Miss Mess

*Someone* does not pick up after herself.  Ahem.

Tuesdays are a busy day at our house. 

William has an entire day of school work to complete and turn in to his teacher on Wednesday morning.  Which means he spends a big part of his day sitting on a barstool in our kitchen while I bustle around doing dishes and laundry while simultaneously keeping William on task.

The kid is easily distracted.

While William is working, Paige knows that she is to play nearby and try her best not to trouble her brother.

Which is asking quite a lot from a three-year-old I think.

Since I'm sympathetic to her plight, I allow her to bustle around making messes everywhere she goes.

Which means by the end of the day on Tuesday, my house looks like the mafia tossed the place looking for evidence.

Now if you will excuse me, I think I'll just rake all of the junk on my floors into a pile and set it on fire.

Boy! Scout!

William in 2004 and Now.  *Sigh* Where does the time go?

My kid.  My teeny tiny itty bitty newborn baby boy is now a Scout.

Not a Boy Scout. 

Not a Webelo.

Not a Cub Scout.

No.  Currently he's a Tiger Cub.

Go ahead and ask me what the hell that means.  Ask me what the difference is between all of those descriptors.  Ask me.

Yeah.  I have no idea.

All I know is Dave and William are required to go on several overnight campouts, the first of which was a couple of weekends ago.  The boys left here with a "two man tent", which equates to something slightly smaller than a box of cereal.

Did I mention my husband is over 6ft tall? 

Hahaha! Hooo boy I wish I could've seen that.

Also, my husband was severely irritated with my kid who, instead of enjoying the many boy-friendly activities like archery (!) and a firing range (!!), simply wanted to dig all day in a hole in the ground.

Because what is shooting a real-live bow-and-arrow when there's DIRT and this here STICK? 

On another note, I did learn one thing: my husband snores loud enough to wake OTHER CAMPERS.

Turns out, where there's no one (like ME!) there to elbow him in the middle of the night, the man snores like a grizzly bear. 

Which means that I should really go on the next campout.

HOOO BOY I CAN'T EVEN TYPE THAT WITH A STRAIGHT FACE!  Because ME? CAMPING?  HAHAHAHA!

I don't think so.

Paige and I will be at home during the next campout painting our nails and eating cookies and drifting off to sleep in our nice warm beds.

And I won't even have to elbow anyone because my grizzly bear will be sleeping far away in the woods.

In a cereal box.

I don't know what to blog about.

So here.

An iPhone dump.

The baby got her first "real" (read: paid-for) haircut.

They charged me FIFTEEN DOLLARS.

AND?

They put GLITTER IN HER HAIR.

The haircut was last Thursday and I'm STILL scrubbing the glitter off of her scalp.

Did I mention it's PURPLE glitter?

In a happier note, I saw my in-laws this weekend.

And on an even happier note, I saw my favorite bunny.

My GOSH he missed me.  I could totally tell.

Oh. And.

Dave's speedometer is broken.  Which means that he now takes corners going 115mph.

Theoretically.



High Fashion

Paige: What kind of clothes does God wear?

Me: No one knows honey.  No one has ever seen God.

Dave: But we *do* know that the Devil wears Prada!

Me: Which means that God most likely shops at The Gap. 

I mean really, don't you think khaki's and a nice button down would be His style?

Oh Poor MEEEEE!

Welcome to my mommy's pity party!  Come on in.  Make yourself comfortable!

I'm sorry, Internet, but I'm a little down today. 

My computer died a few weeks ago, which means I've been blogging from my husband's laptop.  And let me just tell you, using someone else's computer is like staying at a friends house.  It's comfortable for a while, but eventually you just want to go home and sleep in your own bed.

I've lost all of my emails.  I've lost all of my photo files and my carefully constructed budgeting spreadsheet.

And, horror of horrors, I've lost all of my saved blog links!

It's like I've moved and none of my Internet friends have my forwarding address! 

God, I miss my computer. 

On top of the untimely death of my beloved laptop, I received a robo-email from Google on Saturday stating that my AdSense account was being disconnected due to "inappropriate activity".  I have no idea what this means.  Nor did Google allude to what the inappropriate activity was.

Up to that point, I'd earned $135.

Which isn't much money.  But, sadly, it was more money than I'd earned in SEVEN YEARS.  I was weirdly proud of earning that money. 

"Earning" is a term I use loosely of course.  Since, you know, I did NOTHING to deserve that money expect prattle on about my life day after day.

But weirdly, losing this money (that I never really earned) was such a defeating blow.  Truly.  It just felt like the world was against me.

Which, of course, is not true.  It's only Google that is against me.

Stupid Google.  Stupid dead computer.

And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go kick something.

What a Chore

William asked recently if he could do work to earn money.  You know, chores.   Allowance.  The whole thing.  Apparently, he wants to start saving to buy a toy he really wants.

Doesn't that sound innocent and lovely?

THEN WHY IS IT SO HARD??

Dave and I are completely flummoxed.

What do we ask of him? What sort of chores should a 7 year old boy be expected to do each week?  And what is "expected work" and what is "over and above and therefore worthy of commission" work?


Being adorable earns him zero dollars.

And my goodness, how much do we pay him? 

Again, I ask WHY IS THIS SO HARD?

Dave and I neither one ever earned an allowance.  And honestly, I don't ever remember WANTING one.  We are totally clueless.  Totally.

Help! 



Janitorial Commentary

Those of you who have given birth to only girls are missing out on the joy that is living with little boys.

Especially as it pertains to the bathroom.

You are missing out on the unique experience of entering a bathroom in your very own home that smells exactly like a New York City bus station.

And I'll bet your bathroom cleaning routine does not include wiping down THE WALLS.

And before you get all smug and think "well, if *I* were the mother of a boy, *I* would teach him to pee properly".  Because, Miss SmuggiePants, you are forgetting that your boy - however well you think you trained him - has FRIENDS. 

Friends with bad aim. 

So you see, you mothers of girls, there is no escaping the Overspray of Doom.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go take a bath.  In bleach.

And then I'm going to set myself on fire.