WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE?

There are several things I am quite accomplished at (don't worry, this isn't shaping up to be a post about how awesome I am- but I am).

One thing I'm good at is baking. I enjoy baking. Baking relaxes me. I will attempt to bake most anything (in fact I want to make a baked Alaska this summer).

Two, I'm really good at reading. Constantly. I can tune out 3 fighting children and read quietly by myself without hearing a thing. I'm real good at that.

Three, being by myself. I am really good at being alone. I get much more accomplished when I don't have a gaggle of children following me.

Four, though I'm awesome at being alone, I'm even better at being around people. Children specifically, I enjoy hanging out with children (not that I would be able to do it for hours every day as a job, but I can do it for a weekend or an evening). Mind you, I'm good at that because I will feed a kid anything. Chocolate syrup on rice krispies and fruit leather? If you'd like, sure I'll give that to you. You aren't my kid, and I don't have to put you to bed. There's a reason kids love me. I am not a very good grown up.

And finally, number five in the list of things I'm good at, touching my tongue to my nose. That's not super impressive, and I'll never get anywhere because I knew how to do it; but nonetheless, it's a talent I possess in abundance.

Now, a skill I've had cause before to suspect (but which I've never really considered at great length) might be lacking something is my (self) hair cutting abilities. I can cut YOUR hair just fine. I possess eyes, and a steady hand. In fact, I've given my husband a mullet (intentionally, and at his request), I've also cut friend's hair and childrens' hair several times without any complaints. So, obviously it's not my scissor skills that are the problem.

It's my judgment. I have poor judgment. I gave Brat a trim tonight before I put her to bed. I should have cleaned up immediately, and put the scissors back where they belonged. I didn't. I left them in the washroom to be picked up when I was alone.

Except that when I picked them up when I was alone, this thought FLEW into my head, "Gee. It's been quite some time since your hair was trimmed. You've done that before. Just tip your head over and lop the end off your ponytail."

And without any further thought, that's what I did. Only then did I remember that I hadn't brushed my hair out, so it was hanging at all different lengths. So, I had to wet it, brush it and try to level it out.

It took 25 minutes, but I got the back of my hair even (well, even enough- no one ever sees my hair down). Then, as I stared at the mirror, this thought rushed through, "You haven't had bangs since 1997. You should see if they look good on you still*." And once again, without further thought, or consideration, I took the razor and began layering in bangs. Luckily they aren't heavy, or chunky or straight ruled across. But still. Bangs?

The question could be "What was I thinking?" But the truth of the matter is "I wasn't."

I didn't think it through at all.

I didn't think this through any more than I thought through putting a water balloon in my grandfathers' bed when I was 7 or 8 years old, spending the summer in South Carolina with my grandparents.

So when Soph said, "I bet it would be funny if we hid a water balloon in gramma and grampa's bed, and when they got into bed, it'd break." I laughed.

Now, Soph probably wasn't serious; but we had a great laugh. And I (henceforth to be known as "Queen of Forethought and Filtering") decided to go ahead with the plan. It was fool proof.

Grampa always sits in the same spot when he gets ready for bed at night. Always. Without fail. The same exact spot.

So I filled a balloon with about a litre and a half of water, and placed it in that spot on the bed. I rumpled the covers, like Soph and I had been playing there, and left the room.

I did it just after lunch. And Soph and I went about the rest of our day with glee, and joy and with typical childlike attention spans, forgot about the balloon by dinner time.

Gramma and Grampa tucked us into bed that night. Me, in the bed with wee doggie sheets, and Soph tucked up with the lambs. They gave us our kisses and left the room. That's when we remembered the water balloon- Soph and I stared at each other giggling.

Not a full minute later, Grampa (who never cussed because it "sounds low class and unintelligent") was at full roar. Curse words I hadn't even heard before that night. Rage. Pure, almost unintelligible, rage.

I looked over at Soph, all the blood was gone from her face. And she was creeping lower and lower under her blanket. I was frozen. I remember holding my breath.

The door to our room flew open, smashing into the wall, I'm pretty sure it took two tries to open because it bounced closed again after the first crash- but I could be mistaken (I'm not).

Grampa was standing in the hall outside the room, trying to lever himself into the room by the doorway. The reason he couldn't get into the room was Gramma, she was behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She was leaning backwards and using her feet on the door's frame to brace herself.

Grampa was shouting, "WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE?" over and over, and looking from me to Soph and back again at me. I'm positive he knew full well which one of us had done it. He might have suspected it was Sophie's idea, but he knew right away I was the only one shortsighted enough to actually have done it.

Gramma said once, years later, "It was like looking at my US flag. Red, white and blue. Grampa was red from screaming, Soph was white as a ghost in terror; and Sarah had stopped breathing altogether-  her eyes were big and blue and her lips were purple."

After Gramma and Grampa left the room that night, I remember sitting there, looking at Soph, thinking, "I am going to be in so much trouble tomorrow."  I wasn't. My grandparents are incredible and simply dried the mattress and told us not to pull such stupid stunts again. And over the years, this story has been told over and over, with more laughter than I ever would have suspected all those years ago.

I wish someone could dry my hair so I'd be off the hook for these bangs- and I could laugh about it instead.

I still might not think things through as thoroughly as I should, but at least some of my decision making skills have improved. Apparently, the self hairstyling department isn't one of those things I've learned to keep a handle on.


* This is the actual word I remember thinking to myself. "Still" as though, for one millisecond, I hadn't ever seen my own grad photo of myself with bangs. Looking like a dufus. So I don't know why my subconscious used the word "still" to convince me.  Yes, I do know why. My self conscious Sarah, a snarky bitch apparently, is sitting back and laughing at stupid regular conscious Sarah who is still gullible in the extreme.

PUKE.

As I was standing at the fridge, hastily eating a popsicle not two minutes ago, I began looking at the school calendar for the month of June.

School trips, great. Exams, fine. Text book return dates, got it. Uniform fittings, already done.

Then I saw the K-6 PD day. Yup. Perfect. K-6. Both Bugs and Brat fall in the K-6 scheme.

But then I realized something that may well have traumatized me for life (or at least until this orange popsicle melts into my keyboard and I have something else to worry about).

In four weeks school is over. Bugs will come home with his report card, and in it will be his classroom assignment(s) and teacher(s) for next year. HUH?!?!?!

What?!?!?! How is it possible? He's in junior high next year? Next year? No. That's not right. I'm barely 31, how can I possibly have a child in junior high? How? I'm not old. I'm not. I keep saying it inside my own head.

I'm not old. "NOT OLD!" I say again- this time I said it out loud. It's true I'm not old. I won't even be 32 until after he's in junior high.

But my boy isn't a baby anymore either. PUKE. (Yeah, I used every single font alteration I could think of to illustrate that word. Your point?)

There. I was afraid of that. I yarped in my own mouth a bit just now.

Gah. That's horrid. That's it. I demand a time machine. I wish to go back in time at least four years (just me, not the rest of them, I am not starting this "diaper/ pregnancy/ not old enough to babysit yet" nonsense all over again).

But now that I'm mulling it over, it's not too bad. Bugs will be old enough to babysit about halfway through the summer. That means free time for me...

Hmmmm. Okay, I guess it's alright that he's getting a bit older. He can stop right after he's old enough to babysit though. That's where I draw the line. I simply REFUSE to have a child getting ready for college or university (or life) in 6 years.

 In six years, Monster will be in Gr. 1. And Brat will be going into junior high, and I'll be in the exact same mindset then, I'm sure of it.

You Just Don't Want To!

My lovely little children, demonic monstrosities from a hell dimension that they are, have sicked me up. Again.

Or maybe it was my darling husband. Again.

I don't know which one is responsible. I also don't care which of the jerks did it. All I know is that I want a) relief from this and b) retribution.

I don't know how to achieve either.

Tylenol hasn't helped. Advil hasn't helped. Naproxen hasn't helped. Not a damned thing has helped.

Hot shower? Tried it. Popsicles? Tried them too. Temporary relief at best- and false hope at worst.

My throat feels like I ate a brick, chased it by chewing lit cigars and swallowed really old bong water (not that I would know anything about that). My body aches, I have a manic depressive fever that comes and goes with insane, completely unpredictable randomness. And I can't hear out of my left ear. WTF? What kind of sickness did they give me? It's like some horrid cross between a viral strep infection and a inner ear gnome who eats crackers on my ear drum.

Obviously, my family will be 'ground' zero for the next global pandemic of  'feeling crappy' (without having something curable). Complete chaos reigns in my living room right now, because I feel too icky to fix it.

This is balls. I'm going to start sterilizing myself after every form of interaction I have with any of these people. I'll put my universal precaution skills to the test. Glove up to tuck them in, wash my hands after hugging them, and changing clothing before leaving their bedroom.

Not that I'm complaining (yes, I bloody well am). I love them. Very, very much. But I am sick of being tired, sick of being achy and sick of being sick.

My momma called tonight, and when she found out I was home from work, we chatted for a very brief time (because my damned throat was too sore to talk to her). And I suddenly remembered being sick, at age 9, with the chicken pox.

And I remember SCREAMING at her (as a 9 year old), "You know how to make me feel better! You just don't want to!"

And now, looking back on it, she probably did know how to cure the chicken pox, but letting me suffer was the only form of retribution she could exact from a 9 year old.

I hope my kids get sick again, so I can withold a vital cure, like oatmeal baths. That'll learn them.