My Monday started with a shriek of sadness from Oliver at 5:42am. I sprung forth, reaching for my glasses, wondering, "What day is it?"
I start EVERY day this way. Every single day. I go to Oliver, as I hurry to his room, I wonder if today is Thursday or Friday, Sunday or Monday. Today, I concluded was Monday.
Oliver was fussing because he had lost his binky. But, upon catching sight of me, his mother, (AKA Boob Lady!) he decided was starving and therefore required my assistance. So, I took him into my bed and nursed and talked and squirmed and nursed some more, effectively keeping me AWAKE.
The older boys started to stir around 6:00. Which is an unfortunate issue we deal with EVERY SINGLE DAY at our house. TOOOOOOOOOO early. Oliver wasn't going to sleep with me, so I dumped him in his crib and left it to his older brothers to entertain him. (All three boys are currently sharing the same room.) I locked the door from the outside and crawled back into bed, desperately wishing it was 9:00am instead of 6:00am. I drifted back to sleep for a bit when I heard BANGING.
Now, we have a system. The boys get locked in their rooms in the morning until 7:00. And if BANGING occurs it means "I HAVE TO GO POTTY!" if anyone ever abuses the "I HAVE TO GO POTTY" banging, there are dire consequences. So, Derek stumbled out of bed, to discover that we were too late.
Spencer had upset his pull-up verily, with poops and wee-wees.
Suddenly, Derek just HAD to go get ready for work. (Harumph.) Which left the clean up to me.
Then Oliver, never one to be left out, decided he too would go #2 just for me.
Then the dog decided he simply had to go #2 as well, so out we went.
BIG IMPORTANT INFORMATION:
We have a dog. I keep forgetting to tell the internets about him. We adopted him. His name is Jonah. He's a strange looking sort of creature (we were told a "Shepard mix") who loves nothing better than to loaf on the couch all day, and occasionally go outside. He never barks (literally) but does have a propensity to eat dirty diapers/pull-ups which is disgusting. He is excellently tolerant of the children and allows them to climb all over him like a jungle-gym. I try to discourage it, but whatareyougonnado? He's 4, maybe 5, and perfectly house-trained. It's a good deal.
|From February 2010|
|From February 2010|
Why some days are so utterly filled with POOP? I want to know. It's bizarre really.
In other news, Derek proved without provocation, that he is 1. Bigger 2. Stronger 3. A better fighter than I am, last night.
It all started because I was ranting and raving about email privacy settings, and he had a differing opinion, which irritated me, because let's face it, I like to believe I'm right pretty much all the time. So, things escalated until I grabbed a bottle of contact lenses solution, brandished it like a rapier and declared, "Don't come any closer!" And he ran and hid in the bathroom.
I thought I had won.
I was wrong.
He returned a moment later, guns ablazin'. ("Guns" being another bottle of contact lenses solution he'd found in the potty). In the end, after much squirting, and running and shrieking, Derek got me. He held my arms with one hand and proceeded to douse me in the stuff with his other hand. I finally managed to sputter out, "OKAY! I SURRENDER, I SURRENDER." Upon which, all was calm. Except I had to change my entire wardrobe because I was SOAKED!
And we went to bed and all was well.
Where was I going with this??
I don't remember.
Anyway, we have one other extremely important tidbit, so if you're still with me, I commend your efforts.
WHAT??? I know, right? It's getting to be a wee-bit ridiculous. We have entirely too many possessions to be proper nomads and yet, every other month, we're all, "See ya, wouldn'twanttobeya!" and we up and go.
This time, less than a year after we settled into our new home, we have discovered, much to our chagrin, that the time has come, the walrus said, to move to Sandy, Utah.
I know! I know!!!! I just want to go outside and scream to the gods of moving, "NOOOOOOWWWHHHYMEEEEE????" But since those gods do NOT exist, it would be monumental waste of time.
Instead, we pull ourselves up by our boot straps, gird up our loins (so we're feeling VERY secure) and fresh courage take.
But I gotta say, if we die or think our journey's lost, then HAPPY DAY because we won't have to MOVE anymore.
I am SO tired of moving. I want to puke in my cardboard boxes.
GAG, GAG, GAG.
At least I'm not preggers this time. There's always that.
So, there ya have it. Long, rambling post. Big important information.