Humpty Dumpty

So, a couple of days ago I broke my arm when I slipped and fell in the shower. At least that’s the story I’ve been telling every time someone’s asked ‘OMG what happened to your arm?!’ right before giving my husband the side-eye. Apparently he looks like the wife beating type. Something to do with tattoos I think, I don’t know.

Anyhoodle.

Although this story is true, I did leave a few small details out. Because I firmly believe it’s easier for people to feel sorry for you when they don’t think you’re a complete and utter idiot. And believe me, what happened is a true testimony to how dumb I really am.

Now, before I dive right in, I should give you a little background story about the floor-to-ceiling rack my husband custom built for our bathroom, so I can store all my half empty shampoo bottles, conditioners, shower gels, body lotions and what have you somewhere where Sam won’t knock them over while in the shower (his number 1 pet peeve – bottles flying everywhere because I cram them into too small a space. Guilty).

In theory, this was a lovely idea. However, when Sam was building the thing – all giddy and proud of himself – it seems that he’d temporarily forgotten I am not 6 foot tall, like him. Ergo, I can’t reach the top four shelves. Which, whatever. He can use those, and I use the lower ones, right?

Wrong.

Because every time he cleans the bathroom, my products end up at the very top while his are lower down. So really, when you think of it, what happened is all Sam’s fault.

Now, back to the tragic event.

So, I was in the shower and noticed that my hair was extraordinarily twine-like that day, so I hunted down my conditioner… which happened to be – you guessed it – on the top shelf of our well-intended-poorly-executed rack. Now, instead of doing the sane thing, which would be skipping the conditioner and use one of the billion hair products I could reach instead, I figured I’d simply stand on my tippy toes on the edge of the tub, when both the tub and myself were soaking wet. 

I told you I was an idiot.

Result? I ended up in a position quite similar to this:

pretzel girlOnly with a less ‘zen’ facial expression. And a broken arm.

Now, who still feels sorry for me?

 

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It’s Not What You Think

Two weeks ago, I received an invitation for my very first ever parent-teacher conference. Determined to do this right, I prepared like no mother has ever prepared for such a thing. I planned my outfit and wrote down questions, making sure I would make the right impression.

So when Sam and I entered the school this morning, I didn’t walk – I strutted. I was ready. I came prepared. I looked the part. And then…

*Snap*

That distinct sound of fabric ripping, and a faint sensation of elastic bouncing off skin. At first, I couldn’t pinpoint what happened. Then I realized my breasts felt oddly… Free.

My bra gave up on me.

Lovely.

I made a B-line for the restroom and ran towards the mirror, leaving a confused looking Sam in the hallway.

‘ACK!’ I screeched as soon as I caught my reflection. Apparently my bra had split right down the middle, leaving me looking like I had four boobs – two in the front and one under each armpit.

Definitely not the look I was going for.

I dashed into one of the stalls, contorting my body into a pretzel while at the same time making sure I wouldn’t make contact with any of the surfaces while zipping down my dress. I assessed the damage and decided my bra was Beyond Repair. So I shrugged it off and disposed it in a cookie monster bin, cursing.

‘This is so not what I need right now.’ I muttered under my breath.

I hoisted my dress back up and clocked in some more pretzel time zipping it up. Only it didn’t. It wouldn’t zip up! A panicky sound escaped my throat as I danced around, trying to pull up the zipper while praying frantically to anyone who would listen.

God, are you there? He wasn’t. Jesus, help me! Jesus was busy. Mary, then. Come on, woman. Help a sister out! I can’t go to my first parent-teacher conference with my dress hanging open! You had a son, you must understand! Nothing.

I sighed the sigh of a defeated woman. Then I dialed up my husband.

‘I can’t get my dress back on. The zipper is stuck. HELP ME!’ I whispered frantically into the phone.

Not two seconds later he was there, looking even more confused than before.

‘Do I want to know why you took off your dress?’ He asked with only the slightest of smirks  after I dragged him into the stall.

‘Just hurry up!’ I hissed. ‘We got like five minutes.’

‘Okay, alright. Turn around.’

‘Hurry!’

‘Hey, where’s your bra?’

‘Will you just shut up and do it!’

‘Hold on… just let me… There!’ He pulled the zipper so hard that I lost my balance and banged against the door, causing us both to burst out giggling.

‘Sorry.’ He chuckled.

‘No worries. Is it up? Are you done?’

‘Done!’

We fell out of the stall laughing…

… only to notice a bag standing on the ground in the stall next to the one we were just in.

Oh, God.

I don’t even want to know what that woman thought she heard.

Bad luck, I have plenty of it.

Too Tired To Function

My reaction:

I think that sums up my current mental state quite accurately. Dead tired.

 

Meet My Husband, ‘Snorts Like Horse’

Can I take a moment here and ask ye people of the world to please not attempt giving your children Native American names? You’re keeping my husband very busy saving all of you from your poor choices, and he has a day job. And a family. We need him at home, and we need his money… You know, for Dairy Queen.

Just today, an intervention was once again needed when he overheard a pregnant lady announcing the title of her unborn son during our hospital tour.

‘Tseeveyo,’ she explained with a somewhat smug smile. ‘It means spirit warrior in Cherokee!’

Cue the ooh’s and ah’s from bystanders. And what is possibly the loudest snort in history from my husband.

‘Actually, Tseeveyo is a horrible ogre who rips children out of their homes when they’re bad.’ He said with only the slightest of sneers. ‘And it’s Hopi.’

I’ll bet you ten bucks that the little guy will be named John or Dennis after that.

Damien Returns

I thought we could be friends. Sure, I was a little intimidated by his size and his stern look at first, but my mother always said not to judge a book by its cover and I was trying hard not to. But then, during our very first meeting, he stole from me. A plastic baggy filled with goldfish crackers and a five dollar bill were carefully removed from my pocket.

I told him no and forgave him. We all make mistakes. We all need people in our lives that teach us right from wrong. And he’s only 9, after all.

But then, during or second meeting, he pinched my butt. With his teeth. It left a mark the size of a plumb, and I realized we wouldn’t be friends.

My nemesis, Tator Tot

Don’t let the name fool you. This horse has it out for me. He gives me the side eye every time I come close and bites me when I try to be nice. Then when my husband joins the saddling party because I’m 30 weeks pregnant with twins and couldn’t possibly lift a saddle, Lil’ Tot dials up the cute and Hubs doesn’t believe me when I say this creature is not a horse, but the Antichrist. He reminds me of Damien, mowing down his mother with the Tricycle of Death. Tater Tot is planning something similar. I just know it.

Let’s hope that Cole is assigned a different horse for his next riding lesson.

And that they don’t make tricycles in Tater Tot’s size.

The Louisiana Baby Apple Tree Massacre

‘What is an abomination?’ he asks, stomping back into the house with his basketball under his arm after leaving to play outside a mere five minutes before. He has a puzzled look on his face, trying to make sense of a word he has undoubtedly never heard before. His big brown eyes focus on Sam, who in turn looks at me. I put my fork down.

‘Why?’

‘The Kid From Next Door said he couldn’t play with me because his mom said you guys were that.’

Of course she did. This lady has been pissing me off since day one. At first because she sucked up to us like nobody has sucked up to us before. Then, when she realized we didn’t give a tiny rat’s ass that their fence, baby apple trees and extension were technically on our land, her other side came out. Disgusted snorts clearly audible to every member of my family who happened to pass her house while she’s outside. The pretending she doesn’t see us when we bump into each other at the super market. Loudly referring to us as ‘Her, That Boy, That Damned Dog and Them Kids’ when we are within earshot.

It has all been very lovely.

But her son and Cole are roughly the same age, and they get along, so I had no problems with them hanging out and shooting some hoops. After all, you can’t blame a child for their parents’ racist ignorance. But apparently we have cooties now.

My husband sighs the sigh of a frustrated man, and I can practically hear him grind his teeth from across the table. Sam’s not usually the one who loses it over these things – I am. I am the one who’s always ready to knock on some doors and spit in people’s faces, and pregnancy hasn’t helped with these impulses. If it weren’t for Sam dragging me back into the house by the back of my pants, Mrs. HolierThanThou would be missing several chunks of hair by now.

But this time, while I struggle to find a decent answer for Cole with my mouth open and no words coming out, it’s Sam who pushes back his chair with so much force that for a second I’m scared the legs will give. Then he realizes there are two big-eyed children looking at him and he smiles a smile that is so obnoxiously sweet that it chills me to my very core.

‘I think I will do some yard work.’ He announces, and leaves through the back door.

Uh-oh.

Cole sits down at the table. ‘Is Sam mad at me?’

‘No, hun. He’s mad at the neighbors.’

‘Is it a mean thing to say?’

I think about that for a minute, then shake my head. ‘It’s a dumb thing to s-‘

I’m interrupted by the sound of a chainsaw.

We all look up like a bunch of meerkats, turning our head from the left to the right and looking at each other for confirmation of possible danger. Then the three of us stand up simultaneously and rush to the nearest window to witness Sam mow down their tiny apple trees – our tiny apple trees, officially – in three quick motions. On the other side of the fence, Mr and Mrs. HolierThanThou are purple in the face and screaming what the F he is doing.

‘She said a bad word,’ Sadie comments with a giggle, clapping her hands over her mouth. We watch Sam ignoring them completely and walking back to the house, before I tell them to wash up for dinner.

‘Nice example,’ I scold him as soon as he walks through the door.

He shrugs. ‘Enough is enough.’

‘Yea, well, use your words next time, ‘ I half-joke.

‘That probably would have been worse.’

But three days later, he does exactly that. When they ask him who the F he thinks he is, he tells them ‘I’m the effing person who owns the ground part of your house is built on, and frankly, sir, those trees were an abomination.’

Immature? Maybe. Effective?

F yes.