You Know Your TV Is Too Big When...

JayJay sat in a chair at the empty dining table, staring out the sliding glass door and kicking his feet. He was very quiet and I assumed that he was tired after a long day with no nap. I was in the kitchen peeling potatoes for dinner.

Suddenly, JayJay startled and said, "Oh!"

"What's the matter, JayJay?" I asked.

"There was a shark on TV."

"What?" I asked, perplexed. Our HOA cancelled cable TV services three years ago and we declined to sign a contract of our own when Comcast came calling. I have a very low opinion of television. We don't have a TV on our main floor, though we do have a couple elsewhere for watching movies. So you can see why his comment confused me.

"The shark went past like this," he explained, zipping his hand through the air from left to right. "It scared me."

"Huh?" I said, still baffled.

"I'm watching TV," he said.

I looked out my kitchen window, over our small backyard, over a fence, over a sidewalk, over another fence, over another small backyard, through our backdoor neighbor's sliding glass door, through their sheer curtains, through their kitchen, and through their living room to their farthest wall where a colossal television hung. Sure enough, JayJay was watching TV.

The Definition of Fly

We were in the locker room after Max and JayJay's swimming lesson.  The boys were changing out of their swimming trunks back into their street clothes.  JayJay pulled up his pants and buttoned them.  Then he sat down to put on his socks.

"You need to zip up your fly, JayJay," I said while helping Max put on his shirt.

"Oh, yeah," said JayJay and zipped his pants.

Max sat down to put on his socks too.

JayJay said, "Max, you need to zip up your fly."

Max ignored him.

"You need to zip up your fly, Max," JayJay repeated, despite the fact that Max's pants did not actually have a fly.

Max still ignored JayJay.

"You don't know what a fly is.  Do you know what a fly is, Max?" JayJay said.

"Yes, I do," said Max.

"No, you don't," said JayJay.

"Yes, I do," Max insisted.

"What is it?" JayJay asked.

"It's a bug that lands on your zipper," said Max.

Birdseed for Christmas

My man and I had stayed up past midnight stuffing stockings, wrapping presents, and setting out all the Santa goodies under the Christmas tree. We went to bed exhausted but happy and very excited to see the reaction of our little boys in the morning.

While I was laying there trying to fall asleep, my man suddenly announced, "You are an ostrich."

"An ostrich?" I asked. "Why am I an ostrich?"

"Because," he answered. "You've got your head stuck in the sand."

My man has a habit of talking, walking, and even jumping on the bed in his sleep. It is usually worse when he is stressed about work. At this point in the conversation, I began to suspect that he was not awake.

So I asked him, "Are you awake?"

"Yes," he said.

"No, you're not," I replied.

"Yes I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes I am!" He sounded frustrated that I didn't believe him.

"Prove it," I demanded. "What day is it?"

"Christmas day," he answered.

"Really?" I asked. Then I thought of the perfect question to prove his state of consciousness. If he was awake, he would refuse to answer. If he was asleep, he would tell me the truth. Genius. "What did you get me for Christmas?"

"Birdseed."

I laughed so hard I woke him up.

The Eye Dilemma

"Can you see your eyes move when you look in the mirror?" my man asked me.

I thought he was referring to my lazy eye. I was born with crossed eyes and had surgery when I was one year old to correct them. Now when I am tired or have a headache one of my eyes will drift slightly. I thought he was asking me if I could see that an eye was not tracking when I looked in the mirror.

"Yes," I said.

"I've always wanted to be able to see my eyes move when I look in the mirror," he said, looking much more excited than I thought was warranted. "I've tried to. I move my eyes back and forth, but I can't see them moving. I have to keep my eyes still and turn my head from side to side." He demonstrated by keeping his eyes fixed on me and turning his head back and forth. "Then I thought, I bet Analei can see her eyes move!"

I realized I had no idea what he was talking about. It certainly wasn't my lazy eye.

"Wait. What?" I said.

"Can you see your eyes move when you look in the mirror?" he repeated.

"Uhhh...I don't know. I've never tried," I answered. "I thought you were asking if I could see my lazy eye."

"No," he said, slightly disappointed.

A while later I went upstairs to use the restroom. As I was washing up I glanced at myself in the mirror. And then I started to wonder, could I see my eyes move? Feeling a little silly, I looked left and right while keeping my nose pointed at the mirror. Nope, I couldn't see my eyes move. Then I stared at the mirror and turned my head from side to side. That time I was able to watch my eyes slide back and forth in their sockets.

I went downstairs and said to my man, "Just for your information, I cannot see my eyes move when I look in the mirror." And then I added, "I can't believe I just tried that."

My man grinned at me.

Now I bet you are going to try it too.

A Verrrry Special Decoration

JayJay's assignment was to decorate the Christmas ornament and then write about it. This is the result.

A Battle to Keep Christmas Secret (Which I Won)

My man pulled the car into our parking stall and shut off the engine. He and I got out and stepped to the rear doors to help the kids get out of their car seats. I opened the door and unbuckled Max, then stepped back to let him get out. I looked over the roof of the car at my man.

"Give me the keys," I said. "I'll go check the mail."

"Can I check it?" he asked.

"Ok," I said. "But if there are any packages, you cannot open them!" I had been doing a little Christmas shopping online and was expecting a package any day.

"I'm going to open them," my man threatened.

He went to the mail box while JayJay got out of the car. When Max was out on my side, I bent into the car to unbuckle Third from his car seat in the middle. By the time I had him extricated from the straps and had shut the car door, my man was unlocking one of the package bins. He pulled out a package.

"You can't open that," I reminded him.

"I'm going to open it," he answered.

I approached him. "Give me the package."

He dodged away from me. "No! It's not fair that you get to know everything about Christmas!" Let me remind you that this man is very nearly 34 years old.

On a side note, it is NOT my fault that I know what everyone, including myself, is getting for Christmas. My man cannot keep a secret. The end.

Anyway, I chased him. He ran. Of course there was no way I could keep up with him. I was carrying a nine-month-old baby and the parking lot was icy after our recent snow storm. But I kept chasing and each time I got close, he scampered away. JayJay and Max stood by and watched and laughed. After several minutes of this pointless hullabaloo in the parking lot, my man ran to the front door, unlocked it, and ran inside with the package.

I was close enough on his heels that as I reached the front door, I looked inside and saw him heading into the kitchen. The house was still dark. He hadn't paused to turn on the lights in his eagerness to escape with his contraband.

As he turned into the kitchen, he stepped on a library book lying on the floor. The plastic dust cover combined with the smooth surface of our laminate wood flooring turned the book into an ice skate. It slid to the side. My man's foot flew out from under him and he went down with a heavy thud. His head or hand hit the dog's dish and sent it flying across the kitchen with a clatter. Various other detritus of a dirty, three-boy house scattered away from the impact zone.

"Oh, ouch!" he said.

I stepped inside, closely followed by JayJay and Max. I turned on the lights and set the baby down while my husband moaned on the floor of the kitchen. I was a little concerned. My man had broken his left hand wrestling only a week and a half before. It was splinted, but not in a hard cast. Because of the direction he was turning when he fell, he might have tried to stop his fall with that hand first.

I walked into the kitchen. My man groaned.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "Everything hurts."

He still held the package in his right hand. I snatched it away from him. Then I gave him a kick in the pants for good measure. Nope. I'm not above kicking him while he's down.

"You can't open it," I said, unyielding. I headed for the stairs so I could hide the package in my bedroom.

"Get her, boys," my man said.

Immediately, JayJay and Max started for me. I shrieked and ran, racing up the stairs with JayJay hot on my tail.

I made it into my room and had the door mostly closed when JayJay thumped into the other side. We fought. He tried to open the door. I tried to shut it. Max quickly joined the contest and then my man showed up and I had to surrender the door to them. But I certainly did not surrender that package. They backed me into a corner by my bed. I held the package tightly.

I had to resort to using the only weapon I had left to me, my will. And when I brandish my will, there isn't anyone who can stand against me (except my man and my sons occasionally, ok, a lot, but there was no way I would let them win this one). After a few stern, but clean words, my family conceded the fight. Eventually, I managed to chase them out of the room and was able to hide that package. It won't reappear until Christmas morning, so help me God.

P.S. My man was not hurt from his fall.

Cerebrum Matriarchalitis Strikes Again

I really wish there was a cure for this disease. Sometimes it can be very frustrating. For example, I once was parking our new car in the carport a week after we bought it and scraped the entire right side of the car on the pole. And just a few weeks ago I somehow managed to run my cell phone through the washing machine even though I had not forgotten it in a pants pocket. Luckily, my most recent encounter with this disease was more amusing than upsetting.

I shave once a week. I'm much to lazy to do it every day so I shave only when I am going to be wearing a skirt and people will be able to see my legs. Other than that, my body hair gets free reign. Sorry if that's too much information for you, but it's relevant to this story.

So last night I was showering. I shaved my right armpit which had a normal weeks worth of stubble, about 1/3 of a centimeter. Then I turned to shave my left armpit. Holy moose! The hair in my left armpit was nearly a centimeter long! Disgusting! Somehow the week before I managed to shave all my body hair except for that growing in my left armpit.

It's like there is a hole in my brain.