Running with Scissors

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Be advised, I am going to whine. Well, I am going to try to whine. Things are a bit crazy in the house right now. The dogs found the cat’s litter box, the kids are running around with scissors, and my husband is beckoning me to the bedroom. Well, we don’t have a cat, so the litter box part isn’t true. And, the scissors have the rounded tip; sure, the scissors are rusty – but rounded, nonetheless.

“Joe, it would be best if you ran with the scissors closed.”

If you are looking for a well organized post with a point at the end, move along to another post, please. If you are looking for humor, well – please continue reading. I will certainly try to accommodate you. (While also trying to accommodate my family.)

“Hang on, Honey! I’ll be there in a minute! Promise. Yep, love you, too!”

Amidst this crazy house, I am looking for a moment of quiet. Last Friday I noted that blogging helps keep me sane; alas, I haven’t had a chance to collect my random thoughts since last Friday. I have been unable to find a moment of silence between the busy household and the many voices in my head. Even as the sun sets and I snuggle in for the night, the voices continue, making my early bedtime not so early.

“Charlie, pick the scissors or the screwdriver. Don’t run with both, please.”

Mmmm . . . Dutch Monkey Doughnuts

Today, as I drove to my boss’ house, I found myself dosing. Though my morning coffee revs my engines for a bit, I find I begin to drag again by 9am. My husband says I need to start exercising again. I know he is right, but I’m tired. And, since I am tired, I decide pull into Dutch Monkey Doughnuts for some – well, doughnuts – and coffee. I am sure my boss will love having a treat when I arrive. Besides, why get your blood flowing with exercise, when you can use sugar and caffeine?

“Honest, Dear. I’ll be there in a minute. Watch the video one more time.”

And, really, exercise? I can think of countless other things that need my attention more than exercise. Trouble is, I find as I contemplate everything that needs my attention, I want to hunker down and lose myself in a mindless television show. As my every growing butt sits comfortably on the slowly sagging couch, I wonder, “How do you spell lazy?” L E N O R E.

“Cool, Boys! That scissor sword fight looks like fun!”
“Wow – you missed Charlie’s eye by a hair.”
“Skillful dodging there, Charlie.”

Well, I suppose I had better tend to my husband’s beckoning. Plus, based on the red marks I see on the boys’ arms, I may need to pull out some band aids. The good news, the boys will be in bed soon, and my husband? Yeah, he’ll be asleep in 13 minutes. Looks like I’ll get some quiet time after all. I think I’ll have a doughnut.

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Predictable Patterns

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It’s that time of the month again. And, yes, I am writing about it. I am fairly certain I am not the only blogger going down this road. And, if writing about it makes me happy and less cranky, I’m guessing my husband would love for me to write about it every day. (Especially, if it keeps me from hounding him about the water ring on the counter, the socks on the floor, the radio blaring, the shoes … well, you get my drift.)

I am not here to tell you WHY we women get so ding-dang moody once a month; I’m just here to tell you that I am one of many. And, I am going to use this here blog to release the hormones that can ruin the moods of my family or increase the size of my waist. Seriously. Why do I crave ice cream more towards the start of things vs. any other time? It is crazy people, crazy.

Last night, while eating supper as a family (which we do every night), I was laughing with the boys. We were being very silly, giggling and telling knock-knock jokes. [Note: Knock-knock jokes with the boys (ages 3 and 5) are made-up and rarely make sense. Example: ‘Knock-knock. Who’s there? Tree. Tree who? Tree blah blah bloo’.] The three of us were having a blast. My husband was just smiling and watching us be crazy. Suddenly. The hormones hit.

Out of nowhere, I yelled at the boys and told them to be quiet and calm down. Ok. I didn’t really yell, but I did become a distant cousin to the chick from The Exorcist. PMS overcame me, and I was done. I couldn’t get the table cleared and the boys off to the tub fast enough. And by ‘off to the tub’ I mean, I passed – ok – threw them to my husband. He is in charge of bathing the boys. He lets them play more than I do; which means he lets them splash to the point that it looks like the toilet has overflowed. Ok. Maybe I am exaggerating a bit, but the floor is definitely wet after they take their bath.

So, the boys were in the tub, my husband was with the boys and I was left alone in the kitchen. I was able to clean the dishes, etc., losing myself with the running of water. “La La La La PMS! I can’t hear you with the water running!” I was able to keep the raging hormones at bay, though I admit I grumbled under my breath a few times as I had to wipe the table and place mats. ‘Grrr…. why are they so messy at meal time? Don’t they know to push their chair under the table when they leave? Seriously. Can you not take your cup to the sink . . .’

Once the kitchen was tidy and dishes were cleaned, I could hear the mayhem in the bathroom. Can you hear the chilling music building in the background?! It is ridiculous how quick irritability can take over during the monthly patterns. I knew it was coming, and I did my best to keep the little monster in the cage. I knew the boys were having fun, and I knew my husband had things under control. And suddenly, (because it is always suddenly, isn’t it?) I heard whining. UGH! Whining and crying while battling PMS? Yeah, um, that’s not a good mix.

I counted to 10. I counted to 10 again. I counted to 50. I counted backwards. I did the hokey pokey and I turned myself around . . .  And then I went in to the bathroom and demanded everyone get out of the tub. My husband was sad. It was his turn with the boat, and he was about to sink it. (Ha. Kidding. He wasn’t in the tub. And, I must tell you, it cracks me up to write about how I lost it last night. I know it is ridiculous when it happens. Still, PMS is a boogah of a boogah.) So, the boys got out of the tub, got dressed and brushed teeth. And, peace was restored in the village. I sat down with the boys and read two books. My oldest asked for a 3rd book and I said – are you ready? – I said, “Sure.” Take THAT, PMS!