Starting out things were semi-normal: a hectic day at work, late getting home, running half-naked children when I walk in the door… the usual. Nathan wasn’t feeling well, so he was in bed asleep. Our yard looks like a miniature rainforest and, since Kristin has been cooped up with the children all day and was about to rip her hair out, we decided she should take some time away from them and cut the grass. While she was cutting the yard I started making dinner, a wonderful meal consisting of hamburger helper-ish beef stroganoff, corn and delicately aged lemonade (in other words, made 10 minutes prior). Oh, I also made some brownies for dessert, how could I forget that? Kristin hates me when I make them, yet she never complains about eating them… I think she really likes them and wants to play coy.
Since we have a large yard, dinner (and brownies) was finished cooking before Kristin was done cutting the weeds… I mean grass. Nathan was still asleep and seeming to run a fever, so I let him sleep it off and didn’t wake him for dinner. Kate and Emma tore into their corn but side-stepped the dangerous looking stroganoff. After attempting a taste of the noodle mush they announce to the world that they are done and, before I could stop them, offered the plates to the dog who immediately lapped it up. Since they did eat the corn and some of the stroganoff I let them have 1 brownie each, which was the whole point of dinner anyway, right?
Next thing I know, one of the chocolate covered faces have opened the door and let the dog run free. Free! Free! The dog announces his joy at being free by running throughout the yard, the neighbor’s yard, the road, a little forest trail behind the house; and he made use of the facilities in each place. All the while Kristin is swerving the lawnmower so as to not turn the brain-damaged dog to mulch. I run out to catch the dog, the girls run out for fun and start playing on their toys, and poor Nathan is still in bed oblivious to everything. My Father-in-Law catches the dog and I corral the children and dog back into the house. Now, since the dog is out of harm‘s way, Kristin runs out of gas. I put shoes on, grab a gas can, and run to the gas station to get a refill for the mower, and Kristin goes inside to have dinner.
When I get back from the gas station I notice the lawnmower is not in my yard anymore. Since we’ve had a string of lawnmower thefts in the area I immediately start panicking thinking that someone had stolen my in-laws’ new mower. Right when I start the heavy breathing exercises so as to not faint, my Father-in-Law appears at the top of my driveway telling me that he found a little bit of gas so that he could get it back to their yard without pushing it the whole way. Now that this crisis is over, I go inside and make sure everyone is ok. Kristin is eating a plate of the *wonderful* dinner I made, the girls are watching TV, and Nathan had been woken up. Nathan, not feeling well, was complaining about life in general, he didn’t even eat but a bite of brownie (which I must mention were still warm gooey goodness from the oven). I let Kristin know that I’ve been asked to look at something computer related at her mother’s. Kristin elects to stay behind as opposed to waking and dressing Nathan.
At my in-laws I look at their computer, their printer, and their digital camera. I don’t see anything in particular that is wrong, so I sit back and watch the last of an episode of CSI. I go back home and don’t see the children. Nathan, as I correctly guessed, is still in bed, but the girls were missing and I heard the faint trickling of running water. I go to the bathroom and see them, one dressed and one not, standing in the middle of a half full bathtub, surrounded by every single plate, bowl, and cup we own that they can reach. Not only that, but they’ve got a couple dog toys, clothes hangers, hair bows, Nathan’s toys, their toys, and a few bits of metal I still don’t know where they came from.The girls were blissfully using the hangers to scoop water into the bowls and plates, then serving them to the various toys as dinner. If I hadn’t been dumbfounded as to why they would take *ever* *single* dish from the cabinets and used them, I think I might have thought it funny and gotten a camera. As it was I had them help me gather the dishes together then swatted a few butts before forcing the heads attached to those butts onto their assigned pillows. After their sniffing and sniveling is over with, they fall asleep.
Everything is peaceful, until 2 or 3 in the morning. I’m woken by the wonderful sound of gagging and then some crying, which is followed by some more gagging. Nathan has declared he is sick and is going to let the bathroom floor know it! I jump up to help steer him through the obstacle course which is our house, into the bathroom so I don’t have to clean anything out of the carpet. He lets a few phlegm-y spits gurgle out of his mouth, but is more concerned about getting a paper towel to clean everything up with.After changing him out of the clothes he’s soiled, I ask him if he wants to sleep in my bed just in case he gets sick again. Of course he says yes, but spends the next 10 minutes making sure all the lights are out and doors locked and messes cleaned up. He also has to check on the dog, which only wakes the dog up and, to make a long story short, I’m now sleeping with a woman, a boy, and a dog. (two of the three sleep fitfully, I’ll let you pick). About 6 in the morning I’m woken again because Emma, making the daily transition from her bed to mine, is surprised and upset to find brother already in her spot. To cut down on the yelling, I get up and intend to sleep the rest of the morning on the couch. This seems to please the quarrelling children as I get to slid back into slumber. Not but about 30 minutes later, the dog has me up and walking him. I go ahead and make coffee to start the day.
– The Next day –
I, thinking that Kristin doesn’t have to go to work until 11:30, don’t even consider waking her until 10:30. When I do, I find out that she’s suppose to be at work at 11 and out of the house already, not to mention showered, dressed, and fed. After she’s out of the house (with help from all family members including the dog, but he didn’t actually *help*) it’s a basic lazy day. We watch a little TV, run around outside, go to Wal-Mart, nothing too exciting. The dog is let out twice, but is recovered both times, and I squirt the children with the hose. Still being relatively cool outside, the water from the hose is shockingly cold to the sun-warmed backs of the children. Needless to say, I was chastised in the harshest language they know. I was yelled at as being a meanie-head, poopie-head, and the plain old “big meanie,” just to name a few of their choicer words.
I get them calmed down and in the house so they can take a bath to wash the mud and random grass cutting off. While we were in the bathroom, the dog comes up to drink out of the tub the children are washing in. He looks…different, almost like he’s making a face at me. On closer inspection I see that his lips are swollen. Thinking back, I remember seeing him digging at the base of a tree I know has an ant hill. The dog has dug up an ant hill, tried to eat the ants, and durnit! wouldn’t you it, the ants bit him back.Now I don’t know if the dog is having an allergic reaction to just a few ant bites or if he was that dumb to keep trying to eat them and just had that many ants bite him. I mean, the poor dog can hardly keep the water in his mouth because his lips have swollen in an open state. I call Kristin, at work, and ask her opinion. She doesn’t know what to do either, but a co-worker says that if the swelling doesn’t go down after a couple hours, or gets significantly worse, to call the vet. As of right now, it’s gone down and he can drink normally.
For dinner I let everyone know I’m making chili and cornbread. Kate jumps up and starts shouting she’s going to have “Chili ’on bed!” I try to get her to say it correctly, but now she’s running around the house going, “chili ‘onbed, chili ‘onbed, yay!” After dinner everyone is put to bed and I go into the playroom to type this. I hear a rattling, then some pots being clanked together in the kitchen. I jump up to find that Kate and Emma (neither will blame the other so I don’t know who actually did it) have taken the largest mixing bowl we own and put one raw egg into it so the dog can eat it. What does a dog need with a raw egg?!? More swatted butts and some threats of continued spankings if they don’t go back to bed, NOW! All in a days’ work…
