My kids had birthdays last week. Roo turned eight on Monday and JB turned six on Friday — yes, their birthdays ARE four days apart. Somewhere along the way, I decided – since I FINALLY have a house big enough to hold more than five people at any given time – to host a birthday party for my little ladies…. And that’s where the fun began.

I arose early Saturday morning to set about the task of cleaning my mammoth beast of a house, but quickly encountered problem #1: water all over the dining room floor… dripping out of the ceiling. The source of the water, you ask? The air conditioner in my bedroom window was tilted slightly IN instead of slightly OUT, so all the condensation and drainage was seeping through the floorboards and into the dining room. Great. One more thing on my list of crap to fix.

Flustered and PMSing, I hollered for the kids to get dressed. We had much shopping to do. And shop we did – for FOUR hours (which is really saying something of a woman who hates to shop).

With the shopping complete, unloaded and packed away, I set the kids about the task of cleaning their rooms (for the forth time in a week) while I ascended the attic stairs to do a quick spruce up in the attic playroom.

I swept the floors, I dusted the railings, I installed the first window fan to prevent stifling heat. But when I approached the opposite window to install the second fan, I saw it. Hanging upside down from the curtain rod in all it’s fuzzy brown, mid-day napping, creepiess, was a bat, more officially a Little Brown Bat. Ok. Great. Four things I’m afraid of: Death, spiders, snakes and bats.

I crept downstairs so as not to wake it and called my mommy. Mommy will know what to do. Mommy always knows what to do. “Well, all I know is you can try to catch it. Try to trap it without waking it up and take it outside and let it go. That’s all I can tell you really….” Crap. Mom’s clueless, too.

I found an empty shoe box – complete with lid – and ventured back to the attic. For twenty minutes, at least, I stood completely still with a shoe box in one hand weighing the pros and cons of attempting the bat extraction. I gave myself a pep talk, “You ARE the mommy. It is your JOB to get rid of the nasties. You HAVE to put your big girl pants on and take care of the problem. Those two little girls NEED you to do this. You HAVE to do it. Stop being a fucking pansy and GET RID OF THE BAT!”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. I slid the shoe box lid behind the curtain. I placed the box itself over the sleeping little ball of creepy and put the two together. Thud. Well, it fell off the curtain rod. Scritch. Scritch. And it woke up. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. And I’m pretty sure it’s pissed off, scared and trying to escape. I pushed the box against the window and slid the lid out from behind the curtain. I tilted the box ever so slightly to slide the lid onto it. As it turns out, ever so slightly is JUST far enough for a pissed off bat to escape.

I pushed myself back into the corner against the four-foot-tall Barbie house and, armed with a shoe box in one hand and the lid in the other, proceeded to flail and scream hysterically as the bat flew in wild circles around the room. The last time in my life I recall actually screaming – that high pitched scream little girly girls make when you drop a worm down their backs – I was probably in elementary school. I didn’t realize I was still capable of making a sound so shrill and piercing. As it turns out, I am quite capable. And I did it… repeatedly… for the better part of an hour, until the bat settled down and retreated to a corner.

Well, that settled that. The nasty, creepy, little bugger could have the attic. I didn’t want it or need it bad enough to go through that again. And my throat was too sore to resume the screaming.

We had a new pet, who had his own bedroom. I think I’ll call him “Ted”. Ted likes the attic. Ted can have the attic. Mommy’s old ticker can’t handle another encounter with Ted. The kids can go back into the playroom when Ted migrates next winter.

The party was set for Sunday afternoon. I was up early again so I could finish the cleaning before guests started to arrive. My parents pulled in first. I stepped outside to help them unload the car when I heard a loud, glass-like noise in the house, followed by what can only be described as an “I-severed-my-arm” cry. Something serious had just happened.

I ran up the porch steps and into the house. There stood Roo, clutching her shoulder, crying hysterically and apologizing profusely, “I’m sorry, mommy! It was an accident! I’m sorry! You can use my birthday money to fix it! I’m sorry, mommy! Please don’t make me miss the party!”

I dropped to my knees and looked at her. “What happened, baby?”

“I’m sorry, mommy! It was an accident, I SWEAR!”

“ROO! What happened!?!”

“I broke the window.”

“What window?”

“In the dining room.”

“With what??”

“My shoulder.”

I thought I would vomit right there. I ripped her shirt up over her head to examine her shoulder. Absolutely zero damage done. Just a red spot from the actual impact… otherwise, not a scratch, not a single drop of blood. I hugged her tight and fought back tears. “It’s okay, baby. I can replace a window, I can’t replace you. As long as you’re not hurt, that’s all that matters.”

I stood up and meandered to the dining room to survey the damages – one broken pane, currently in six pieces. It’s nothing a little packing tape can’t fix. Yes, packing tape. You know, it’s sticky, it’s see-through, it’s a miracle worker. Yeah, yeah… just be glad I didn’t say duct tape. Redneck home repair is an art form, you know?

So, the guests arrived. The party went off with nary a hitch — unless you count the dog stealing and opening one of JB’s presents. Here’s hoping the next soiree I host will be considerably LESS eventful.

And so it was, on this 24th day of the 11th month in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and eight, we bid adieu to a dear friend.

He was a good man, a pure soul. He was loved by all and revered by many. His days were filled with wet sponges and carob chips infused with crude protein.

Yes, dear friends, today we mourn the loss of Skipper, Roo’s hermit crab.

I woke her from her slumber to break the news – better to deal with it now than run late in the morning.

“Sweetheart, wake up. I need to talk to you.”

She looked up at me, bewildered.

“Sweetie, I have some bad news.”

“What?” She asked with those big blue eyes looking so sleepy and innocent.

“Well, I opened Skipper’s cage to make sure he had enough food and water…”

“Did he get out!?” She asked excitedly.

“No, honey. He died, sweetpea.”

The giant crocodile tears started to well up in her baby blues. “He died?”

“Yes, honey. I’m sorry.”

“But, Mommy! Skipper was the best pet I EVER had! He was the best hermit crab EVER! And he was my first pet ever all by myself! And I love him!… Did you know when hermit crabs die, the come out of their shells and shrivel up and if you don’t find them they start to stink? ”

“I know, sweetie. I know. I’m sorry.” I said, trying to suppress the urge to vomit.

She wiped a long strand of snot across her pajama sleeve. “Can I keep his shell, Mommy?”

I threw up in my mouth. Keeping the shell means I have to forcibly remove the crustacean corpse from its interior. Just typing it makes me gag. I had enough issues forcing myself to pick up the nasty thing and check for life…. now I’m supposed to rip it out of the shell!?!?

*gag, gag, cough, gag, shiver, shudder, gag, gag, puke*

“I’ll see what I can do, honey. Now give me a hug and try to sleep.”

I pulled her door shut, then shuddered and gagged again.

Twenty minutes later, Roo’s door opened.

“Mommy! I can’t sleep!” She cried through bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“It’ll be alright. I’ll tuck you back in, okay?”

Roo nodded and followed me into her bedroom.

“I miss him! I miss him sooooo much! He was my best friend! Did you know when a hermit crab dies its nerves still work?”

Yeah…. there goes that gag reflex again. It’s gonna be a LOOOOONG night.

“AAAHHHHHHHHH!” came the cry of terror from the backyard.

The screendoor slammed.

“Mommy! Mommy! It’s gonna get me!” JellyBean screamed while barreling through the house.

“What’s gonna get you?”

“The bug, Mommy. It wants to eat me. It was scary.”

“A bug?”

“Yeah. It was big… no, HUGE. And it was hairy and fuzzy and it had feathers.”

“Oh, my… hair AND feathers?”

“Yes. And it was THIS big.” She spread her hands apart to the size of a football. “And it was all brown, with giant brown wings… and its eyeballs were under its chin… and its mouth was on its forehead… and its nose was next to its mouth… and it didn’t have any ears….”

“What about antennae?” I asked, chuckling to myself.

“No. Nuffin’. It was just all hair and feathers on top with no ears. And when it got mad, it blowed up THIS big…” She spread her hands all the way out to the sides.

“Wow. That sounds scary. It was a bug you say?”

“Yes… a big scary, fat bug… and I screamed at it and it flew away.”

So now you know, if you are ever under attack by giant mutant puffer bugs, screaming will save you. I’m sure you’ll sleep better tonight armed with this knowledge.

The kids and I were chasing each other around the first floor earlier this evening – running from one room to the next until someone wised up enough to go the opposite direction and cut the runner off as they lapped the area – when I was viciously attacked.

No, I was not attacked by my children, but by something much smaller and more sinister.

You see, it was my turn to be chased and as I ran through the entry, I felt the stabbing pain of pierced foot flesh beneath me. I fell to the floor and turned my left foot toward me. There it was… small, evil, vile, sinister…. it was a butterfly-shaped mood ring… firmly attached to whatever bodily tissues live in the soles of my feet.

The ring was shaped much like my crude little drawing to the right, with giant, pointy wings on top and small, pointy wings on the bottom. I was lucky enough to land on the upper, giant wing which cut right through the flesh and slid roughly half an inch into the ball of my foot and embedded itself quite firmly.

After forcibly removing my temporary, new appendage, I left a lovely trail of blood across my tan rug and up the stairs where the wound was cleaned and bandaged. The hole is about as big around as a pencil and hurts like mad. I could probably use stiches, to be quite honest, but that’s a medical bill I really don’t need if I can avoid it.

And just in case you were wondering, the evil little beast was dark purple, as in “Very Happy”. The little bitch.