Sunday, April 18, 2010

Ouch! There's a tire in my eye!

I've worn contacts since I was 12 years old. I am 20/400 and while I'm not sure exactly what that means, I do know that without my contacts, I can't even see my reflection in the mirror. My optometrist says that I'm "legally blind". The first thing I do when I get out of bed is put my contacts in and it's the very last thing I do before I go to bed. So, I suppose, it shouldn't be strange to dream about them, right?

At least once a week I dream about putting my contacts in. But the strange thing, is in these dreams, they are never actually "contacts". They're always some kind of foreign object that have no business being in my eyes. Like sunflowers. Or fabric. I'll find myself standing in front of the mirror, holding my "contact" and I'll look down to discover that rather than the tiny piece of plastic that I expect to see, I'm holding a giant flower but I try to put it in my eye anyway. Sometimes they're still contacts, but they're huge and I have to fold them over and over again to get it to fit in my eye. Sometimes they're blankets, or any number of other odd items. Last night it was a tire.

A tire.

What the heck does that mean?

Friday, April 16, 2010

I almost made it...

There is an unwritten law somewhere that states that something will go wrong every time I go to Walmart. Every time. But I keep going back. Why? WHY? I don't know. I suppose it's the same reason I had three kids and opted to stay home with them. I'm a glutton for punishment. I like pain. I'm making up for wrongs done in past lives. I'm completely insane.

I don't have any other explanation for it.

Last time, both Delaney and Nick were in school and it was just Sam and I. I figured, "Hey! This will be easy! Just the baby and me!" Yeah. Well. He screamed from the moment I walked in the door to the moment we walked out. I forgot half the items on my list because I was in such a hurry to get out of there. Then, before that, there was this time. And I'm sure there were times before that and before that, but my mind's defensive mechanisms have blocked them from memory.

Which brings us to today. It was going so smoothly. Sam was in the cart, not screaming, Delaney was in the basket, not crying or whining and Nick was walking along side the cart, not acting like a monkey. It was amazing. I was lingering over items, comparing prices, checking my coupons. All in all, a very successful shopping trip. Things started to fall apart at the check out, but still, nothing a candy bribe can't solve. I even remembered my canvas bags. Then we're walking through the parking lot, a kid on each side of the cart and one in the basket, contentedly eating their candy. The bags are arranged just so in the cart; heavy things on the bottom, soft, crushable things on the top.

At the car, I park the cart halfway in the grass to prevent it rolling away while I unload. But first, I get the kids in the car. As I'm pulling Sam out of the cart, his leg gets stuck and we struggle a bit. Not much, but just enough to jostle the cart towards the grassy side.

And then over.

Onto its side.

ONTO ITS SIDE.

All my carefully arranged bags are now spread out all over the ground, the cart laying on it's side. The hamburger buns were securely wedged beneath the orange juice. The milk did a fine job of bruising the apples. I hate loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt in the store. But I hate picking my groceries up off the ground in the parking lot even more. Now, I wish I would have taken a picture. It really was a sight to behold.

A nice couple witnessed my ordeal and came to my rescue. But come on! Really? I was almost free. I almost made it. I was so close...

Friday, April 9, 2010

A Beautiful Day to Poop in the Park

The sun is shining, it's beautiful outside. So after picking Nick up from the bus, I decided to take my kids to the park.

I packed a lunch and we headed over to the "dinosaur" park. (So named because of the  dino footprints in the cement and the large dinosaurs that you can climb on.) All was going well, happy kids on the swings, happy kids on the slides, happy kids eating peanut butter sandwiches. Happy, happy.

"Mom? I have to use the bathroom!" Nick suddenly declares. So we journey to the toilets. "Closed". Hmmm. After a quick look around, I make sure no one is looking.
"Just go over behind that tree over there," I say. Thrilled to have permission to pee in the great outdoors, he bounds over to the tree and I take the other two kids back to the swings. Minutes pass.
Then he yells.
"Mom! I'm ready!"
"Ready for what?"
"To WIPE!"

Oh. God. Really? REALLY? Did you just poop at the park?

Yes. He did.

Right in the grass. Like a dog. And he's standing there, with his pants around his ankles, looking at me expectantly. I throw my hands up in the air. What? You pooped!? On the ground!? In public!? POOP!? What?! Wipe? You? IN THE PARK? 

"You said I should go behind the tree," he says.
"Yeah, but PEE! I thought you had to PEE!"
 "I did that, too. Can you wipe me?" he asks again.

What?! You think I carry toilet paper every where I go? 

Well, actually, I do.
I thanked whomever one thanks for such things, that we drove, rather than walked to the park today. I sprinted to the car, gathered up some wipes, hand sanitizer and an old rice cake bag. I ran back and cleaned him up the best I could. Then I disposed of the evidence in the rice cake bag. ( The bag which, I'd like to note, I would not have had if I'd cleaned the trash out of my car like my dear husband suggested. Then where would I have been? Exactly.)

Then I decided it was about time to come home.

Yet another chapter for the What You Don't Expect book...

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

I'm famous! Sort of.

Today I am famous. FAMOUS, I tell ya. Famous. Please direct all autograph requests to my publicist. Thank you.



It is my SITS day! Woo hoo! So, I'd like to welcome everyone who followed that link over here. I'm happy to have you here! I dusted and even brought out the good china.


So, pull up a chair, have a drink and read a bit!

Here are a few links to my most popular posts...

What you don't expect about having kids...

Manscaping!


The medical field or murder?

Thanks so much for stopping by and reading! I'll return as many visits as I can!

Hippity hop

One year, my brother and I woke up on Easter morning only to discover that the Easter Bunny had brought us real live rabbits! Yay! Mine was white, with red eyes. I named her "Fluffy". Very original, I know. My brother got a brown one, which he named "Flopsy".  Of course, a few days later, the novelty wore off. Cleaning rabbit hutches really isn't the good time that it's made out to be.





In middle school, long after the passing of Fluffy, I got a new rabbit. A lop-eared named "Cisco" (named after the San Francisco poster on my bedroom wall). This rabbit actually used a cat box, so there was not a hutch to clean. Cisco lived in my room with me, using his cat box and doing rabbity things. Then he peed on my journal and chewed through my speaker wires. You don't mess with a 13 year old girl's music.

Cisco was kicked outside. And he took it personally. He had a huge fenced in area and I only put him in his hutch at night, so the mountain lions wouldn't eat him. You think he'd have been more appreciative. But no. He wasn't. He hated me. If I picked him up, he'd contort into shapes I didn't know rabbits could get into, just so he could scratch me. And that was when I could catch him. He learned many defensive maneuvers. He learned how to throw pinecones. Yes. He did. He picked them up in his mouth and then launched them at me with his front feet. Rabbits may have small brains, but apparently they hold grudges. And they're dangerous. My mom had to go to the ER once because of him. Well, not him exactly, but while trying to catch him, she hit her head on a tree branch and needed stitches. So, it was, indirectly, his fault.

Then this year, for a brief, oh-so-fleeting moment of insanity, I considered buying my children rabbits for Easter. Then it all came flooding back to me. The smell, the poop, the cleaning...I am, apparently, not as good of a parent as my parents are. I really don't want another thing in my house that eats and poops and harbors ill intentions. So, for Easter, my kids got kites and bubbles.

Much easier to take care of.

Friday, April 2, 2010

People suck.

I was going to write a witty little piece on bunny rabbits, but realized that it wasn't going the direction I planned. Rather than the fuzzy little Easter Bunny angle, it was quickly swerving into boiled rabbit territory. So I scrapped it. Maybe tomorrow.

A local girl went missing Sunday, and apparently the police didn't even start their search until about Tuesday. Despite how strange I think that it, the thing that really bothers me are the people who comment on the related articles published on the news web page. Sometimes, I wonder if allowing people to comment on articles is really a good thing. Hiding behind an anonymous icon seems to give people all kinds of freedom to be cruel and say the most incredibly hurtful things. This is a 12 year old girl, for godsake, missing for almost a week and "adults" reading these articles find it completely appropriate to make comments about how easy it should be to find her because of her weight, and how they should follow the grease trail. They find it appropriate to criticize the mother and judge her parenting skills, to call her a "loser" because she doesn't have transportation for her children. I hate to break it to them, but even us poor folk love our children. Then they pat themselves on the back and applaud their good parenting because they're "not out looking" for their children.  It makes me physically ill. I had to stop reading them because I was seriously getting sick. There is a desperate family out there, searching for their missing child and instead of offering their assistance to the search, these self-described excellent parents are sitting at their computers, insulting a little girl and her family.

I hope they never know the pain that the Wilson family is facing. And I hope she comes home safe. I can't imagine the horror.

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