Big Kids Are Boring

Recently, I was thinking about the fact that I don't write much on the blog anymore. It's not necessarily because I don't have the time. Come on, 5 kids, full-time teaching, sometimes mother-runner and part-time baker leaves me plenty of time in a day for leisurely writing. (Where is my sarcasm font??) All kidding aside, it's not lack of free time that stops me from writing. It's because my kids are big now. And big kids are boring. First of all, I have to refrain from embarrassing my middle-schoolers since most of their friends follow me on Instagram. And secondly, big kids just don't get into the same kind of shenanigans that they did when they were toddlers. I'm lacking blog fodder. So I thought.

Sophie has this toy she loves called BunchEms. They're basically colorful Velcro balls that have little hooks on them so they can be stuck together in interesting ways. They remind me of those awful things the boys used to throw at us on the way home from school that would stick to our wool knee socks.

These are BunchEms...

...and these are the stupid burrs that the boys would peg at the girls when we were walking home from elementary school. Basically, the same design.

Now, we know these BunchEms can stick to each other, but they'll also stick to anything else. Charlotte's friend, Charlotte, put a bunch of them in her gorgeously long hair. It took Charlotte's mom and I quite a while to pull each one out.

Which leads me to my first story in ages about my ridiculous kids. Charlotte and Sophie decided to take a bath in the big jacuzzi tub. While they were in there, minding their own business, my other darling children decided it would be fun to chuck ice cubes over the shower curtain into the tub. (There's no torture quite like being one of five children.) I put a stop to the ice cube throwing. But, instead of saying "Don't throw anything into the tub," I said, "Don't throw ice into the tub." I should know better by now. Rookie mistake.

Someone, who has yet to own up to it, threw all of Sophie's BunchEms into the tub. Sophie and Charlotte didn't seem to mind. And continued washing their hair with all those little stickers floating around in the water. Charlotte basically washed her hair with them. Which is how this exchange happened between me and the other Charlotte's mom:

 As Anne was texting me, I was sending her the picture...

Poor Chuck. After spending 20 minutes trying to disentangle those stupid things, I was finally left with this clump completely stuck to the middle of the top of her head. They were totally embedded. So I chopped the entire chunk off. Luckily, it didn't end up looking too bad. She has some short hairs on the top of her head, but they're just long enough that they blend in pretty well. 

The lesson here is this: These fools might not be ridiculous as often as when they were toddlers, but, they're still going to keep me on my toes.

~Lissie

Death Threats and Such...

Life is not always easy when you're one of five children. Nobody knows you better than the siblings with whom you share two bedrooms. Which means there is no one else on the planet who knows just how to push your buttons. And, if I'm being perfectly honest, there's no better button-pusher than a big brother. Just ask my sister-in-law. She's still traumatized by all the ways PJ tortured her growing up. ;) (Although, now that I think of it, I'm fully grown and my sister still tortures me.)

Charlotte is unreasonably fearful. She's afraid of the dark and she's afraid of being alone anywhere in the house. In our family, we are all well aware of this. The other night, I decided to relax in the tub. Which means I locked the door to the bathroom that leads into my bedroom. Patrick being that big brother who loves to tease, decided to lock the door into the boys' room. Which meant that everyone was in the bedrooms and Charlotte had no way to get down there. She was out in the hall by herself. Surprisingly, she didn't completely freak out (which has been known to happen). Instead, she went into a quiet rage and penned a letter. And it may actually be one of the best pieces of writing I've stumbled upon in my house.

Now, my darling 6 year old has some spelling skills to work on, but the composition is solid.

For those of you needing a little inventive spelling translation:

"Dear Patrick Minihane (first and last name - how formal!)

I hate you so much. I will kill you with my best strength."

Mind you, I never knew about this incident at all. They must've worked it out pretty quickly, because it didn't even come up until I found the letter on the floor the next day. We've since had a discussion about not being mean to our little sisters and how we don't write threatening letters to our big brothers. (Because, come on now, we shouldn't leave that kind of evidence just lying around.) 

I am really curious, though:

What does Charlotte's "best stranth" actually entail? We've been paying for karate for a long time - Patrick should probably be worried.

~Lissie

Playing Possum Isn't Just A Saying, You Know...

I used to use the term "playing possum" when Lucy was little. Lucy was painfully shy as a tiny one. I could almost never detach her from my hip. One time, my sister offered to babysit her and Patrick so PJ and I could go out. Lucy then proceeded to spend the next three hours not moving and not making eye contact. She played possum. I think in her little brain she thought if she stayed still long enough, they would all go away. Luckily, she grew out of that by the time I had to pry her off my legs to go to preschool.

I know that the saying stems from a possum's defense of playing dead to avoid prey. I had just never witnessed it, myself. Back in October, I wrote a tip for Tuesday reminding you to lock your dog door (if you have one). This is because I walked through the living room one morning and almost stepped on the slaughtered possum that my asshole dog left on the rug for me. It was completely disgusting and I made PJ get rid of it. I stop my wifely duties at carcasses.

About two weeks later, we were all sitting down to dinner in the dining room. Our dining room and living room share a big space, so when the kids were done with dinner, some of them moved over to the couch. A few of us were at the table and a couple of kids were hanging on the couch. None of us saw the dog come in from the dog door by the slider. All of a sudden, Sean started shouting, "Mommy, mommy, mommy!" in an increasingly panicked tone. Then he yelled, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT HE'S EATING!" This foolish animal has eaten so many toys and baby dolls, I just kind of assumed that was what Sean was so upset about. I should've known better by his panic. I walked over and the dog was very busy playing with a bloody mess that was, in its better days, a possum. How he even managed to walk right by all of us and drop that in the middle of the living room is a complete mystery. Ninja asshole.

I quickly ushered the kids out of the room so PJ and I could deal with it. Possums aren't small, by the way. I've dealt with the cats leaving gifts of birds, mice, and even snakes. Possums are not tiny critters. PJ went and got the shovel and asked me to hold open a large trash bag. As he scooped up this poor, dead thing, it moved. Not only did it move, but as PJ lifted the shovel the damn thing STOOD STRAIGHT UP. It wasn't dead. It was playing possum! At that point, we couldn't stick a live possum in a bag, so I held the front door and PJ walked straight through the house balancing a possum standing up on the end of his shovel. I'm so sad I didn't get a video of that.  (Stop for one moment and close your eyes. Please picture my husband walking ever so gingerly through my house with a shovel held at arm's length and a full-grown possum just standing straight up on the end of said shovel.) Those were some impressive moves.

Thank you Opossum Society of the US for this handy explanation!

Since the great live possum of 2014, we haven't had anymore animal incidents. I can only hope we get to witness the origins of some other popular English idioms in 2015. Maybe someone will actually let the cat out of the bag. Or, perhaps, we will hear something straight from the horse's mouth. Like a neigh. Or a whinny.

~Lissie

-->What about you? Have your pets left you any awful "presents"? Were they still alive?? Leave your story in the comments below...

Crazy Town

I grew up as the youngest of two children. My sister is 6 1/2 years older than I am (don't listen to her when she tries to pretend she's the younger sister). My house was pretty quiet as a kid. We were just far enough apart that we entertained ourselves. This is why my mom's most frequent statement in my house is: "This house is crazy."

To some degree, I understand. The day-to-day routine with 5 kids and an obnoxious (& ginormous) puppy is much more hectic than a house with a 6 and 12 year old could ever be. 

What my mom doesn't realize is that, sometimes, it is legitimately crazy around here. My children are insane. They're great at entertaining themselves, but that just means that they've invented some bizarre new game. 

Here are a few recent highlights of these whack jobs in action:

Charlotte told me she's "pretending to be Baba." Baba is PJ's 90 year old nana who likes to wear leopard print clothes. A lot. Apparently, Baba's fashions haven't escaped Charlotte's attention.

Thanks to Rondo, the dog. I can only assume this is the aftermath of a puppy keg party. He really needs to learn to hide the evidence.

I'm assuming this look stems from a night of drinking, too. Or, Charlotte is trying that new topless ninja look that is all the rage. (Side note: why do my children have such an aversion to clothes?)

And then there are the photo edits they do to themselves (or each other):

Nice look, Lulu!

Lucy's interpretation of Sophie.

We've discussed my issue with dolls. They scare the crap out of me. 

This is one of Charlotte's favorite toys. It's also the creepiest. (Sorry, Grammy!) But there she sits - with her crazy crossed eyes - just mocking me with a big, old thumbs up.

At least Creepy Baby and I share taste in beer. (Is she making funny eyebrows at me?? {waggle, waggle})

If they're not acting crazy, they're sleeping crazy. Sean's either a yoga master or suffering from narcolepsy. Here he is sleeping face down on the carpet while 20 people yell and scream at the Patriots on TV. Impressive.

Charlotte invites herself, creepy baby, and the (not tiny) dog to join me in bed. She didn't want me to be lonely. How thoughtful!

Group coma, everyone!

One thing is for sure: being crazy certainly wears them out. So... at least I have that going for me in this insane asylum that I call home.

In case you're wondering what antics they get up to when left to they're own devices, here is a clip of what happens when Patrick & Sophie "entertain" themselves:

Big Box O' Crazy

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-->Is your house crazy, too? Feel free to share your story in the comments below...

Snakes on the Cape

This post has been delayed by almost a month. After our crazy vacation and subsequent return to work, I haven't had a chance to write about it. Really, though. This blog can't go without a post about what happened on vacation. I've never actually seen the movie Snakes on a Plane. I am aware, however, that Samuel L. Jackson's famous line is something about the motherf*cking snakes on the motherf*cking plane. Well, what none of us knew about our summer vacation is that we were going to be starring in the sequel, Snakes on the Cape. And yes, there were motherf*cking snakes on the motherf*cking Cape.

Every summer, my in-laws rent a house for two weeks. Not only do they rent a place big enough for our family of seven (& our dog), but we also have my sister- & brother-in-law and their dog, Ditto and her dog, and Nana (who just turned 90 last week). It's quite a crowd. This year, they rented a place we have rented twice previously. It has plenty of bedrooms for a group our size, is dog-friendly, and the property has its own beach. We figured we were heading down to Cape Cod for two weeks of fun, sun, and relaxation. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to be the case.

When my father- & mother-in-law arrived Saturday, the owner was there to let them know there was a slight problem. Apparently, some type of animal had died inside the wall of the kitchen. The kitchen smelled like death. It was horrendous. But the owners were nice enough to discount the rent somewhat and promised that an exterminator would be out Monday morning to try to address the problem. Okay, we figured we could eat takeout for two nights and tolerate the smell long enough to make coffee and get snacks. No big deal. Although, I did have to move the dog's food to another room because he couldn't even be dragged into the kitchen. Evidently, he had more sense than the rest of us about what we were dealing with.

Monday morning, I was up very early making a cup of coffee. PJ and my father-in-law had gone up to the city for work, and I was in the kitchen by myself. The lovely stench of death had dissipated somewhat, so I was just patiently waiting in the kitchen for my coffee to brew. The dog ran into the kitchen, grabbed something off the floor, then ran into the dining room and dropped it. I walked over to see what he had, and saw a tiny snake slithering on the dining room floor. It couldn't have been more than six inches long, but it was definitely a baby snake. Sadly, I didn't get a picture, but I looked it up later and found that it was a northern ringneck snake. (My favorite parts of the description are when they talk about releasing a "foul odor" and "biting savagely." Just what you want in a house with kids, dogs, and an almost 90 year old.) Seeing as I was the only one awake, I scooped it up with a piece of paper and threw it outside.

My little coffee companion

When the property manager and the exterminator showed up, I let them know that I had found a tiny snake in the middle of the kitchen. The property manager assured me that was just a fluke and totally unrelated to whatever had died in the walls. Um, okay. You're the expert, buddy. Whatever you say. They decided that there was an animal that had died in the wall but, since the smell was almost gone, they could just address the odor. If we really wanted, they could open up the wall and get whatever it was out. They kept trying to tell us it was probably a squirrel or something. After many conversations between my father-in-law and the owners, they decided to come back the next day and open the wall. This was the first time they mentioned that there might be a nest of snakes in there. The exterminator told us we should plan to be out of the house for a few hours because if there was a nest, the snakes would try to scatter when they opened the wall. "But don't worry, we'll have a high-powered vacuum there to suck them up." WTF?

The next morning, the property manager and exterminator showed up. We hastily shoved some food into the kids mouths and rushed them down to the beach. I went back inside to grab something and I could hear the high-powered vacuum running already. Oh hell no. Snakes don't particularly bother me, but I sure as hell don't want to be around when they start to scatter.

Later that morning, we were informed that the situation was all taken care of. They found a dead, three-foot long snake in the wall. Just one. The smell was so bad because it's the kind of snake that can release a scent (like a skunk). Regardless, the situation was under control. They got rid of the ONE dead snake and patched the wall. We were all set. Famous last words.

That same afternoon, my brother-in-law, Michael, was in the kitchen. It just so happens that, as a child, Michael was bitten by a venomous snake in the Philippines. You can imagine that he's got the best reason of any of us to really not be a fan of snakes. He was in the kitchen (at the opposite side from where the dead snake had been removed from the wall) and he closed the door to the porch. When he slammed the door, a foot-long snake fell from the ceiling and landed right on the floor in front of him. Are you kidding me? The problem is all taken care of, but now we've got snakes falling from the ceiling??

We decided no one should go back in the kitchen until we figured out what we were going to do. Nana heard this and was very upset. Her concern wasn't so much the snakes, but how she was going to get her vodka out of the freezer. She tried to send Michael back into the kitchen for it. I decided I could tolerate the snakes a little better than the poor guy who'd actually been bitten once, so I braved the snakes for Nana's vodka. Believe me, I was watching the ceiling the whole time. While I was in there, I went through the doorway to the porch and looked closely at the ceiling. I was trying to figure out where the snakes were coming from. While I was inspecting the ceiling, I noticed a space in the molding where there was a piece of snakeskin hanging down. Oh. My. God. There had to be a huge nest in the ceiling. And there's no way the exterminator didn't know that. Gross.

At this point, PJ and my father-in-law were on the way back. This was supposed to be the start of their vacation. None of us felt particularly comfortable sleeping in a house with nocturnal snakes, so the owners let us move into their main house on the property for the night. We spent that night and much of the next day trying to find a house on the cape we could move into that would house three dogs, seven kids, and eight adults. Pretty unlikely. Not for lack of trying, we were out of luck. We had to move all of our stuff back home on Wednesday night. 

We were finally able to move back into a new house the following Saturday for a week. It was a nice house that was near some beautiful beaches. It wasn't perfect because we had to drive to the beach everyday, but it sure as hell didn't have snakes falling out of the ceiling, so that was okay with us!

In addition to the snake infestation, we had kids with the plague (croup) that landed one of them in the emergency room. It was quite the time. I'm not sure what comes after the plague and snakes. I'll have to brush up on the Bible before our next vacation.

Here's to hoping next year's vacation is completely boring...

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Have you ever had a calamity on vacation? Feel free to share your crazy story in the comments below...

Dances With Wolves

I've been told my kids are weird. It's possible I've said that myself more than once. There have even been times when I've caught their weirdness on camera. Here is some photographic evidence of my abnormal children (accompanied by their appropriate Dances With Wolves character name):

Bubbles In His Hair

Shaves With French Fries

Princess Stacking Cups

Hugging Pole

Sleeps With Ketchup

What about your house? Do you ever catch weirdos on film? (Do people even say "on film?" I haven't caught anything "on film" in a million years. Is it appropriate to say "on digital?" It just doesn't seem to have the same effect.)

HEY! If you enjoy the blog, why not become a follower? I'm the one who's mothering weirdos. You can also stalk find me on Facebook and Twitter. Like the page and follow me!

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Have a strange bunch in your house? Feel free to share in the comments below...

Hiding

Charlotte has this quirky little habit and I think it needs a name. It's been going on for at least a year, but it seems to have ramped up in the last few months. Charlotte is a "hide-o-maniac." She suffers from a severe case of "hide-o-mania." Seeing as she is a pretty typical toddler, I feel like this behavior must already have a proper scientific name. If you know what it is, please fill me in.

If you were to come to my house, I would warn you not to put anything small or even remotely valuable anywhere that Charlotte can reach it. If you don't heed my warning, then don't complain to me later. It will be gone. Possibly forever. Take your car key, for example. I have found PJ's car key in with the bath toys. I found it right before I dumped all of those toys into the tub. It was a close call for that little electronic key. We've already had issues with that foolish key, so this was a nice save, for sure.

Yesterday, I was getting milk out of the fridge. Charlotte sidled up next to me and started rummaging in the door of the fridge. She pulled Rondo's collar out from behind the mayonnaise and announced, "Oh. That's where I put that." Um, what?

This morning, I was searching high and low for the spray cleaner. I knew I had just used it last night. I couldn't track it down anywhere. I ended up getting a new bottle from the closet and cleaning whatever the latest mess was. Then, I went to get something from the refrigerator and found the bottle of spray cleaner right on the shelf next to the spinach. That's normal, for sure.

The case for my phone was missing for a few days and eventually found with the bath toys. Three remote controls were in the drawers of my dresser. And numerous things have gone missing and have yet to be found. Charlotte is well aware of what she is doing. Usually, I can ask for a missing item and she will go get it (from inside the baby wipes container). She's so busy hiding things, though, that she often forgets where she puts them.


So, please. If you come over to my house, do so at your own risk:



And if you have a name for this compulsive hiding thing, could you let me know? It would be helpful if I ever need to get her treatment. ;)


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A Whole 'Nutha' Level

A friend of mine and I have a running joke about the word 'another.' She insists that when something is really bad it warrants the phrase 'a whole nutha' as opposed to 'another whole' or 'a whole other.' When I told her that I took my morning to a whole new level of ridiculousness on Wednesday she corrected me with this text:

Normally, I'm the grammar queen. While I try not to be rude and correct you to your face, I'll be thinking about it in my head. But, after the morning I had, I think Erika might just be right. I didn't just bring my morning to another whole level or a whole other level. It was a whole nutha level of chaos.

It all started Monday night. I fell asleep from 9-10:30, then couldn't sleep anymore. As I was about to doze off at 2 am, Charlotte woke up. She had apparently received an invitation for a party in my bed that I was hosting. She was WIDE AWAKE and asking for snacks and chocolate milk. Thinking it might shut her up, I obliged. What kind of hostess would I be otherwise? Unfortunately, every time I started to doze off, some other fool needed something from me. The dog had to go out. The cat had to go out. The guinea pig was squeaking. (When was the last time you threw carrots at something at 4 am?) It was insanity. Right around 5:30 (when my alarm went off), Charlotte fell asleep. I figured out that I got about 3 hours of non-consecutive sleep. 

Which brought me into Tuesday. When I had to be at work until 7:30 pm. There's nothing like looking at student data for 3 1/2 hours when you haven't slept. Needless to say, I was a little tired Tuesday night. I knew I had a lot to do, but I just didn't have it in me. So, I set the alarm for 4 am and called it a night. I figured that would give me plenty of time to do all the things I should've done Tuesday night. Since I am a big fan of the snooze button, I set two alarms on my phone and one on my alarm clock. 

Color me surprised when I rolled over and looked at the clock on my table. I must've been exhausted because I have no recollection of a single alarm going off. Not one of the three. I vaguely remember screaming: "IT'S 6:40!!" This is a cause for panic because we leave the house at 7:15, PJ usually leaves at 6:20, and my mom comes to babysit anywhere between 6:45 and 7 am. And I still hadn't accomplished a single task!

I now found myself faced with the prospect of finding clothes for myself and five kids, packing lunches, getting everyone dressed and fed, dealing with the pets, and getting out the door in 35 minutes. Not only that, but I usually try to tidy up the disaster house before my mom arrives. And, did I mention that it was Crazy Hat Day at the kids' school and we hadn't decorated the hats yet? This is when you should laugh. Because I did. Otherwise I might cry. So I laughed. There was a little edge of hysteria there, but I laughed nonetheless.

PJ dashed out of the house as fast as he could. The kids did a lot of helping like letting the dog out and feeding the pets. I'm pretty sure one of the girls got Sean dressed. My mom helped with hair brushing, face washing, and shoe tying. (And by the time I got home, she had tackled the embarrassingly huge pile of dishes in the sink.) I found clothes (miraculous) and packed lunches and got everyone in the car right on time. Which is where we decorated crazy hats. The kids were in the backseat sticking foam letters to their hats while I did puffy paint at red lights. It was completely psychotic.

I don't text and drive, but they never said anything about puffy paint.

Patrick kept tipping his hat and saying, "Good morrow," like someone from a Dickens novel.

Lucy was my backseat decorator. She did a lot of helping (especially since I was driving).

And yes, Sophie's eyebrows are a little green. She had her face painted at dinner and we didn't quite get it all off in the chaos.

That's a bunny in Sean's lap. He wanted take it out of his hat at school.

So, I guess I have to agree with Erika on this one. I took my morning to a whole nutha level of craziness. I'm hoping for an utterly boring week next week. Although, if that were the case, I'd have nothing to blog about. And all of you organized people out there wouldn't be able to read this so smugly like you are. So, you're welcome. 

HEY... If you enjoy the blog, why not become a follower? I'm the one who likes it a little crazy. You can also stalk find me on Facebook and Twitter. Like the page and follow me!

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