Breathtaking Stupidity.

I cannot believe I am about to share this with the five people who read this blog. But hey, things have been kinda ho-hum around here lately, so I figured "Why not give the ol' blog a kick in the pants by sharing a story that will make me look like a complete and total moron?".

Our electricity went out last week during a thunderstorm, so I had to reset all of the digital clocks in the house, including my coffee maker's clock. And when I went to reprogram the "delay brew" time (usually set to 5:00 every morning), I thought "Why not set it for 5:15am instead, so it will be that much fresher when I get up at 5:20 every morning?". So I did. And let me tell you, I was pretty proud of myself. Fresher! Hotter! COFFEE!!! Fast forward to the next morning, 5:20am on the dot. I stagger out of the bedroom in my pjs, feeling my way to the kitchen to gulp down that first cup of (much fresher now) coffee. About two steps into my walk down the hallway to the kitchen, I froze. Grabbed the wall to steady myself. What was that I heard? OH DEAR GOD, someone has broken into our house in the early morning hours and is rifling through our things downstairs. My heart raced like I had just taken speed, I panicked like I have never panicked before. The noises got louder and louder as I wondered what the hell the intruder(s) were DOING down there. WHAT could they possibly be looking for? Barbies and baby wipes are about the extent of the jackpot in this house. My mind was racing, I broke out in a cold sweat. What to do?!?! Tip toe as quietly as I could back to our room, wake up the husband and let him handle this horrific situation? Gather up my babies and jump out a window to safety, thunderstorm be damned? No, I couldn't do that, as there is a floorboard in the hallway that creaks and the intruders would surely hear me padding around upstairs and come looking for the person who has now foiled their plans to rob us blind. And likely, kill me. I couldn't call the police, as my cell phone was downstairs probably sitting right next to the ten masked men who had just broken into my home, I had now convinced myself of this. So in the dark, at 5:20am, I crouched in the hallway alone, and cried. Silent, panicky tears, because we were all going to DIE. We've lived here for not even three weeks, and we are going to die in this house. I shouldn't have written that blog entry titled "I Will Die In This House If It's The Last Thing I Do", is what I told myself. I thought briefly about running down the stairs at full force and beating them all over the head with Charlie's Drop 'n' Roar Dinosaur toy that was sitting nearby, but the thought better of it. So I sat in the hallway and....wait, what was that sound? Oh, God help me, they're HISSING now. HISSING! What kind of psychopaths have come into my home?!? Oh God Oh God Oh God, please help me. And then? THEN. THEN! I heard bubbling steam noises. From the coffee pot. Turns out I was used to waking up to a completely silent, coffee-has-already-completed-its-brew-cycle house. And the coffee maker almost made me pee my pants.

A Boy And His Blankie: A Love Story.

Well, I guess there's not much of a "story" to it: Charlie is in love. With The Blankie. I remember when Ella first got attached to her Blankie, and she really only wanted it when she was ready for a nap. When it was countdown to nap time, I would frantically rush around trying to find Blankie so that she could sleep. But Charlie's Blankie? Never leaves his side, ever. So at least I always know where the damn thing is. A lovely side effect of this is that, yes, it smells as fantastic as you would imagine it smells, since I can NEVER EVER ever wash it EVERRRR. The hour and a half it would take to put Blankie through the wash cycle and then dry it would just lead to Level Four Meltdowns Of Ginormous Proportions. He bites it, he rubs his whole face with it, he drags it all around the floor and he wants it while he's in his high chair eating. All of the above leads to: snot, drool, dog hair, and baby food. Covering Blankie. So if you get within ten feet of me when I'm out and about with my kids, and you are asking yourself "WHAT is that smell? Does someone have body rot?". It's Blankie.

Rows And Rows Of Big Dark Clouds.

Here has been my daily routine for the last three days: Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain oh wait it's clearing up hurry and get your shoes... wait, rain rain rain rain rain. So what a mom to do when all she hears all day is incessant whining that makes her eardrums bleed? Embrace the rain, say screw it and let your three year old go outside in her pajama top, skirt, and rain boots and get absolutely soaking, dripping wet.















She told me last night at bedtime that it had been the best day of her "whole, wide life".

Perfect Timing.

Settling in to the new house, finally got the air conditioner fixed so we can freaking relax inside, unpacking the endless mountain of boxes and boxes and boxes. Ella is loving the new yard and being able to actually play outside with the neighbor kids. And Charlie? He decided that this week would be the absolute perfect time to do this:











I like to call this the "Hey Mom, Guess What? YOU'RE SCREWED." look.

This new development led to the immediate shrieking of HOLY HELL, GET THE SCREWDRIVERS AND HAMMERS AND TINY NAILS AND HOT CUPS OF COFFEE OFF OF THE TABLE NOOOOWWWW. Perfect week to do this, since there are random small things laying about everywhere on coffee tables and low shelves. Nothing is safe any more.

But he does look pretty damn cute when he pulls up and is so proud and he just laughs and shrieks and claps and oh wait, you need two hands to hold on to the table so when he claps he falls on his face.

I Will Die In This House If It's The Last Thing I Do.

I am never moving again. Ever ever ever ever ever. If the husband and the kids decide in a few years that they would like a change of scenery and wish to move to a new house, that's fine. I'm staying put. I'm parking my rear end on the couch and staging a sit-in. Or protest sit. Or whatever the hell it is that hippies do to protest something.

Due to a recent chain of events and financial strain, we are renting a house. I was already not thrilled at this idea, but now I am beyond not-thrilled. Let me just walk you through the last few days of my life and I guarantee by the end of this tirade you will be left wondering "How has she not killed someone by now? Or herself?"

*Prelude: When we went to look at the house a week ago, I got approximately thirty to forty flea bites on my legs. Awesome. We told the landlord that we would sign the lease and pay the first month's rent ONLY after the house was treated for fleas. He never did this. We ended up calling a pest control company ourselves, AND setting off our own flea bombs inside the house. And my dad sprayed the backyard with flea killer. I should have payed attention to this foreshadowing of things to come, but I was so tired and busy from packing all week with two small kids at home, I guess I had my head up my ass. Fleas got taken care of, end of Prelude.

Day One: We are all set to take possession of the new house. We go over to give it the ol' once over, to make sure everything is ready for move in day. Electricity on? Check. All the lights and locks and little things like that working? Check. Filthy, crusty floors? Check. MOLD in the refrigerator? Big, fat, hairy CHECK. Literally, hairy. This mold was a half-inch thick. After I stopped dry heaving, we called the landlord, who assured us that someone would be over THAT DAY to clean the refrigerator for us. Whew, thank goodness. After a thorough vacuuming, sweeping, scrubbing, and mopping of the floors, we left the house to go to the old house to finish packing.

Day Two: First of two move-in days! Hooray! We are finally going to get this show on the road. I headed over early in the morning with Charlie to do a little spot cleaning in the kitchen, and lo and behold, what did I see? I'll give you a clue. NOT a sparkling clean refrigerator. What I saw was the same stinky, filthy, petri-dish of a refrigerator that I saw the day before. Livid. Rage. Want to channel my inner Hulk, pick up said refrigerator and throw it out the window into the street, preferably onto the landlord's head. After a few phone calls we finally got a promise that someone would come out that day and clean it, Eh, we'll see. I was skeptical at this point.

The in laws show up with their truck to help us move everything we can that day. We actually got a lot done, hooray! I was starting to feel okay about this move. I should have known better. The whole day that we are in and out of the new house, we would all look at each other every once in a while and comment on how hot it seemed to be getting in the house. The husband said he would get some coolant and some gauges and service the air conditioner himself, since he knows how to do all that crap. Fantastic. We commence to moving boxes into a ninety degree house with a moldy fridge. I am taking deep, cleansing breaths and trying not to rip someones eyeballs out with my bare hands. Add in a baby who has a green-snot cold, and who needs to intermittently, you know, NAP, and you'll get an idea of how this day was.

Day Three: REAL moving day. Actual furniture being moved from point A to point B. TWO kiddos with green-snot colds, one of which went to my mom's house for the day and the other who was basically a whining ball of boredness all day long. I can't say that I blame her...it sucked. Thank the heavens above that the brother in law had access to a huge truck that fit every piece of furniture we own into it with room to spare, so the actual moving of things was somewhat painless. We get to the house. Still ninety degrees inside. BUT! The fridge was clean! I almost did a little dance right there in the kitchen. This was the only bright spot in the cards for that day. The husband got his tools, commenced the air conditioner fixing operation, and .....nothing. Still hot, still no cold air blowing through the vents. Of course. OF COURSE, this is a holiday weekend, and no air conditioning repair places are open. OF COURSE. A couple phone calls later, and we have a promise from the landlord (remember? He likes to promise things and then NOT DO THEM) that "someone" will be over there today to "fix" it. Something tells me tha The Landlord is the type of guy to send over a friend that kinda sorta knows like one or two things about air conditioners (like how to turn them ON or OFF) to "fix" it, and we will go around in circles until we end up either fixing it ourselves or living in the backyard because Good God Almighty, it is cooler outside than it is inside that house. So, here I sit, in the OLD house, after sleeping on Aero Beds last night, with Charlie at my mom's house after a spend-the night, sitting in an empty house, waiting on the landlord to decide to make the call and send someone over to fix the air conditioning. We have one house that is fully furnished and so hot that it feels like you are entering the gates of hell when you walk in, and one completely empty house that is nice and cool.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go take my daily dose of Zoloft before I decide to google the landlord, find his address, bind him with duct tape and make him sit in the un-air-conditioned house until he cries uncle and fixes it.



What I will likely turn into if this air conditioning problem is not fixed today. TODAY. Maybe I should link this post in an email to The Landlord.Do you think he would want to reneg on the lease contract, on the basis that he does not RENT HIS HOUSE OUT TO LUNATICS?

And She's Off.

I packed the first of many school lunches today. I said for the first time, "Hurry up or we'll be late for school!". I watched for the very first time as my girl waved over her shoulder to me as she walked into her classroom, happy as could be. I know that in no time this will all feel like a part of our every day routine, but firsts are hard. Especially since she is my first baby and there is no more denying that she is oh-so-gradually learning to make her own way in the world.

Hope.

One of my favorite bloggers, Emily of Chatting at the Sky, wrote this article on a fantastic new website. I've always loved her writing and the things she chooses to write about, but this article reached out and slapped me in the face when I needed it most. I know of a few people in my life who are going through rough times, be it financial or marital or just everyday, run-of-the-mill problems, so I thought maybe posting this here at this particular time might help someone feel a little bit better about things. I know it did that for me.

http://www.incourage.me/2009/09/nows-and-laters.html

*Aaand the linky thing on blogger isn't working. Fantastic. Just copy and paste the web address if you want to see the article.