Hero(es) of the Week

I hope you're not expecting something truly profound here....  Profound only happens here at The Parenthood Experiment when I least expect it.

I've had an emotionally trying week.  It's payroll week, which is my tremendously busy week in my job.

It also seems to be the week that Murphy shows up in earnest, because it's just not enough for me to have payroll insanity for two days, followed by billing and writing the employee newsletter.  No, no.  Pile on the crises!  (I can't tell you how many monumental events in the timeline of the custody insanity fell into payroll week somewhere.)

This week, I had payroll, a flare-up of family issues relating to the custody of the Fries (I'm still kinda peeved), a billing situation that could only be (charitably) described as a mess that was handed to me today, and a shocking announcement from the private school where I went to elementary, middle and high school, and from which I graduated, that was gut-wrenching when I heard it a week ago.  The emotional response has taken several days to catch up to me, and the increased alumni reaction has only fueled the roiling feelings inside.

I finally broke down and cried tonight, bawling all over Hubby, finally unable to contain it any longer and finished with work.

About quarter to 11p, I realized I hadn't eaten any dinner.  And since I was feeling gloomy, and wanted comfort food, I wanted cheesy fries.  Sonic has cheesy fries....

Favorite spot.

But despite perusing the Sonic website with Mika perched on my shoulder (a challenge), I couldn't find out when our location closed.

And I didn't want Hubby to have to stop his OnDemand movie on his computer to go get me cheesy fries.

Yes, I know it sounds silly.  I was trying to be a nice, unweepy, undemanding wife.

I mentioned it to Hubby, who actually, y'know, called Sonic, right at 11p, to see when they closed.  "Um, now," the employee who answered the phone said.  Hubby thanked them and hung up.

Two minutes later, Hubby's cell phone rings.

It's the Sonic employee!

Who then asked what he wanted.  "Grill's not closed yet."

Hubby smiled, chuckled, told 'em cheesy fries, and grabbed his coat to head out the door.  Then he called back a minute later and asked for a large PB cup Blast.

All of that alone would have been enough.

All of that had already rated that Sonic employee as my hero.

But wait, there's more!

Hubby got home in about fifteen minutes, with my cheesy fries, the PB cup Blast, and a large cherry limeade.  He'd pulled up to the window and the clerk said, "Cherry limeade?"

Then they told him it would be a minute.  "We want to make sure your fries are fresh."

They weren't willing to give out the fries sitting under the warmer...they made them fresh.

Hubby pulled out his debit card to pay.

The clerk wouldn't take it.

Wouldn't. Take. It.

"Just to show you we care," the employee said.

The two employees who worked at my local Sonic...you just earned your location a very loyal customer...and we plan to patronize your Sonic a whole lot more, because of your kindness and generosity.

Thank you.

"Why does it blink?"

I really don't know how to tell this story without grossing anyone out.

Queen Po and the Duckie

Medium Fry is sitting on Hubby's lap.

So is Po, for that matter.

Poor Po.  She suffers so many indignities.

She's about to suffer another one.


To be precise, Po isn't sitting on Hubby's lap.  She's standing.  With, naturally, her rear in Medium's face.

Hubby: Don't touch her there.  She doesn't like to be touched there.

Medium Fry [squeezing her eyes shut and opening them rapidly]: Uncle, why does it blink?
Hubby:  Where?

Medium points right at Po's rear.  Yes, that part of her rear.

And Hubby squeezes his eyes shut tight, slaps his hands over his face, and fails miserably at holding in huge guffaws.

Hubby: Did you touch it?

Medium shakes her head.

Hubby:   It blinks [giggle] because of the muscles moving there.

Something in Medium's face makes him ask again.

Hubby:  Did you touch her there?

Medium shakes her head again.

Hubby:  Because if you touched her there, you need to go wash your hands.  Or get some hand sanitizer.

Po leaves the scene of her most recent indignity and goes to take her usual spot on the couch.

Medium slithers off Hubby's lap.

Hubby:  You touched her there, then?

Medium goes out into the kitchen for hand sanitizer and both of us dissolve into giggles again, with Hubby mimicking Medium's slow blink when she asked, and whispering, "Why does it blink?"

How cool is THIS?

A friend gave me this link.

This is, hands down, one of the coolest ways of recycling books that I've ever seen.

I cannot imagine the time and creativity it took to pull it all together.

The Bargainer

Medium Fry [having finished her supper]: Can I have candy?

Hubby: No, you already had candy today.

Medium Fry: Can I have candy?  Please?

Hubby:  No.  I already told you.  You had candy after lunch.

Medium Fry:  Is popsicle candy?

Hubby:  No, popsicle isn't candy.

Medium Fry:  Can I have a popsicle?


Yep, she got a popsicle.  So did her sisters.

How to Tell that You're the Mom of Small Children

• You can't see your floor because of all the toys.
• You have a plastic 3-drawer dresser in your living room for jammies.
• Your cats hide upstairs most of the day to escape the kids.
• You shuffle as you walk across the floor, to avoid a full-weight stepping-on of any stray Legos.
• VeggieTales DVDs outnumber the movies that have a greater-than-G rating.
• You regularly find stuffed animals (which aren't yours) in your bed, left there by the mischievous imps who also reside in your house.
• You have the level of kitty noseprints and the level of small fingerprints in about the same place on the windows.
• Your freezer has chicken nuggets and tater tots.  And hotdogs. With more hotdogs in the fridge.
• You've ever had to shriek at a small person to go get a tissue and wipe the booger off the kitchen playset that she just wiped on there.  (Yes, today.)
• Your lingerie bag for laundry sees more fuzzy duckies and piggies than it does lingerie.  (Also today.)

All this, and lots of hugs and kisses from pint-sized people.

Not a bad deal, really.

"What was that?" and other imponderables

Rule #2, folks.  It's there for a reason.

Case in point....

We're driving up to Gramma and Boppa's. It's only a 75-minute drive as it is.  We are out of chewable Dramamine.  It's a comfortable temp in the van.

There is an odd noise from the back.  I whip around, very afraid I know exactly what that sound means.

Unfortunately, I'm right.  Large Fry has puked.  (Blast her father's genes.  She's usually the first to get carsick of the three.)

"What was that?" Hubby asks.

Silly Hubby.  He knows Rule #2.

"Large Fry threw up."

He asks her three times and I ask her twice why she didn't let us know she thought she was going to get sick.  Her answer, after my second asking, is a shrug.

Dang it, we keep 32-oz plastic cups in the van for exactly this reason.  If she'd said something about it, we could have prevented the catastrophic event from causing a huge mess.  Then she wouldn't have needed a shower.  And I wouldn't have to bargain with Hubby to have him go pick up dinner while I clean up the kid (it seemed to make more sense, as he has a map in his head and I don't).  And I wouldn't have to wash a load of clothes.  And her carseat straps would stink.

Of course, it's entirely possible she still would have needed the shower, since Large Fry is not what one would call great at keeping her hair tucked into her headband.

So.  Large is showered.  Clothes & towel are washing.

The twin Fries have colds, and the next weird thing I hear is Small Fry shouting my name, followed by, "I got snot on the pillow!"

"How did you get snot on the pillow?" I asked, incredulous.

Silly Auntie.  Rule #2.

"Never mind.  Go get a tissue and wipe your nose."

Small Fry gets a tissue.

And she wipes the pillow instead.

"I got the snot off!"

Well.  Yay.

It's been an interesting morning.

Medium Fry--who had been in our bed when I went up to bed last night--bounced back into our bed about 7:30 this morning.  Not to worry, because Large Fry had been up and playing in our room (I do not know with what, nor do I want to know; she was probably rearranging my books again) before 7.

Small Fry bounced in around 7:45, as Hubby was getting Large Fry ready to go to school.

They started demanding to watch tv.  I put them off until after I'd had a chance for my morning constitutional and had gotten Large Fry some clean pants.  (I have plenty of clean laundry.  It's just not folded yet.  Or put away.)

I crawled back into bed with them and turned the tv on.  Rescue me, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

A bit later, Small Fry moseyed down the hall to the bathroom.  I made note of when the toilet flushed...and determined several minutes later that Something Was Up.

I appeared in the bathroom and Small Fry whipped around to look at me, guilt all over her face.  "I need to wash my hands," she said.

And that's when I noticed that the full mouthwash bottle--full not long ago when I was first in the bathroom--was now extremely empty.  And the lingering odor of minty freshness permeated the air around the sink.

Thankfully, Small Fry readily confessed that she had dumped the mouthwash.

I marched her down the hall to have her actually tell Hubby that she'd dumped his mouthwash.

"Uncle, I'm sowwy," she said, tears beginning to creep into her voice.

"For what?" I prompted.

"Fowr dumping...."

"Dumping what?"  Despite his sleepiness, I was pretty sure we had his attention now.

"Moufwash," Small Fry mumbled.

Hubby looked at me.

"Mouthwash," I supplied.

He looked back at Small Fry.  "MY blue mouthwash?!"

Small Fry reluctantly nodded.

"That's not yours!" Hubby nearly roared.  (This is a persistent issue with Small Fry, her desire to take things and use things and mess with things and pour things that are not hers to take, use, mess with or pour.)

I let him handle the discipline, while I returned to the bathroom for my own reasons and then came back to get dressed.

I had the twins pick out undies, undershirts (it's gotten cold here again...ick), and shirts.  Clean pants, of course, were downstairs.

It was an undertaking to get both of them to actually put their clothes on.  Medium Fry insisted on tattling on Small Fry at every possible turn (I think she even made a few turns up), to the point that I had to holler at her to please put on her undies and her pants.  For about the fifth time.

I got them cereal for breakfast, and decided that drinking a Pediasure after their cereal couldn't hurt.  Medium finished first, and so I opened it up and gave it to her.  Usually, the kids can drink from bottles like that without a problem (although they do get little handlebar mustaches from them).  Not today.

Medium came out into the living room where I was.  "I spee-yulled," she told me.

This was not a small spill.

Chocolate Pediasure was all over her right shoulder, arm, and had splashed down on the front of her shirt in numerous places.  Her white shirt.

Migraine salute.

"Go upstairs and get another shirt," I instructed.

Naturally, this meant "stand in the hallway and pluck at the shirt I'm wearing."

About the time I opened my mouth to tell her to go upstairs, she says, "I need--"

"Go. Upstairs. Get another shirt."

So now I have the dishwasher running (it tripped the circuit on the outlet last night, and stopped before it even hit the main wash cycle), the shirt soaking in the sink, and the twins arguing in the toy room because Small Fry is half-hula-ing and half dancing silly and she's knocked over Medium Fry's "lamp" (a conglomeration of the three big plastic teapots we have) at least twice.

And Keiki, my husband's cat, is over here, tapping me for attention, because I'm the one with the vent under my desk, spilling out hot air.  (She's our heater hog.)

This is the life.