No, this post is not about how crazy my mother’s day dinner was at a Chinese Buffet. Chinese Buffet, Mother’s Day & Craziness are the talking points for this post.
Chinese Buffet: It occurred to me some time ago that perhaps I should curtail all of the negatory comments I make about my husband and so on and so forth on this blog. But then I realized that my attitude and impressions that flow out of these words are like a Chinese Buffet. You have to take it all in to get the whole picture. If all I ever wrote were niceties and touchy-feely posts then you most certainly wouldn’t get me, dear reader. By the same token, if every day I posted rant after angry bitter rant, you’d walk away thinking I was the biggest bitch in the world. That’s not me, either. I’m a chinese buffet of emotion and impressions, people. Don’t walk in and eat the chicken nuggets and dumplings and walk out. That’s not how this process works. Branch out a little, pick up a kabob and a couple of cream cheese won tons every once in a while.
Mother’s Day: I had a very nice Mother’s Day, thank you so much for asking. I took all the chil’rens to church, which was nice and mostly uneventful, until Little B got escorted out of Children’s Church for craziness (hold on, the craziness comes later…) and then Big E took him outside to play until the service was over. No biggie. It worked out. Starting next week, I am bringing Little A and Tween C to church, and the boys get to stay home. It’s not fair to Little B, but there’s just no way around it right now. And Little A has been missing out on church even though she’s perfectly capable of doing all the things she should be able to because I didn’t think that it was fair for her to get to go when I was leaving Little B behind. There’s no right answer on this one. As a parent, I’m constantly bombarded with problems to which there is no right answer. I hate that. I like black and white, good and evil, yin and yang, Peaches and Herb type of problems. This stuff is tough. So, I have decided that Little A gets her shot next week. I can’t continue to make her miss out on things because of the problems that Little B has. We are working toward answers and solutions for Little B. That’s all I can do right now. As for the rest of my Mo’Fo day, as I lovingly like to refer to it, I had my parents over for a gourmet meal of chili dogs and potato chips (yes, I was cooking…Zohrhubby was at work) and then we laid around the house the rest of the day. If I’m not mistaken, I actually drifted off for a nap for a little while. I’m not sure, though…it’s such a foreign concept that I wouldn’t really know a “nap” if I saw one.
Craziness: I like to pretend that we are a typical family in a typical house on a typical block in America. The truth is, there’s nothing typical about us. We have an obtuse number of children in our care, a dog that refuses to eat most days, a cat that has her own Facebook page, and we are the loudest family on the block. Except for that dumb guy with all the motorcycles and obscenely loud vehicles that he runs up and down the street at strange hours of the day and night. Our house alarm, which is just as much for keeping the kids IN as it is for keeping the bad guys OUT, goes off a minimum of 4 times per week. The alarm company didn’t even call the police last time Tween C beat on the door so hard that she set it off trying to get Big E to let her in when she got home from school. Turns out, Big E was on the roof watching the whole time. He lost his key. So they couldn’t open the door to disarm the alarm. It went off for at least 15 minutes until Zohrhubby got home to shut it off. He was livid that they didn’t call the po-po. I, on the other hand, was thankful. After all, my main goal every day of my life is to prevent the authorities from coming to my house. Zohrhubby called the alarm company right the hell up and lit into them with a vengeance. I worried that every time the alarm went off thereafter police would come to my door. Luckily it hasn’t panned out that way. Thank the baby Jesus.
Other craziness: Little B and Little A decided that they want a little brother, and a little sister, respectively. They announced this while getting ready for bed the other night. I took them both by the shoulders, looked straight in their eyes, back and forth, and said, “Let me tell you something: the only way that you will EVER have a little brother and sister, is if your daddy spits out twins.” “What?!” exclaimed Little B, “Only girls can have babies!” and Little A added, “SPIT THEM OUT?! They come out of your belly button, right?!” “I’m telling you the truth, children.” They took off to the den, where Zohrhubby sat blissfully unaware of the goings on in the other side of the house. He was then bombarded with a rash of questions, including from Little A, “Dad! Will you spit out a little brother and sister for me and B?” He was shocked and confused by the conversation that followed, but ended with a stern “No!” and “It’s just NOT going to happen…now GO TO BED!” My children were heart-broken. And for the first time in their young little lives, I was okay with that. I really, really was.