A Day of Rest
Hola Wild Boy followers, and a VERY happy weekend from La Casa de Testosterone!
We here in la casa have taken today as a very much needed day of rest. This week was a particularly brutal one involving the cop on day shift patrol, open house for the wild boys, boy scouts, a baseball practice and two baseball games, and a partridge in a pear tree. No, no partridge. If there was a partridge it would only survive off the fruit of the pear tree itself because I cannot possibly keep up with remembering to feed any more dependents here (and partly because birds scare the crap out of me...ask me sometime about getting attacked by a killer parrot that continuously yelled F*** YOU while pecking my ankle as I tried to pick a lock to get a felon that was hiding from my team...But I digress...)
Anyhow, day of rest. It's not super easy to come by, by any stretch, because as tired as the cop and I may be the wild boys have the energy and destructive force of Tasmanian devils. It takes total commitment to apathy about the state of cleanliness of la casa in order to actually sleep in here. Last night I made a bargain with them, and told them they could stay up as late as they want provided they didn't bother us and let us sleep in this morning. They NEVER get that kind of free reign, and it's with good cause. After making my little bargain with the boys I wandered off to bed and passed out cold. They held good to their bargain to not wake us, with the exception of Gabe who at about 11 pm did that super creepy "stand as close as you can to your mom's sleeping face and stare lovingly at her from two inches away until the heat of your breath and sheer proximity wake her abruptly, launching her into a terror yell and leap due to the close up of an 8 year old eyeball and nostril" so he could get his goodnight hug. Lesson in parenting - whatever you yell when you wake up screaming like that they will commit to memory. And you cannot control that, not in a state of half sleep/half panic. Just start a swear jar now, and save the earnings for therapy. That's my plan.
This morning I woke up after 9 am. That doesn't happen - like, ever. Seriously. A quick glance in a mirror revealed that yesterday's casual beach hair and eye makeup had morphed and I was now a zombie medusa. All concealer was gone, and the bruise and burn in the middle of my forehead from catching an expended round while at range earlier in the week (yes - that happened, and no, I have no idea how...I'm just that lucky and skilled) was once again painfully obvious. I made a point of telling the cop what an incredibly lucky man he was, all with horrendous morning breath, and wandered out to assess the state of la casa. The boys were awake, and had clothes on. Total win. Every single decorative pillow and couch cushion was fashioned into a pillow fort mansion on the floor, which they told me they constructed for the guinea pig. Less of a win. But the good news here, folks, is it only took a few minutes to locate the guinea pig who had probably escaped as soon as they set him down inside his new mansion. Good thing he doesn't wander far from food...he's getting pretty predictable. They had made themselves a breakfast that consisted of fiery Cheetos, hummus and carrots. That's 2/3 healthy people, and that's another parenting win right there. On a whole, not a bad trade off for a night of sleep.
So far today we have moved at a snails pace while the boys have spun frantically around us cramming every minute full of activity and injury potential. They have golfed, they have played baseball, they have done art projects, they have explored the woods (mainly to retrieve golf balls), they have converted the gajillion holes they dug in the yard as the start to a zombie apocalypse/tornado shelter into putting practice (after chasing the balls from driving practice into the woods), they then remembered the impending zombie apocalypse and got out pellet guns and targets to practice on, and from the look of it they have consumed roughly a million juice boxes and worn no less than five pairs of socks each all of which remain strewn across the living room. And to go Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara all at once, frankly I don't give a damn because tomorrow in another day. And on THAT day I'll clean (maybe) and I'll prepare healthy meals (ok, that's even less likely) and I will rock this parenting gig (no way in hell, but we all gotta dream, right?). But for today, it's time for wine and some Ella Fitzgerald out of the deck. At least from there I may be able to determine what all the hammering I hear is...they said they were going to play catch. How in the name of all that's holy did they get a hammer?
Until next time, have an amazing and restful weekend from la casa!
We here in la casa have taken today as a very much needed day of rest. This week was a particularly brutal one involving the cop on day shift patrol, open house for the wild boys, boy scouts, a baseball practice and two baseball games, and a partridge in a pear tree. No, no partridge. If there was a partridge it would only survive off the fruit of the pear tree itself because I cannot possibly keep up with remembering to feed any more dependents here (and partly because birds scare the crap out of me...ask me sometime about getting attacked by a killer parrot that continuously yelled F*** YOU while pecking my ankle as I tried to pick a lock to get a felon that was hiding from my team...But I digress...)
Anyhow, day of rest. It's not super easy to come by, by any stretch, because as tired as the cop and I may be the wild boys have the energy and destructive force of Tasmanian devils. It takes total commitment to apathy about the state of cleanliness of la casa in order to actually sleep in here. Last night I made a bargain with them, and told them they could stay up as late as they want provided they didn't bother us and let us sleep in this morning. They NEVER get that kind of free reign, and it's with good cause. After making my little bargain with the boys I wandered off to bed and passed out cold. They held good to their bargain to not wake us, with the exception of Gabe who at about 11 pm did that super creepy "stand as close as you can to your mom's sleeping face and stare lovingly at her from two inches away until the heat of your breath and sheer proximity wake her abruptly, launching her into a terror yell and leap due to the close up of an 8 year old eyeball and nostril" so he could get his goodnight hug. Lesson in parenting - whatever you yell when you wake up screaming like that they will commit to memory. And you cannot control that, not in a state of half sleep/half panic. Just start a swear jar now, and save the earnings for therapy. That's my plan.
This morning I woke up after 9 am. That doesn't happen - like, ever. Seriously. A quick glance in a mirror revealed that yesterday's casual beach hair and eye makeup had morphed and I was now a zombie medusa. All concealer was gone, and the bruise and burn in the middle of my forehead from catching an expended round while at range earlier in the week (yes - that happened, and no, I have no idea how...I'm just that lucky and skilled) was once again painfully obvious. I made a point of telling the cop what an incredibly lucky man he was, all with horrendous morning breath, and wandered out to assess the state of la casa. The boys were awake, and had clothes on. Total win. Every single decorative pillow and couch cushion was fashioned into a pillow fort mansion on the floor, which they told me they constructed for the guinea pig. Less of a win. But the good news here, folks, is it only took a few minutes to locate the guinea pig who had probably escaped as soon as they set him down inside his new mansion. Good thing he doesn't wander far from food...he's getting pretty predictable. They had made themselves a breakfast that consisted of fiery Cheetos, hummus and carrots. That's 2/3 healthy people, and that's another parenting win right there. On a whole, not a bad trade off for a night of sleep.
So far today we have moved at a snails pace while the boys have spun frantically around us cramming every minute full of activity and injury potential. They have golfed, they have played baseball, they have done art projects, they have explored the woods (mainly to retrieve golf balls), they have converted the gajillion holes they dug in the yard as the start to a zombie apocalypse/tornado shelter into putting practice (after chasing the balls from driving practice into the woods), they then remembered the impending zombie apocalypse and got out pellet guns and targets to practice on, and from the look of it they have consumed roughly a million juice boxes and worn no less than five pairs of socks each all of which remain strewn across the living room. And to go Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara all at once, frankly I don't give a damn because tomorrow in another day. And on THAT day I'll clean (maybe) and I'll prepare healthy meals (ok, that's even less likely) and I will rock this parenting gig (no way in hell, but we all gotta dream, right?). But for today, it's time for wine and some Ella Fitzgerald out of the deck. At least from there I may be able to determine what all the hammering I hear is...they said they were going to play catch. How in the name of all that's holy did they get a hammer?
Until next time, have an amazing and restful weekend from la casa!
Sweet!!
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