The battle cry of our 5- and 2-year old boys is, “I don’t love you!” They don’t love us if we make them clean their room, pick up their toys, take a bath, eat their vegetables. You get the drift. Today is another one of those days when the current baby of the brood loves no one.
You see, we’re living with Mickey’s grandmother while our house is being built about 40 feet away. Naturally, her house isn’t baby-proofed. At all. Heck, can you imagine a nearly 90-year old lady trying to pry the outlet covers off, work a toilet seat latch, or even open a door equipped with a Grip ‘n Twist cover? I have to quit with the examples because I’m cracking myself up over here. So, the boys have a fascination with these recliners of hers, which led to Grayson being thrown off backward and into the corner of a side table.
Certainly, you’ve all realized how cheap I can be, and the thought of paying his deductible a mere 12 hours before it resets was giving me palpitations, chest pains and nausea. Wait, the nausea is from the 18 hours of morning sickness I deal with each day. (And you thought Playtex was the only provider of 18 hours worth of torture.) BUT, my child is gushing blood from the back of his head. For an hour.
By this time, I’m rocking in a corner while Mickey is doing what he does best: nursing our babies back to health, or in our case keeping them out of the hospital on a holiday (don’t forget last year’s July 4th in the ER for scarlet fever, Thanksgiving in the ER with the flu and Christmas in the pedi wing with RSV). And here’s where the mix of growing up on a ranch, having your advanced RN degree, and swiping your wife’s sewing gadgets come in handy. He proceeded to scalp a 2″ ring around Gray’s gaping head wound with my now-retired embroidery scissors and place steri strips over it. Didn’t work.
At this point, all I want is a bottle of wine, a Xanax, a joint…anything or all of the above. (No, I don’t abuse drugs and alcohol while pregnant or drugs while not pregnant, but I can certainly put a hurting on some red, red wine in my non-pregnant state). Mickey is calm as a cucumber. He leaves the bleeding toddler with me while he goes to retrieve skin glue. From Walgreens. Twenty miles away. Boo.
He returns with the glue and successfully closes the wound. It’ll leave a scar, but don’t boys consider those trophies or something? It also saved us from having to apply any funds toward our deductible. Here’s hoping that the glue will hold until at least 12:01am, at which point I will gladly trudge to the ER and have them stitch G’s head back together.
Meanwhile, Grayson doesn’t love anyone. Not me for standing stoically in another room while he was bloodletting, not his daddy for fixing his head, and certainly not his brother for flinging him off the recliner.
“I don’t love you!”
“But I love you, Grayson!”
We hope your New Year gets off to a fabulous and uneventful start. And even if our toddler tells you otherwise, he loves you just as much as we do.
In what was quite possibly a lapse in judgment, Mickey and I decided to start a blog so our family and friends (and any other unknowns who stumble across our page) could follow the events that unfold on and around our ranch. I spent hours preparing a literary classic as my first post, only to have it erased by my phone because I refuse to purchase more space in my “cloud.”
Needless to say, things have been in full swing out here. Here’s a five-minute rundown:
Get married, move to West Virginia for Mickey’s school, four rentals later we find suitable living arrangements, I start grad school and relocate back to the Great State of Texas, Mickey follows three months later, four months after that we’re pregnant with #1, new house, new cars, here comes #2, time to buy a bigger house, more new cars, BAM! Mickey’s dad dies very unexpectedly, sell the dream home, plan new dream home, hit every delay imaginable when it only takes 24 hours to sell our fab home, move into our travel trailer, lose power to it due to construction issues, move in with my parents, move in with his grandma, give up homeschooling in favor of private school because you can’t homeschool when you’re homeless, still no slab, cancel Disney trip in hopes slab will be poured, delay, delay, delay, mistakes, new builder, 4 months behind schedule, tensions can be cut with a knife, here comes #3, house dried in after a month of framing, finally have house blessing.
There! You have 9 years summed up in one run-on sentence. For those who don’t know, I’m a motormouth. I’ll be back with some pretty funny happenings in this new life of ours out here in the boonies.
Only he can understand what a farm is, what a country is, who shall have sacrificed part of himself to his farm or country, fought to save it, struggled to make it beautiful. Only then will the love of farm or country fill his heart. –Antoine de Saint-Exupery