Conversations With My Husband

Me: (Singing crappy Barbie jingle that has been stuck in my head all day)

Mr. Hobbitfeet: I don't even know what to say to that.

Me: I remember that song because I totally wanted that Barbie Dream Kitchen and didn't get it. I think my mom felt that Barbie furniture was unnecessary and that we should just make do with whatever was lying around.

Mr. H.: (Making legs out of his fingers) Weeeee! I'm a Barbie look at meeee!

Me: Idiot! We had Barbies just not a lot of furniture.

Mr. H.: Well, why not make the Barbies up too?

Me: I practically did, my sisters didn't let me play. . .

Mr. H.: Yeah and you got the bald ones I know!

Me: Don't forget naked!

Mr. H.: Yeah naked. Poor baby. I was the youngest of seven, if I didn't eat my food in 3.5 seconds flat, I didn't eat!

Me: Uh-huh sure! Also, sometimes their feet would be chewed off.

Mr. H.: Geez that sounds like something from a chemo ward.

Me: What!? Cancer patients have feet!

Mr. H.: Not if they have foot cancer!

Me: I'm not sure I've heard of foot cancer.

Mr. H.: Only Barbies get it.

Me: This conversation is stupid.

Mr. H.: Hey! Guess what?

Me: What?

Mr. H.: "We girls can do everything with Barbie!"

Me: (sigh) "We girls can do ANYTHING. RIGHT, Barbie?"

Mr. H.: Whatever. I'm sure Girl will correct me on it again tomorrow.

Me: It's from the 80's. . .

Mr. H.: I don't care!

About Now, Only Seven Years Back

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who had to live with her dad because she had a baby while in college, was not making a whole lot of money, and getting no child support (and never did for that matter).

It was January of 2001 and she got a job working for Chicago Visitor Information and met a man (seven years her senior) who also worked in Chicago Visitor Information. She loved everything about him. Every Thursday, the only day they worked together, he would bring her (and everybody else, but she pretended it was just her) a copy of the new Chicago Reader and always sang, "I'm picking out a Reader for you, not an ordinary Reader will do!" to the tune of the Thermos song from The Jerk. She loved that.

But alas, he wouldn't date her. He had dated some wack-a-doodle at his last job that inevitably made him leave, and he didn't want to leave this much better job because he dated another nut-job. He told her he just "wanted to be friends" because she was really nice. He told co-workers he couldn't date the girl because she had a kid and he hated kids.

So they went to movies alone together (as "friends") and went out together with other co-workers. He met her kid at a work picnic and liked that he wasn't a "whiny brat like most kids of single moms" (his words not hers).

The girl tried to be as witty as possible and wowed him with her ability to make obscure and dorky references. He laughed hysterically when the 500,000th tourist told her it was hot in the visitor center and she told him it was because they were making soylent green and the tourist said, "Oh, and it needs to be hot to make that?"

She loved him. She decided to pull out the big guns. So one day at work, she showed him her bra. She didn't yank up her shirt and flash him (come on they were at work) she just unbuttoned a couple buttons of her work shirt and let him look down at them. It was a pretty bra, dark purple and made out of a t-shirt material, but let's face it she had fabulous breasts and that's what really changed his mind.

He claims it was because he liked her daring. She knows that it was because he was in a two year dry spell and hadn't seen a breast that wasn't on a screen for a long time. In any case, he decided he would go for it, but didn't tell the girl.

So on a couple of their "friend" outings he made some pitiful attempts at come-ons, that she always missed (because they were pathetic). And finally, when watching videos, she decided that she only lived once and stopped being scared and sat down practically in his lap and kissed him. Four months later they were engaged. A year and three months after that they were married.

However, what we are celebrating is the girl showing off her bra, because let's face it, if she hadn't done that, they'd have never gotten anywhere.

Seven years ago, around this time, I showed Mr. H. my bra, which set off a series of ambiguous get-togethers that depending who you ask may-or-may-not have been dates that may-or-may-not have been our first date. There is the trip to the Brew and View to see Big Trouble in Little China (and the Mummy 2 accidentally), in which I was super sick that I backed away from him when he tried to kiss me.
The game night with co-workers when he put his hand on my back during Taboo and I later drove him home and he tried to hold my hand right when we got to the S-curve on Lake Shore Drive.
The night he came to watch the Pee-Wee Herman Show and Kiss Me Deadly at my house and was too afraid to do anything.
So these are the disastrous first dates that somehow magically began the magic love story of Woodlandmama and Mr. Hobbitfeet. It's amazing that we got anywhere.

Mr. Hobbitfeet Goes To Soccer Practice

Girl's fall soccer league started yesterday. I love it on so many levels, but that's not what I'm here to talk about.
Mr. Hobbitfeet hates going to soccer. Not because he doesn't like the game; next to baseball, soccer is Mr. H's favorite. Mr. H. hates soccer because of his name. In the real world, Mr. H. is not know as Mr. Hobbitfeet (actually I do call him that in the real world, but I'm the only one).
He has a real name, and it has the same first, middle, and last initial of all four of his brothers. He also has the exact same first and last name as one of S.E. Hinton's characters, but I know that wasn't my M.I.L's intention. No, she was out of names by the time she got to him (though there were plenty left) and named him after a television character. Back in the 70's and 80's, Mr. H never met a single person with his name (though, according to Social Security, it was in the top 1000 that whole time). Since 1990, though, it has been steadily growing in popularity until it broke in to the Top 40 last year. It's VERY popular in my town.
According to Mr. H., there is a certain type of person that names their kid his name now. I don't agree with him, Mr. H has a tendency to be a misanthropic asshole on occasion. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy but he doesn't like most people and is often very vocal about it. At any rate, I know several people whose kids have the same name as my husband, and I like them a lot, the kids and the moms. Also, I need to say, that Mr. H. has no problem with the kids, it's the parents he has a problem with.
I gotta tell you, too, that the people that sat next to us a soccer did nothing to rid Mr. H. of his prejudice of these people. There is a little boy on Girl's team named after Mr. H. and his parents were kind of pricks. I hate that; I never want Mr. H. to be right.
So, as they bellowed at their kid from the sidelines on my left, Mr. H. was very snarky on my other side. Often rooting for the kid (under his breath) to rebel against his parents. Then as we left he went on and on about it very loudly, until finally I said, "Okay hon, I get it but they're right behind us so can you stop being such a loud asshole right now." So he stopped, temporarily until we got to the car and then continued his tirade against "People who give their kids my name" ALL THE WAY HOME!!!
I really hope he doesn't pass this trait on to our kids, but I don't see how that won't happen if he won't listen to my pleas for him to shut up already. Secretly, I agreed about these particular people, I just didn't want to have to hear about it, and I will every soccer season for the rest of my life.

Luckily, Girl is super cute in her soccer gear!

What We Fight About

Me: I think the cat is jealous that you take the dog for walks. You should probably sneak out when she's not looking.

Mr. Hobbitfeet: I'm not sneaking out!

Me: You're hurting her feelings! She thinks you don't love her!

Mr. H.: She's a cat. She doesn't get jealous.

Me: She just gets so sad. Maybe if she doesn't see you go out that wouldn't happen!

Mr. H.: Will you stop giving the pets human emotions!!! They don't think like that! All they think is "Feed Me," "Pet Me!"

Me: You're wrong.

Mr. H.: (Puts the dog on leash and slams out of the house)

Willow (the cat): (Jumping up on the back of the couch and looking pathetically out the window)Mwrooow! Mwrooow! Mwroooow!

Me: (muttering to self) Don't tell me the cat's not jealous.

The following are pictures of the cat watching the dog in the back yard.

Tell me she doesn't look jealous!

In Which I Am Willing to Trade My Kids and Pets For One Night of 8 Hour Sleep

I have this goal that I am going to get up at 6 a.m. and make my husband and kids a nice healthy breakfast in the morning. A breakfast that isn't a bagel or a bowl of cereal, which is all the kids get when Mr. Hobbitfeet makes breakfast. Well, sometimes he makes instant oatmeal. I really would love to make them scrambled egg whites.
So every night I go to bed thinking, "Tomorrow, I'll do it." Then the night hits me. No matter what time I physically go to bed, I cannot fall asleep until at least 12:30 a.m. (if I'm lucky). I just lie there thinking, completely unable to turn my brain off no matter what I do.
Mr. H. can lay down no matter what time of day or night and instantly be in a deep sleep, and once he's there nothing, NOTHING can wake him up (short of a high pitched scream directly in his ear or possibly a blow job, but who wants to go there?). I hate him.
The slightest thing wakes me up, a loud owl, a weird breeze. Sometimes, absolutely nothing will wake me up. I'll be asleep having nice dreams, and BAM! I am wide awake for no discernible reason. Every now and again (though much less if I take a sleep aid) I'll wake myself up as I am running screaming down the hall turning on every light in the house. Why do I do that? I never have any knowledge.
Then there are nights like last night. The dog, the cat, and Girl all decided that they needed to sleep with us. Despite being a queen-sized bed, there is no room for that shit. Of course, since Mr. H's feet go all the way to the bottom of the bed, they are all on my side. At first it was okay. Everyone took up some space, but we were all feeling cozy, but at 3 a.m. the cat and the dog remembered they hate each other and start brawling and I am trapped between Girl and Mr. H.
So everyone is kicked out. Girl is pt back in her own bed, which makes her cry for hours and the cat and dog are thrown out.
Of course, this isn't the end of it. I have to leave the door open in case one of my kids needs me, and the cat and t he dog aren't fooled for a second by my closing it most of the way, but leaving it open a crack. They keep pawing the door so it opens and then staring at me from the doorway before resuming their brawl.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. Even though it is a chilly night, I turn on my two fans for the white noise and dig myself deep into the covers. 4 a.m. and I am back asleep. Then 7:30 a.m. rolls around and I am awakened by Girl, once again in my bed, wanting me to tell her how many days it is until she can sleep over at my mom's farm, how many days until school starts, how to spell this and that, until I am fully awake with a pounding, not-enough-sleep-for-the fifth-night-in-a-row headache and every muscle sore from last night's battle with kids to big to carry and stupid pets.
"Go watch t.v. with your brother," I mumble, very much aware of the shitty parenting I am doing.
Five more minutes and I am wide awake because the dog is barking his "someone's here bark" which is much, much louder than his "there's a deer in our driveway" bark or his "there's a dog being walked and I can see it" bark. So I get up to make sure my kids aren't going to allow a religious nut into the house. But it is just Blondie, the kid whose is Boy's age and gets babysat by his Grandma who lives across the street. Luckily, Boy sends him away. Knowing I won't let him out until breakfast has been eaten and Mama is awake. Good ole Boy. He sure takes care of his Mom!
Maybe when I sell the pets and Girl (to the gypsies as my dad always said), I'll keep him around.

Superpowers, Un-broken Ankles, & A Girl Who Learned to Fly

This afternoon at lunchtime I was watching a Scrubs rerun and my daughter came in to tell me something. She heard J.D. do that voice over thing and started freaking out! "Mom! Mom! I just read that guys mind! Mom! Mom! Did you hear what he was thinking!?" Of course I said, "no," because, frankly, I am a terrible mother. Then she got REALLY EXCITED and said "I must have super powers!" Then Boy walked in and ruined it all by telling her what was going on. Is it wrong that I was pissed at him?

Thankfully, Mr. Hobbitfeet has not broken his ankle though looking at it is pretty painful. He, as you may have noticed by his pseudonym, has weird feet to begin with. For the most part, he is not a hairy guy. He couldn't grow a beard, moustache or even high-school-boy fuzz, but comparatively his feet are really hairy, and large. Now the heel of his right foot makes it look as though he's wearing bruise colored sandals and his ankle is about the size of his calf.
The doctor recommends that he get an MRI if the swelling doesn't go down, but she also said to stay off of it. Since he's not doing the one, I doubt he'll do the other. Short of tying him to a chair with his foot elevated, I don't know how to make him sit down already.

Girl learned how to run and jump into the pool today. She did it fifty billion times. Afterward she told me she did it so much because it felt like flying. I love that she is so dedicated to getting a super power.

The Many Random Things That Make Up My Day

Boy and I went to the library yesterday and got some books. Today, while waiting the requisite half hour in the doctor's office after his allergy shots, (and because we were once again Girl-less) Boy and I were each reading our books. We both went into such deep book comas that neither one of us heard his name called (several times) and the nurse had to come tap us on the heads. What is it that they say about apples and trees?

Boy has decided that he likes Suzanne Vega (of Tom's Diner fame). So we were listening to the song Luka, and I found myself babbling about what it was about and I guess I don't really know. Is it child abuse? Is it about some one getting beat up by their boyfriend? Why was I talking about this with and 11 year-old?

My cat likes to ride around on our shoulders like a parrot, which makes my husband happy because he likes to pretend he's a pirate, a weird pirate with a kitten instead of parrot, but then again Mr. Hobbitfeet can't swim so he would never make a good pirate.

Sometimes (like right now) when I am laying on the couch the cat curls up on my shoulder. Only, since I am laying down, she's more on my chest than my shoulder so she looks like a furry flower accessory that Sarah Jessica Parker would wear in Sex and the City. So which is weirder, pretending you are a cat pirate or that you're starting a new trend of wearing giant cat flowers on your chest.

I should probably go to bed.

The Girl Who Fell Down

My husband sometimes does stupid things. Let's face it, everyone does stupid things, but the fact is my husband does stupid things that often have a bad result. For instance, his car hood stays up on its own. My car hood has a prop bar. Once when he was looking under the hood, he forgot that 5 minutes before he put up a prop bar and when he couldn't close the hood he slammed it down so hard that he snapped the metal prop bar in half, now I have to prop open my hood with a snow-brush. He did something similar to my ice maker and a million other things.
By far the dumbest thing he has ever done was to drop my daughter on her face in a bunch of gravel. He has terrible night-vision, but he was letting her ride on his shoulders in the dark because she was tired (good dad), he thought he'd take a shortcut (that wasn't actually a shortcut) through a campsite and tripped on a faucet and they both went down. He landed on his knees, she landed on her face. So, does this accident make him a bad dad?
I was walking three feet behind them talking to my son when it happened, does that make me a bad mom?
From the looks we've been getting lately, the answer is yes.
It's funny how kids have no qualms about asking us about her face, but the parents, who are supposedly being tactful, look at her then us and you can see the judgement in their faces even if they don't say a word. They think that we beat our kid, or are at least neglectful.
As we walked through the zoo today, we got those looks a lot. Never mind that our daughter was sitting nicely in the wagon and their kids were running around throwing fits and not listening. They looked at her than us, and thought in their head, "Look at her face, they must be bad parents."
So why should I care that some zoo parents in a city 1,000 miles away from my home think I am a bad parent? Because every mom at some point wonders if they are a crap parent.
Don't get me wrong, I know I am not a crap parent, my kids are happy and brilliant (and that's not just my own opinion) but if I were a great parent, would I, after what happened last Friday, let this happen:

Shopping Blunder

Today Mr. Hobbitfeet and I went shopping together. This is not something I enjoy as Mr. H. gets impatient and huffy almost upon crossing the threshold of the store.
Then I made a mistake. I let him handle the groceries while I picked out various things we'd need for our upcoming vacation.
The result was a freezer full of frozen pizza, chicken nuggets, tater tots, pizza rolls and Banquet frozen meals and not a whole lot of nutritious sustenance.
The whole thing was made even more ridiculous by the fact that we already had a bunch of chicken nuggets etc. that weren't really moving.
Can one return food to a grocery store merely because you've changed your mind?

He Did It! He Did It ! He Did It! Hooray!

I would like to say that I have a bunch of really nice pictures of Mr. Hobbitfeet on his graduation, but I wouldn't be talking about my husband if I said that. Not only is he incapable of looking at the camera and smiling, but he also returned the cap and gown so fast that I was only able to shoot a couple before he left for the ceremony and those I took before I noticed that I still had my ISO set too high for outdoor shots.

So here is what I've got.


This is him doing a little "I've got my diploma" dance. I think this was a companion to the "I am walking into my graduation" strut that made even my legally-blind father-in-law say, "Oh there's Mr. H."

And this is the nicest picture I have of the whole event.


All though I have a lot of fun living with Mr. H., his non-stop goofiness often gets in the way of taking nice pictures. I even have trouble taking pictures of other people because he'll inevitably stand behind me and make weird faces.

In Which I Get Nothing Done

So in a couple days my husband is graduating, my son is turning eleven, and various in-laws will be in my home to celebrate. My house is not ready.
Today my goal was to clean Girl's room and the family room, go to the store, and get in four hours at work. It is 2 p.m. and so far all I've done is some laundry and a little bit of cleaning in the family room.
"First," I said to myself, "I am going to get our new music on my iPod. Then I'll get to work." Then I entered a time vortex where it took me like three hours to do this. First I wanted to clean up my "Family" playlist. When we go somewhere as a family, we always listen to my iPod. So I created a playlist that included both kid songs and normal songs and eliminated any words or topics that I wanted to keep from the kids. Inevitably though we'll be driving along and I'll have to dive at the iPod trying desperately to skip the song because I've just remembered that they are going to scream "fuck" in three seconds.
Then I wanted to get some more music. Then I wanted to reset my play and skip counts so I can go five days without hearing some of the songs my iPod feels are the only ones I should hear. Then I made a new playlist. Before I knew it the whole day was gone.
Now I have an hour before Boy gets home and two hours before I'm supposed to pick up Girl. Am I working? No, I'm blogging. Grr. What's wrong with me? Why am I such a procrastinator?
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Oh, and Mr. Hobbitfeet wants me to tell everyone that he doesn't remember the conversation about the Forgetting Sarah Marshall soundtrack (from the last post) and thinks I am making it up to be funny on my blog. This just further proves my theory that he only pretends to hear anything I say. Like that time he was looking for his shoe for a couple weeks and I kept telling him to look under the bed until he drove me bonkers bitching about it being missing so I went under the bed and got it. When I handed it to him he said, "Where was it at?"
Me: "Under the bed, just where I told you it would be."
Him: "Oh, I thought you kept telling me that you looked under the bed and it wasn't there."
How would that be helpful? How do you get that from "Look under the bed," or "Did you check under the bed?" And why wouldn't he just double check anyway? He tore the closet up six times. I think mostly his anger was at the fact that I blogged about it. So this post will make him very happy, I am sure.

Welcome to My World . . .

Yesterday:
Me: Mr. HOBBITFEET, you should get us the Forgetting Sarah Marshall soundtrack. I think you'll like it, they re-did a bunch of songs you like in Hawaiian, plus it has the songs you liked from the movie.
Mr. H.: Nah, I'm to busy finding disco for myself. I've had Disco Inferno in my head all day, so I must be in a disco mood.
Me: Yeah or you've been burning things all day. Please just get it for me, I want it.
Mr. H.: Fine, whatever. I'll get the Finding Sandra Osbourne soundtrack, but I bet it's not any good.
Me: For-get-ting-Sar-ah-Mar-sh-all. It's not hard, we saw the movie last week.
Mr. H.: FINE!

Today:
Mr. H.: You watch movies more than me, so you should always tell me when you hear a good soundtrack.
Me: Ummm, I do. Why?
Mr. H.: Well, the Forgetting Sarah Marshall soundtrack was really good. Those remakes in Hawaiian were awesome. Plus it had those songs from the movie that I liked.
Me: O Rly?

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Me: I've got something for you.
Mr. H.: Thanks eagle man.
Me: I can't believe you just said that. I guarantee that you haven't seen that commercial in 10 years.
Mr. H.: Yeah but it was so good that I remember it.
Me: Hey, remember when everyone made fun of eagle MAN laying an egg so they made a new one with eagle woman. Only there was nothing super or womany about her except a pill box hat. Eagle man was better.
Mr. H.: No. Eagle woman was better because because it was so bad.
Me: (Pulls them up on Youtube)
Mr. H.: You're right. Eagle man is better.

You decide:

Lazy and Dizzy

So boys and girls, what do you get when you can't completely kick a cold for a month? That's right an inner ear infection. It's been so long since I've had an ear infection that I had no memory of what they feel like, but when I stood up on Sunday and got so dizzy I fell down I knew I had to see a doctor. Dizzy is no good unless you've spun around real fast for like a minute or rolled down a real big hill. Those dizzies are good. Stand up and fall down for no good reason dizzies are not good, in fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and say they suck.
Anyhow, I never got a new doctor after I stopped working at the hospital, so I had to drive all the way to bufu just to get my damn antibiotics.
Then today Mr. Hobbitfeet had to go to Chicago for work. This involved waking up at 3 am. The problem with this is that, even though we've had the same clock for four years, Mr. H. can not work it. Normally this is no problem because he wakes up at 5 am no matter what. At 3 am I woke to him swearing at the clock and trying to turn it off. He had no luck so I was awake for the rest of the day. Then he took my cell phone just in case (I've been trying to get him to get his own, but he refuses saying he can just use mine). So what happens? My phone/Internet go out and I am cut off from the world (and more importantly the kids' schools in case of emergency). I can't even call my provider to tell them it's out. So I have to trudge up to Walmart (the nearest pay phone) and sit on hold for a half hour just to have them tell me the whole area is out and they're not sure when they'll fix it.
On my way home, I passed the Verizon store and stopped in. I got Mr. H. his very own phone and set up his phone book for him. Heck, I even bought him a fun ring tone. Of course with all the bad weather he wasn't home until a quarter to nine. Needless to say both of us were cranky and out of sorts.
I have lots of cool pictures sitting on my camera, and I promise someday I'll post them. Really I will. I just need the world to stop spinning when I lay on my back and when I stand up or turn my head really fast. I promise I will.

Girl's First Play

Tonight we all headed to the church to which Girl's school belongs for her first ever school play, which as it turns out wasn't so much a play as a bunch of 3-5 year olds sometimes screaming (mostly whispering) lines into a microphone held by Girl's teacher who was crouched on the floor. Girl dutifully memorized her part (she was a Night and there were several). Her line went like this:
"I am this night of nights, this miracle moment this wonder of wonders, this night when God sends his son to a stable"
Every time she practiced it at home, I'd get that song from Fiddler on the Roof stuck in my head for several hours:
Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, God took a tailor by the hand

Anyhow, I manned the video camera and put Mr. H in charge of the regular camera. This is what I got.
See that tiny blurry bit of brown? Rumor has it that that is Girl.

There is that crazy blur again. (This is when Girl ran out of the procession to hug me. Hope it turns out funnier on the video).

Here is Girl showing off her sign, well before she is supposed to.

Preparing for her line.

Girl doing her best to Bogart the mike.

I am not sure what is going on here.
And those are all I got from my daughters first play. I haven't looked at my video yet, but I am hoping it is a little better than the photos. By the way, I blurred out the other kids faces. Mr. H's photography is bad, but not THAT bad.

In the end, she did very well, despite goofing around a lot. She definitely had fun.

(Early) Photo Hunters- Practical

I had a lot of difficulties with this week's hunt, so I looked up the word practical. One of Webster's listed definitions for practical is "actively engaged in some course of action or occupation." Although I wasn't able to fully capture this idea in one picture, I was able to come up with a subject, my husband. The man is always "actively engaged in some course of action or occupation." And so I present my Mr. Hobbitfeet montage:

Teaching Boy to ride a bike.

Making a fire!

Shoveling snow!

Running uphill!

Hobbitfeetitis

This weekend as Mr. Hobbitfeet and I were driving back from Home Depot we spotted a speeding car coming in the opposite direction headlights flashing, blue lights on the top and we thought "Police."
But then the car was passing by and it was a HUGE pick-up truck painted bright red with yellow flames. Mr. H. and I drove on for a second and both started laughing.
"Was that a police car?" I asked
"No," he laughed, "must have been a fire truck."
"But aren't fire truck lights red?"
"No, Liza," he snorted, barely able to talk, "it was a FIRE truck!"
And suddenly I was overcome with how much I love him, because stupid things like this are why I fell in love with him. I don't know if you could understand it, but it was just so Mr. H..
And these moments have been scarce lately because Mr. H. is making a real effort at quitting smoking and is mostly fluctuating between really crabby and hyper (when he's got his nicotine gum).
But there in the car, we were just us again.

People Let Me Tell You 'Bout My Best Friend. . . .

So after A LOT of waiting, crying and stress, none of which I shared with you faithful readers, I can happily, so happily, announce that Boy is legally, officially, and permanently Mr. Hobbitfeet's son!
Oh, happy day!

Morning Song

G: "Mommy are you awake?"
B:"Mom?"
G:"Hey, how come your eyes aren't open?"
B:"Guh-earl leave mom alone she's sleeping. Girl. Guh-earl. Shhh! Mom's sleeping. Girl. Guh-eearrrl be quiet!"
G:"Mommmmy why are you sleeping!? It's morning!!! Get Up!"
Mr. Hobbitfeet: "HEY! WHY ARE YOUR TWO BUGGING MOMMY!? GET OUT OF HERE!!!" (door slams shut)
(I get up and stumble to the family room)
Mr. H.:"Hey, Hon! You didn't have to get up!"
B:"Morning Mom!"
G:"Mommmmmy!!!!!!!"
(I give kisses and stumble back to bed)
G:"Hi Mommy! Will you play with me? I am the mommy and my 'maginary friend is the baby sister and she bit me and that's not nice, and can I play with this" (grabs make-up from dresser)
Me:"No!"
B:"Guh-earl, that's mommy's! No! No! Guh-earl! Look, I'm an evil closet monster!!"
G:"NOOOOOOO! Be my brother! Be my brother!"
B:"Nope! I'm a closet monster and I'm pouring magic melting potion on you!"
G:"Stop! Stooooopppppp! Be my brother! Be my brother!"
B:"Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
G:(crying)"BBBB-ooooy! BBBB-oooooy Stop!"
Mr. H.:"Stop picking on your sister! Mommy's trying to sleep! Girl stop whining"
G:"Mommy can I draw in your room?"
Me:"mmmhmm"
B:"Look at my Crumple-Horned Snorkack boxes."
G:"I want one!"
B:"No, Guh-earl their mine!"
G:"Mommy says share!"
B:"Guh-earl!
G:"Mommy. Momma. Boy won't share!"
B:"Guh-earl!"
(repeat until insane!)

Sleeping Alone. . . . or Not So Much

Mr. Hobbitfeet is gone. Four whole days with just me and the kids. AHHHHHHH! That was a scream of horror, not relief. I had forgotten how difficult it is to achieve tasks as the only in-house grown-up. Simple things like needing milk, which is normally a five minute trip to Dollar General turns into a 45 minute debacle, and you have to keep your daughter up later than usual because there is only one at home to drive the boy to Taekwondo (which on Tuesdays is 7:30-8:15, and Girl's bedtime is 7:15).
Anyhow, so it's going to be just me in my big old bed, right. Nope Girl and Mr. Giles joined me last night. Each fighting each other (despite the queen-sized bed) for a spot that is almost (but not entirely) just on top of me. It is partially my fault, Mr, H. normally puts up baby gates to keep the dog in the common areas at night. He's been doing it since puppy days when things got chewed, but I had been wanting to skip it, and thought I'd try it when Mr. H. wasn't home.
Then Mr. H., who said he'd call before 9, still hadn't called by 9:30 and my eyes were drooping into sleep, so I called him. He is out wandering drunk through the streets of Chicago. Okay, not really, he was meandering buzzed from the restaurant where he ate with work cronies back to his hotel, but come on I was tired. Also he answered the phone, "Hiya Schweetie!" and I said "Are you drunk?" and he's like "What!? Naw!"
And so ends my first night alone.

My Husband's New Promotion. . .

When I tell my cell phone to "Call Satan," it calls my husband at work. Should I be worried about what, exactly, he is doing in his new position?