Friday, June 26, 2009

Reasons carpet is no fun

I have always sworn to Hubby that any house we own will be completely without carpet. I am guessing the original inventor(s) imagined a nice carpet would warm up the floor, cushion the feet, etc. But with central air and comfy slippers...I just don't see the need.

What I DO see is an extremely vulnerable (see: everything lands on me) part of the house which is made of stain-able, difficult to clean material. My life would become immeasurably easier if I could only rid my house of all things carpet.

For example, last night when I dropped an entire bowl of chili on the floor as I carried it to the table (still not sure how that one happened) instead of spending the next hour on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet and picking beans out of the fibers...I could have simply wiped it up...maybe used the mop if I was feeling ambitious.

Similarly, tonight...when the boys were running around naked, fresh from the bath while I laid out pajamas, grabbed diapers and put toothpaste on their respective brushes, the massive poop Middle-Bug decided to deposit on his bedroom floor would have been a much simpler task to clean. Also...when Big-Bug and Middle-Bug BOTH stepped in the pile, then ran out to tell me "poop is here!" it wouldn't have resulted in a trail from one end of the house to the other, requiring much knee-work and multiple bottles of cleaner/stain remover. And can I just's one thing to step in your own poop when you're a toddler...but your brother's? That's just gross.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

The adventures of Middle-Bug continue...

This child is trying to give me a heart attack! Middle-Bug, who is currently approaching 21 months of age, has a new found When I walk into his room in the morning to get him from his crib, his first words to me are "Wook! Bookball!" as he excitedly points to his toy box. The second his feet hit the floor he runs over and picks up his beloved ball, which he continues to clutch to his chest while his diaper is changed and breakfast is prepared. Throughout the day he will present his ball to me with a sweet "pwease!" hoping I will hold it so he can take a running kick, sometimes I will admit, I indulge him (he actually has a pretty good kick!) Later as I sit on the floor with the boys, Middle-Bug will go down into a three-point stance, look at me from across the room and yell "hut, hut, hike!" and tackle me for all he's worth (which thankfully ends up very similar to a hug.) Harmless enough, right? Well here comes the problem. Middle-Bug's 3 year old big brother is his favorite playmate and is more than pleased to engage in a little game of football with his baby brother. Only, in Big-Bug's eyes, Middle-Bug isn't much of a baby anymore and doesn't require the gentle touch of days gone by. So the other day, as I innocently stand in the kitchen preparing dinner, the boys start up a game of football in the living room. I can't see them from my angle, but I hear plenty of giggles on both sides so figure they are having a good time. Not a minute later, the boys come barreling into view, Middle-Bug in the lead (with the "bookball") and Big-Bug in hot pursuit. As they near the dining room table (yep, you can see where this is headed) Big-Bug tackles Middle-Bug from behind, sending him flying forward through the air. His flight is stopped by the corner of a leg of a dining room chair which catches him directly in the eye/brow bone/cheek bone and instantly bruises in a long vertical line down the entire left side of his face. I immediately assume the worst and spend the next 15 minutes poking and prodding on Middle-Bug's face checking for fractures or tenderness and watching his pupils for normal constriction/dilation. Once I had satisfied myself that the bruise is the worst of his injuries, I served dinner. So now my 21 month old son has the gnarliest of black eyes as well as a huge bruise to his cheek. His first football injury....time to buy that kid a helmet with a face guard.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

What's going on here?

There comes a point when you look around yourself and wonder "What the hell?" I find myself having this thought more and more of late. For example, all winter long we have plotted and schemed, developing the perfect plan for tackling our yard BEFORE it bursts into a wild jungle resembling last year's landscaping masterpiece. I researched stepable ground covers, I ordered a yard waste can from our trash service, I even compared rental rates on rototillers, I was so ready. And yet, yesterday as I took out the recycling I found myself standing amidst a sea of ankle high green. Crooked stalks of would-be poppies sticking up above a carpet of purple clovers and small white blossoms. It was then I thought to myself "What the hell? yesterday this was bare dirt?"

Our bedroom is a catch-all that has not once looked attractive or even close to acceptable since the day we have moved in. I could blame it on my children, or our lack of bookshelf that leaves our novels piled up in teetering stacks along the bedroom wall, but truth is, we're just messy. The majority of our bedroom mess consists of clothes dropped onto the floor next to yesterday's bath towel (which is probably still wet) and the row of water glasses that is accumulating near the head of the bed. It's surprisingly easy to overlook the clutter during the daytime, most likely due to the fact that our door remains shut from dawn until lights-out. The other night however, in the early hours of the morning I was rolling over on my new, fabulously soft pillow-top mattress set when I caught a glimpse of the repulsive pile of miscellaneous crap next to my side of the bed and thought "What the hell!"

This week was the first day of spring quarter classes and Monday night was my first on-campus course since I was a single woman. Needless to say I was a little nervous about the prospect of walking into a college classroom full of 18 and 19 year olds who would all regard me with a mixture of humor and pity. Inspired by my midnight revelation the night before, I began a mad-clean of the master bedroom and scooped up every loose article of clothing I could find. I piled, I sorted and I washed, I was on fire! The sure payoff of a restful night's sleep and my choice of outfits for my first day of class was enough to keep me going all afternoon. Around 5 o'clock, I skipped downstairs to collect my first load of freshly laundered clothes, popped open the dryer door, reached my hand into the basin and "What the hell?" all the clothes were still stone cold and sopping wet. Positive that I had remembered to start the dryer cycle, I closed the door and once again spun the dial around to "90 minute dry" and pressed "start." *KLANG*BANG*RATTLE*CHUG* "What the hell?" the dryer sounded like it was about to burst from the closet and rattle on down the street...hopefully making it around the corner BEFORE erupting into flames. I looked at the clock, I looked at the pile of wet clothes containing every bra I owned as well as my two pair of casual pants. I looked back at the clock. Even if I could will the dryer back into working condition, there wasn't even enough time to wait for another cycle. So sporting my pinstriped dress slacks and a blue blouse, I headed off to walmart to purchase the cheapest bra I could find and then tried to figure out some way to slip it on in the parking lot without putting on a show.

Today promised to be a much calmer day with nothing on the schedule but dinner prep and a little light studying. Feeling ambitious I decided to pull out all the stops and grill up some chicken satay with peanut sauce. This proved to be much more time-consuming than I had initially thought and the boys ended up playing on their own for much longer than I had imagined. Part way into the cooking processes the kids ran into the kitchen, whacking each other over the head with long pink strips of fabric. At first I only tuned in enough to determine whether or not both of the boys were enjoying the game, once I was satisfied by their dueling giggles I was about to turn my attention back to the grill when...wait a minute "what the hell?" where did they get those pink fabric strips? A short trip own the hall would reveal the answer...they had shred my bathrobe, one of the few remaining articles of my clothing that isn't sitting in a soggy heap in the dryer downstairs.