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This Week in Our House

Expect my blogs to be short.  Sometimes long.  Once in a while they’re even on point.  I’m trying for funny, now and then they might be poignant.  Amazingly, they are always true stories right from my home.  I love to write, but even I couldn’t make this stuff up!




 February 22, 2010

I’ve taken my 5 year old son to two birthday parties in as many weekends.  I love parties of all kinds.  The best part is getting to people-watch.  There are many different personalities at any get-together and I find myself taking mental notes.

One of the parties was for the daughter of one of my good friends.  I’ve gone to her children’s parties over the years and ran into the same people.  I don’t take notes then because I already have opinions formed.  It’s just good to enjoy the company of people I run into over time.  I remember bits and pieces of their lives and it’s a good place to start a conversation.

We talk about how their home remodeling is coming; the gorgeous weather in Hawaii-who wouldn’t want to live there!  The name of a fun pizza joint in Portland that also has a great play area for kids; how work is going.  We all seem to have sons of the same age and we discuss how they’re doing in Kindergarten.  Of course living near Seattle, the weather is always a topic of discussion.  We reveled in the string of gorgeous days we had for February.

The other birthday party was for a classmate of my son.  I only knew two of the parents in attendance; some of the others I made an acquaintance.  At this party I got the chance to watch, and I noticed that parents generally fall into “types.”

There was the type who has a child prone to misbehaving and they seemed rather removed from it all.  Perhaps it was just exhaustion from trying to keep up, or a sense of quitting.  An “I’ve-run-out-of-ideas” approach.  This was a treat for some of us as we watched the child kick rocks, throw rocks, and join with another boy to verbally badger another until he couldn’t take it anymore.

There was the nice and quiet type parent.  They are always easy to talk with and tend to have quiet and easy children, too.

There was the parent who, when you try to make conversation with them, answer in short phrases or end up just staring at you.  You walk away wondering, Do I have something in my teeth?

Sometimes a dad or two shows up as the primary parent.  They always seem reserved, maybe somewhat sophisticated.  Probably, they are just intimidated by being surrounded by a group of strange women, and enjoy retreating to their video cameras.

Then there was me. 

I found myself being a “helicopter parent.”  Those are the parents who are constantly hovering over their child. 

“Where are you going?”

“I want to talk to the cowboy.”  (We were at a horse farm.)

“I don’t think he wants to be bothered.”  (Note:  grim look on ranch hand’s face.  Lines of irritation on his cheeks.  Dressed in flannel, and sweats, and no Stetson.  Clearly, he loves children and birthday parties hosted at the ranch.)

“Please don’t run out into the pasture where the horses are!”

“I didn’t!”  (After he had returned, where he had gone out 60 feet into the horse poop.)

“I don’t think it’s time to go into the party room yet.”

“But I just want to sit down.”  (As he pulls the whole tablecloth into his lap.)

“Don’t leave yet, it’s almost time for cake.”

“I want to go play.”  (As pretend ranch hand stands near the ponies, biting his finger nails.)

Waving my hands to child ignoring me as ranch owner finally tells my son to “sit on a hale bale, and keep it company.”

When we got home, I collapsed into the couch.  My husband had the Olympics on.

“Where’s the Goodyear blimp when you need it?” he asked.  “I want a good view of those ski slopes.”

“Mommy!  Can we take a ride on a blimp today?” my son asked.

“No, honey.  Mommy already had a helicopter ride today.  I’ve seen enough for one day.”

February 15, 2010

My in-laws came to dinner this weekend.  Over the course of dessert we women discussed the State of Eating in our country.  Whenever a resolution is made to eat healthier, to give up chips, soda, chocolate, cookies, pies, cake, pastries, fast food, french fries or anything processed, along comes an event calling for just these foods. 

It’s near impossible to get away from the great gods named Sugar and Fat based on our current calendar system.  (Okay, so maybe these are my embellishments.  Just go with it.)

Later, I sat down with a full-year calendar and plotted the pitfalls to healthy eating in my own life.

January starts out with a bang- Happy New Year!  For anybody trying to start new eating resolutions, you’ll have to wait until the second new day of the year.  The first day beckons you to drink champagne!  Go out to eat!  Nibble on leftover sweets from Christmas!

Mid-month, just when I’ve moved away from all the holiday festivities, lands our wedding anniversary.  Surprise!  Another milestone to be marked by candy gifts, a special dinner out, and perhaps some sugary dessert as a celebration.

February holds two pitfalls:  the obvious Valentine’s Day, and Super Bowl Sunday.  It’s hard to get away from pressure to indulge in greasy, fattening foods even if you have no intention to watch the game.  Commercials beckon you from the comfort of your own couch.  Large displays of chips, soda and beer tackle you in the grocery store as you steer your cart by.  Massive billboards jump in front of your car as you drive to drop off dry cleaning.

March seems to hold a stretch of holiday-free weeks (except for when Easter falls early.)

April is Easter.  Plus, Spring Break for the kids.  (I can’t get through that week without sugar!!)

In May is our daughter’s birthday.  How can I turn down cake when there is a whole quarter sheet left of pink sugary sparkles?  That’s followed up by our son’s birthday in June, the Fourth of July (hot dogs! chips! eating myself into a lard-induced coma!) and my birthday at the end of the month.

August seems to be the only reprieve of the summer.  I have four weeks to make up for four months of “treats.”

In September school starts again (to be celebrated by chocolate!)  And don’t get me started on October, November, and December.

Looking back at my year, it seems I have two months of good eating to cancel out ten months of fighting off unwanted addictions.

Check, please! 

February 8, 2010

Sometime before the holidays, my mother asked what she could send for the kids.  “Do they need clothes?” she asked.  “I’m stopping by the outlets.  Let me know what I can get.”

I ran down choices in my mind, but everything seemed complicated.  Our kids are 3 years apart and different sexes.  And my son wears a different size for shirts than his pants.  I could imagine the conversation with my mom, long distance, while she took notes:

“The kids need pajamas.  Ryan loves footed pj’s that zip, but don’t get him any.  It’s too hard to change his pull-up at night when he’s all zipped up and fast asleep.  It’s like getting Houdini out of a straight jacket when he’s limp as a rag doll.

“You could get him long-sleeved shirts, but get a size 7 now.  He’s growing.  But his pants are still size 6.  Make sure the buttons aren’t too hard to fasten, and don’t get any sweats.  His favorite color is green, and don’t get orange or yellow.  Now on to Cassie…”

It would be right at this point that my mom would make gurgling noises into the receiver.

“Mom, are you still there?”

“Huh?” she’d say.  “Oh, yes.  Just trying to keep up.”

So this year I told her something simple:  socks.  Plain, white socks for both children.  Several weeks later we received a box in the mail with enough socks to outfit a small town.  As I stuffed the hoard of socks into my son’s drawer, I told him,”There.  That should be enough for a long while.”

Last week, a day after I had washed a load of whites, he told me, “I don’t have any socks to wear.”

“What!” I bellowed.  “Where are they?” I demanded, tearing up his room like he had taken to hiding them.  “I don’t know,” he shrugged.  As I lay there with my head buried under his bed, an array of images came cascading to me:  Ryan running through the mud in his socks.  Ryan sneaking onto the back deck in the pouring rain, in his socks.  Ryan tearing up the wet driveway as soon as the garage door was open one foot.  In his socks.

Our son is like a caged cat who will bolt from our house through the tiniest of openings like he hasn’t seen daylight in ages.  In his socks.

This weekend my mom called to tell us she had a little extra money and wanted to know, did the kids need anything?

“Running shoes for Ryan,” I said immediately.  “We’re skipping the socks altogether.”

“I’ll get a pen and paper,” she said.  Smart grandma, that one.

February 5, 2010

No offense to January, but I was glad to turn the calendar page this week.  For me, it holds a place as the most, well to put it bluntly, blah month of the year.  Most years I am still reeling from the busyness of Christmas and find myself sleep walking through the milk toast month of January.

Don’t get me wrong.  January has several redeeming qualities.  The very first day of the year is a federal holiday, followed by another one several weeks later in celebrating the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.  My husband and I have our wedding anniversary this month, too (although we are usually too tired and cash-strapped to do much with it.)  There are also plenty of great after-Christmas sales this month, too.

But for me, January has the dubious honor of following behind December’s Christmas.  It’s like the host who has to stay behind and clean up after the raucous party guests have left.  Our house seems to stay in a perpetual state of mess.  Decorations come down in piecemeal steps, making the month feel like a strange mix of Christmas and have a Happy Winter.

After the splurges of the holiday season, we seem to be close to broke in January, too.  We don’t want to even look at our bank account bottom line.  It seems to be a magic month of growth for both kids, and their clothes start getting smaller all at once.  That sends us digging through our sock drawers and inside the pages of old books for any hidden cash tucked away for new shoes, pants and shirts.

The weather in January is usually cold, snowy and dreary.  In the Pacific Northwest it still gets dark early at night, and stays dark late in the morning.  Sometime during the month the shine on the new toys from Christmas starts to wear off and the kids become bored again.  Or, they end up not playing with most of their Christmas toys anyway and stay interested in their old stand-bys:  empty boxes, blank sheets of paper, and old toys found from long ago.

Maybe January was meant to be a great place holder, bridging the gap between the excesses of Christmas and the hope of spring coming around the corner.  This week I am sure I saw the first signs of buds springing from the trees.  But it must have been on February 1st.  Budding trees is surely not the job of January.


February 1, 2010

I really admire mothers who can stay at home 12 hours a day with their young children and never seem frazzled.  They always seem to have it together, are patient, speak in quiet tones to their little angels and never speak of bolting from their homes for 10 desperate minutes of solitude.

You know the types.  Maybe you are friends with one of them.  They are the parents who can have large families with a young tot always under foot, and waddling around in saggy diapers.

I’m not that type. 

I thought I would be.  But the first time I caught my youngster emptying the contents of our trash can on my just-cleaned kitchen floor after a week of no sleep from being woken up several times a night due to him cutting his back molars, I wised up.  I ended up in our coat closet, humming to myself and chanting, “happy place, happy place.”

I’ve since discovered that errands are the best ways to get me out of the house.  For.  Just.  Five.  Minutes.  By.  Myself.

Sometimes taking letters to the mailbox becomes a whole affair.  I walk slowly.  I admire the trees and sky.  I walk in circles around our neighbor’s car.  I play hop-scotch.  I prune our overgrown tree in the front yard.  Finally I make my way back.

Last night I went to the grocery store by myself.  I had 40 minutes of complete alone time.  I hummed.  Ismiled at strangers.  I squeezed the oranges.  I made a loop around the whole store just because I could.

When I got home I was so fresh-faced I almost didn’t notice that both children had emptied their toy chests in our living room.  Our dishwasher was running and was loud enough to rattle the tree limbs. 

“Your turn,” my husband sighed as he made his way downstairs.   I could have sworn one of his eyelids twitched as he said it.

I’m relieved. 

He’s not one of those patient moms either.


January 29, 2010

This week my in-laws left us a selection of wonderful indulgence:  flavored, already-ground, and sealed in beautiful gold packaging, coffee.  He told me something to the effect:  “For the women who never gets a hot cup of coffee!”  (That does seem to be a theme in my columns!)

We left the coffee in their fancy boxes on the kitchen counter and went to bed.

The next morning, it was my toddler who slept in past 7 A.M. and my son who was up early.  As I drifted in and out of sleep, daring to enjoy the warm covers and few minutes of silence, I heard telltale noises from the kitchen.

A clank! here and bang! there.  I knew I would pay for it later, but I decided to lay in bed anyway and not go investigate.

When I finally did arise, our kitchen looked like a backyard dirt lot.  My son had opened our boxes of coffee, taken the shiny gold packages out and was attempting surgery on them with a large pair of scissors.  He had cut holes in both ends of the packages and was sprinkling grounds like a baptism.

“My heavens!” I yelled.  “What are you doing?”

“Well,” he started.  “I thought there was candy inside.  I was trying to sneak some.  I’m sorry,” he said.

I really did try to be mad, but the kid loves sugar.  I can’t fault him for that!  Now, when he tries to sneak my expensive coffee grounds to make himself his own cup of joe…we’ll have a talk. 

January 25, 2010

On Friday afternoon I decided to tackle our backyard.  The thousands of leaves that fell this fall are already decomposing.  I refuse to help the bastion of stubborn weeds that have staked out their territories by giving them nourishment.

Last winter we never even raked the backyard.  We just waited for the gardener to show up in the spring and mow the leaves up.  Our lone next door neighbors were treated to a wonderful sight all winter:  a front-place seat to rotting organic material.  We baked them cookies in April and called it good.

While I was out there using arm muscles I haven’t used since my children were babies, I got a hint of cheer.  The “Early Bloomer” was already budding.  It’s a tall towering bush that sits just outside of our fence.  Somehow it has an inner clock that is set to its own time.  It always buds in January, just when the winter is starting to stretch and my eyes are bloodshot from looking at all the trees that resemble walking sticks.

“Look!  Signs of life!  Maybe spring is coming!” I cheered outloud to nobody in particular.

“Isn’t that the same bush whose leaves change on the 4th of July?” my husband said.

What a thing to say to a girl!

January 22, 2010

This week I had the next-best-thing to having a babysitter during the day:  one of my children was sick.  Poor thing; she had a fever and threw up once on Monday, then proceeded to lay around the rest of the day.  If she crawled off the couch for longer than 5 minutes, I would be surprised.

On Tuesday it was really shocking.  After I took my oldest child to the early morning bus stop, Cassie came back and layed on the couch again.  She watched her favorite tv show, Curious George, then fell asleep.  I looked. 

Asleep.  I got some writing done at the kitchen table, then feelings of guilt arised.  I looked again.

Asleep.  I felt bold.  I dared to clean our upstairs bathroom.  Surely my scrubbing and washing would have awoken her, so I looked.

Asleep.  Now I had to pinch myself.  What else could I do with my bounty of free time?  I wrote some more, rifled through our pantry hunting for some form of chocolate (Rats!  None to be found), cleaned the kitchen (am I crazy?!) and poked around on the computer.

She finally woke up when a trash truck rumbled down our street.  On Wednesday, I layed her on our couch and said, “Wouldn’t you like a nice nap?”

“Uh huh,” she answered sweetly.  She layed down and closed her eyes.  Only to open them and bounce up 3 minutes later. 

When the next sickness rolls around, I’ll tackle the kitchen floor.  It hasn’t been cleaned since Christmas.

January 18, 2010

Weekends at our place are rather drab.  I don’t think the kids have noticed yet that weekends can be an exciting time, a time to go places and do things.  We all putter around the house finding things to do in our own time and space.

Daddy uses the time to sleep in –his beloved treasure.  I don’t even ask to sleep in anymore.  I’m awake anyway (good ole’ body clock!) and Ryan and Cassie will pound on the door until they’ve reached me.  Apparently I’m the only one who can feed them, play with them, and know exactly where the milk is (or so they think). 

Ryan, our Kindergartener, is very mechanical.  He spends the weekend finding many uses for a parachute cord.  He throws it over a chair top and creates a pulley.  Sometimes he strings up his sister’s purse, much to her dismay.  Today I looked up from the kitchen table to see him hopping across the living room.  He had tied up his own ankles with a bungie cord.  Being a girl, I don’t always get some of the boy things he does.  This one I left alone.

Cassie is not yet three and has no formed ideas of what she should be doing on a weekend.  She likes to carry her blanket around, binky, and favorite stuffed animal.  She plays with her brother, and avoids him, in equal parts.

After Daddy (Tim) is awake and fully functioning, he likes to engage the kids in some form.  Sometimes that means running an errand with Ryan, or fending off both kids on the floor.  He arises worse for wear, but fun has been had.

I use the time to relax some, and to get chores done on a grand scale.  All the things that got put off during the week scream at me on Saturday and Sunday.  On Sunday night, sometimes the house actually looks good.  No dishes in the sink, the carpet got vacuumed, and I can actually sit on the couch longer than 10 minutes.

Then I’m ready for Monday.


January 11, 2010

We have been blessed.  Both of our kids have been good sleepers.  Neither one was “our baby is sleeping through the night at 4 weeks!” (That took them both 3 months.)  But pretty quickly in infanthood they were set up in routines of sleeping 12 hours a night and taking long afternoon naps.

When the scedule went off course, I quickly moved into high gear to determine the cause.

“Feel his forehead.  Maybe he’s getting sick.”

“She’s 6 months old.  I bet it’s the growth spurt.”

“I bet it’s teething.”

Lately our 2 1/2 year old, Cassie, has had an erratic sleep routine.  Always one to sleep until 8 am and nap in the afternoon, it has become a bit of a gambler’s paradise around our house.  My husband and I have been placing bets on how many minutes before 7 am she will awake.  My net worth has already decreased dramatically this year.

I have been stumped as to the cause.  I have been in complete denial that it could be she needed less sleep.

Until last night.  As we were going through her nighttime routine, the idea just came to me.  “Check her teeth again,” the voice said.

“Cassie, open wide,” I said.  She readily obeyed and I stuck my finger to the very back of her gums.  Sure enough, I felt ridges!  She was cutting her back molars after all!

That’s when she closed her mouth like a steel trap.

“Ya!!” I yelled.  I removed my knobby stump of a finger as she grinned widely.

This morning over breakfast my son asked me, “Mommy, why is your finger purple?”

“Because I need to have a talk with my inner voice,” I said.  He returned a blank stare. 

Someday, he’ll understand.

January 8, 2009

Our house looks like the return pile behind a cash register the day after Christmas.  Our magical, special holiday has been grouped into piles:  the kitchen pile (Xmas plates, mugs and linens) sits in one group of the counter, large hanging Christmas items are piled up on the other side of the counter, and our lone Santa sits unplugged on the fireplace mantle.  Large plastic bins sit stacked up 6 feet high in the living room.

I tell myself that we’ve just been too busy to put things away.  But really, I am resistant to say goodbye to Christmas just yet.

For me it is the most magical time of the year, full of wonderment and low lighting and twinkling memories.  Our home is full, busy and cozy.  When we pack it all away, it’s just…empty.  Nothing twinkles, or moves, or sings songs.

Yesterday is when Christmas officially ended for me.  I turned the tv cable channel to “Sounds of the Seasons.”  They have been playing non-stop Christmas music since Thanksgiving.  No more Xmas songs.  “Darn!” I found myself saying.

The nail in the coffin?  Last night my son asked, “When is my birthday?  I want more presents.”  Summer, here we come.


January 4, 2010

On New Year’s, I got a crazy idea.

“Honey,” I said.  “I have a great way to save money!  Instead of spending a lot of money at a fancy hair salon, why don’t you cut my hair?  It doesn’t look that difficult when they cut it.”

And in a mood of playfulness, he said, “Sure, why not?”

It started out great.  It didn’t bother me at all when I saw the pile of locks lying on the floor.  It did bother me, however, when I grabbed a length of hair and felt that it was shorter than the rest.

“Stop!” I yelled.  I ran to the bathroom mirror and saw that the strands of hair that fall closest to my face were a good inch shorter than the rest.  “I think we’re done,” I announced.

The next day I made a beeline for my hair salon.  As soon as I sat down in the chair, I started with, “Now don’t laugh!  Have I got a story for you…”

When I got home my husband asked, “How bad was it?”

“Not bad for an amateur,” I answered.

“Well, maybe I can try again next time!” he offered.

“Let’s not go there again.” 

I decided to chalk it up to a bit of New Year’s day craziness.  And that day only comes once a year.

January 1, 2010

Today our son lost his first tooth.  He was cleaning our kitchen floor with a dust-vac when he rushed over to me and stuck out his tongue. 

“Look!” he stuttered, trying to talk without moving his tongue.  There, a tiny white speck lay swiming in a pool of spit.

“Yeah!” I cheered triumphantly.  “Let’s go wash it!” I yelled (okay, so maybe I do have a little bit of the compulsive clean freak in me.)

Afterward, my son was curious about the tooth’s value.  He weighed his options.

“So, is the tooth fairy coming tonight?” he asked.

“Yes!” my husband and I said.

“Well, a girl in my class got a Barbie when her tooth fell out.  I guess she’ll leave me a toy, huh?”

“Uh,” was all my husband could say.

Next our son said, “Another boy in class said the tooth fairy left him 2 dollars!  Right, Mommy?”

“Ummm.”  Not my finest oratory.

“Let’s be surprised!” we finally said to him as he was going to bed.  Now, let’s hope the tooth fairy is employing the same cost-cutting measures that we are.  Cross our fingers that $1 is still the going rate.

December 28, 2009

We think our 2 1/2 year old daughter is cutting her back molars.  Some tell tale signs:  chewing on her hand, poking around her mouth, and waking up at ever-earlier times each morning.

This morning I was startled awake at 5:30 to her dramatic cries.  I broke away from a very strange dream and stumbled to her room.  (Thank heavens I never remember any of my weird dreams.  It might put me on medication.)  I lay her down, closed the door, and went back to bed.

This pattern continued every 20 minutes.

At 2 pm we finally put her down for her nap.  She was beyond exhausted and was crying hysterically.  A few minutes later she opened her door and walked out.  She had learned how to climb out of her crib!

So now I’ve been sleep deprived for several days, share a wall with a toddler whose sleep is erratic, and won’t stay in her crib when she needs to sleep.  Salt, fat, and high-fructose corn syrup, here I come!!

December 21, 2009

Each year, it seems, my husband and I spar over how many Christmas gifts to give our children.  Except for McDonald toys, we only buy “real” toys for our children about twice a year:  Xmas and birthdays.  And when each rolls around, those toys have to last until the next gift-giving cycle.

I’m usually the one who insists on buying lots.  “But they need this!”  Or, “Isn’t that cute!”  And to defend my position, I resort to saying, “But they’re so bored otherwise!”

Two years ago, we bought so many Christmas presents that we practically had to force my son to keep going once he had opened 2 gifts.  He was bored by then and had no interest.  My husband shot me steely glances between the piles of used paper and ribbon.

This weekend I said to my husband, “Let’s let them open one of their gifts early.  They seem bored.”  They spent the next two hours playing Legos and making a pulley and lever system on the end tables.

I bet the toy companies love suckers like me.

December 18, 2009

This week the common cold has made its way through our house.  Each family member reacts to sickness in a different way. 

I don’t mind when my son catches a virus.  He’s 5 1/2 and shows signs of brilliance already.  He takes to laying around on the couch and tells me, “You get your chores done.  I’ll just lay here.”

My toddler daughter has also been sick this week.  She’s a grumpy sick kid; every small incident is catastrophic, and she can’t breathe with the binky in her mouth when she sleeps.  After we put her to bed, we beat a line to her room every 3 minutes to calm her hysterical crying.

The only member of our family who never gets sick?  Me.  My husband insists it’s from my years of teaching elementary students.  I insist it’s because our house would probably fold up and disappear if I weren’t around to keep it going.

My husband is the only one who I coddle when signs of sickness show up.  I bring him cough drops and medicine; I put his feet up; I bring him hot tea with orange blossom honey.  He’s not an easy sickie, or a grumpy one.  He just can’t do much to help with the kiddos when he’s sick.

And for this stay at home mom, that’s the worst virus of all!

December 14, 2009

Whenever I catch myself saying about my children, “They never learn!”, it would be helpful for me to remember this story.

Each year at Christmas we try to fit a 6-foot tree into our ridiculously small living room.  Remembering my years of apartment living and having to endure the indignity of a Charlie-Brown -size tree resting on my kitchen table, I am determined to have a “real” Christmas with a real tree.

Each year we bundle the kids up, troop off to a Christmas tree lot, and find the perfect tree for our family.  We like ones with character, not too good-looking.  Slightly leaning or gaping hole sounds okay to us.

Somehow the tree doesn’t look so tall laying over in the chained-link lot.  We bring it home, saw off the end, wrangle it into the tree base, and place it on the porch.  As we size up the staircase, we begin to wonder if perhaps we’ve gotten too big a tree.

Once the tree is upstairs, the arguing starts.  How can we separate our large, U-shaped couch to fit the tree in our living room?  My husband and I each have different ideas, and are convinced our plan is best.  Our kids listen to our battle of wits as they munch on candy canes and work themselves into a sugar frenzy.

In previous years our tree ended up in a corner of our kitchen.  On Christmas night, the grandparents ate their sugared ham scrunched into the corner of the sliding glass door.

After 4 hours of debate this weekend, we finally found a place for our Christmas tree:  right in front of our living room window.  Our U-shaped couch is now an “I” and a “-“.  Maybe next year we’ll learn.

4 Comments leave one →
  1. Anna permalink
    December 19, 2009 12:17 am

    my husband’s totally on his own when he’s sick, just like i am when the kids are sick and God forbid i get a break and get sick!

  2. Sue Ann permalink
    December 30, 2009 9:39 am

    I am the one who is waited on when I am sick. Lucky me! My husband is the kind who mutters, “I, just want to sleep” and takes himself to bed. When I am sick he cooks me special food, waits on me and feels sorry for me. I wouldn’t change a thing!!!!

  3. rknuth permalink
    January 4, 2010 11:43 am

    Perhaps you would like to borrow one of my home haircut kits to use on your husband. I have my old worn-out kit, and a new kit. That could save household money, – – – if you can convince him, or catch him unawares, and try out your haircutting skills on his hair. Or not. Too bad every decision has S-O-O many consequences!

  4. rknuth permalink
    January 15, 2010 1:55 pm

    Now retired, and now a “house Husband” , I completely agree about the never-ending household chores!
    I do not even have children to care for as you are doing!

    I am “the slob type”,- I track in dirt, the dog tracks in dirt.
    I have multiple projects active, thus tend to “clutter-up” any open space (especially any flat surface with some space on it).

    I eat, and cook and produce dirty pots and pans and cups, dishes.
    Eventually I have to clean up my messes. It is then time to cook dinner and I start all over again.

    I do not know how a busy mom can do it all! My praise goes out to you!

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