Beautiful Dreamers

The men in my little family seem to be cursed with a startling neurosis...they talk...nay...they become psychotic weirdos in their sleep.

I learned this truth early in my marriage, as I was awakened many a wee hour to the sight of my dear husband standing in the center of our bed, swatting furiously at the air. When pressed until he could complete a coherent sentence, Steve admitted he had been dreaming about giant spiders. This still occasionally happens.

One particular evening, I had this enlightening conversation with his subconscious:

STEVE: (waggling my arm and shoving me toward the edge of the bed) Will you just MOVE?
ME: Um, what is your problem?
STEVE: I'll tell you what my problem is. I don't know why this is so difficult for you to understand. Look. You have a potato. Okay?
ME: Okay. Wait--I have a...huh?
STEVE: You have a potato. You cut it in half. WHAT DO YOU GET????
ME: Well...
STEVE: TWO HALVES OF A POTATO!!! Now get out of the way!

I just never know. Connor has been known to order snacks from his bed at 3am ("Baloney and cheese!!") and on occasion, he has run into our room howling, claiming his sister is eating batteries or his dresser drawers are flying around in his room.

So this evening at ten till six, I awoke from peaceful slumber as I was being pummeled with elbows and arms. I believe it took me a full three minutes to gain my senses and realize I was not being murdered. Steve was having a nightmare that our daughter was in danger. I can hardly blame him for flailing. We'll give him that one.

The capper came this afternoon, when our darling son rose from his naptime, shuffled into the living room, and promptly urinated in the wastebasket beside the coffee table, as though he did that every day.

The beat goes on. Could I sleep at your house?

Smell that? It's accomplishment.

This week I have been seized with a desire to scrapbook like nobody's business. And since I've been putting off starting the kids' baby scrapbooks (good gravy, I'm swiftly approaching four years' worth of material to archive!), I figured now's as good a time as any.

Never mind the mountains of laundry beginning to compost in my utility room floor.

Never mind the two Halloween costumes that beg to be completed by this Friday's Harvest Party at Connor's preschool.

Never mind that we're expecting company this weekend and our house looks like someone held it upside down and shook it like a snow globe.

This is loads more fun. I already finished Connor's four-page Infant Baptism spread, and I'm starting on Mia's.

Harvest Hijinks

Connor: Mommy, what's "autumn" mean?

Mommy: It means "Fall."

Connor: Oh. Sometimes when I autumn I get real bad boo-boos.


On an un-related note, My husband's recent blog has me teary-eyed and sentimental. Did I need another reason to love that man?

The Boys and the Red Barn

An outing at Heritage Park this fine fallish noontide, sunshine and scads of bees bouncing thru the grass...my rosy-cheeked son and his dearest chum...a weathered red barn fairly beckoning to be made a backdrop... Now, who do I have handy for subject matter?

Ah yes, the usual victims. These guys are so sick of me.






Any other takers?? This is Connor's dearest little pal, Keaton. Refreshingly cooperative in front of a lens. Perhaps it's because he hasn't spent enough time around obnoxious me.


Connor, are you sure you don't want in on this action?




Er...Can you give me a smile like Keaton?


A little frightening. Want to try again?
Right. Okie doke.



How about if I take a nice picture of you boys together? Would you like that? Yes? Let's try it.





You guys think you're funny, don't you?




Yep. Aw, the heck with it.

Avast!

It's International "Talk Like a Pirate" Day! Shiver me timbers and such.

Am I Dead Yet?

Apparently, my life just wasn't scattered and frenzied enough. Apparently, I wasn't experiencing quite enough misery on a daily basis. Something had to change, and now. So I signed myself up (along with the whole family, because let's face it, Misery loves company...) for a membership at the YMCA. We are jumping in with both feet--at least I am--with yoga, water aerobics, and weekly use of the weight room/gym (see: "torture chamber"). I've got my whole week planned out, and I'm going to exercise three times a week. Yesterday was my first yoga class, and it was actually splendid. My instructor complimented me several times during class on my balance, and even asked me if I'd ever studied dance (here I believe she was resorting to shameless flattery in order to entice her only pupil under the age of sixty. I did take a dance class in college. Intro to Dance with Cornelius Carter, former member of Alvin Ailey. I'm certain the man did not realize he was leading an introductory level course. His lighter routines left this little white girl purple and gasping like a toad. I think he took special delight in those moments.). After yesterday's class, I laced up my sneakers, trotted out to retrieve the wee ones, who'd been blissfully playing in the kiddie care room (I get to drop them off for two hours at a time! Those Y suckers...), and gathered us into the van. This getting in shape business was going to suit me fine.

Meet me, if you will, in present day.

I feel exactly as though someone has taken a baseball bat to my innards. Honestly, it was all I could do to ease out of bed this morning. It hurts to cough, to laugh, to sit on the toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, I have staged a war on my fat cells and the fat cells are retaliating with outright ambush. A steady diet of Slim-Fast and ibuprofen since Sunday... and I've gained a pound. WHAT??????

Dare you to keep a straight face.

The diaper box said "17-24 lbs." Dang cheapies don't hold half that.