It’s 11:00 and time for bed. I’m jumping into the shower when I hear Brett say he is going to go outside and spray the hornets nest we found out by the firepit. Thirty minutes later, I snuggle into bed wearing my favorite jammies. The house is finally cooling off after a sweltering day and the clean sheets feel cool and crisp. I get my body pillow into the perfect position and begin to drift off into sweat oblivion.
“Pst! Andrea, I need your help with something.”
Lazily, I offer up an eyelid. Then another. Standing before me is what I assume to be my husband only because I recognize his voice. He is wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, knee boots and thick rubber gloves up to his elbows. I vaguely recognize the outline of a nose under the tightly drawn hood he dons.
I close my eyes again “I’m already asleep. Wake Josh up.”
“Come on! I just need you to hold a flashlight.” The man is practically vibrating with excitement and I must admit, I am a bit curious, if not horribly fearful, as to what on earth he could be up to now.
Begrudgingly, I throw on a robe and my slippers.
“No, you have to get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Because you might get stung.”
It is at this point that I realize that the man before me is actually wearing TWO pair of pants and TWO sweatshirts. This can’t be good.
When we get out to the firepit, I see a bucket of used motor oil and a shovel. Oh, this is really bad.
“What happened to just spraying it?” I say with a small glimmer of hope.
“Some might get away if I spray it. This is better. I’m going to use the shovel to knock it into the bucket then put the lid on. I just need you to hold the flashlight. Besides, I was out of spray.”
It is now that I begin to wish I had a second layer of clothing on and start to look around to make sure that nothing is in the way should the need to run screaming for my life occur.
Brett is still trying to figure out the logistics of placing the bucket in the perfect place when I see 2 hornets walking around the nest. I mention this to Brett.
“Sentinels! Turn off the light! Hide!”
I stifle a yawn as I click off the flashlight.
“They know we’re here,” he whispers “we’ll need to be careful.”
Oh brother.
After waiting a few minutes in the dark, we hazard a look. I must admit his enthusiasm is starting to catch on. All clear.
Brett gets back into position, but he just can’t seem to get the right angle.
He puts the shovel down. Looking up at the nest, he starts to pantomime the motions of grabbing it and throwing it into the bucket. You’ve got to be kidding me! Warningly I begin “Brett…” but it’s too late! With a small curse, he grabs the hornets nest throws it into the bucket then lunges for the lid and slams it down. It’s over in less than a second and he begins throwing his arms up in the air like a rodeo champ who just roped a calf.
I’m proud of my brave, strong man and join him in the whoops and hollers as we dance around the firepit.
An hour later, I’m back in bed with the lights out. We’ve already gone over the events of the night several times and are starting to drift off to sleep once again. Then, out of the darkness, Brett snickers. “The last thing they heard was ‘All Clear Sir’”.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
A Salute to Mommies
OK, for all you moms out there, young and old, go get yourself a glass of juice, tea or milk (I’d say champagne, but c’mon, who are we kidding?) and have a seat. I know it’s not Mother’s Day, but frankly I’m feeling a bit jipped that we get one stinking day out of the year.
So, I would like to raise a glass in honor of all moms who have run across a room to catch vomit in your bare hand in order to save the upholstery on the new couch, rubbed spit up into the carpet with your sock and opted for a spritz of Febreeze on your shirt to cover up the urine smell from your infant’s diaper change.
To those that have cleaned toothpaste off the walls because your 5 year old wanted to see if jumping on the tube would make the flip top open, and yogurt off the ceiling on the one stinking day you decide the kids can fend for themselves for breakfast while you sleep in.
To every mom that has looked into the face of a sniffling little girl and had to endure “You hurt my feelings”, and the fearful face a boy who declares, “I didn’t do it, but you should come quickly, the fire is spreading”.
To anyone who has stuck a pacifier in their mouth to get the worst of the lint and dirt off before putting it back in their baby’s mouth and those who have declared to a room full of adults to please excuse me but I have to go ‘potty’.
For those who have rejoiced at the P.A. announcement of a found child at Walmart because now you know where they are and can continue shopping in peace and those that have threatened the very lives of your children through clenched teeth and plastered smile.
To anyone (else) that has fallen into a puddle of tears when they looked into the cab of a stranger’s truck to see their diapered toddler who was supposed to be napping and anyone who has rolled their eyes at a screaming child and tell them to calm down only to find out their arm is, indeed, broken,
To all of us who have not slept in 8 months due to pregnancy woes and midnight feedings, 8 years because of nightmares and thunder or 18 years because of, well, teenagers.
I would like to raise a glass and salute us all.
Cheers!
So, I would like to raise a glass in honor of all moms who have run across a room to catch vomit in your bare hand in order to save the upholstery on the new couch, rubbed spit up into the carpet with your sock and opted for a spritz of Febreeze on your shirt to cover up the urine smell from your infant’s diaper change.
To those that have cleaned toothpaste off the walls because your 5 year old wanted to see if jumping on the tube would make the flip top open, and yogurt off the ceiling on the one stinking day you decide the kids can fend for themselves for breakfast while you sleep in.
To every mom that has looked into the face of a sniffling little girl and had to endure “You hurt my feelings”, and the fearful face a boy who declares, “I didn’t do it, but you should come quickly, the fire is spreading”.
To anyone who has stuck a pacifier in their mouth to get the worst of the lint and dirt off before putting it back in their baby’s mouth and those who have declared to a room full of adults to please excuse me but I have to go ‘potty’.
For those who have rejoiced at the P.A. announcement of a found child at Walmart because now you know where they are and can continue shopping in peace and those that have threatened the very lives of your children through clenched teeth and plastered smile.
To anyone (else) that has fallen into a puddle of tears when they looked into the cab of a stranger’s truck to see their diapered toddler who was supposed to be napping and anyone who has rolled their eyes at a screaming child and tell them to calm down only to find out their arm is, indeed, broken,
To all of us who have not slept in 8 months due to pregnancy woes and midnight feedings, 8 years because of nightmares and thunder or 18 years because of, well, teenagers.
I would like to raise a glass and salute us all.
Cheers!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Grammy's House
My mother in law called yesterday and we chatted for awhile. Now, unlike most mother/daughter-in-law relationships, I love my mother-in-law. We have coffee and cinnamon rolls on what used to be called Thursday, but is now appropriately re-named ‘Grammy day’ and we just enjoy each other’s company.
We were talking about a good time to come over for dinner when she casually says “Would the boys like to spend the night tonight?” She said this as if mentioning we might have meatloaf instead of hamburger. I mean, does Ed McMahon ever just casually knock on someone’s door with a fist load of balloons and say “Do you want the $375 million dollars you just won?”
The words were still echoing in the receiver as I was shoving the last bit of clothing they would need into a backpack. Their pillows were already in the car when she said that dropping them off around 6:00 would be good. It was only 2:00. Crestfallen, I decided to put a DVD on continuous play for the next 4 hours.
I instantly began having visions of my dear husband and I swanked out in our best dress, laughing and spinning wildly on a dance floor in some up scale club. Well, he has to work tomorrow, so maybe just a game of scrabble and some cereal for dinner, but whatever it was, I was promised an evening without jumping, yelling, crying and feathers floating from the new down filled silk throw pillows I recently splurged on.
My husband was already home from work when I got back from dropping off the boys.
“Where are the boys?”
My eyes twinkled in mischief “Your mom’s”
Confused, “For how long?”
“All. Night.”
We exchanged a look and then burst into fits of laughter and song. Woo Hoo!! What to do first?! Something wild, crazy, something we haven’t been able to do for, well, 7 ½ years! Anticipation builds as we both scurry about finishing up our evening duties. I clean the kitchen, he milks the goats. I clean up toys, he feeds turkeys and collects eggs, etc. etc.
By the time we’re both done, a bit of the enthusiasm has worn off. An hour later we both stand in the kitchen feeling a bit defeated. It’s just so quiet. Not a nice, peaceful quiet either. An eerie quiet. Neither of us dares speak of it so we just agree that it’s already too late to go anywhere so we’ll just read a few chapters of a book that we’ve been reading together.
Soon, it’s time for bed and we both lay quietly in the dark. I’m feeling a little sad and uneasy. Out of habit, I had walked into each of the boys rooms to make sure they had blankets on and to kiss their soft little noses. It was a quiet, relaxed, crumb free evening but it just wasn’t what I had hoped for. In the stillness of the night Brett softly says “I miss the boys.” I snuggled deeper into his arms, “Me too.”
We were talking about a good time to come over for dinner when she casually says “Would the boys like to spend the night tonight?” She said this as if mentioning we might have meatloaf instead of hamburger. I mean, does Ed McMahon ever just casually knock on someone’s door with a fist load of balloons and say “Do you want the $375 million dollars you just won?”
The words were still echoing in the receiver as I was shoving the last bit of clothing they would need into a backpack. Their pillows were already in the car when she said that dropping them off around 6:00 would be good. It was only 2:00. Crestfallen, I decided to put a DVD on continuous play for the next 4 hours.
I instantly began having visions of my dear husband and I swanked out in our best dress, laughing and spinning wildly on a dance floor in some up scale club. Well, he has to work tomorrow, so maybe just a game of scrabble and some cereal for dinner, but whatever it was, I was promised an evening without jumping, yelling, crying and feathers floating from the new down filled silk throw pillows I recently splurged on.
My husband was already home from work when I got back from dropping off the boys.
“Where are the boys?”
My eyes twinkled in mischief “Your mom’s”
Confused, “For how long?”
“All. Night.”
We exchanged a look and then burst into fits of laughter and song. Woo Hoo!! What to do first?! Something wild, crazy, something we haven’t been able to do for, well, 7 ½ years! Anticipation builds as we both scurry about finishing up our evening duties. I clean the kitchen, he milks the goats. I clean up toys, he feeds turkeys and collects eggs, etc. etc.
By the time we’re both done, a bit of the enthusiasm has worn off. An hour later we both stand in the kitchen feeling a bit defeated. It’s just so quiet. Not a nice, peaceful quiet either. An eerie quiet. Neither of us dares speak of it so we just agree that it’s already too late to go anywhere so we’ll just read a few chapters of a book that we’ve been reading together.
Soon, it’s time for bed and we both lay quietly in the dark. I’m feeling a little sad and uneasy. Out of habit, I had walked into each of the boys rooms to make sure they had blankets on and to kiss their soft little noses. It was a quiet, relaxed, crumb free evening but it just wasn’t what I had hoped for. In the stillness of the night Brett softly says “I miss the boys.” I snuggled deeper into his arms, “Me too.”
Drool Free Hair
I cut my hair. All visions of the long, lustrous, windblown locks that I would haphazardly sweep into a stunning up-do were abandoned the first time my 5 month old son clamped his tiny fists into the tangled mass of hair at the nape of my neck. Sam and I cried together as he swung from my hair like Tarzan from a vine as I tried to uncurl his vise like grip on my hair.
At 3 months of age his neck muscles finally engaged and he abandoned his full time reclined position and graduated to full ‘hip baby’ status. His discovery of my hair was cute and he would hold on as a baby chimp clings to his mother. The ensuing pulling was a mere trifle as his twitching little hand muscles would open and close without intent. I just needed to time it correctly and I could easily remove my hair from an open and outstretched hand.
Battle lines were soon drawn when, at 4 months of age, I would begin pulling out slurpy, sloppy, drooly locks of hair from his tightening grip. My every other day shampooing habit increased to twice daily to rid myself of the smell of feta cheese. I began wearing my hair up in clips and buns only to realize that the clip itself was more of a prize than my hair.
It was time for a truce. But how do you negotiate with a being whose hands seem to be made of Velcro?
After a particularly grueling day, I had had enough. The balding spots at the nape of my neck combined with my sweat drenched brow called for drastic measures. As I tend to make all important decisions on a whim, I got out my scissors and started cutting. Three hours later, I was on the phone to see what salon could get me in – today!
So, after a shampoo experience that felt more like bugs crawling in my hair and a disastrous run in with a razor, I left the hip salon with wispy shards of hair sticking out at seemingly impossible angles and $45 poorer. The good news is now that I have more high maintenance hair than my disastrous spiral perm at 16, Sam looks at my spiky, wispy tufts of hair matted with gel, pomade and hairspray much like he does a jar of prunes.
It may be high maintenance, but at least it’s hands (and drool!) free.
At 3 months of age his neck muscles finally engaged and he abandoned his full time reclined position and graduated to full ‘hip baby’ status. His discovery of my hair was cute and he would hold on as a baby chimp clings to his mother. The ensuing pulling was a mere trifle as his twitching little hand muscles would open and close without intent. I just needed to time it correctly and I could easily remove my hair from an open and outstretched hand.
Battle lines were soon drawn when, at 4 months of age, I would begin pulling out slurpy, sloppy, drooly locks of hair from his tightening grip. My every other day shampooing habit increased to twice daily to rid myself of the smell of feta cheese. I began wearing my hair up in clips and buns only to realize that the clip itself was more of a prize than my hair.
It was time for a truce. But how do you negotiate with a being whose hands seem to be made of Velcro?
After a particularly grueling day, I had had enough. The balding spots at the nape of my neck combined with my sweat drenched brow called for drastic measures. As I tend to make all important decisions on a whim, I got out my scissors and started cutting. Three hours later, I was on the phone to see what salon could get me in – today!
So, after a shampoo experience that felt more like bugs crawling in my hair and a disastrous run in with a razor, I left the hip salon with wispy shards of hair sticking out at seemingly impossible angles and $45 poorer. The good news is now that I have more high maintenance hair than my disastrous spiral perm at 16, Sam looks at my spiky, wispy tufts of hair matted with gel, pomade and hairspray much like he does a jar of prunes.
It may be high maintenance, but at least it’s hands (and drool!) free.
For the love of Chili
My husband loves chili. Wait. I should expand on that. My husband loves MY chili. In our 9 years of marriage, I have probably made him chili on a weekly basis.
When he sees that it is chili night, he purposefully eases himself down into his chair with a pre-emptive sigh of contentment. His eyes get big as he picks up his spoon in anticipation of that first rich bite of chili. Combined with my homemade, honey drenched cornbread, it is a rare man that has experienced such ecstasy at a dinner table.
I should now explain that ‘my’ chili does not have a recipe. It changes from batch to batch depending on what I have on hand and how much time I have to let it simmer and stew. This has become the most exciting element of chili night. Each pot is just a little bit different yet each meal my loving husband insists that this batch is the best he’s ever had.
Until…
It was a busy day and my late afternoon was going to be a bit crazy so I began to concoct today’s unique blend of sauces and spices into the crock pot for an easy meal later. Now normally, I taste and adjust as needed when I cook but figured that as often as I make chili, I’m just going to throw it together and call it good.
At the table that night my husband sat down in eager anticipation of his meal, lifting his spoon full of rich, thick chili to his mouth. Eyes closed to fully enjoy that first taste.
“Interesting”
Eh? His eyebrows furrow. He takes another bite to make sure that the first wasn’t somehow tainted. And then, he says it.
“You know, my mom makes really good chili. You should get her recipe”.
In utter astonishment my spoon begins to fall from my hand in slow motion. The children all stop mid-bite and stare in awestruck horror. Even the birds of the air and the beasts of the field stop to perk their ears in wonderment at the stupidity of a man who dared to drop the “M” bomb at the dinner table.
As the sun abandons it’s decent into the west, my husband dares don a look of utter amazement that his suggestion would bring about such earth shattering consequences.
It has now been several months since the mushroom cloud over our house has disappeared, but my once loving and tender husband is now permanently marked as a traitor. Don’t get me wrong, we still love him and occasionally talk to him and I even still make him chili from time to time. Of course the experience is a bit different with him cowering in the corner twitching and mumbling “Mom chili bad. Wife chili good” but for the most part, chili night is still an exciting part of our week.
When he sees that it is chili night, he purposefully eases himself down into his chair with a pre-emptive sigh of contentment. His eyes get big as he picks up his spoon in anticipation of that first rich bite of chili. Combined with my homemade, honey drenched cornbread, it is a rare man that has experienced such ecstasy at a dinner table.
I should now explain that ‘my’ chili does not have a recipe. It changes from batch to batch depending on what I have on hand and how much time I have to let it simmer and stew. This has become the most exciting element of chili night. Each pot is just a little bit different yet each meal my loving husband insists that this batch is the best he’s ever had.
Until…
It was a busy day and my late afternoon was going to be a bit crazy so I began to concoct today’s unique blend of sauces and spices into the crock pot for an easy meal later. Now normally, I taste and adjust as needed when I cook but figured that as often as I make chili, I’m just going to throw it together and call it good.
At the table that night my husband sat down in eager anticipation of his meal, lifting his spoon full of rich, thick chili to his mouth. Eyes closed to fully enjoy that first taste.
“Interesting”
Eh? His eyebrows furrow. He takes another bite to make sure that the first wasn’t somehow tainted. And then, he says it.
“You know, my mom makes really good chili. You should get her recipe”.
In utter astonishment my spoon begins to fall from my hand in slow motion. The children all stop mid-bite and stare in awestruck horror. Even the birds of the air and the beasts of the field stop to perk their ears in wonderment at the stupidity of a man who dared to drop the “M” bomb at the dinner table.
As the sun abandons it’s decent into the west, my husband dares don a look of utter amazement that his suggestion would bring about such earth shattering consequences.
It has now been several months since the mushroom cloud over our house has disappeared, but my once loving and tender husband is now permanently marked as a traitor. Don’t get me wrong, we still love him and occasionally talk to him and I even still make him chili from time to time. Of course the experience is a bit different with him cowering in the corner twitching and mumbling “Mom chili bad. Wife chili good” but for the most part, chili night is still an exciting part of our week.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Seabreeze
Don’t ask what provoked me to buy a bottle of Seabreeze facial toner, but it was more than a few months ago and I guess I was having a sentimental moment dreaming of my Noxema and Seabreeze days of yore.
I read somewhere that scent is supposed to trigger our strongest memory recall. I experienced this last night during a 9 hour power outage.
Three of the 4 boys were piled haphazardly together in bed, no doubt believing they would be more courageous to endure the thunder together than apart, and the baby was dozing contentedly in his crib.
With no water or power I was fighting images of me washing clothes in a bucket with a stick while my Fabioesque hero chopped wood so we could cook our food. Meanwhile a less hairy version of my hero worked diligently in the garage to hook up our generator so we could run some fans and keep the refrigerator going.
I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to wash my face but hope dawned when I realized that I had my trusty bottle of Seabreeze! This stuff is like battery acid so I was sure that it would rid my sweaty face of at least the days dirt and grime if not a few layers of skin to boot – hooray!
I soaked a cotton ball and soon felt that familiar sting – oooh! As I inhaled the aroma, my world began to blur and spin like an old 45 record. Before I knew it, I was sitting poolside with a slick layer of Ban de Solei SPF 2 oil with Brian Adam's “Summer of ‘69” straining through my Getto Blaster. I had Sun In in my hair and was passionately discussing Bo and Hope’s latest love disaster with my fellow Days of Our Lives junky, Natalie.
I could almost feel the prickle of the suns rays on my skin when…
“MOM!! It’s too dark!!”
Vvvrrrooooom. Plop. I’m back in my dark bathroom with the flicker of a candle illuminating a soiled cotton ball. Whether it was dirt from the day’s grind or a layer of freckles, I’m still not sure, but I’m thinking of putting my kids to bed early tonight and popping the top on my bottle of Seabreeze. Maybe this weekend I’ll splurge on a tub of Noxema as well. Do they even make Noxema anymore?
I read somewhere that scent is supposed to trigger our strongest memory recall. I experienced this last night during a 9 hour power outage.
Three of the 4 boys were piled haphazardly together in bed, no doubt believing they would be more courageous to endure the thunder together than apart, and the baby was dozing contentedly in his crib.
With no water or power I was fighting images of me washing clothes in a bucket with a stick while my Fabioesque hero chopped wood so we could cook our food. Meanwhile a less hairy version of my hero worked diligently in the garage to hook up our generator so we could run some fans and keep the refrigerator going.
I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to wash my face but hope dawned when I realized that I had my trusty bottle of Seabreeze! This stuff is like battery acid so I was sure that it would rid my sweaty face of at least the days dirt and grime if not a few layers of skin to boot – hooray!
I soaked a cotton ball and soon felt that familiar sting – oooh! As I inhaled the aroma, my world began to blur and spin like an old 45 record. Before I knew it, I was sitting poolside with a slick layer of Ban de Solei SPF 2 oil with Brian Adam's “Summer of ‘69” straining through my Getto Blaster. I had Sun In in my hair and was passionately discussing Bo and Hope’s latest love disaster with my fellow Days of Our Lives junky, Natalie.
I could almost feel the prickle of the suns rays on my skin when…
“MOM!! It’s too dark!!”
Vvvrrrooooom. Plop. I’m back in my dark bathroom with the flicker of a candle illuminating a soiled cotton ball. Whether it was dirt from the day’s grind or a layer of freckles, I’m still not sure, but I’m thinking of putting my kids to bed early tonight and popping the top on my bottle of Seabreeze. Maybe this weekend I’ll splurge on a tub of Noxema as well. Do they even make Noxema anymore?
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Mrs. Mom 2007
OK. I realize it has taken me awhile but I have finally figured out that ‘blogging’ is not a british swear word and saying that you have a blog is not referring to some new fangled shoe craze.
So, here I am.
I would like to mark my very first blog by announcing my run for Mrs. Mom 2007. I realize this may shock many due to a few recent incidences, but I assure you that the pageant officials have dutifully investigated and cleared me of all charges.
Unfortunately, due to public decency laws, I will be unable to compete in the swimsuit portion of the competition, but I believe that my talent (Spot Removal) will propel me past any possible point loss.
The interview portion should be in the bag as I shrug off any hopes of world peace and instead concentrate the bulk of my message on the hope of a single solitary meal that does not include spilling, throwing food, kicking under the table or strains of “What is it and do you really expect me to EAT it?” If this fails to wow the pageant officials then I will reveal my main political platform: Abolishing “He’s looking at me”.
I appreciate all your support and, most importantly, your votes!!
So, here I am.
I would like to mark my very first blog by announcing my run for Mrs. Mom 2007. I realize this may shock many due to a few recent incidences, but I assure you that the pageant officials have dutifully investigated and cleared me of all charges.
Unfortunately, due to public decency laws, I will be unable to compete in the swimsuit portion of the competition, but I believe that my talent (Spot Removal) will propel me past any possible point loss.
The interview portion should be in the bag as I shrug off any hopes of world peace and instead concentrate the bulk of my message on the hope of a single solitary meal that does not include spilling, throwing food, kicking under the table or strains of “What is it and do you really expect me to EAT it?” If this fails to wow the pageant officials then I will reveal my main political platform: Abolishing “He’s looking at me”.
I appreciate all your support and, most importantly, your votes!!
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