PSA

Should you need to get out of something you don't want to do, merely google "MRSA Pictures." You will promptly throw up, I guarantee it, and then you can honestly say, 'sorry, I'm sick!'

I know this, because Hatchling likes to sit around and pick at his belly button. This recently resulted in a nasty looking belly button, and also spots spreading out from his little inny. I was convinced he picked up MRSA at the gym or school and would be dead in a week. I'm definitely not the calm one in the little kingdom of Slushville, not that this will surprise any of you.

Anyway, upon looking at said pictures, I think I have decided that he got a little yeast infection on his tummy in addition to his infected belly button. The joys of motherhood are sometimes less joyful than others. (by the way, the infected button is no longer infected, but I think we need to change drugs on the other stuff. I'll be consulting my druggist this evening when he makes a house call, wink wink...)

The Iron Hath Entered His Soul

When I said this to L the other day, about Hatchling, he didn't know what it meant. Anyone have any idea where this comes from? I know it from Anne of Green Gables, you know, where you can learn everything you ever really needed to know...

And what has caused this iron, you may be wondering. Here is a recap of the story I have heard eighty-three times a day for the past week:

"Mommy, those smaller girls at the gym think that that color (pointing to something white in his line of sight) is my favorite color. They said so. But my favorite color is RED. NOT white. RED is my favorite color. But those smaller girls said WHITE is my favorite color!"

Despite my reassurances that I know his favorite color is indeed red, and that anyone with half a brain knows that white is the stupidest favorite color in the entire, whole planet, Hatchling's wounded color pride is not lessened. I'm not sure how to soothe his ruffled little feathers. On the bright side, at least pink isn't his favorite color (any more).

***

Yesterday, I was leaving Wal-Mart ($126 lighter, as always), and when I popped my trunk open, a big blast of wind knocked it back down where it crashed into my poor little forehead, which is now bruised and sore and whiny. Or at least the spirit residing in it is whiny, because foreheads can't whine, silly. Oh, and also, I did something to my right shoulder (feels like it is out of its little socket, but L says he thinks it is some tendon damage. L is usually right- with a head that big you've got to figure he has a brain the twice the size of a normal fella...). Anyways, it's intensely painful. Little things like wiping the counter clean or scrubbing the bathtub or picking up the baby just about make me cry. Hmmm... maybe I've just developed a sudden allergy to housework. Do you think they have shots for that?

***

You've all been delightfully patient waiting for my news. The snarky part of me wants to make you keep waiting, but nice Slush apparently wins today. Lucky you!

We're putting our house on the market. Bah ha ha! No really, we are. The sign has to be out before we go to bed tomorrow, cause it is in the paper on Friday. And get this- we want to move to the country. I know, I know. It's insane.

Actually, we're quite rational. We're just going to put it on the market and pray for the right buyer or if we are supposed to stay here, for no buyer at all. We like where we are, so we'll just enjoy it until someone wants it. No biggie. We're just praying for God's will to be done, whatever that may be. We usually leap first and pray later, so it's kind of a new experience for us. Who knew I'd get so laid back in my old age? My extremely decrepit old age....

When I told my mother, she said "Oh, Good Grief Slush!" I love my momma...

Place Holder

I have some stuff to write about, but I'm not quite ready to spill the beans (no, I'm not pregnant). So to tide you over until then, here are some pics of my lovely brats. Let's face it, they're the stars of this little blog anyway.

Here's some pics from Hatchling's PlaySchool "graduation" last week. Notice my child taking the time to read his diploma rather than posing nicely for a picture. I should also mention that his teacher's bribed him with a handful of M&M's to wear his hat. You'll notice, of course, that he isn't wearing said hat. After the chocolate candies went down, all bets were off. I feel good about giving those high school students a taste of what life will be like should they pursue a teaching career.


After reading his diploma and discovering that his playschool is not an accredited institution, Hatchling is annoyed at the waste of his valuable time. At least he got his own water bottle...we're all about staying hydrated here in Slushville.



And here's L pushing the boys on the swing thingy (I've no idea what that particular part of the swing set is called). H2 is looking a little concerned. If you had been knocked rudely to the ground by your brother as many times as he has, you'd be worried too.



Still looking worried...


But wait! This is kind of fun after all!



We clap alot at our house...




Weee!


H2 has no idea that Hatchling is about to let go and send them both crashing to the ground. It's good to lack foreknowledge, isn't it?

In which I am uninspired...

37%

49%

I love my gym

They allow me to pay hundreds of dollars a year to use their facilities 100 times a year (that's a very optimistic view of my gym attendance).

They have plush little orange chairs in the women's locker room, just in case you need a place to sit and relax while you finish your Wal Mart list and try not to stare at the 70 year old Asian woman who proudly walks around without a stitch on as she gets ready.

They have not yet kicked my eldest out of their childcare center, despite his abundance of 'incident reports'.

But mostly, I love my gym because when I email them about something, it always go the owner. And usually, I have a response within hours, if not minutes. It may just be, "forwarded to such and such, sent my from blackberry", but it's a response. And I'm prone to emailing people at midnight on Saturday, figuring they'll answer on Monday. So kudos to you, Mr. Gym Owner. You rock.