The Bombing on Fannin

While flossing my teeth, I hear the crescendo of my sons' (aged 6 & 3) bickering. I have lately stopped refereeing their fights to find they often work things out on their own. Today's fight however would be different. The climax came when the 3 year old yelled to the 6 year old, "GIVE ME BACK MY F#$%ING CAR!". Something snapped in my neck as my head jerked towards them and in their eyes I saw unparalleled fear. They obviously hadn't realized I was so near. I had to have been a sight with the floss now dangling from between my teeth over my bottom lip, and of course the bolts of lightening shooting from my eye sockets didn't help much.
Knowing he had been caught, but not quite ready to resign himself to being in trouble, the 3 year old inched toward the 6 year old while chanting, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I shook my head slowly and said, "that's not nearly going to cut it young man. Come here immediately". Well, now he's already crying hysterically and screaming gibberish (something about please God why me or something like that). Since children walk SO slowly when they're upset, I "helped" him get to the bathroom a bit faster. "Stick out your tongue" and said through clenched teeth. "Abba doo bee lot mak yeahe nononono" he said. "Stick out your tongue" I said in an ever lower octave. On a side note, my 3 year old has taken to screaming "I WANT MY MOMMY" every time I get on to him....odd, but true. "Stick out your tongue" I said a third time. "I want my mommy abba glib (choke, cough, gag, sputter) mama mama mama mama". Finally, he sticks out his tongue. I rub it very liberally with the Dial Anti-bacterial bar soap that has graced the side of my sink patiently awaiting such an occasion. His horrified eyes looked up at me as he plotted my death. I let the soap soak in for about 3 minutes before I walked to the kitchen. He followed me screaming "blah bloom (gag cough sputter) mama mama mama mama blek" (this kid talks and he talks well but when he gets in trouble he turns in to Ricky Ricardo or something). I gave him a drink of tea and he calmed down. I explained to him that he knew f#$% was a bad word (he had said it twice before-I talked to him the first time and spanked him the second time. This would be the third and hopefully last time) and he knew he wasn't supposed to say it. I told him that that word was dirty and we use soap to clean all things that are dirty-including mouths. He slowly nodded (probably still planning on poisoning me later) and went off to play with his brother.
Now I sounded really bad and tough while telling that story, but the truth of the matter is, I had a hard time keeping a straight face. First of all, he sounded just like his father when he said it. Secondly, he used it correctly (in the grammatical sense, as an adjective), and thirdly the way both boys reacted when they realized I was standing there was priceless. Frankly, I found it hilarious but my parental duties prohibit me from allowing such an event to occur without consequences (it's in the handbook under "Events That Might Occur and Their Respective Consequences" Lame title I know, but I didn't write the book).
So after it all calms down, I call my husband. He's livid. He thinks I'm cruel. How could I do that to a 3 year old who doesn't possibly understand what I'm saying (actually it's the other way around-I mean who says abba doo me lak blak blooty farm?) and he thinks I've acted prematurely. I guess he thinks I should just "talk" to him the next time he F bombs someone? How did that work out at Hiroshima?
And for the record, my very soft-spoken patience of Job sister in law used to give her kids apple cider vinegar when they said hateful things. I could always 'pickle' my kids I suppose.

45 Seconds

I have a confession to make. I fall. I fall a lot. As if that weren't inconvenient enough, I never fall while fully clothed. And I never JUST fall. It usually takes me about 45 seconds to hit the ground. Here are a couple of stories. As always, they're 100% true, and not all that flattering to me. Hope they're enjoyable.

Several months ago, my husband DJ left very early for work. He locked the front door behind him when he left. I got up and got in the bathtub. About five minutes into my bath, I hear DJ knocking on the front door. He had left his keys in the car (so he could leave the car running). So, to keep him from waking up the kids (if you've never met him, he's about as quiet as a Peterbilt)-I grab a towel and run to the front door. We have granite in our entry way. Granite is oh so very damn slick when it's wet. The granite slab in front of our door is approximately 4 feet by 4 feet. I'm 5 feet 4 inches. It took a full 45 seconds to slide from where the granite meets the carpet to the front door. I know my butt hit the ground nearly immediately, but my momentum slammed me wet naked-assed first into our front door (again, 45 seconds later). When I finally stopped, I was facing opposite the direction I had started. Was now horizontal as opposed to the much preferable vertical. And had lost not only my towel but most of my dignity along the way. To add insult to not yet detected injury, my husband yelled through the front door, "What the hell are you doing?" I can only imagine how it sounded from his side of the door, but for crying out loud. It was 5:45 am. What do you mean 'what the hell am I doing?'. I mean, it's all his fault for going to work so damn early anyway....

Our bedroom was once a garage. The garage morphed into a formal, sunken living room. The formal, sunken living room has become our master bedroom. From our office, the step down into the bedroom is about 8" high. About 5:45 this morning (should I sleep later or get up earlier?...hmm) I get up, put on my fuzzy pink bathrobe (I like it cuz it makes me look old) and had to the bathroom. I head back to the bedroom to start my day when all of a sudden, the 8" drop off has moved back about a foot. It's a hell of a lot closer than it used to be, I'll say that much. So, I step off it ever so gracefully landing on my left big toe and laying my ankle completely over to one side. Somehow, I managed a pirouette with a half gainer twist and straddled the open wire door to the dog kennel (which is conveniently crotch high on my 5 feet 4 damn inches). So now my left foot is swollen and achy and I have a big scrape about three inches south of due north if ya know what I mean. Geez, I can't wait to hit 60 when I'll break a hip doing all this crap.