annieology

When I was growing up we had Jr. High as opposed to Middle School.  Jr. High started in the seventh grade.  I distinctly remember a time in my life when I COULD NOT WAIT to be a seventh grader.  How cool.  The perks of Jr. High?  Come on.  Wow.  It seemed there could never be anything cooler.  And BONUS we got out 30 minutes before the “little kids”.  Wow.  How badly can one misinterpret reality?

Boog was slighted earlier today.  He and Little Miss Sunshine were playing airplane.   She took it upon herself to assign the duty roster.  “You can drive the plane, I’ll get the drinks.”

“Boys can get drinks too you know.”

No one wanted to be the pilot.  I’m going to spin this as they don’t feel the need to be in a position of power, rather they have a servants heart.  Well, it’s my story that gets told here.

Last week, while on Facebook I got chatted up by a former child of mine.  She wanted to know if she could come and see me.  Since she is still underaged I inquired as to her parents thoughts on the matter.  She emancipated at 17 so I encouraged her to come over whenever she felt like it.

I suppose my thoughts on the matter deserve their very own post.

She’s coming over tonight.

Then I’m going to night two of a women’s conference and let me just ask you this?  Why have we, as women as a whole, not yet gotten it into our pretty little heads that we are AWESOME, SO FREAKING AWESOME, and stop the whining?  Isn’t that the essence of a women’s conference, to tell us how awesome we are?  Apparently this theme sells, but more on that later.

Looking forward to going to church this weekend, corporately speaking.  We have a meeting with the Food Bank next week to finalize paperwork regarding the Back Pack Food Program, probably not in time for Spring Break, but  enough time to work out the kinks before the school year ends and we move from two schools to all of them.  We are doing our neighborhood school, it is not a Title 1 school, the needs here are real,  but overlooked in the evil rich district we live in.  We are also doing a school where it’s estimated that over 90% of the kids will participate.

So, I gots to go scan the horizon for my baby coming home.

I am blessed with brilliant children, and by blessed I mean “gotta stay on my toes”.  Yesterday Felpsy turned six.  As you know, Boog was ready to dec-o-rate.  He woke up at the crack of early asking to go to the party store.   I told him the store didn’t open for a long time, but we would go.  After 487 questions about when they opened, why they weren’t opened, blah blah blah, I told him the people who worked at the party store had to get their kids ready for school and then had to go home and get ready for work, so they wouldn’t be there until about the time I was ready.  Yes, I know I shouldn’t lie, don’t worry, I paid for it.

Several hours pass and we hit up the party store.  Greeted of course by the (why the hell are you bothering my txting with showing up at my job) employee mumbling something about “welcome to Party Universe blah blah blah”  Boog of course tells her we are here to get decorations for his brother’s birthday, that he was five yesterday just like us and now he’s not, asks her if she likes Sushi and then asks her if she has kids.

Yes.  He.  Did.

No.  She didn’t.

“Well then why couldn’t she get to work on time?”  he asked me.

Crap.

“Oh look, streamers.”

We got our Star Wars paraphernalia and headed to Target.

Boog shot off in the direction of the toys at 100 mph while Little Miss Sunshine strolled at the breakneck speed of a Hoveround.  We past the make up aisle and the girl asked me why they didn’t make a lipstick that lasted longer than a “Spongebob” (our standard measure of time for 15 minutes) while commiserating with her I heard the walkies  going on about a lost boy and “does he know his mommy’s name”.  Urging the girl to walk a little faster, figuring I was said mommy, we round the corner to find Boog standing in a hazmat zone having puked the length of the Lego aisle.

“He’s mine, thanks.” (you totally know that puke is not my domain inside a Target store right?  I am the mayor after all.)  And I hurried out of there with my ill child, at the breakneck speed of a Hoveround.  All while dodging two calls from CPS and the therapist, plus the knowing eyes of those with walkies judging me for not being more active in vomit clean up.

“Hey, I saw that look.  I’m the mayor around these parts, I totally have no power over you.”

Other than that it was a gorgeous day here in north Mexico.  Mid 70s and if Tech Support had the time to windsurf anymore, it would have been a great day to do so.  I feel the outdoor pool is within our grasp here shortly, (pending results of the skin cancer biopsy and a ton of SPF).

We ate cupcakes decorated like dogs and petit fours.   After of course a dinner of pork tenderloin and spinach.  (Felpsy’s choice)

Then we hunted for presents.  I would excuse my not wrapping birthday gifts as the “green” alternative buy you know that’s a bunch of bull.  But I don’t wrap birthday presents.  We scavenger hunt for them.  This year I let the twins give their own clues as to where they had hidden their gifts.  There was wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Finally it was revealed that they were “on my bed”.   When it got to be my turn I told him mine was hidden “not on top of my bed” to which a major fit was thrown.   “Fine it’s under my bed.”  Happiness.

Then a big fight where someone may or may not have ended up with a gaping head wound.

Blood.  Tears.  Timeouts. Chocolate.  Awesomeness.

I no longer have three 5 year olds.  We are down to two.

Felpsy missed being a Leap Day baby by moments, or so I’m told since I have no official record of his birth.

Here he is showing off his killer smile.

I hope it wasn’t really the worst birthday ever.

love you baby doll.