My son, Aiden, is a wonderful, lovely, bright, handsome PITA. Thank God, I love him. Here's the thing...I didn't really give any credence into what names mean and the personality that goes along with it, until Aiden. Aiden means "fiery one" in Gaelic. I thought rogue not a freaking fire cracker. He has a temper that makes the Tasmanian Devil look tame.
Friday morning Aiden decided he didn't want to get dressed. Nuh-uh. NO how. He read a book. He played a game. He even danced to a tune. I wanted to throttle him. So, I did what any Mom does on any given day. I nagged: Aiden. Get dressed. Aiden, get dressed. Aiden. Dressed. Now. GET. FREAKIN. DRESSED. NOWWWWah! So he grabbed some clothes. Meanwhile, Jack and Asher were both dressed and headed to the auto. I returned to his room to find that he was wearing shorts. It was 40ish degrees outside. Aiden. Get pants on. It's too cold.
Aiden gave me the look that only this child can do. It's a cross of f-you and go to hell. He must have been a girl teenager in a previous life. It's that kind of look. So, he grabbed another pair of shorts. Seething, I thought that I would teach him a lesson and let him go to school in shorts, a short sleeved shirt and shoes (with no socks).
Life lesson #54: Mom knows what the hell she's talking about.
An hour later I received a call from his teacher. I had to bring him clothes appropriate for the weather. I tried to explain what was going on, but she seemed to think that I am a major dumb ass of a Mom and that it wasn't appropriate to teach this type of lesson.
Well crap. My life lesson for my child had backfired. Now what? I went to school. I gave him his bag of clothes.
When Aiden got home from school he had to go through ALL of his clothes - short and long sleeved shirts, shorts and pants, underwear and socks, jackets, sweaters and hoodies. He had to sort clothes and make a winter pile and a summer pile. The winter pile is in his drawers and the summer pile is tucked away.
What would have taken five minutes, to change from shorts to pants, has now taken two hours.
Life Lesson #1: Screw with Mom and you get the horns.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Cat Got My Tongue
You've heard the expression, "Cat got your tongue," right? Well, of course - because it's me, the cat really did get my tongue.
Picture Garth Algar waving his hands .... dododoodoo....dododoodoo...dododoodoo
It was in San Angelo, TX. In January of 2008. Mike was gone....again (we've been married twelve years and I think we've lived together for only six or seven of those years) . We sold our house a month before he left. It was just as the market started to show some strain. We thought that if we sold the house, the boys (just Jack and Aiden at this time) and I would live in an apartment for six months and then when Mike returned we could pack up and leave. It took a while to find a place to live, but when we did we found a diamond in the rough. It was a Bungalow, probably built at the turn of the century. It had amazing wood floors that creaked and an amazing kitchen with a butlers pantry. My bed room had two walls of nothing but windows. I loved it!!
At this time, I really started watching a lot of ghost shows. I couldn't get enough. Ghost Hunters and Paranormal State were always on my DVR.
On this particular night, I was in bed by 1:00 am. I read for about half an hour to forty-five minutes. Chastising myself, I turned off the light. I woke up to Maddie (my petite golden retriever) prancing around and whining. I was pissed. A quick look at the clock told me it was 2:45 am. I hadn't slept very long and Maddie had been outside for more than three hours that day. I let her out and I climbed back into bed. I fell asleep and then woke up to Maddie barking. I got up. A quick look tells me that it's now 3:15 am. I let her in the house. On the way back to bed, I realize it's the witching hour. For those of you that don't know paranormal jargon....3:00 am is when paranormal activity is at it's highest. Thinking this and looking wearily at my closet, I started to climb into bed.
Now, what happens next is simultaneous:
I chastise myself for thinking there is a boogie man in the closet, but keep an both eyes on the door. I pull back the covers and realize that my PITA cat Devotchka is in the middle of the bed. The left side of my body is sliding between the sheets - the left ass cheek has made contact with the mattress - my right hand is extended holding the sheets up, my left hand is trying to push the cat out of my way, my eyes are still glued to the door...when all of a sudden a fucking dark shadow comes from out of the closet and onto the bed. I make a horrible guttural noise that sounds like a drunk banshee: wwwaaaaaooohhhhheeeehhhhhhhhh.
I almost, ALMOST, immediately realize that it's Maddie jumping on the bed; however, the damn cat gets scared. My motion of getting into bed is still in play, the dog jumping on the bed is in play and Devotchka is doing a massive cartoon run in thin air. Unfortunately, my face and chest are getting the brunt of the claws. I manage to bat her out of bed. Where she landed, I don't know and I don't care. The dog is bouncing on the bed ready to play. She gets sent to her bed. I get up, take a benadryl and look in the mirror. Three scratches on my cheek and puncture mark on my chest and another puncture in my tongue. Yup. That's right. The damn cat got my tongue.
The moral of the story: go to bed earlier, kick the cat out of the bed and don't think of the boogie coming out of the closet.
Picture Garth Algar waving his hands .... dododoodoo....dododoodoo...dododoodoo
It was in San Angelo, TX. In January of 2008. Mike was gone....again (we've been married twelve years and I think we've lived together for only six or seven of those years) . We sold our house a month before he left. It was just as the market started to show some strain. We thought that if we sold the house, the boys (just Jack and Aiden at this time) and I would live in an apartment for six months and then when Mike returned we could pack up and leave. It took a while to find a place to live, but when we did we found a diamond in the rough. It was a Bungalow, probably built at the turn of the century. It had amazing wood floors that creaked and an amazing kitchen with a butlers pantry. My bed room had two walls of nothing but windows. I loved it!!
At this time, I really started watching a lot of ghost shows. I couldn't get enough. Ghost Hunters and Paranormal State were always on my DVR.
On this particular night, I was in bed by 1:00 am. I read for about half an hour to forty-five minutes. Chastising myself, I turned off the light. I woke up to Maddie (my petite golden retriever) prancing around and whining. I was pissed. A quick look at the clock told me it was 2:45 am. I hadn't slept very long and Maddie had been outside for more than three hours that day. I let her out and I climbed back into bed. I fell asleep and then woke up to Maddie barking. I got up. A quick look tells me that it's now 3:15 am. I let her in the house. On the way back to bed, I realize it's the witching hour. For those of you that don't know paranormal jargon....3:00 am is when paranormal activity is at it's highest. Thinking this and looking wearily at my closet, I started to climb into bed.
Now, what happens next is simultaneous:
I chastise myself for thinking there is a boogie man in the closet, but keep an both eyes on the door. I pull back the covers and realize that my PITA cat Devotchka is in the middle of the bed. The left side of my body is sliding between the sheets - the left ass cheek has made contact with the mattress - my right hand is extended holding the sheets up, my left hand is trying to push the cat out of my way, my eyes are still glued to the door...when all of a sudden a fucking dark shadow comes from out of the closet and onto the bed. I make a horrible guttural noise that sounds like a drunk banshee: wwwaaaaaooohhhhheeeehhhhhhhhh.
I almost, ALMOST, immediately realize that it's Maddie jumping on the bed; however, the damn cat gets scared. My motion of getting into bed is still in play, the dog jumping on the bed is in play and Devotchka is doing a massive cartoon run in thin air. Unfortunately, my face and chest are getting the brunt of the claws. I manage to bat her out of bed. Where she landed, I don't know and I don't care. The dog is bouncing on the bed ready to play. She gets sent to her bed. I get up, take a benadryl and look in the mirror. Three scratches on my cheek and puncture mark on my chest and another puncture in my tongue. Yup. That's right. The damn cat got my tongue.
The moral of the story: go to bed earlier, kick the cat out of the bed and don't think of the boogie coming out of the closet.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Pull My Finger
I have boys. At first, I thought that I really wanted a girl....but I've come to realize that I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy. I laugh at things that twelve year old boys would laugh at. For example: When people trip and fall. I laugh. It's not as if I don't care, I just can't stop laughing. I ask, in between giggles, if they're okay, but certainly they must think I'm some sort of sadist.
I don't just laugh at strangers. I laugh at my family too...
We have a foyer which has a door that connects the foyer and the living room. It's really nice. I can shut the door at night and watch movies without the kiddos getting disturbed. One day my Middle Man Aiden was showing me how fast he could run. He would run from the front door through the foyer and into the living room to the back door. He did this at least ten times. Well....on his last run he ran into the little wall, about a foot and a half in width, that connects the foyer door to the living room. I couldn't help laughing. He was sprawled out on the floor holding his head. He was crying - probably more so because I was laughing than from actual hurt. I couldn't stop. How many times had he run without hitting the wall? Or stubbing a toe?
Well...with my humor comes fun in farting. Not necessarily just me, but everyone else. I think it's funny - especially in inappropriate times. For example: when your meeting your soon to be in-laws for the first time. Right before a first kiss. You know, that kind of thing.
Well....I had made the mistake of teaching my seven and, then, five year old the art of "Pull My Finger." I thought it was funny. But it became more of a PITA (Pain in the Ass) than anything else when PMF was done at the dinner table. We had to implement a new rule that PMF was prohibited at the table. And with boys, or at least with mine, you have to be extremely specific when stating something. No PMF at the breakfast, lunch, snack and/or dinner table. No PMF around the dining room - you have to be out of the area where food is out in the open (fruits), being prepared, and made into breakfast, lunch, snack and dinner. No PMF in restaurants. No PMF in the car when someone has a snack. Food = No PMF. Any variations of food = No PMF. Randomly extending a finger and not saying PMF STILL constitutes as PMF. Whispering PMF = PMF. Giving the PMF "look" and slowly extending a finger STILL = PMF. Winking and extending a finger still = PMF. And my most recent declaration....No PMF at church!
I don't just laugh at strangers. I laugh at my family too...
We have a foyer which has a door that connects the foyer and the living room. It's really nice. I can shut the door at night and watch movies without the kiddos getting disturbed. One day my Middle Man Aiden was showing me how fast he could run. He would run from the front door through the foyer and into the living room to the back door. He did this at least ten times. Well....on his last run he ran into the little wall, about a foot and a half in width, that connects the foyer door to the living room. I couldn't help laughing. He was sprawled out on the floor holding his head. He was crying - probably more so because I was laughing than from actual hurt. I couldn't stop. How many times had he run without hitting the wall? Or stubbing a toe?
Well...with my humor comes fun in farting. Not necessarily just me, but everyone else. I think it's funny - especially in inappropriate times. For example: when your meeting your soon to be in-laws for the first time. Right before a first kiss. You know, that kind of thing.
Well....I had made the mistake of teaching my seven and, then, five year old the art of "Pull My Finger." I thought it was funny. But it became more of a PITA (Pain in the Ass) than anything else when PMF was done at the dinner table. We had to implement a new rule that PMF was prohibited at the table. And with boys, or at least with mine, you have to be extremely specific when stating something. No PMF at the breakfast, lunch, snack and/or dinner table. No PMF around the dining room - you have to be out of the area where food is out in the open (fruits), being prepared, and made into breakfast, lunch, snack and dinner. No PMF in restaurants. No PMF in the car when someone has a snack. Food = No PMF. Any variations of food = No PMF. Randomly extending a finger and not saying PMF STILL constitutes as PMF. Whispering PMF = PMF. Giving the PMF "look" and slowly extending a finger STILL = PMF. Winking and extending a finger still = PMF. And my most recent declaration....No PMF at church!
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