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    It wasn’t my idea to take a 1 year old and a 3 year old camping

    July 13, 2008

    On Friday, The Husband decided we were going camping this weekend. On Friday, specifically. Like 4 hours before he got home from work.

    I am not a fan of camping. Heck, I’m not a fan of the great outdoors. You’ll probably never actually see me with makeup, but girlfriend understands the importance of bathing. Even with these crazy kids, I find the 90 seconds needed to scrape the scum off my body every day.

    So spending the night in a muggy tent with three smelly men and a dog and no hope of a shower beyond a bird bath in the sink of the less than sparkly clean bathroom with the rice cooker plugged in under the vanity? Not. So. Much. But my husband? He comes by his persistence honestly. If he says we are going camping, there is nothing left to do than to pack the bug spray, the 600 thread count sheets for the sleeping pads and pray to God they’ll be enough light when you show up so you can at least read up to the swim suit fashion page in the latest US Weekly that arrived 10 minutes before you left because God knew your children didn’t want to be fatherless.

    His desire to go camping? Because it was the first weekend without rain in nearly a month and a half. Bless his heart for not saying the first “nice” weekend in a month and a half because 94 degrees does not represent “nice” weather in my book. The park? Perpetually full. The man had no worries. Nothing says having faith in your decision like driving 130 miles one way to take a shot that there will be a spot at the campground available.

    Oh, Baby, there were THREE spots left. Two on 40 degree slopes and one in between a family of 7 and 2 tents which never seemed occupied the entire time we were there.

    The ride was relatively quiet. Quiet because The Boys decided to sleep the entire trip. I can’t think of better preparation for a camping adventure than having your 3 year old who gave up naps altogether about 8 months ago sleep for 2 1/2 hours (from 5:30 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.) on the way. The Baby was sporting a fever and cried until I set up his crate in the tent. I know. Who brings a pack-n-play on a camping trip? Um, people who tried to leave it home the last time and had a baby screeching like a banshee for 9 hours.

    It was about 9 o’clock when The Boy started to really wake up. It was right about the time my husband handed me a stick to use to roast marshmallows. A stick that I spent the next 30 minutes envisioning as the recipient of numerous bathroom breaks by all manner of dogs and boys.

    TB: MomMomMomMomMOM!!! CAN I HAVE A S’MORE?

    Have you met my child? His inside voice? Doesn’t exist. I would like to apologize to anyone who went camping the other night within 2 miles of us whose purpose was to commune with nature. The Boy? He scared nature away.

    Two hours of flashlight play, nearly falling into the fire 4 times, giving the dog lots of water, flashing the light in his brother’s face two times, breaking the lantern, eating a half a box of graham crackers, repeatedly asking to pee outside and being “shushed” 9 trillion times, he finally went to sleep.

    And then we were UP WITH THE SUN. A mere 12 hours after arriving, I was forced to put The Boys into the truck because they were being so damn loud. I could hear them yelling in the truck. I peeked in the window to find them eating the last of the Altoids, slamming back my leftover Dr. Pepper and chewing gum. I hurriedly took the tent down as The Husband loaded up the 9 camping chairs he had positioned around the fire. 6:59 a.m.

    The horn blew.

    Again and again and again. I broke into a dead run and flung myself into the truck, yanking a feisty 3 year old off the horn.

    TB: Mom. You didn’t say we couldn’t blow the horn.

    No. No, I didn’t.

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    So I guess we won’t throw the dog out with the dishwater today

    October 4, 2007

    Yesterday afternoon we went to pick Grandpa up at the airport. 

    I made a series of errors in relation to Grandpa coming.  First and foremost, telling The Boy on the day we found out Grandpa was coming on the train, which was 3 weeks ago.  Since then…

    The Boy:  MomIgetupPapacometodayIthinkPapacometodaydoPapacometodayMomPapa
    isdadsdadMamaPapaisDaddy’sDadDoPapacometodayMomIthinkPapacometodayMaybe
    Papacometodayonthetrain.

    Every day for the last 3 weeks.  21 days of that.  21 long, long days.  What is 21 times 20 hours? 

    The day finally arrived and we went to pick up Papa at the airport.

    The Boy: Mama, Papa not at airport.  Papa is coming on the train.
    K:  There was a change of plans.  Papa is coming on the plane.
    The Boy:  Papa say he come on the train, Mama.  We go to the train station.
    K:  Eat, Papa is coming on the plane.  I promise.
    The Boy:  What is this place?
    K:  The cell phone waiting area.  Papa is going to call us when he lands.
    The Boy:  I no want to wait here, Mom.  We go airport.
    K:  We are waiting here.
    The Boy:  NO, Mama!  Papa over THERE!  (pointing to the terminal)
    K:  Fine. 

    We drove over and there was Papa, who had forgotten to call us anyway.  He asked us lots of questions and suddenly it came out about Zinni’s recent bad behavior.  Papa loves Zinni and began to give me a speech about Zinni’s acting out being a result of his tortured life of living on cheerios scraps.

    Not unrelated, Papa suddenly asked what we were having for dinner. 

    K:  Ribeyes.

    I paused.  It was a long pause.  It was the kind of pause where you could almost see the Question Mark hovering in the bubble above my head.  It was one of those moments that I just wished I was an artist so I draw myself right then.

    Grandpa started to chuckle. 

    G:  Where did you leave the steaks?
    K:  Um, the middle of the kitchen counter to thaw.

    With that, we were on our detour to Costco for more steaks.  Because if I got home and 3 ribeyes were gone because I was a big enough moron to leave them out on the counter, I was really, really, really going to kill myself.  Really.

    I walked into the house and into the kitchen.  There were the three steaks, right where I left them.  And Zinni got to live another day.   

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    How much is a girl supposed to take before she goes insane?

    September 26, 2007

    I never thought of myself as a food person.  A “food person” being a person who turns to food to help her get past her trials and tribulations in her life.

    Then I realized that if I don’t get something sweet after dinner (before bed), I am slightly cranky.  OK, I’m always cranky.  What I mean is, I’m crankier than normal.  In order to combat this, I brought home those cupcakes I made for Amy’s birthday.  How cheap is that?  I made her cupcakes and then, when no one was looking because I had sufficiently gotten them all hammered with Kristen’s Famous Margaritas, I quickly, quietly and rather stealthily packed away the rest of the cupcakes at the bottom of the box I was taking home.

    No one was the wiser, including my own family.  This truly was a coup since they were dark chocolate cupcakes with only a smidgen of sugar.  My husband would have LOVED them, had he known of their existence. 

    I got home from dinner at The Neighbor’s house last night and I thought I was all clever.  I put everyone to bed and then did the low-crawl down the stairs to get my “sweet fix” for the night. 

    No cupcakes.  No cupcake container.  The counter was mysteriously empty.

    the.  counter.  was.  mysteriously. empty. 

    As in, a large patch of it was really, really clean.  I almost ran back up the stairs to ask my husband where the container was.  I mean, if he was rude enough to eat 5 cupcakes, he had better fess up to the trash.  But then the lightbulb came on…

    Slowly, oh, so very slowly, I walked around the corner and looked at the dog bed.  There was the red container, with the top neatly to the side.  The dog had taken my container, eaten every single one of my cupcakes and left the evidence on his bed.  To say that I went apoplectic would be to underestimate my reaction.  First the ribeyes, then the muffins/bagels and now this.  $9 worth of dark chocolate in that recipe.  I ran up the stairs and stormed into the bedroom.

    K:  YOUR DOG ate 5 chocolate cupcakes.
    D:  Oh, no.
    K:  Is there any chance that eating 5 chocolate cupcakes can K-I-L-L him?
    D:  We should probably put him in the garage tonight in case he gets sick. 
    K:  No, I mean, is there any way that eating my cupcakes can actually cause him to die?
    D:  I don’t think so.  I think maybe he’ll just get a little sick.
    K:  Damn.  I guess I’m just going to have to run him over with the car. 

    When I swore “for better or worse,” I had no idea how bad “worse” was going to be.  Somebody had better take my keys away.  I’m not joking. 

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    It’s all fun and games until someone gets the hose.

    September 17, 2007

    K:  Do you know what your son did?
    D:  No.  (turning to The Boy) What did you do?
    The Boy: I gived Zinni a baf, Dad.
    K:  (incredulous that this man missed this one) I mean, you were right there trimming the trees 20 feet away.
    D:  Yeah, but I didn’t know what was going on.
    The Boy:  I gived Zinni a baf, Dad.
    D:  That’s great!
    K:  Uh, not so much. He wandered off and then I heard the dog whining.
    The Boy:  I gived Zinni a baf, Dad.
    D:  Zinni probably needed a bath.
    K:  Um, he had his lead wrapped around the pole so he couldn’t get away.
    The Boy:  I gived Zinni a baf, Dad.

    The Husband started to laugh.

    D:  Well, I guess he had a captive bather.
    K:  Except he was using the yellow hose.
    D:  So?
    K:  The yellow hose that has good pressure.  You really didn’t hear the dog whining?
    D:  I guess I did, but then I was trimming the trees.
    K:  Yeah, he was flipping out because The Boy was giving him a “baf” from about 2 feet away with a hose with a lot of pressure.
    D:  Oops. 
    The Boy: (because clearly we are deaf) I gived Zinni a baf, Dad.
    D: Poor Zinni.

    You think we could just keep track of The Boy once in a while. There are two adults living in this house. I mean, it’s not like Zinni and I are friends these days but I know how it feels to be unable to get away from The Boy. So I saved him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s returning the favor by dumping the trash can on the kitchen floor.

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    I would just go lie down in traffic but since we moved to the country, I would have to wait a long time to get run over.

    August 21, 2007

    I. am. so. tired. I. could. have. a. nervous. breakdown.

    Luckily The Husband is so in touch with my feelings that he will rush right home, take both the kids, make dinner and I can go to bed at 7.

    Wow.  The dog was barking.  I must have just fallen asleep when I wrote that lunacy. 

    We have these great big windows that start about 9 inches from the floor.  The dog is positive that we purchased this house for the purpose of allowing him complete visual access to all that is occurring on every side of the house.  Usually he is sleeping and missing everything but every once in a while he will catch sight of the UPS guy who is clearly coming to murder everyone in our house.  Actually, when the UPS guy comes and it doesn’t have “Baby Brewing” on the label of whatever he is delivering, someone is going to get murdered.  Just not by the UPS guy. 

    The dog will start to bark like a freak and you could actually believe, if only for a brief moment, that he could protect you from imminent danger.  That the dog would not excessively lick the hand of your murderer as he is stabbing you.  That all of this dog food and pig ears that you have been purchasing for his sustenance has a purpose other than to fatten said dog up so he can fill your house with mounds of black fur e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e. 

    I’ll admit my curiosity was up when he started barking.  That and I was going to kill him if he awakened the only one in this house with sense enough to takeanap/stayoutofmomsway.  I looked out the window to see a doe and her three fawns.  And because I was cranky, I yanked open the door and yelled “go get ‘em” to the dog.

    You are more than welcome to inundate my inbox with tirades about cruelty to bambi and his mom if you would also like to schedule a time to come over and babysit these damn kids so I can get some sleep.  If it makes you feel better, that fat dog couldn’t catch his tail on a good day.  But it sure made him feel frisky to think that he might just catch them.  At least someone is in a good mood now. 

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    The dog just looked slightly too guilty to be innocent

    July 16, 2007

    K:  How many steaks did you cook?

    D:  I cooked whatever was in the packet.  So what was that?

    K:  Four.  But you ate one and The Boy and I split the other one.

    D:  So what’s the problem?

    K:  There’s only one left.  You don’t think… I mean, the plate is still on the counter.  It looks untouched.

    D:  He’s good.  He’s very, very good.  Slowly, slowly over the edge of the counter.

    K:  But there wasn’t even juice on the counter.  Damn.  No wonder he wasn’t hungry the next morning.  Nothing like a 16 oz. ribeye to fill you up to the gills.  Especially when you probably swallowed it whole. 

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