Do you remember me?
I used to blog here, from time to time, back in the day. I’ve been AWOL, but I’ve had good reasons.
My mama had surgery on Tuesday. I think that was just yesterday. It’s been a whirlwind of doctors and IVs and SHE’S THROWING UP NOW FROM THE PAIN MEDS and SHE’S DEHYDRATED SO LET’S TAKE A TRIP TO THE ER FOR FORTY-TWO BAGS OF FLUID and hospital cookies and waiting room coffee and I HAVE HAD THE TODDLER WITH ME AT ALL TIMES.
I also didn’t use commas in that big sentence. Somewhere, an English teacher just fell to the floor in death, with her red pen clutched tightly to her chest.
Anyway, I will catch y’all up later, because the answer is YES. Yes, my parents both had major surgery, just twelve days apart. Their insurance company adores them right now. I imagine there’s an insurance agent wanting to just take them out for a dinner of lobster tails, just to celebrate the fact that HOLY HOSPITAL BEDS, BATMAN! Double surgeries… double biopsies… double the fun… Double Mint Gum.
I may be losing half of my mind, so please pardon the ramblings.
However, I do have a little gem for you tonight, because I feel like I owe you SOMETHING after my absence.
One of the boy’s daily jobs is to scoop the cat box every evening before he goes to bed. It’s because we have two indoor cats, and we don’t want to smell like we have forty-nine of them. And, because Hubs and I were brilliant enough to have children, we can get out of some unsavory jobs (like cat box duty) by just assigning them to random children who live here.
(Same goes for lawn mowing.)
Last night, the boy came running up the stairs from our laundry room (which is where the cat box is located, because we figure that’s the least offensive spot for a Kitty Bathroom to be), and he hollered, “There’s a wolf spider the size of a golf ball in the cat box!”
And… excuse me? You thought YOUR MAMA would go downstairs and look at it and also fight it to the bloody death?
No, she won’t. And no, she didn’t. It’s why I married Hubs. When you get married, there are just certain things that are automatically the husband’s job, and hand-to-hand combat with a wolf spider that weighs in at four pounds is one of those things. Spiders don’t seem to bother Hubs; neither do snakes. I have no idea how he and I are even still friends, because those two things kill me dead in my tracks.
The boy will handle snakes and has even expressed a great interest in one day having a king cobra in a glass cage at his house FOR. A. PET. This will not happen during a time when he lives with me, because I would never sleep again. I would simply lie awake all night, wondering if that dadgum snake was still in his tank, or whether he just hooded up and popped the lid off and is RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND TRYING TO SLITHER INTO MY BEDROOM?
No, ma’am. I am so firm on the fact that if one of our boys wants a snake for a pet, it will happen FAR, FAR AWAY from my house, and I will never, ever, not even at Christmas time come to their houses for dinner.
Unless, of course, they live in snake-free apartments.
But… what the boy CANNOT HANDLE is a big spider. I’d like to tell him, “Oh! Cowboy up! Pull your big cowboy boots on and handle that venomous dragon-like creature with your manliness!” But then I’d be playing the hypocrite card, because what I WON’T DO is pull my big cowboy boots on and look a spider in its eye (eyes???) and do… well… anything with it.
So yes. Hubs fought the four-pound spider in the cat litter box, and we hear tale that he won with an ambush. We can’t be certain, because neither the boy nor I was there to witness the war, but we assume when Hubs came upstairs and said, “I showed him who was boss,” that it simply meant the spider was sleeping with the fishes and that Hubs had put the baseball bat back in our coat closet.
THIS is how the boy and I deal with such varmints: