#1 School Choice called.  Bugaboo will start August 31.  Sooner, if the SD allows.
WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I’m just a wee bit excited, y’all.

As you were.

Nope. Not a dog.  Definitely not a baby.  Not my baby, anyways. It’s a motorcycle (for those of you not good at picture identification).

Please keep me in your prayers.

We’re on vacation.

Except, it’s a staycation.

Not because we don’t want to go away.  Not because we don’t have moolah to go.  It’s because of this little guy I like to call Bugaboo and his penchant for running away.  And not sleeping.  And destroying everything in his path (think: Twister).  It’s just easier to stay home where we can (supposedly) keep him safe.

Besides, I get to sleep in my own bed.  And have AC.  And take the kids to the pool.  And…

Get a gosh-awful, rotten, crappy sinus infection, during which I ran a fever for three days straight, feel like I’m choking and hack like I’ve got smoker’s cough (and I’ve tried one cigarette).

But I get to sleep in, because my kids do.  And my husband does, and my dog does.

But Bugaboo doesn’t.  Not really.

At least The Husband is enjoying it. He stays up waaaaaay too late watching YooToob, eating crap after I’m in bed and dozing off on the couch.

And shopping for motorcycles.

No, I’m seriously. He’s buying one.  As in, he researched it for months, years even, ever since The Holy Grail the jeep was sold.  Like, he said that phase of his life was over, he grew out of it (meaning, jeeps.  Meaning, young-male-vehicles-that-g0-real-fast-like).  Except, he really meant that he didn’t grow out of it at all and was just bored and wanted to try something new.  Just didn’t know what.  And now we know what.

At least I’ve had some extra naps, some days at the pool, some SMORES, some family visits and some really bad television to distract me.

But the best part?  The best part is yet to come.  Since he wanted THE BIKE, I told him I wanted THE BABY OR THE DOG. Look for a new addition sometime in the late summer.

No, I’m not kidding.

We’re thinking therapy dogs. As in, for Bugaboo.  Stay tuned.

Because I’m not crazy enough.  And just because I’m allergic to them doesn’t mean I can’t love ‘em, right?

RIGHT?

So.

Just as I complained about never getting to sleep with my husband, the past few nights Bugaboo has slept for four hours in his own bed.  Like clockwork, the kid wakes up just after midnight, slips out of his room, climbs up on our princess-and-the-pea bed and pushes Daddy out.  But at least he’s starting out in there.  Right?  RIGHT?

Seriously, it is better than nothing.

Also, we’ve decided that going on vacation to the family cabin (which is in the middle of a state forest, three hours from home, with no television, telephone or Internet. In other words, it’s HEAVEN.) is a bad idea, since Bugaboo has run away, oh, six or seven times this week?  We’re having a staycation instead.  Like, we’re staying home.  Sleeping in. Ignoring the doorbell when the neighborhood kids ring it.  Because they will. Ring it, that is.  ‘Cause my house is THAT ONE in the neighborhood where all the kids hang out.  They play in my yard, catch fireflies, have water gun fights, you name it.

I’m not actually that sad about not going to the forest.  I know, that was a double negative.  But what I’m trying to say is that there is no place like home. I can do serious potty training (which is going very well!), sleep in my own bed, SLEEP IN, take NAPS and sleep. Did I mention sleep?  I’m also not cooking.  See, vacation is only a fun time for THREE people in my family. Four if you count the dog. Momma gets no break, yo.  Staying home is a real treat. I plan on doing nothing.  Then I might take the kids for swim lessons and hang at the pool.  Then I might play stoopid online games.  And play with photoshop. And take naps.   And sit around doing nothing.  ‘Cause, sitting?  That’s a vacation. I don’t get to do that new-fangled sitting thingy.

I’ll keep you posted on just how much relaxing goes on here. In the meantime, T-minus six hours until DH is on vacay and heads home.  HUZZAH!

Look.  I try to maintain a cheery disposition and always look on the bright side of life (quick!  Name that film!) but even I, POLLY-FREAKING-ANNA, get bogged down with everyday life.  And by everyday life, I mean (of course) parenting a child with severe severe disabilities, living with mental illness, not sleeping ever and entertaining Bug Boy, the grumpiest child on the planet earth (and, interestingly enough, his name means LIGHT, people.  FREAKING LIGHT).

I think on of the most difficult aspects of my life is  having things-of-fine-particulate dumped all over my house on a very regular basis. Were talking bread crumbs, sugar, salt, spices, parmesan cheese and anything of a teeny, little, freaking-hard-to-vacuum-up nature.  I am sure that if I mixed all of those things together it would make a great meatloaf mix or something.  Of course, it would also have snot and dog hair mixed in. But that’s neither here nor there.  I’m talking ANNOYING CRAP DUMPED ALL OVER MY HOUSE.  And if it isn’t little, tiny stuff, it’s water.  As in, we have to lock the toilets and turn off the sink just to get anything done in the house.  Also?  Dog water.  Ew. Also also?  Dog food that got soggy in dog water.  Ewwwwwww.

Honestly, it sounds harmless, but it isn’t. He’ll stim on ANYTHING.  Rocks, wood chips, dirt, you name it.  It is very destructive.  He ripped out three clumps of Susans in my back yard garden.  He dumps dollars and dollars of food.  I mean, GREAT!  HE’S EXPLORING AND DEVELOPING!  But, OMFG!  IF HE RUINS ONE MORE CARPET I AM GOING TO CLAW SOMEONE’S FACE OFF.

Of course, the only thing that really gets my Irish up more than the stimming is the fact that my six-year-old, my beautiful gift from the heavens, also SLEEPS IN MY BED.  This is a child that slept through the night as an infant just home from the hospital, that went to bed by himself every single night for nearly six years and that prefers to fall asleep without anyone touching or bothering him. No rocking!  No singing!  No reading!  But nine months ago (SEEMS LIKE NINE YEARS) he suddenly became petrified of sleeping in his room.  Ever put a cat in bathwater? Yeah, it was like that.  Except it hurts more, because he’s like, forty-five pounds?  And then the husband said, “Well.  At least he’s sleeping!  And he has a double bed!  It’ll just be a few days and then we can get him back in his room.

Did I mention it has been nine months?

So yeah, we’ve tried it all. Bribing him. Moving him when he falls asleep. Buying a TV just for his room. Getting cool stuff for his room. Getting him toys just for his room.  Alas, none of it works.  He hangs out at the doorway and looks at us like we’re mad.  And WE ARE MAD!  We’re absosmurfly nutso because WE CANNOT SLEEP TOGETHER IN OUR OWN ROOM! I have to sleep with him, he kicks Daddy out.

So, without further ado, My top ten reasons for hating despising not-really-appreciating my six-year-old sleeping in my bed.

10) He hogs all of the covers

9) He takes up three-quarters of the bed

He is the only human being on the face of the planet that flops around more than his father, the flounder.

7) He wants to sleep with his feet between my knees and his hands on my head

6) Late-night Thomas the Tank Engine viewing parties

5) My husband sleeps in the other room

4) I do not sleep with my husband

3) I also don’t SLEEP WITH MY HUSBAND.  As in, wink-wink-nudge-nudge.

2) He snores.

1) MY SIX-YEAR-OLD WON’T GET OUT OF MY BED!

Just in case I haven’t made it abundantly clear, I WANT HIM OUT.  There.  That feels better.  Cathartic, really.  The good news?  Last night, for the third time, we managed to get him in his own room and my husband slept beside me for a whopping three hours.  Let’s hope there is more of that to come.  ‘Cause I’d much rather have the flounder husband in there, mmkay?

My son is reading this book about fossil fuels and environmental concerns and now doesn’t want me to put gas in the car.  Or drive anywhere.  Or use any electricity.  Next thing you know, he will start channeling my husband and turn off the lights while using the bathroom.

Also?  I think he is on to something because yesterday we went to the pool and I used sunblock #70.  I still got pink and slightly darker.  We were there AN HOUR.  I reapplied halfway through.  Either it is irritating my skin (probable, because my skin is a big, fat baby) or the sunblock makers, THEY LIE.

In the fall, if I am no longer snow-blinding people with my leg skin, we’ll know why. It’s because the polar ice caps are melting, I have melanoma and J&J is ripping me off by putting smelly toilet water in their bottles and calling it sublock.

Just sayin’.

As you were.

Even though the kiddos have been off for over a week now, yesterday was officially the OFFICIAL start of the OFFICIAL summer. Got that?  The real deal.  Summer Solstice.  Longest day EVER.  At least in 2009.

Summer plans?  We gots ‘em plenty.  Bug Boy is signed up for Science in the Summer at the local library.  We’ve taken the plunge and joined the local swim club (get it?  Plunge?  Swim?  HAHAHA!  I slay me!).  We are going to the family cabin next week for some R&R (well, everyone else gets R&R, I still work).  We will also do our daily walks with doggies and kiddies, bike as much as possible and take day trips to fun, educational places.  Because I’m all about that.  Education.  In fact, I’m the mean mommy that home schools my son over the summer to make sure he either reviews the skills he has learned or learns new ones for the heck of it.

I’ve got a nice garden going this year.  I planted TONS of herbs (cilantro, tarragon, mint, basil, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.  No really. I planted them.), tomaters, sunflowers, pumpkins, cukes and eggplant.  Then there is the veggie share.  See, I take part in a farm-to-city program.  I’m the host site, which means EVERY WEEK they deliver farm-fresh veggies right to my door.  The best part?  My share is FREE and I get any and all leftovers.  SAAAAAWEEEEET!  This makes for a very happy former vegetarian, yo.

Not that I’m counting, but I have survived eleven days of Bugaboo’s vacation. We have thirteen left to go.  That’s twenty four days off, for those of you not good at math.  But I’m not counting. Nope.  Cherishing every moment at home with him. Enjoying it.  Loving it.  Gouging my eyes out with a spoon.  Not sleeping a wink.  Cleaning up after him constantly.  But enjoying every. single. second.  And developing either a drinking habit or an addiction to melatonin.  Or potatoes. Which are probably safer.

Wish us luck tomorrow.  Tomorrow is the big-fat-evaluation for school choice #1. Please send prayers, good vibes, luck, etc. our way because WE NEED ALL THE HELP WE CAN GET.

Okey doke. I’m not trying to get into a debate here. I’m just saying that it’s tough no matter what you choose (or not choose) to do. Life sucks in general.  Get over it, make the best of it.

That said, Please go HERE and read.

I’ll wait.

Now, discuss amongst yourselves.

Thirteen. Lucky for some, unlucky for others.  Especially if you suffer from triskadeckaphobia.

I’ve been married to this guy for thirteen years, you see.  And you’d think that after thirteen years of living in Wedded Bliss (Hardy, har, har) I would have figured out that he is a giant child.

He is like a kid in a candy store at Home Improvement Stores and wants to buy everything he sees.  He is the dad in the neighborhood that pulls sleds with his lawn tractor.  He is the guy out there with all of the street urchins, shooting nerf guns at the ceiling fans in the house and teaching them how make their own marshmallow guns.

He is no example for how children should act.  In fact, he is the perfect example of what NOT to do.

Like, DO NOT feed the dog stuff from the table.

DO NOT hang your head out of the car while driving and say/yell/whistle things.

DO NOT leave your shoes in the living room or stuff by the sink when I am washing dishes.

DO NOT capture lightning bugs at dusk and then smoosh them on the ground so that the ground glows. Better yet, don’t put a lightning bugs in the toilet and then tell your unsuspecting wife to go in there to get something, thereby scaring the dickens out of her.

DO NOT set off illegal fireworks, bootlegged from Tennessee, in the middle of the street in Pennsylvania when you live on the same block as the town sergeant.  Better yet, across the street from him.

DO NOT rough house at Nine in the evening when I’m trying to get the babes to bed.

DO NOT eat bags of snacks or ice cream at ten at night after they are in bed, it’s too late to eat.

DO NOT leave toothpaste in the sink, leave the toilet unflushed or leave piles and piles of clothing on the bedroom floor.

DO NOT ever eat off of your wife’s plate.  Or finish your kids’ dinners for them.  They will come back to find their plates empty and freak out.

Like I said, a large child. But he’s my large child.  And the kids?  They think he is the “funnest dad ever!”  He’s “FUN!” to all of the neighborhood kids.  He’s the one they ask to play football with.  He’s the one they want to play with them at barbecues.

And he’s MINE!  Go away!  YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM!

Did you know that if you keep the kids out of the house all day, when you come home they are tired?  And the house is clean?  And they are tired?  And all they want to do is sit in front of the tv or computer or read a book? And they don’t move?  And the house is still clean?

Dang. I’m finally getting the hang of this!  It only took eight years!  Now, if I could just get some consistent sleep!