Stranded

Yesterday Gabriel ran up to me and said, "Mom, I have to go to the bathroom!" It is the "who's going to wipe my buns off when I'm done" dilemma that the little people face. I hollered to Jonathan to listen for his call, and headed to the shower.

When I turned off the shower, I could hear a little voice downstairs yelling desperately, "I'm DONE!!" Poor chap had been hollering for 10 minutes, and Jonathan was off with his head in the clouds and failed to notice.

It must be a terrible moment as a three year old sitting on the toilet, slowly losing all feeling in your legs, and reflecting on the fact that even though there are 10 people in the household, no one is available to take care of you. You could be sitting on the toilet forever. And what a depressing end that would be.

P.S. We are 10 now because Margarita lives with us, and Grandpa arrived three days ago, and will be staying several weeks.

The Itching Continues

Yesterday after a week of steroids, eye drops, and allergy meds I was actually in worse condition than upon my first visit to the doctor. Thoroughly frustrated, irritated and over it, I marched myself into the office, sat upon the table, and laid out my woes to the nurse who looked rather confused. I told her I did not think the drops actually contained any meds, and whatever the problem was, it had yet to be properly diagnosed.

My eyes were in a very sad state of swollen, crusty, weepy, red and generally disgusting. Not being entirely accustomed to looking like an entity that should be avoided at all cost, not to mention the pain associated with these lovely symptoms, I was not in the mood for anything less than complete, total and immediate relief. My doctor checked my eyes, checked the rashes which had by now had migrated to my neck, and were closing in on my face with a rapidity that was terrifying, and then sighed.

"Jenny, did you get a new pet?"

"Yes. A cat moved in three weeks ago." I answered.

"Are you allergic to cats?"

I did have the grace to feel slightly sheepish at this point. "Well, I am allergic, but as long as I wash my hands immediately after touching a cat, I'm fine."

The doctor looked me over. "Jenny, the cat is living with you, not visiting. There is dander all over your house now. You can either go on a stronger steroid, or get rid of the cat."

So Cahfee was booted to the garage yesterday. Margarita actually slept in the garage with the cat so Cahfee wouldn't be so lonely. I don't think I've ever catered to a new born that much. 'Course, I'm the mother who intentionally puts the bassinet in the closet so I can sleep even if the aforementioned new born is hollering his wee head off, so I probably shouldn't compare and contrast Margarita and me. It is going to take a few days for me to clean out the house enough that my symptoms go away. My eyes are still sore and red, but I'm finally on the mend.

Good Grief.

Joy, Peace and Prosperity

I have either poison ivy or some other allergic reaction rash on my arms and legs. It is really ITCHY! But then to cap it off, somehow I managed to contract conjunctivitis in my right eye this morning. I wash my hands constantly. I just don't understand how that's possible. But at least my eye can join my arms in the itching department.

In other news, Charles decided to spray Caroline's rabbit with Febreeze to give it a fresh minty smell this afternoon.

Oliver has been very, very naughty all day. He is asleep now. He is so adorable when he's asleep.

Vivian has advanced to the age of being a worthy foe for Oliver. They engage actively and physically in their arguments. It is highly amusing because Vivian does not run to mama for comfort and she doesn't whine. She forcefully pushes forward demanding her way. Oliver delights in these exchanges. He practically worships the ground she walks on for her worthiness in battle.

Gabriel still has no spine. Check back in a couple months. I'm hoping for some sort of masculinity to kick in any moment.

Caroline is as snooty as ever. She can actually say anything and make it sound hoity toity. I think it's a gift. "Please pass the milk." She can say it with such disdain--I never heard anything like it. "I have a mosquito bite on my arm." How a person can make that sound stuck up is beyond me, but somehow she manages. Tonight at dinner I looked over at her (she sits to my left) and said, "Caroline, do you think your sixteen already, or something?" She got up from the table, rolled her eyes at me and said, "Mom, I'm so totally sixteen." Do you engage at that point, or just shrug and go back to your dinner? It's not like I want to die on every hill. At some point I must choose the battles.

Tonight at dinner I made a snide comment that the children could only engage in conversation that was of general interest, and general interest would be defined as whatever mom, dad and Margarita found to be interesting. My comment was really directed at the rapid flow of drivel coming out of Charles and Gabriel, but Jonathan decided to take it very, very personally. He tried to assert his rights in our Republic, and made some sort of reference to the Constitution. I didn't bother getting into the socialistic, welfare state/tyranny we currently live in--decided not to go on a 20 minute rant concerning the butchery of millions of innocent Americans every year, or the evil of the Federal Reserve...just let all that go and focused on the fact that Jonathan lives in a benevolent dictatorship. That he had no say in his existence or provisions made for his education or living conditions, and he was entirely dependent on the ongoing benevolence of his parental units for all he laid claim to.

He became exceedingly sorrowful and emotional over this. Rather out of character for the chap. Jon asked him what his problem was and I decided to chime in. "He's on his period. You know how that is. He gets all emotional and probably has cramps." Jonathan was jolted out of his tears. "Mom!" He yelled. "What?" I asked innocently. I'm just trying to help."

Jon is going without hairspray these days. And he's kind of growing his hair out. This saves me from the monthly dilemma of not noticing when he gets a haircut. But with guys, are we supposed to notice? They pretty much spend their entire existence with the exact same hair style, except for that one year here or there where they try something totally new and outside the box, and then spend all the other years, looking at the pictures and wondering what they were thinking.

Tonight I showered and was getting ready for a meeting. Went into my closet to get a pair of pink flats, and they were not in their appointed place in my shoe hanging storage unit. I found this hugely irritating. So out of my bedroom I marched, and demanded that my six offspring get busy finding my shoes. I had no sympathy. I roared from the roof top. I knew one of them had made off with the shoes for idiotic reasons known only to themselves, and no one would have a moments peace until the shoes were found. I had already suffered the loss of a nice pair of black boots with the most charming buttons early last week thanks to Caroline's rabbit who was allowed a stroll through my closet complete with ample nibbling time.

After about 10 or 15 minutes, the shoes were found, on the grill in the back yard. I merely thanked the child who handed them to me, and did not bother pursuing the flow of logic and action that accompanied the relocation of my shoes. There are some things I simply do not have the steam to address.

Cahfee the Cat

My dear sister/assistant Margarita has moved in to be a full time help to me. And with Margarita has come her old, crotchety, very fat cat named Cahfee.

Cahfee is a pleasant animal. Mainly because she doesn't make noise, is potty trained, and in general is very low maintenance. However, Cahfee seems to have an affinity for my particular roosts in the house. For instance, there is a certain place where I always sit in the den. This is the seat that Cahfee has chosen. Not really a big deal, because I rarely sit down in the den, but still interesting. The place where I sit almost incessantly, is my desk chair.

Everytime I leave the house and return, Cahfee is happily stretched out on my chair, and refuses, REFUSES, to move. The first time this happened I was so obliging as to work around her. But then it occurred to me that this was ridiculous. So the next time, I moved Cahfee--big fat unwieldy Cahfee. She hissed and growled in transit, but didn't actually lash out. Well, yesterday when I attempted to move her, she hissed, growled and scratched at me, oh, and actually attempted to bite my arm.

I do not shudder from entering into battle or the fray as it were, but I didn't relish the thought of excessive claw and tooth abrasions on my hands and arms. Chiefly because I spend a bit of time everyday washing dishes and cleaning gross stuff. So it takes awhile for these things to heal.

I stepped back and looked at Cahfee. She laid back, gazed steadily at me, and seemed to say clear as day, " I'm not moving, so go about your business."

Not to be deterred, a went to the back of the big chair, lifted it carefully at an angle, and dumped Cahfee off. She was surprised at my brilliance, and hasn't sat upon my chair since.

Jollie Ollie

Every week when I make pancakes for breakfast, the children are annoyed because Dad gets maple syrup, and the rug rats get Mrs. Butterworth's or some such thing. Maple syrup is so expensive, and the children leave pools of syrup on their plates ,which irritates me. And after all, we certainly never got the real stuff when I was a kid.

Yesterday morning I decided to put the maple syrup in a canning jar and fill the maple syrup bottle with the cane syrup. First dummy up, Jollie Ollie. The syrup was poured over the steaming hot pancakes. Oliver took a deep whiff. He gazed at the plate and under his breath said, " This is that yucky syrup." He looked at his did with suspicion in his eyes, but decided to take a bite.

"Mom, did you switch out the syrup?" He demanded.

"What are you talking about Oliver? Why would I do such a thing?" I protested not exactly lying.

"Don't even try to lie to me. I know what you did," retorted Oliver, resignedly forking the polluted pancakes into his mouth.

What could I say? I grinned.

Bomethias aka Jonathan

For whatever reason, Jonathan's nickname is Bomethias. Today I was talking to Jonathan about his little comments he makes in Bible with Mr. G and then with his Dad during family devotions. He's always comparing things to Shakespeare, Dante, or something else, and the comparison can become seriously abstract. I was telling him that he was a bit of a show off, and to remember that faith without works is dead.

He looked at me and said,"I'm not a show off."

"Really," I replied rolling my eyes," then what are you?"

"I'm one of the greatest minds of the 22nd century."

"Jonathan, we are in the 21st century."

To which Jonathan responded, "Still?"

Oh, brother!

Family Circus

The other night the sitter was here, and Charles was watching a t.v. show. The sitter said, "Charles, I'll give you 5 more minutes." The sitter felt rather generous, since already he was getting to watch tv, which is not generally allowed, and then it was past his bedtime, plus the additional five minutes.

Charles turned to the sitter in disgust and said, " Five minutes! I can get more than that on Ebay."

This afternoon I got home from running errands and taking Oliver to gymnastics, and quite frankly, was totally and completely sick of my offspring. As in, I couldn't stand being around them. So I unloaded the groceries, got everyone out of the car, and then went and hid in the front yard sitting on the curb. For awhile the kids couldn't find me. They were playing in the backyard, or upstairs fighting with each other under the guise of doing homework.

Oliver found me first. He settled in next to me at the curb and looked at the advertisement from the mailbox next to us. "Mommy" (technically, I do not allow the children to call me mommy, though I've noticed to my horror that on occasion I refer to myself as mommy when speaking to the younger half, and Oliver calls me this on occasion when we are alone and he is feeling calm and thoughtful) "Mommy, when I grow up I'm going to move out and buy a bed just like that one," he said, pointing to the advertisement. "How many dollars is it? Do you think I can afford it?"

I didn't really answer the question. He then began investing his legs and feet. He is always, ALWAYS, barefoot. I now keep a pair of Walmart crocs in the car for the purpose of having something on his feet when we go into stores, etc. He studied his foot for a few moments. It has a couple scabs, scratches and gouges. He began tapping at it. "Mom, I think my foot has a broken leg, because it hurts."