every single night. Wanna know what he does at the pool?
He drinks it.
Like, public swim club. He drinks up handfuls of water. In the beginning of the season he throws up the water at least once until he remembers “Hey! I shouldn’t drink 6 gallons of pool water. I’ll keep it at 4!” Then we’re golden. (GUFFAW. Get it? Golden?) Yeah, I know. Ew. I mean, people sweat in the pool, they spit in the pool, they have sunblock on, they pee in the pool…*shudder* and my kid drinks it. Niiiiice. Luckily, they pour bleach in there to make it healthy. Lucky us.
By the way, I don’t like public swim clubs and hate getting my hair wet. Go figure.
And somehow I still manage to raise these children to be normal. BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!! I know, I almost believed it, too.
And we only had two run away incidents. Only two! And only had the police called once! AMAZING! Wanna know what happened? No? Well, I’m telling you anyways because I’m awesome like that. So here it goes:
A few days ago we were “changing the guards” so to speak. The Guy I Live With was heading out to the Orange Home Improvement Store and I was finishing up a cup of tea. I told him I’d go locate the Bugaboo while he walked out the door and asked him to get back quickly because I had A MASSAGE scheduled. Before I could take the last swig of my blacker-than-black-tea, Bugaboo was missing. The Guy I Live With got in his car before I could say, “By the way, where is he?” By the time I ran around the house and looked in the backyard, The Guy I Live With drove three blocks away. To the Local Park. And saw police parked there and a nekkid little boy who was being held by one of our favorite neighbors. The Guy I Live With got this feeling he should stop and see what was going on. See where this was going? THAT FAST Bugaboo got out of the yard, high-tailed it down the street to the playground and stripped nekkid. Our neighbor saw him while she was walking her dog, tried to get Bugaboo come home and he shrieked and ran and acted like someone was gouging his eyes out with a spoon. (What, like that never happened to you)? Anyways, another lady at the park with her kid calls the cops (who just happened to be a block away) because (GET THIS), there was a woman trying to take a nekkid child out of the park. She told the police she was concerned he was being abducted. She was not, however, CONCERNED THERE WAS A NEKKID CHILD IN THE PARK WHILE HE WAS WALKING AROUND RUBBING SOFTBALL FIELD DIRT ALL OVER HIMSELF AND HUMMING. She only became concerned when my well-meaning neighbor tried to remove him from the park and take him home and he screamed. Because, you know, when nekkid kids are sitting on a softball field rubbing dirt all over themselves, YOU SHOULD LEAVE THEM THERE.
Anyways. The Guy I Live With found him there, with the cop, the cop immediately recognized him, I approached the blocks at this point (and did I mention? This all happened in about three minutes? YEAH) and saw the cop and the neighbor and the lady who thought a nekkid kid in the softball field was normal and everything was fine but I was embarrassed and also a little stressed and gave three more people my cell phone number. TADA!
But wait! There’s more!
After we died from heart attacks and came back to life again, we vowed to research monitoring bracelets (which, we think we’ve narrowed down and will be ordering as soon as their customer service department opens tomorrow at 9am) and went about our business for the day. Then, Saturday morning I was scrubbing toilets because there was crusty yellow stuff on them (THREE MALES. NO ONE PUTS THE SEAT UP, YO)and said to Bug Boy, “Do NOT go outside. We’ll get your lottery ticket in a minute. It’s on the patio. DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR. I need to finish cleaning the bathroom and your brother has to stay inside until I am finished, mmkay?” So naturally, in Bug Boy speak that means, “GO OUTSIDE TO THE PATIO AND GET YOUR LOTTERY TICKET RIGHT NOW BECAUSE IT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN THE WORLD AND ALSO YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE DOOR UNLOCKED AND WIDE OPEN SO YOUR BROTHER GETS OUT AND RUNS AWAY, OK?” So he did. And thirty seconds later I heard the sliding door open, put down the toilet brush, walked downstairs to find Bug Boy walking back into the house with his (losing) lottery ticket and a blank stare when I asked him where his brother was.
See where this is going?
So when I reprimanded him for leaving the door open, he got upset with me because I was “too loud” and also it “wasn’t his fault because he’s ten and not responsible” and I said, “NO SHIZ YOU AREN’T RESPONSIBLE, THAT IS THE PROBLEM” and hopped into my car and raced to the playground three blocks away, only to discover that it was the one day a year Bugaboo decided NOT to go to the park when he ran away. So I raced back to my house, pulled up to the curb and saw my neighbor in her pajamas and bathrobe bringing Bugaboo back to our house. The same neighbor that had him nekkid, taking a shower in his rain coat in her house a few years back? Yeah. Good times. He just walked into her house and through the kitchen and made it to the stairs before anyone noticed. Sigh. But! He got stopped before he made it to the shower this time! So, WINNING!
Sigh.Basically, I never want to open the doors or windows again. If Bugaboo wasn’t going to school tomorrow I’d board up the windows prolly. And, it’s my least-favorite noise holiday, which means we’re hunkered down in the house during fireworks because I have a kid who is totally petrified of fireworks (not the one you’d think) and who calls me when I’m out on dates with my husband to tell me that the fireworks suck and I need to stop them. While the other kid completely ignores them but sits in his bed with blankets over his head until they stop. But hey, at least this year our autistic dog (Shad Roe the Wonder Mutt) that passed away last year isn’t walking around whining and crying and attempting to shove all 80 of her pounds underneath me on the couch. No, Bristol and Daisy were all, “Fireworks? Were there fireworks? We’re terribly sorry, we hadn’t noticed. Now, would you mind? We’re sleeping here.” So there’s that. Problem is, The Guy I Live With is a bit of a pyromaniac and may or may not have conned his out-of-state-living-relatives to buy him fireworks at the fireworks store (we have fireworks stores here in PA that out-of-state-residents may purchase fireworks from but NOT RESIDENTS OF PA. DO NOT ASK.) so we’ll have a bit of noise right outside the boys’ bedrooms this evening at dusk at our family barbecue. Yippee. Apparently he didn’t get the memo that his wife and kids cover their heads like there’s an air raid when they hear fireworks.
Happy Fourth, y’all. Don’t light yourselves on fire setting off your illegal pyrotechnics, mmkay?