Ginger Unplugged

In case my husband Facebooks this, I wanted to get the real story in writing...because I like to think was justified! Back Story: Around bedtime tonight, Sleestack whines and whines for me to put her to bed. I explain many times that she has to actually get ready for bed before I can put her in it. Her father is trying to help her with this but she keeps crying and yelling for Mom to put her to bed. Ack. She is finally ready and asks me to change her pajama shirt because there is some undetectable something in the elbow that is causing her great pain. Fine.  She is finally in the bed, and I'm sent to get her water. I sing her choice of song. It's time for her to pray and she's suddenly forgotten how and I am out of patience. Normal people would probably just say the prayer for the child. Do I? No. I'm sick of being ordered around by a two-year-old. Me: You're not going to pray? Sleestack: I don't know how. Me: Seriously? Fine. Then we won't...

Today, after I volunteered in one my kids' classes, I decided to say a quick hello to my other two children at the school. This was in part because I love them and in part because they are having fantasies that they are terribly abused and are telling the home teachers about this in my presence in order to embarrass me (I think). I am trying to make them feel guilty about this stunt by all my niceness. Because really, if you're not a child abuser and you say you're not--who's going to believe you? I could KILL them!! (Hah, just kidding!!!!) Anyway, by the time I got to the last kid it was getting late--I almost didn't go but finally raced over and peeked in the window of his classroom. They were in the middle of math. At least twenty pairs of eyes were glued to the teacher, but Crash's eyes were glued everywhere else. He was front and center, squirming on his desk, around his desk, nearly under his desk and perhaps had just crawled out of his desk. I wondered i...

Yeah, so just this morning I was blissfully admiring my amazingly bright children while organizing their cupboards, wiping off their counters, cooking their dinner, falling in the Wal-mart parking lot buying presents for their friends (Wal-mart and I have a hate-hate relationship--unfortunately we're stuck together). But it was all worth it! Because they (my children) were Turning Out . They were blooming. They were nearly BRAG WORTHY. And I really hate bragging. I even wrote that last braggy blog in all my "their blooming" bliss. And I didn't even mention how Butterfly has won the best behavior award in her class for two months running. How she got the coveted WOW award at school and is still floating around on cloud 9 about it. How she's better at being social than Oprah Winfrey (once she got over that meowing thing). Nor did I mention an email I got from Crash's teacher yesterday (you know, the "Can we please stick a shocking dog collar on him s...

Tyler, I’m really sorry that I yelled on the bus. The first time I was just telling my story festival story to my friend because he wanted to hear it again. And I had to yell for that. The second time I’m not really sure what I was doing. I’m really sorry that I did it and I’ll try really hard not to scream on the bus or be crazy or anything from now on. By the way, you are tied at first place with being the best bus driver ever. Crash There are copies of my children's bus infractions at the school, on the bus, in my house AND at the department of transportation. Thus their criminal records begin.

An actual conversation: "Crash, what's negative blood?" Big eyes. Big smile. "Oh, MOM! Don't tell her! We were just playing! I swear. Come on. Please?!" "Don't tell who, what?" "Wait, nevermind." "What are you talking about, Crash?" "Nothing." "TELL ME." "Uuuuuuh, I'm trying to get Butterfly to believe we have ghosts in our house but I said she can't see them because she doesn't have negative blood." "How do you know what kind of blood she has." "I don't. I just told her that. Don't tell. Please, please, please!!!"

This all started the other night when I went for a walk with my friend. I had been looking forward to it all day and by the time we could go the sun had set, the clouds had rolled in and it was dark. We walked along the river trail anyway where before long the trees were creaking and lashing out at us in the howling wind. I admit, it was a bit spooky. But when my friend said something like, "Heaven's unleashed its fury!" You know what I said? "Bring it on." There was no way she was getting out of that walk with me. The walk was relatively uneventful. To liven things up, I decided to see if my pepper spray worked. It didn't, which was good to know. It just drizzled down my glove and smelled like aerosol. Are you supposed to shake that stuff first? Do you have time to shake it while attackers are pouncing? Does it just get shaken naturally by your fear? Anyway, I went walking today again. I wore the same gloves. I rubbed my eye. As I threw my contact into the ...

I've never thought that a few granola bars and some gum would hold me in an emergency for three whole days, but, you know, better than nothing. But I just discovered it's really called a 72-hour kit because if your baby gets into it, it takes 72 hours to locate everything and put it back where it goes. I guess putting this kit back together is better than the kids finding the gum under the couch later on. Just imagining what they might do reminds me that in the last 72 hours I have found toothpaste on a bathroom light bulb, permanent marker on my rolling pin and a pocket full of staples in the laundry. Honestly. Do I have to ask them to please not flip toothpaste above eye-level, don't draw on the cookware and WHY ARE WE COLLECTING STAPLES? I should make them actually live on these 72-hour kits as penance.