Killing time

Mommee has been nudging me to blog lest I forget anything, again. It's been the usual stuff going on, though, as we've been just living life. The big kids have school all day and we squish in activities and homework at night. The Damonater, who's healed up nicely from his attack by the dishwasher, keeps me company and tries to stay a step ahead of me. If I've latched the fridge and freezer closed, he checks to see if I left the bathroom door open. If that's closed, he'll head to the cabinets in the kitchen or open drawers in the laundry room or grab whatever he can reach off the counter.

While I'm sitting here blogging, he is contentedly playing with his "iPad" from Pap and Grandma Barb. It's a placemat sized talking, singing, button pushing farm scene that counts and sings and talks and carries on. He loves it. You can bet that if I got up to sneak into the shower that he'd notice and start getting into everything else. Amazing radar. It really is a problem, though, as I need to get into the shower so I can look presentable to get my driver's license renewed. It's that time again, when all good citizens must go play at the DMV. Or anyone with a January birthday, anyway.

Liam has been bowling on Tuesdays after school. He claims they have yellow bowling balls, and lots of them. For a small fee he gets to ride a bus to the lanes, play two games, and ride back to where I can pick him up. Last night Care Bear and the Damonator and I picked up Wendy's before we got Liam. The week before, Liam and Damon and I picked up pizza while we waited for Carrie to finish with Girl Scouts. Apparently SUVs should come standard with microwave and minifridge. How does anybody do this rat race with teenagers and not end up in the poor house? And, more challengingly, how do they do it if their kids DON'T EAT SANDWICHES!? Carrie inherited (won't say from whom) the whole my-food-can't-touch-my-other-food syndrome, so even making her lunch is a royal pain in the you-know-what. And she packs. Oh, she packs every day. Drives. Me. Crazy. The opposite is Liam, who eats peanut butter and jelly. Every day. And then there's Damon, who eats off the floor, who eats whatever he can grab when the cupboards are open, who eats whatever is still wrapped in the plastic, who sneaks cheese out of the fridge at every opportunity, who, last week, had a DOG TREAT in his hand and had shared another one with Triskal. I can just hear my Grammy laughing.

While chasing waffle pieces around his plate this morning, Damon kept repeating, "hey! Habatchoo!" I only listened with half an ear, lest it get talked off, until I realized he was trying to say, "hey! Get back here!" He didn't want help, he just inherited my let's-yell-at-inanimate-objects tendency. Usually the phone gets the worst of it, and I believe I may have talked about this before, so I'll stop now.

Before the waffles, he came downstairs looking rather disheveled. I put him to bed in those white socks with the gray heels and toes, as well as light blue long underwear jammies. Carrie let him out of his room this morning (and as terrible as that sounds you should see the mess he can manage if we DON'T childlock him into his room), and she said, "what happened to YOU!?" He comes downstairs with no pants, no socks, and one arm also sticking out of the neck hole of his shirt. He seemed perfectly fine, but I'm glad the diaper was one thing that stayed on...

Well, he's done with "his iPad" and is requesting "o-nuts" and his sunglasses so that he can watch TV. It's bright and sunny today. Must go attend to His Highness, even if he is pretty short. Have a great day!