Holy Crap It's Been Three Years...
Hola faithful Wild Boy followers. So, I was on a hike yesterday and a friend said "You should totally write a blog." And I was like "I TOTALLY DO!" And then I realized that I haven't done a weekly update in a little while (cough, about three and a half years, cough). Whoops! Listen, time flies when you have two children constantly on the verge of world domination/critical injuries. So, briefly, three years have gone by, and the Wild Boys are still wild and just more capable of serious destruction due to their increased height, dexterity and ability to read. There you go, we're caught up. No, but seriously, Gavin is ten and finishing fourth grade. Gabe is eight and finishing second, and all kinds of hilarity has ensued which I will use to entertain you in weeks to come. This serves simply as notice that I'm back, and fully intend to try to stick with it...we'll see.
Today is a brief reintroduction since it's house cleaning and laundry day in la casa de testosterone. So actually, I may type a while. Probably until it's socially acceptable for me to have a cocktail and steel my nerves so I can do the Wild Boys' laundry. Here's the thing, folks - it's so very scary. I want to be brave and strong, but I also don't want to be naïve. As they've progressed in age they have begun "collections" of a sort. A while back I reached into a pocket to clean it out prior to loading it in the machine and came out with a live grasshopper. Live. No, I'm not kidding. I don't even understand how it's physically possible, since anything that goes into my pockets ends up flat as a pancake (that being said, if you guys seriously enjoy the blog you better hope I stick with it better then I stick to dieting, because NOTHING survives my pockets and that's a sign I'm sure). A month or so ago Gabe found about a million roly poly bugs in the yard and guess where those ended up? The lint trap because I'm a monster and didn't check the pockets since the grasshopper nearly gave me a coronary. My dryer is probably actually haunted now...unless they drowned in the washing machine. Because let's be real, he probably actually had food in there for them too. I'm the killer.
Being a product of an Irish Catholic upbringing you'd have thought the guilt caused by the roly poly massacre would have prompted me to be a little more thorough. It didn't. I said some rosaries and moved on...and increased my charitable donations to animal programs. I didn't start reaching into pockets again until Gabe started collecting rocks. Which then began pounding and rattling around in the dryer (I was pretty sure it was roly poly ghosts in the beginning, but it wasn't), and threatening to cause serious damage to the machine that (along with it's life partner the washing machine) is CRUCIAL to la casa not perpetually stinking like a frat house. It's a little known fact that only two groups of people collect random rocks - little boys and meth addicts. Yup, here's a little bleed over from the law enforcement parental units here...if you are a grown up and get stopped in your car by a cop and the back is full of totally random rocks, the officer is for SURE checking your pupils while he talks to you. But if you're a little boy it's apparently as normal as peeing outside and poking dead things with sticks. It's built into the genetic code. Who knew?
I digress. The point is it's laundry day, and I have to reach into pockets and play the laundry version of Russian Roulette. It may not be the first pair of pants, it may not be the second, but somewhere in that pile of filthy clothing there will be something in a pocket that makes me question my ability to do this "mom" job. And may make me dry heave. Yay for parenthood!
Until next time, best wishes from la casa.
Today is a brief reintroduction since it's house cleaning and laundry day in la casa de testosterone. So actually, I may type a while. Probably until it's socially acceptable for me to have a cocktail and steel my nerves so I can do the Wild Boys' laundry. Here's the thing, folks - it's so very scary. I want to be brave and strong, but I also don't want to be naïve. As they've progressed in age they have begun "collections" of a sort. A while back I reached into a pocket to clean it out prior to loading it in the machine and came out with a live grasshopper. Live. No, I'm not kidding. I don't even understand how it's physically possible, since anything that goes into my pockets ends up flat as a pancake (that being said, if you guys seriously enjoy the blog you better hope I stick with it better then I stick to dieting, because NOTHING survives my pockets and that's a sign I'm sure). A month or so ago Gabe found about a million roly poly bugs in the yard and guess where those ended up? The lint trap because I'm a monster and didn't check the pockets since the grasshopper nearly gave me a coronary. My dryer is probably actually haunted now...unless they drowned in the washing machine. Because let's be real, he probably actually had food in there for them too. I'm the killer.
Being a product of an Irish Catholic upbringing you'd have thought the guilt caused by the roly poly massacre would have prompted me to be a little more thorough. It didn't. I said some rosaries and moved on...and increased my charitable donations to animal programs. I didn't start reaching into pockets again until Gabe started collecting rocks. Which then began pounding and rattling around in the dryer (I was pretty sure it was roly poly ghosts in the beginning, but it wasn't), and threatening to cause serious damage to the machine that (along with it's life partner the washing machine) is CRUCIAL to la casa not perpetually stinking like a frat house. It's a little known fact that only two groups of people collect random rocks - little boys and meth addicts. Yup, here's a little bleed over from the law enforcement parental units here...if you are a grown up and get stopped in your car by a cop and the back is full of totally random rocks, the officer is for SURE checking your pupils while he talks to you. But if you're a little boy it's apparently as normal as peeing outside and poking dead things with sticks. It's built into the genetic code. Who knew?
I digress. The point is it's laundry day, and I have to reach into pockets and play the laundry version of Russian Roulette. It may not be the first pair of pants, it may not be the second, but somewhere in that pile of filthy clothing there will be something in a pocket that makes me question my ability to do this "mom" job. And may make me dry heave. Yay for parenthood!
Until next time, best wishes from la casa.
It's good to have you back!! Keep the chuckles coming!!
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