Celtic Warrior

We went to visit the doctor the other day.

Of course, in our house that is not an unusual occurrence.

In this particular instance, Happy needed stitches.

The boy had decided to stand on top of a kitchen stool. Said stool decided to tip over and fall out from underneath him. The poor kid's forehead slammed into it and he bled all over himself.

Being the expert in "do we need stitches or not", I took one look at his head and knew we needed a doctor since I am not an expert in stitching up rambunctious boys. My bedside manner would be decidedly lacking.

Everything went as expected until it was time for Happy to feel the sting of the needle. Things didn't go well after that.

The doc had decided to put a paper-like material over his face while he stitched him up and Happy was not happy with that.

The kid started screaming his head off.

It wasn't the kind of "Help me, this hurts!" kind of screaming. It was the extremely angry Celtic warrior kind of screaming. It was the "How dare you do this to me!" kind of screaming.

The screams continued throughout the procedure and it rattled off the walls of the entire building. Intermittently, everyone heard, "Get this thing off of me!"

Needless to say, it was no picnic.

Of course, I felt compassion for the boy, but after the 50th scream, my patience was at an end. I ended up hissing at the child to please knock it off and sometimes not with a please.

Once the material came off his face, Happy immediately calmed down. We all breathed a sigh of relief and I rattled my ear with my finger to try and get rid of the ringing.

As soon as I could, I hustled the boy out of the building apologizing profusely to everyone all the while. I had to keep in mind that, after all, the kid is only four.

Someday, I will tell him that when he goes into battle he may be scared. I will remind him of this day and tell him that he may be scared, but he has a warrior's heart.

And a warrior doesn't let fear stand in the way.

Dust Bunnies

We seriously need a normal backyard.

You know. The kind that is fenced-in all around and six-feet tall. The gate is padlocked and no one in his right mind would dare venture forth with a German shepherd in the yard.

One that happens to be the neighborhood terror right now.

I need a normal backyard, people.

One with thick, cool grass and tall, bushy trees to give shade. Lots of them.

Instead, I've got a backyard that brings in four boys covered from head to toe in dirt after an afternoon of play.

They literally come inside looking like dust bunnies. Large ones.

Enduring their mother's horrified reaction, they are asked, "What in the world are you doing out there? Rolling around in the dirt?!" As if that were something to be looked upon as insane.

Which, to them, is an absolutely normal thing to do.

Come to find out, they like to take the tricycle to the top of the bluffs and roll down the hill.

It's all about the high-risk sports.

Who wants a normal backyard when you can fly down a hill and risk breaking your neck?

Next thing I know, they'll be jumping out of airplanes.

Bug Spray

I often wonder if the liberal testosterone running through their veins aides in the shut-down of the brain.

They are such violent creatures at times and often their hands are in permanent fists. Even Sneezy has perfected the fist with his tiny, little baby hand.

I would swear they try to think up ways to perfect their masculinity, but often they end up with escapades that border on the moronic.

I have said to myself more often than not that I am surrounded by morons.

Case in point.

Due to the extreme critter conditions we find ourselves here in southern Colorado, we have the ever-present bug spray in the garage.

This is not the kind you find in a dinky, little can. It's the kind that you carry and has a hose attached to a spray nozzle.

Heavy-duty stuff here.

After all, we want to KILL the spiders, not numb them.

We keep it high up off the floor because after all we do try to be responsible adults and keep poison out of reach of children.

It even has it in big, bold letters on the product itself: KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN.

So, we thought it would be safe on top of the fridge in the garage totally not realizing that our children may be getting taller, but they still require parental supervision.

One day, 7 year old Sleepy comes to tell me his daily observations of life in general when I noticed he had a peculiar rash on his face.

My forehead scrunched in confusion and with great exasperation yelled, "What happened to your face?!"

He calmly replied that Grumpy sprayed him with bug spray. He went on to show me the various body parts that had gotten in the way as well when I pulled up his shirt to check.

"Grumpy?! Grumpy did this?"

You may well wonder why I ask this question, but I always thought Grumpy was more intelligent than this.

Thus, I wonder at this point if maybe the testosterone got in the way of his brain.

After Grumpy was found, he was brought to the firing squad.

He looked quite disconcerted to find his mother just staring at him with her mouth open and fire in her eyes for a good minute before she started into lecturing.

When his mother gets going, it could be a good ten minutes before she starts winding down. After all, this is poison we're talking about. It needs a good ten-minute lecture if not more.

All the while my mouth is streaming forth with all sorts of outraged motherly noises, I'm thinking, "Dumb. Just dumb. I'm surrounded by morons."

The I wonder about the things I don't know about.

It's enough to make me shudder.

Snake Scare

We've lived in this particular house in southwest Colorado for about three years now and have not seen the mythical creature called the rattlesnake.....until last night.

My parents have come for a visit and brought a trailer with them to the delight of the boys.

They parked it in our driveway and we all have beaten a path to and from the house.

Last night, Mom was tired and decided to call it a night. Two seconds after she walked out the door, she walks back in and nonchalantly says, "Okay. Someone go out there and kill the snake."

Pandemonium breaks out.

Everyone just has to see the snake outside and lo and behold, after some inspection to the thing on the sidewalk with big boots and a monster flashlight, the verdict was a baby rattlesnake had decided to visit.

Oh, joy.

With Unca Gug smashing it with a baseball bat and Doc holding the gun on it just to make sure, the wiggling mass of snake was finally put to rest.

I think I will be walking to the trailer on my tippy-toes next time.....and maybe I'll bring Doc's gun along with me just to be on the safe side.

VISA Solution

Grandma and Grandpa have come for a visit and they have been imparting some of their wisdom and advice to the boys.

Grandma asked the two older boys (9 and 12) if they have thought about where they will take their girlfriends on a date.

Of course, their reply was an adamant no, so Grandma decided then and there to give them some advice.

She told them to take their girls to a nice restaurant with sit-down service and nice silverware and then after that take them to a movie.

She informed them that a good date would cost them approximately $80.

Grumpy replied, "Wow! That costs about as much as a bunny rabbit!" (His mind is always full of future plans for buying his own pet rabbit.)

Grandma said they would need to get a good job so they could afford to do this.

Grumpy said, "Or I could just use a VISA."

Ever-Lovin'

There is a phrase that I am fond of repeating.

Actually, I have no choice because the reason for my favorite phrase happens on a daily occurrence.

I have five sons who scream just to hear themselves do it.

It seems to be their favorite pastime.

Throughout the day, I am constantly yelling, "Shut up!", or "Stop it!", or "Be quiet!", or when I've really had it, "Shut the *&%$ up!"

Well, not really, but that's what I'm thinking by the end of the day while I'm grabbing my hair and pulling what is left of it by the scalp.

There are times when I've given a blow-by-blow description of my day to Doc and my usual phrase ends up in the conversation.

"He was screaming his ever-lovin' head off!"

Again, this is a daily occurrence and I am forever repeating that particular phrase.

It's no wonder that Grumpy has picked it up himself.

Sneezy was ready for his nap this morning and we all knew it was time because the child made his bad temper more than obvious.

Grumpy took it upon himself to deposit the bad-tempered tyrant in jail, er bed and shut the door.

After he trooped downstairs, he informed me, "He is screaming his ever-lovin' head off!"

Ghastly

Ghastly.

I love that word.

It's the kind of word that you have to say with an English accent.

Ghastly.

Every time I hear it or read it, I laugh.

I can't seem to help myself. Just the sound of it rolling off my tongue emits giggles out of my mouth.

I then wonder how I can use it in my every day life.

What would I describe as ghastly?

Well, maybe the kitchen floor after dinnertime.

Yes. I would say that was ghastly.

Or, maybe the bathroom floor around the toilet after the boys have used it.

Definitely ghastly.

Even possibly, that one time when I was stranded on the road with five children and two flat tires.

That was definitely a time that exuded ghastliness.

Is that a word? If not, it should be. There are times in my life where that word should be used and laced with scathing sarcasm.

I wouldn't be averse to using it as a mild profanity, either.

It makes one feel quite brilliant actually when describing a scene that one would call revolting in the extreme.

Or just mildly disgusting.

The word ghastly should be used at all occasions of ghastliness if only to make one feel better.

Disgusting Stuff

"You know what, Mom?"

"What, Sleepy?"

"Inside your eye is disgusting stuff."

"Oh." I take a moment to laugh.

"Yeah. Bashful and Grumpy looked into my eye and said there is disgusting stuff in there."

Okay, then.

A Round, Little Plug

One evening, while visiting my parents, I decided to give my rank toddler a bath.

I plopped him down on the floor and looking into the tub, my face scrunched into confusion. This was an older tub and didn't have any mechanism to plug it up. I knew my parents had a special plug for it, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

So, I yelled down the stairs, "Mom! Where's the plug to the bathtub?"

To prove that I am getting old in more ways than one, I thought I heard her say it was on the floor next to the tub.

The only plug I could see was the toilet plunger.

"Huh," I muttered, and grabbed it.

I stuck that dang toilet plunger into the tub to see if it would plug up.

As I pushed it down, it popped right back up and I said to Sneezy, "They can't be using the toilet plunger to plug up the bathtub."

My face was a study in confusion as I yelled down the stairs, "Do you mean the toilet plunger, Mom?" just to make sure our wires weren't crossing.

In order for her deaf daughter to hear her, she raised her voice and said, "The plug is on the shelf in the bathtub."

"Oh," and there it was. A round, little plug.

This was definitely one of my dumbest moments.

Bashful comes in the house after having a rousing, good time outside playing with some neighborhood boys.

He bypasses the kitchen and troops downstairs to the bathroom.

He happily explains to me that there is yet another boy to play with while turning on the bathroom faucet.

I interrupt his dialogue to inform him that we do have cups in the kitchen and he is quite able to fill one with water from the kitchen sink.

The boy looks at me as if I have suggested something totally incomprehensible. His expression was like, "Why would I do something like that?" and proceeded to bend over and put his mouth in the running water.

I'm raising a bunch of barbarians.