So, do you ever have one of those dreams (you know, those dreams) where you wish you didn't ever have to wake up because it's just so...good? Well, the other night, I was having one of those. Reader be warned...if you're not into anything explicit, you'd better check-out now, 'cause the details of this one are pretty steamy. I was in my living room, all by my lonesome, when my husband walked in with a beautiful woman. He had a gleam in his eye, and when he saw me, he smiled and said, "Honey, this is Megan...she's going to babysit tonight." Is that hot or what? And I know it's sordid, but in my dream, Megan was also a professional wetnurse...now stay with me here, 'cause I know we just jumped back to Shakespearian time, and it's not like I would ever actually have another woman breastfeed my child in real life (probably...ahem), but it was a dream! And we went to dinner at a fancy restaurant and no one needed me to cut their food or take them potty or give them the heimlich due to seeing how many nuggets they could fit into their mouth at one time...because they were all at home, tormenting Megan. Whew! After writing about this I practically need a cold shower! Anyway, as I'm dreaming, all of a sudden I hear a distant voice. It's my husband, Joe. It was very early in the morning and he was leaving for his business trip, but, ever the romantic, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, "Honey, something went through the dryer and now there's white fuzzies all over everything. I don't know what it is. I'll miss you--see you Friday night." Is that sexy or what? I'm probably going to be censored with all of this...but I know you can handle it.
So, later in the day, when I finally got up the gumption to investigate this mysterious laundry phenomena, I found out that the 'little white fuzzies' were pieces of a diaper. A whole entire diaper (clean or dirty, I couldn't tell ya...well, actually, I guess it's clean now, LOL) had gone through the wash cycle. It was nothing short of magical. How the thing got in there, one can only guess (I've got a feeling that a two-foot-tall individual may have had something to do with it, since I also found her pacifier in there)...but no one knows for sure. Maybe it was an early Christmas miracle. All I know is, if it weren't for my wonderful mother-in-law being in town for the day, (yes, I actually have a mother-in-law that I truly love) and her generous offer to vaccum up all of those little white diaper fuzzies after they had been shaken out of or picked off the clothing, I probably would have failed to see the humor. If you recall, my vacuum has special needs and I'm about done with the thing. But watching someone else come to the realization that 50 passes over the same spec of dirt isn't doing a thing is slightly humorous. (Side note: maybe that's why Dyson has made such a POS: I bet they have hidden cameras strategically placed on the canister to watch the hilarity ensue...touche, Dyson, touche).
Anyway, that was Wednesday, and the rest of the week was fairly uneventful. Except that both of my "older" (haha) kids have a severe case of the "wemme do's" right now. Sebastian actually verbalizes this sentiment, while Gabriella just makes it known through her actions, but it's a pandemic that has a severe hold on our house. Example: Sebastian and Gabriella both love chocolate milk. I buy Ovaltine, because it makes me feel like less of a derelict mom than using straight-up Hershey's syrup. Well, about twice a day I find Seb in the fridge, hefting the gallon of milk out to make himself a drink. And so goes this exchange:
"Here, I'll help you so we don't make a mess."
"No! Wemme do it! I'll do the ch-LOC-late and you do the milk."
And then it comes down to sheer parenting skill. After all, teach them to do things for themselves and all that, right? So, the other day, I decided to turn out little chocolate milk-making session into a teachable moment. "OK, you can do the chocolate, but not too much, OK? ONE scoop, and that's it. Then I'll do the milk." This was going to be great. I was letting him have a little independence (but not too much) and showing my faith in his hand-eye coordination. I could sense the trophy-makers beginning to prepare my "Mother-of-theYear" award. Excitedly, Sebastian took a heaping tablespoon of powered chocolate and dropped it in his sippy cup. Then, quicker than I could blink, he had another heaping tablespoon out and just as I exclaimed, "No, that's too much!" he dropped it all over the floor. Then the actual jar of Ovaltine went with it. I scrambled to pick up the jar and scoop as much of the powered mess as I could with my hands before...but it was too late...the dogs came running and had a heyday. I swear, if they weren't diabetic before, they're on their way now. I warned the dogs that it was probably to their detriment that they were scarfing so much sugar, but it was like they couldn't even undrstand what I was saying. I'm not lying, I'm going to be ticked if one of them has to have a paw aputated or something. But I digress...
And then there's Gabriella. My sweet little toddler. The other day I discovered her, once again in the bathroom, but this time painting the floor with the toilet brush. Most people leave their toilet brushes inside their little stainless steel containers, discreetly placed on the corner of the bathroom floor, right? Well, to discourage further artistic license from my baby picasso, mine has to be on top of the etegere behind the toilet. Front and center, sticking out like a sore thumb. Mine has become a piece of the decor. I could just picture the Better Homes and Gardens people creating a magazine layout featuring my decorating: "And here's Ranae Seestadt's half bathroom, conveniently located on the first floor of their home, with walls done in warm beige and decor inspired by toilet hygiene." Yup, that bathroom just exudes class.
Still, all-in-all, it was a good week. But I was definitely ready for Joe to be home. It's not too often that he goes out of state on business for days at a time, and I was looking forward to having another zookeeper back in the zoo with me. On Friday evening, I was wrapping up the night, eagerly anticipating serving dinner and then getting the little ones off to bed so I could unwind. I opened the oven to take out the meatloaf, and a piercing sound startled me. "BEEP BEEP BEEP!" It sounded like a fire alarm. Had I really burned dinner that badly? I looked around for smoke, thinking about what a major inconvenience it would be in the bedtime routine to have to evacuate for a fire. And then I realized that the relentless beeping was coming from none other than Pearl, my African Grey parrot. She was perfectly imitating our smoke detector. I yelled, "Pearl! Stop it!" And she laughed. Everyone's a comedian.
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