Twelve Hundred Eighty-Six Words. And It’s All About As Riveting As Reading A Manual Entitled “Assembling Your Child’s Tricycle.”

Well.

It’s Spring Break around here.  I may have mentioned that once or nineteen times before.  And?  Did I also mention that we are not in Disneyland with Sister and her family and some mutual friends of ours, because we will be spending our Minnie Mouse fund on a mouth filled with shiny metal come April 22nd?

There you go, Boy.  You’re carrying your first car around on your teeth!

Because I have to tell you that my 1982 Honda  Accord cost about half of what straightening the boy’s teeth is going to set us back.  What has this world come to?  Ma Ingalls would be plum shocked to hear that sugar is no longer four cents’ a pound, that gasoline is fully over $3 a gallon, and you can buy two old Hondas or put braces on your firstborn.

(Speaking of that 1982 Honda Accord… I do miss her.  She was good.  She was dependable.  She saw me through the years of Def Leppard and side ponytails and Guess overalls.  She saw the worst choices I made in boys, the best choices I made in friends, and brought me through four years of college and into marriage.)

(And then Hubs said, “I cannot own a car in which you have to shut the radio and the air conditioner off to top 40 miles per hour on a hill.”  And that was the end of the Accord.)

(I think this next picture sums up Hubs’ feelings about driving perfectly.)

(Of course I want to do some editing to it, because shouldn’t it say, “How I feel at the front of A red light turning green”?)

(Sometimes my spiritual gift of proofreading is a downfall.  I want to add commas and clauses and quotation marks to all kinds of things.)

(Hubs always has to be IN FRONT on the roads.  Always.  He’ll pass you on a corner on two wheels, if it means he can put your vehicle behind his.)

(I’m completely the opposite.  I don’t care when slow people are in front of me.  I figure I’ll be 92 and driving someday, so I might as well experience the slowness of that right now.)

(Also?  That sound you just heard?  It was half of my blog readers falling out of their chairs from sheer boredom.  I’m sorry.  Did I mention that it’s Spring Break?  Sometimes we get a little lax with things during vacations.  Blog posts are no exception.)

Anyway.

Our Spring Break has been filled with friends.  We’ve had dinner with friends; we’ve had coffee with friends.  We’ve been to friends’ houses to play; we’ve had friends over here to visit.  The boy and his friends have unrolled sleeping bags on our family room floor.  Thing 2 is quickly filling up his dance card, because he already has a social life at the age of one.  He has buddies, and those buddies have mamas who drink Starbucks.

In the midst of our playdates this week, I’ve learned that Thing 2 thinks that ALL TOYS are his.  His toys are his… your son’s toys are his.  He is also not shy about roaming other peoples’ kitchens, opening their Tupperware drawers, and throwing containers in various sizes all over the floor.

Today, Thing 2 and I went to visit my friend, Katie, and her son, Gunnar.  Gunnar is one of Thing 2’s best friends.  Gunnar is a mature sixteen-month-old boy.  Thing 2 still has some social skills to learn, because while Gunnar AVOIDED THE DEER POOP in his yard this afternoon, Thing 2 picked up a big handful and squished it between his fingers before his mama could grab him.

(Do you know what I never dreamed I’d hear myself shouting one day?  “PUT THE POOP DOWN!  NO POOP!  DON’T PLAY WITH THE POOP!  WE DO NOT HOLD DEER POOP AND SQUISH IT IN OUR HANDS!”)

(They don’t teach you those kinds of things in college.)

Plus?  I have always sworn that the issue of sugar making children hyper was an old wives’ tale.  The boy could eat an entire pan of brownies, with a Mountain Dew chaser, and fall asleep four minutes later.  Apparently, this does not hold true with Thing 2.  We’ve tested it with his birthday cake.  We’ve tested it with Cousin B’s birthday brownies and ice cream.  And last night we tested it with Brian and Sarah’s dessert pizza, that was some kind of fancy dough, loaded down with cinnamon and brown sugar and oatmeal and butter!  Sweet mercy, the butter!  And all that butter and brown sugar and oatmeal flakes melted together to form a caramelized sauce, and I wanted to put my face in the pan and be alone with it.  Thing 2 felt the same way.  He had some sugar after dinner with Brian and Sarah and their children.

And then Thing 2 came home with us.  Hubs and I followed the usual, every-night-of-his-life routine of Bath, Bottle, Bed… and then Thing 2 jumped in his crib, up and down, up and down, jumping on his mattress, while he sang loud songs to himself and squealed from his sugar high until 9:00.

His normal bedtime is 7:00.

We have officially done our job as good parents and have banned Thing 2 from the sugar cane plant and its bounty of goodness after 3 PM.

In other news, Hubs and I watched some show last night on TV about a couple who have six children.  Now, six children is fine.  There isn’t a dadgum thing wrong with having six children… but this couple had six children all AT ONCE, because CAN YOU SAY SEXTUPLETS?!  Those six children were all a year old!

And the whole show made me realize that six one-year-olds running around my house at the same time would turn me into a girl who takes Valium four or eighty-one times a day.  I’m having a hard enough time keeping up on all the Tupperware-unloading that goes on in my own kitchen.  The thought of multiplying that by SIX makes me shudder, because THEY COULD ALL BE IN DIFFERENT DRAWERS AND CUPBOARDS AT THE SAME TIME!

Also, they could all be pooping in their Pampers at the same time!  And how on earth do you tackle bath time each night?  And how do you get them all strapped into their carseats, without some little one standing outside the minivan, running on the sidewalk?  Because a loose one-year-old on the sidewalk would create a full-blown panic attack in me.  One-year-olds RUN INTO THE STREET!  And how do you handle that, while you’re strapping everyone into their seats?!  And can you imagine what the floor looks like after dinner is over?

Hubs and I agreed that watching that show was exactly like watching The Shining right before you head to bed.

(And let’s talk about The Shining.  I, myself, have never seen the REAL version; I’ll be truthful and go on the record as saying, “I saw the scaled-down, TBS version on TV.”  Hubs swears that it is THE!  SCARIEST!  MOVIE!  OF EVER!  He saw it at a slumber party when he was a 4th grader, and he’s still traumatized by it.  I saw it as an adult on TV and told Hubs, “I don’t know what the big deal is; this is a bit stupid.”  And then I crooked my finger and yelled, “REDRUM!!” at Hubs, and he nearly had a stroke and fell to the ground.)

(So?  What about y’all?  Did you think The Shining was a Five-Star Scary Movie?)

(Because I give it HALF of a star for scary.)

(And this comes from a girl who always thought Unsolved Mysteries on TV was horribly frightening!)

Anyway, if I keep typing, I’ll keep discussing utter nonsense, because DID YOU HEAR?  It’s Spring Break.

And we’re not in Disneyland.

1 thought on “Twelve Hundred Eighty-Six Words. And It’s All About As Riveting As Reading A Manual Entitled “Assembling Your Child’s Tricycle.”

  1. If you are out front you can let all the crazies wreck each other behind ya. Clean air people, clean air. Try and keep up….

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