Squeak’s Squeals

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.

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Today, JB and Roo went to Pittsburgh with their daycare and spent the day at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. I am now pleased to present to you little known naturally historical facts:

A giant space rock from outer space came flying past the moon and landed in the ocean. When it went in the ocean, it made the waves great big so the volcanoes flew way up in the sky and dumped glowing red water all over the Earth. When the dinosaurs saw the red water, they all laid down and took a nap. Then the people came and made big holes to put them in so we could dig them up and put them together like puzzles. And that’s how the dinosaurs died.

There was a man on a camel and he had a spear. He killed a mommy lion and he tried to kill the daddy lion, but the baby lion got away and it’s still alive. And that’s why there are still lions, but there aren’t any dinosaurs because some man with a spear went and killed all the dinosaur babies and they died.

Once, there was a guy who was very famous and he made a statue out of a woman, but he forgot to put her clothes on and he called it a ‘work of art’. He called it that because he’s still working on it and it won’t be finished until he puts her clothes on. People aren’t supposed to be naked outside a museum where kids can see them. But it might not have been a guy. It was probably a girl because girls like to make pictures of other girls. And you can tell the statue is a girl because it has big boobs and a pee-bug.

When you go to a zoo, all the animals are alive. When you go to a museum, they kill them all first so they’re dead. Then they try to make them look like they’re alive. They should really just close the museum and let the animals live at the zoo.

Here’s hoping it tickled you as much as it did me. Until next time….

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My children. Oh, my children. I love them. I do. Very much. More than life itself, even. But the bottom line: I really don’t like them much at all. Except when they’re sleeping. Then they’re angels.

For those of you who have not yet experienced the joys of child rearing… well…. buyer beware. For those of you that have…. it’s nice to know I’m not alone. I believe Denis Leary said it best, “…immediately, when they hit age five, your life becomes about peace and quiet. You just want the fighting to stop.  Can’t we all just get along!?…” Can I get an ‘Amen!’ for Brother Leary?

I am pretty much convinced at this point that my children are indeed trying to see just how far they can take things before someone dies - them, me, the neighbor, a random groundhog - doesn’t matter who or what… so long as someone or something is dead when it’s over.

It’s as if I tucked them in one night - all cute and sweet and innocent and wonderful - and I awoke the following morning to find my house in the midst of a hostile takeover by a race of bipolar, mutant midgets.

Honestly, how many times should I really have to repeat the line, “No, you can’t have scissors,” before it sinks in?? Two, you might say. Perhaps five. Or ten. Or twenty-five. Oh, nay nay, my friends. It is a line that must be spoken, like a broken record in an abandoned building, one hundred and seventy times - elevating vocal volume every five repeats until finally you start to feel your skull crack (for I firmly believe arguing with children causes your skull to crack, which in turn allows tiny amounts of brain matter to seep out under your skin where it congeals and forms the lumps and lines that society perceives as ‘wrinkles’ while simultaneously making one utterly, ridiculously stupid). At this point, you just scream it, “NO! YOU CAN’T HAVE SCISSORS!” Just a note to those non-parental types out there: If the neighbors couldn’t hear it, you didn’t yell it loud enough.

Oft have my dreams wandered to a magical place in my head where the walls are all covered in massive pads of Velcro… and all children’s clothing is covered in opposing pads… where anytime, anywhere… you can stop, bend down, pick them up, stick them to the wall… and walk away. And they have mute buttons - hidden where they can’t reach them. And when they are whining, crying, kicking, screaming… throwing tantrums enough to make a colicky newborn stop and go, “Damn! What the f*%k’s HER problem!?”….. you can push the magic button and silence prevails. Ah, yes…. to dream…. though fleeting it may be…. And so it goes… that we live in our little dorky, parental bubbles where life is happy and quiet… and children are well-mannered, well-behaved and always clean…..

But alas, the time has come for me to leave the safety and security of my personal kid-free bubble and start the screaming over again…. this time it’s, “No, you can’t use super glue!” Let the fun begin! Whee!

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It’s been a long, LONG week in the world of the Squeak.

It started on Wednesday when the girls’ daycare called to tell me JB was projectile vomiting all over the facility and I needed to come get her. They graciously gave her a bucket for the drive home and we arrived at the house without incident.

Upon entering the house, however, JB walked into the living room, held the bucket way out in front of her and puked on the floor. “It’s okay. It’s no problem,” I reassured her. “These things happen. I’ll just have to scrub the floor is all.”

The problem with this philosophy is that I am a sympathetic puker. If I see it, hear it or smell it, I’m gonna do it. So there I was, on hands and knees on the living room floor - scrubbing with one bucket and vomiting into another.

Not much work was accomplished on Wednesday for obvious reasons… the kids were whiny and clingy, I was cranky and my throat was sore from upchucking. So Wednesday was a bust.

By Thursday, all was well. The kids went off to daycare, I went off to work. And I had been given permission to work from home Friday as a weird sort of perk for getting things accomplished in the office.

As luck would have it, however, at just after 2am Friday morning, my bedroom door crept open and there stood Roo, tears streaking her face, “Mommy, I puked….”

Shit. I pulled myself out of bed and went to assess the damages.

Pile #1: The hallway. ALL over the hallway.

Pile #2: Roo’s bedroom floor.

Pile #3: Roo’s bed - the sheets, the pillow, the jammies, the Webkinz…. coated in an orange, acidic slime.

I went to grab the buckets and spent the next two and a half hours scrubbing and puking…. and scrubbing and puking…. and scrubbing and……… well, you get the idea.

So Friday was also a bust. No work was accomplished (except for scrubbing floors - repeatedly). Not a problem, right? I can make up the time on Saturday while the kids are with their Doofhead, right? WRONG!

By noon on Saturday, I had a temp of 102(F) and was convinced my spleen was the only possible organ which had not yet shot itself out of my nose. I heaved and puked and heaved and puked… and when there was nothing left to puke, I continued to heave - for HOURS I continued the heaving - at one point, I heaved hard enough to re-injure my jaw (for those of you who read the Brawler post)… I felt it pop again and it sent a shooting pain into my right ear. And I kept heaving. Tears were streaming down my face as I sat in my bathroom all alone, convinced I had reached the end of my days… that I would be living out the last fleeting moments of my life cold, alone, heaving and perched on the porcelain throne.

The good news: I feel infinitely better this morning. The bad news: all the heaving caused the blood vessels to burst all around my right eye (that there picture to the right…. that is really, truly my eyeball, taken this morning… granted, it’s not the best picture as it was taken with my cell phone, but it’s enough to get the point across).

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