joeyfullystated

One-Liner Wednesday — On Cat Litter

Posted on June 25, 2014 by joey

“When we’re talkin about which product best stores feces in your house, there just isn’t a good option.”

Starting a new thing: One-Liner Wednesday via LindaGHill. If you’d like to join in, here’s the page.

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged cats, One-Liner Wednesday | 15 Comments

“Go Outside,” They Said

Posted on June 24, 2014 by joey

I did that thing where I avoided social media for a few days. Didn’t blog for a week. Posted rarely on Twitter and Facebook. Even skipped the Instagram Photos of the Day for awhile.

I was just busy doing other things.

It certainly wasn’t because I’ve joined up with all those people who are fond of telling us to get offline and go outside.

I enjoy going outside, with purpose. I like to piddle in my garden and I like to sit on my porch. I resent the idea that people should close their laptops and wander outdoors, as though something magical is going to happen. Trust me, I go outside. Lately, outside is hot and humid. If you’re into white girl afros and sunblock, then yes, it’s magical.

At parties, I frequently tell young people to get off their phones so they can have experiences to share on social media later, but I wouldn’t suggest they abandon their phones, leave the party, and stroll around outside.

Because what we need are a bunch of people roaming around like zombies, many of whom would be lost without GPS, and sunburnt because they couldn’t find the UV index without their weather apps.

It’s a sorta odd, and extremely pedantic thing to do, using one’s social media to chide other people about social media.
I always want to yell at those people in all caps, “THANK YOU FOR USING SOCIAL MEDIA TO TELL US NOT TO USE SOCIAL MEDIA!”

Before social media, I didn’t have friends all over the globe, who could teach me things about their world. Before social media, I had no idea how many conservative friends I already had, or how badly they spelled.

Recently, a media outlet posted an article on social media, about how we should close the very accounts that allow us to read their articles. Really?
— Oh, but subscribe to their articles via email.
So email is okay?

Look, I thought I would finish this rant, but I’m not, because I’m going to Dairy Queen. Technically, Dairy Queen is outside and obviously soft serve ice cream is some kinda magical scientific foodie art. I like mine with faux fudge-flavored high fructose corn syrup — and I like Dairy Queen’s page on Facebook.

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged rant | 34 Comments

Blanket Girl

Posted on June 17, 2014 by joey

Last week, as we turned in, The Mister scolded me from under his blankets, “Ugh! You’ve turned me into a blanket person,” he said.
I giggled.
“It’s the quality of the linens,” I said, “Not to offend, but before me, you didn’t have delicious bed linens.”
He mumbled somethin about tee-shirt sheets from Walmart. I giggled again.

My husband can sleep through anything. He can sleep anywhere. He doesn’t need a bed, let alone a pillow or a blanket.
But even he is not immune to the luxuries of a squishy pillow, smooth sheets, a soft quilt, and a heavy duvet on a really good mattress.

Somewhere around ten years ago, we realized we could not go on sleeping in the hand-me-down mattress of lumps. About two years ago, we realized we hate springs and box springs, no matter what the mattress makers put on top of them.

— But good linens always make the difference, even on the worst old bed.

The boy one crashes. He goes to his bed, falls on his face, and sleeps. He doesn’t appear to move, has no use for pajamas, doesn’t seem to need bed linens or pillows. Just, SPLAT.

All the girls are blanket girls, like me.

“so they went years and years
like sisters blanket girls
always there through that and this”
— Tori Amos, Bells for Her

We’re fussy bitches.
Don’t bring us acrylic or polyester. No, we want cotton. In fact, our sensitive skin demands it.

Sheets?

Y’all can keep your 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton that we know isn’t ELS. We can tell because it’s scratchy and feels starched. Also, if those sheets were made of Egyptian ELS, they wouldn’t be scratchy, but then you would’ve paid upwards of $500 or more for a set. If you have some Egyptian cotton ELS then we’ll take those, although we’re really Supima girls at heart, preferably with a sateen weave. Do you have something more in the 400-500 thread count range of 100% Pima, perhaps? We’re okay with percale, still softer than standard Egyptian cotton, but it’s not quite as soft as a well-worn linen…So, no Pima then?

If the sheets are bad, we’ll just sleep on top of the bed, with the quilts we brought.

Oh, you don’t tote your quilts with you when you travel? I suppose you just use the hotel’s pillows, then, too?

For fourteen years, my husband envied my pillow. We finally bought new ones, and he got one just like mine. He balked at the cost of those pillows, so I didn’t have the heart to tell him there are actually better pillows, if you’re into pillows that cost more than a day’s work.

I have never lain on any bed more comfortable than my own.

Why do you think we spend so much time moaning in our bed?

Posted in Personally | Tagged happiness, marriage, sleep, The Mister | 23 Comments

Magical Day

Posted on June 16, 2014 by joey

I knew Drew was comin for a visit yesterday so I knew it would be a good day, but I had no idea it turn into a magical day.
We spent the day on the porch with our swate tay, catchin up. Magical.
“That squirrel is Blackbeard. He has a friend who’s got an all black face, and Moo calls him Joe.”
Yucca plants are terrible, we agree. We also agree the only way I’ll get rid of mine is one day when the men come to expand my porch, it will slowly wither away in the darkness.
Cottonwood blew by.
The weather was sublime. If you think it’s too hot when it’s 82 and breezy, just go live in Georgia for seven years, and come back. It sure worked for me.

Catching up is a constant battle for people who live far from one another, isn’t it? I mean, we call, and we text, stay connected on social media, but distance is a cold hard intrusion into many of our relationships.
So many of them were based once in location.

>insert friend montage<

I used to see Drew every day at school. Every day, she would turn around and tell me her friend was going to kick my ass. One day, she turned around and asked me to go bowling. From that time on, we were pretty much a complimentary set. We spent weekends together. Church together. Vacations together. In high school, we hung with some of the same people, but also, not. When you are friends with someone who is basically the opposite of you, you’re bound to love people she can’t stand and vice versa.
She moved to Texas. She came back. She moved back to Texas. She came back again. I moved to the far north side, she moved to the far south side. We both moved back to the east side. She moved to the country. I moved to Georgia. I came back. We’ve maintained this friendship and a running dialogue for 27 years — on the phone, in closets, behind your back, in the dark of night, on teeter-totters, in cars, under the bleachers, til dawn, from dressing rooms, in letters, from cozy pub booths, at tables, in front of roaring fires, in texts, in bathrooms, but mostly, on porches.

HME and I dated guys who were friends with one another. We met because she needed a ride to a shop, and I had a car on campus. In addition to being liberals dating the Young Republicans, we shared dozens of other interests, but it was the importance of minute details that bound us. We both loved cold weather and snow. We both loved sweat pants and socks. We both read more than we slept. We were both in the teacher’s college. On and on I could go. Late night coffee was our thing. For a short spell, we were roommates after college. She married a soldier and moved to Ft. Stewart, Georgia. Seven years later, my Marine became a soldier, and I moved to Ft. Stewart, Georgia. I’m from Indiana, she’s from Illinois, and here we are — More than twenty years later, still hours between us.

Looking back on the evolution of my friends from girls to women is a pretty amazing thing. We’ve gone from “What are the vocab words?” and “I was so drunk last night,” to “We’re getting married!” “I’m pregnant!” “Oh my God, I’m buying a house!” “He never listens to me!” to “So, this reverse puberty bullshit sucks. huh?” and “What do you know about estate planning?”

Beauty Queen used to be my next door neighbor. No one has ever been happier than me, trapped in suburban hell with Beauty Queen. Can you imagine our families are from the same tiny little coal mine county in Virginia? Yes, let’s take our vacations there! and haul our pregnant bodies up and down Natural Tunnel and through brambles in cemeteries!
Since Beauty Queen was the first real adult friendship I made, it was a “mommy friendship” which I’ve found are absolutely essential to this mommy. The wisdom of other mothers is crucial. Conversations over morning coffee:
“Beauty Queen, why does it lie? Does it think I’m stupid?”
“Beauty Queen, why does it prefer the left breast? Can you tell I’m lopsided now?”
“Beauty Queen, what is this rash on its arm?”
We are walking encyclopedias of mommyhood.
At the time, our friendship entailed a lot of bartering and sharing. If you’ve never traded a waffle iron for four haircuts, then you can’t relate. If you never passed clothes back and forth between five growing girls, then I’m sorry for all the money you wasted. Oh, your husband never fetched two massive cups of the good chewing ice from the farthest gas station while you were both pregnant? Sorry.
Once we moved, within months of one another, we realized it was a golden age, and how precious that time really was.
Also, we have excellent taste, and a sense of propriety, so we’ve spent a lot of time (about fifteen years) hypocritically discussing how the rest of you don’t.

Old friends are the best.
So much doesn’t need to be said, yet, so much can be said over and over for a decade, and understanding never grows complacent.

I’ve grown few friendships that last years and years, that surpass time and distance, that keep the running dialogue of life. But always, always, meeting up and catching up.

It’s been a year since I left True in Georgia, and still, running dialogue. I wonder what the next ten years will bring for us?

You never know when you meet someone, if they’ll be a constant.

>end friend montage <

In the middle of catching up, Drew left to collect Simon. I called my dad (who was HAPPY and CHEERFUL — omg magical wtfness!) and I ended up chatting to my mother about the garden.
This is when I truly realized how magical the day was.

I said to my mother, “I can’t wait til you get here, so you can tell me what all these plants are! You know waking up here every day is nothing short of a miracle. It’s so greeeeen! It’s June. I’m walkin on asphalt, and my feet are not on fire! I’m not sunburnt! I’m not sweating! There’s cool green grass, well, a lot of it’s weeds, but it’s still cool and green and soft.”

Drew returned with Simon, The Mister came home with pizzas, pizzas were eaten, stories were told, laughter was shared.

Simon and I discussed how he needs to come stay a while. He can do some big strong man things in my yard, and I will feed him the good foods like the olden days, and we will “Puter and music all day! ALL DAY!”

(Ace can come once baseball season is over, but he will do lil boy things like wear Moo out and reject my good foods and say, “An Joey! An Joey! You know what?!?”)

THE MISTER DID DISHES. — I told you, magical!

Goodbye hugs and kisses. Hope we’re all together again soon.

Then, Game of Thrones and ice cream.

Lights out.

Magical day.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Ace, Beauty Queen, Drew, friends, gratitude, happiness, HME, Moo, Simon, The Mister, True | 16 Comments

I Believe in Sea Monsters

Posted on June 14, 2014 by joey

As a Marine, The Mister spent a considerable amount of time on boats. I mean, ships. Because you can’t say boats to a Marine. Marines go on ships, and floats.

Early in our marriage, he discovered my belief in sea monsters. We have argued about it ever since.

My theory: We don’t even know how deep the sea is! You have no idea what’s out there! Remember what happened to Jonah?!? Leviathan?!? What about The Abyss?!? Did you not read Moby Dick? Or 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea? Have you even been on that ride?!?

His theory: Dolphins racing ships are a beautiful sight.

He says there are no monsters. If shown a photo of a monster, he just says logical and reasonable things like “It’s not real.”

not “real”

When I was in fifth grade, I saw a giant squid at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago and I have never fully recovered.

that poor baby!

In sixth grade, I read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I had nightmares for weeks. Giant Squid.

I thought I was okay, but my 1991 trip to Disney World brought it all back in full color and near panic.

So don’t tell me there aren’t sea monsters. Scientists are like, “Oh, we thought the Coelacanths were extinct, but they’re not! Yay!”

And there are fish that walk, ON LAND, and I don’t just mean mudskippers. Some of them are scary as fuck.

this mofo lives in florida

You never know when you’ll be swimmin, and some living fossil will come eat your tasty modern ass.
Y’all don’t even know.

Posted in Personally | Tagged neurotic, The Mister | 31 Comments

Swaddle Me?

Posted on June 8, 2014 by joey

I was over at Aussa’s a while ago, reading the ongoing story of the hovel baby, and her question about preparing for babies made me realize that for me, that question is a prompt.

I have mentioned before, I didn’t know A THING about babies before I had mine.

For instance, at my baby shower, I must have received no fewer than thirty blankets. At the time, I was a bit miffed, because while I realized the baby would be born in October, I doubted she would be cold in the house all winter, to the point of needing thirty freakin blankets. I mean, come on, y’all couldn’t buy more lil pink booties?

Yeah.

So I washed all those blankets, and folded all those blankets, and stacked all those blankets on the changing table.

The baby came, and I was shown how to swaddle her in blankets. You wrap em up real tight, which mimics being cramped in the womb, and it comforts them. Or, if you’re me, you wrap em up so they can’t flail about, scratching their tiny baby faces and kicking the socks off their tiny pink feet. Whatever, swaddling is like a straitjacket for babies: “I love you, now be still and calm down for your own good.”

Those 30+ blankets came in handy! Every time she messed her clothes, through her assorted bodily functions, she also messed her blankets.

Eventually, my mother left, my husband went off to work, and the children off to school. I was all alone with the baby. The whole world was new again.

I realized, with such clarity, I am completely responsible for this person. Like, then, and FOREVER. It freaked me out completely. You would think I had realized this immediately, or perhaps even while I carried her, but I didn’t.
I thought I was neurotic before her, and even the first tender days, but no, my neuroses had come full circle with this sudden rush of feelings. “Oh my God, I just love her so much, and she’s so tiny, and she needs me for everything, and I cannot fuck this up.” Then it occurred to me that my own mother might have loved me this much, and felt the same way, and this must be what everyone’s always going on about all the love.

Awed by the impact of our six-pound human, I informed my baby that I would do right by her, and she could always count on me. I did not mention that I had ever been a Commitment Phobe, or that I was scared outta my wits about taking care of her, or that I knew absolutely nothin bout babies.

I finished changing her soiled breeches and clothes, gingerly pushed her tiny limbs into new, clean clothes. I carefully strapped her in her carseat to carry her upstairs and across the tile floors. I attempted to shower while watching the baby. It’s hard to wash your hair with your eyes open, but I did the best I could. When I was clean, but not dry, because who has time for that? I nudged her carseat to the edge of the bedroom carpet, picked her up and took her to our bed, only to discover that she had spit up. And all over her pretty pink blanket, too.

So I put her in the middle of the bed, walked backwards to the changing table, reached behind myself to grab a blanket from the pile…and there was no pile! I stopped staring at the baby and looked at the changing table, and there was no pile! There were no more blankets!

My first day alone with my daughter, and I had already fucked it up.

I had to haul my baby, blanket-less, in her carseat, back downstairs over many, many feet of hard floors, to do laundry. Fortunately, my mother had done a load before she left, and a pile of clean blankets rested on the dryer.

I tell expectant mothers, “You can never have too many blankets.”
They always say, “Ooohkay….”
You never know when your mother will leave, and you’ll hafta wash your own damn blankets.

Posted in Personally | Tagged mommies, neurotic, parenting | 16 Comments

That’s Not a Compliment

Posted on June 7, 2014 by joey

There’s a man in my life who sucks at communicating. No, no, it’s not The Mister. So long as your words reach his good ear, The Mister could win an award for best straight man communication skills. He can’t text for shit, but that’s a blog of another color.

No, the man I’m referring to shall be called Captain Bert Obvious, because that’s totally not his name. I’m pretty sure Bert doesn’t read this blog, but plenty of his friends do, so Bert, if you’re readin, think of this as constructive criticism, cause it ain’t a fuckin compliment.

When I’m out, and I see Bert, he might say, “I see Sadie has a new leash,” followed by nothing else. Or he might ask, “Got a new dress, eh, Joey?” He doesn’t say anything negative or positive about things, he just points out that he notices.

Every time he comes over, he notices something.
“You rearranged the living room.”
“You got a big mixer, huh?”
“Smells like somethin’s cookin.”
“Put a table on the porch, eh?”

What am I supposed to do with this feeble attempt at conversation?

“I see your senses are in working order, Bert.”

I just say, “Yes.” In my head, I’m all, what the fuck, bert? what the fuck?!?

It would almost be better if he insulted me, because then I could say something, anything, that might move the conversation along.

To be fair, on occasion, he does take the time to share his opinions. Like when he said, “Gee, Joey, you coulda brushed your hair,” and “I like your hair like that.” Those two sentences were about ten years apart, but these rare comments gave me a deeper understanding of Bert. Bert likes my hair after I’ve spent 20 minutes blowin it out with a big round brush and a dryer, then smoothed it with jet sets and hair products out the yin-yang, and let it sit for an hour. He does not like my hair in its natural state, which is anything but smooth or straight. Got it. Thanks for sharing, Bert.

Sometimes Bert gives me a nice back-assward complimentary insult like, “Those shoes sure are fancy for a girl like you.”

I have joked with The Mister, saying that I feel I should call Bert at every turn, “Bert, I’m about to hang a new shower curtain. I sure ~~don’t give a fuck if~~ hope you like it, not that I’ll ever know, either way.”

Maybe Bert lives by “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Maybe he hates everything.

Do you know anyone like Bert? How do you handle the ambiguity?

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged The Mister, wtf | 13 Comments

Simple Joys

Posted on June 5, 2014 by joey

Yesterday was an extremely pleasant day.

The weather was sublime. Cool for June, gentle rain off and on. We had the windows open. Breezes swept through the house all day. The Mister stood in front of the window saying, “It sure is nice to have the house open.”
“It sure is. I love it.”

Coffee in the quiet.
Laundry room solitude.
Watching the squirrels and Cardinal couples.
Leftover pot roast for brunch.
“I’ll make you some fresh swate tay.”
Jimmy Fallon on the DVR.
“OH MY GOD! A TINY HUMMINGBIRD!”
The four of us at home.
Laughing and smiling.
Not having any place to go.
“The kitchen has been sanitized.”

A series of fortunate events, highlighted by one moment; the moment I told myself days like this do not come along very often, and no, joey, you will not get up and go rotate the laundry. you will lie here with your head in your husband’s lap, and your cat on your shoulder and enjoy the moment.

So I let go, I let myself enjoy the present, I be’d in the moment, and I fell asleep with my feet dangling over the side of the loveseat.

It was delicious.

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged gratitude, happiness, home, lifestyle, mental-health, The Mister | 24 Comments

My Perception of His Perspective

Posted on June 3, 2014 by joey

Like most wives, I annoy my husband on the regular.
Most of these things are due to differences in perception.

For instance, I think I will DIE if I don’t have a drink at all times, and he thinks I won’t. “Lemme get a to-go cup. No, I cannot make the drive from home to Starbucks without a drink! That’s like, two miles or somethin!”

He hates it when I ask the wait staff to bring to-go cups, although he might be comin around, cause he orders one from time to time.

He thought he would make fun of me with my parents, “She can’t go anywhere without a drink!”
They looked at him like there should be more to the story.
Ahahaha! Please, my parents probably own stock in Tervis, and if they don’t, they should, really.

my HUGE to-go tervis, from sissy

I strongly suspect he hates how I take in animals, no matter how much he loves them. He’s always like, “We don’t need another cat,” or “We have two cats, we don’t need a dog,” or “We have two cats and a dog, we don’t need a goldfish, a pair of goats and some chickens.” I’m not sure he loves my Clara cat, because he’s always calling her an attention whore and accusing her of being jealous, but he pets her anyway. He loves Catticus kitty, and that dog he didn’t want me to rescue!? Oh yeah, he loves that dog more than he loves chocolate, and he spoils her rotten. Just rotten.

who looks jealous now?

He hates how I remember every little thing, except when I remember where his shit is, how he likes to be touched, which foods and flavors he likes, how he takes his coffee, or which jeans were his favorite so we can buy another pair exactly like them, and well, just every little thing, unless it involves something he said or did that might have been a wee bit dickish.

I could go on an on, really, I’m extremely annoying, both to live with, and about making lists about how I’m extremely annoying.

But last night, I may have overdone it on annoying. Let me tell you how this went, from my perception of his perspective:

I got up at six o’clock in the morning, and took that bitch’s dog out, while she slept comfortably in the white sheets with the embroidered detail that I think are too fuckin girly.
I fed that bitch’s cats, even the white one that she loves more than me.
I made that bitch some coffee.
I put on my white shirt and my black paisley tie. Bitches love ties.
I drove to work, through the clusterfuck that is I-465, being cut-off by fucktards in every direction.
I worked hard all day, helping rich clients solve their imaginary financial problems.
‘Ooh, did my wife just post a photo of pot roast? I fuckin love pot roast. At least when I’m done here, I can go home, sit on my couch, eat pot roast and watch tv.’
I drove home to find my house was a disaster. It looked like a bomb went off. Fortunately, my wife and daughters weren’t harmed during the incident, but my house was wrecked.
Then that bitch told me she did it on purpose! Bitches be crazy.
I’ve got a couch, a loveseat and a chair, but there was only one place to sit, because the whole fuckin livin room was covered in books.
Then that bitch said somethin about bein sorry, but Sassy had broken the bookshelf, and could I please fix it? Because I have to fix fucking everything.
That bitch rearranged the living room again!
I thought I would just go hang up my tie and chillax a mo, but the bomb had impacted the hallway outside of Moo’s room, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t hafta play fuckin hopscotch to get to my bedroom.
Roast smelled fuckin good, though.
I had to eat dinner at the table, with my wife and children, without tv, because again with the book explosion.
That bitch covered my plate in gravy and didn’t even make me eat a carrot, and that’s how I know she felt really bad about what she’d done, but not bad enough, because she forgot to pour me a glass of swate tay.
I ate my dinner in silence so I could focus on making the veins in my head pop out, so as to make sure my unhappiness was felt by all who made eye contact with me.
Don’t you know that bitch wasn’t fuckin phased? She went on and on all happy and shit, talkin about what the girls did, and how much she loves her new mixer, and won’t it be nice when we can look out the windows? Fuckin cheerful bitches. Goddamn.
“We’ll just go buy another bookshelf,” she said.
After dinner, I had to balance the checkbook, because I, too, have imaginary financial problems that make me think a $35 bookshelf will ruin me.
Although my wife told me she would go buy the bookshelf, and that I could stay home in the fuckin mess she made, I told her I would go, because bookshelves are heavy. She informed me that if I didn’t go, the store would provide her with a carry-out. Since I remember that carry-out boy she fucked in 1996, I went.
When we got to the store, the item was opened and I refused to buy it, because with my luck, I’d get home and all the hardware would be missing, and my wife would say some dumb shit like, “Don’t we have cams and metal screws in the hardware drawer? Or in your man bag or somethin?” Gah, bitches.
We drove to the second store, but they didn’t have any in the right color. My wife suggested we buy two whole new bookshelves in a different color. AHA! That bitch was schemin for new furniture! Twice as much money.
We had to buy Moo some bullshit craft thing and another toy for my dog to destroy in less than an hour. What the fuck ever.
Once we got home, I carried the one remaining bookshelf to Sassy’s room, and then I had to assemble those two new bookshelves in a totally different color. My wife can’t assemble a fuckin paper plane, for Chrissake.
Oh she said she would help, then it was all, “My hands! My hands!” Her bookshelf was all wobbly and shit.
Then, while I bolted them to the wall, that bitch got all touchy-feely, talkin dirty to me like I hadn’t been up all night fixin shit she broke for no good reason whatsoever.
Eventually, at like one o’clock in the morning, that bitch got all the books back on the shelf and we sat on our furniture the way God intended.
We went to bed at two, and that bitch better never rearrange a fuckin thing. She ain’t movin those bookshelves, ain’t no way she can get those screws out with “My hands! My hands!”

fuck it, look at my view, y’all!

And that, Ladies, is why you must always, always finish rearranging the house before your man gets home, and why you must never, ever, break anything in the process.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged home, marriage, Moo, Sassy, The Mister | 25 Comments

Fighting is Their Favorite

Posted on May 30, 2014 by joey

Today was the last day of school for our wee ones, and the panic has arisen. Summer vacation is wonderful, because no more 6am. Sadly, at whatever time they awaken, they will be together all day, every day, day after day after day.

The Mister dealt with them yesterday mornin, and he was quick to tell me they cannot sleep together anymore. They need time apart, he said. Then he added, “How shall we accomplish this over summer break?”
I lol’d and said we won’t, it will be like every other summer.

You see, I have dealt with all these same issues before, because Bubba and Sissy had exactly the same dynamics. Introverted Bubba could spend all day building impressive things, reading, or playing in his room, only ever coming out to eat or because his presence was required. Sissy, on the other hand, was never content to play alone, and needed nearly constant companionship. She was, depending on which phrase you can relate to, up my butt or on my hip all day, day in, day out. Other little girls might have preferred playing with their toys, but Sissy preferred to fold towels, cook, clean, watch cooking shows, garden, or eavesdrop. Some four-year-olds are very content to sit and have coffee with adults, even when they don’t like coffee, and our Sissy was such a child.

I should mention, our children are not permitted to claim boredom. Boredom will be fixed with chores, so our kids are never bored, except that one time a few summers ago, Sissy forgot, and said, “I’m bore– Nope, I’m fine,” but she was too late, and had to clean the tops of the bookshelves, poor thing.

Bubba and Sissy could never play games without fighting, either.

Bubba did not want to be bothered and all Sissy wanted to do was bother him. Just like Sassy and Moo now.

Me: Why did you poke your brother in the eye with your wand?
Sissy: Because I wanted to!

Bubba did not want to play kitchen, and Sissy did not want to play alone.

They fought most of the day, just like Sassy and Moo, and then they, too, wouldn’t shut up and go to sleep at night, when they suddenly remembered they loved one another.

This gets easier, once the younger, more extroverted child achieves the liberty that promotes a real social life, but until that time comes, it’s fairly exhausting for all parties.

Oh sure, I take em to the park, the zoo, the pool, the splash n’ play, the children’s museum, the library, and to play dates and sleepovers as well. We have other kids over. They go to day camps here and there, or VBS, and Bubba even went away to scout camp for a week. The Mister and I have “dates” with the children to break it up a bit. We take trips. We play games. We do arts and crafts. We have spa days. We have family come and stay for awhile. But all roads lead back to fighting. Fighting is their favorite.

We even got boxing for the Wii so they could virtually beat the crap outta one another.

The Mister loves to fight with the children, but he doesn’t do it daily, and he never screams bloody murder nor does he spout out hate speech. Do your kids “Stupid Baby!” and “Big Bully!” one another too?

My main goal in the summer is to get them back to school in August, intact bodily and without any soul-crushing material for therapy. My own sanity is of little importance at this point.

The only real piece of advice I have is this: If you get mad, start blathering about how you just can’t take it anymore. Try to appear a bit more emotionally unstable than you actually are. Whisper. Grunt. Randomly yell here and there. Say things about how you love them ALL so much, you just caNNN’t stand THE way they trEAt one anoTHER. Work up a tear or two by thinking about how flat your tummy usta be, or how they ruined the interior of your car. Use your loud Italian hands to wave something nearby, but non-threatening, like a book, a phone, a remote control, a throw pillow — never a hot iron, never a paring knife, and never ever a cat. Begin mumbling incoherently, perhaps even in another language, to the ceiling, the window, or to an obscure spot on the wall. This will completely freak your children out and they will leave you alone for at least an hour. The more calm and reasonable you usually are, the more time you’ll get. Sometimes they will pair off, and sometimes they will send the youngest out to test the waters. The helpful one will come to make sure you still love her. The oldest may try to escape, in which case you can say, “Huh uh, Buddy, we’re all in this rainy day together.” Talk through your teeth if you need more time. Use the crazy only as needed, in case it gets real.

Right.

Happy Summer Vacation!