Tag Archives: humor

Because…pants. 

It’s been one of those weeks. We’ve been running hither and yon constantly. We haven’t been home long enough for me to make real meals until today. And when I tried to make breakfast this morning, I realized we had no food! Thank goodness the hubs forgot to take his leftovers from last night’s drive-thru dinner to work. However, the boy chose to go hungry rather than eat the cold, popcorn chicken. So I typed up a grocery list while eating the cold, popcorn chicken and dreaded going to the store.
“Don’t you want REAL food in your house,” you ask. “Don’t you want to be able to nourish your family with wholesome goodness so they have go-power and live long, healthy, prosperous lives?” Yes! Yes, I truly do!
But here’s the thing: it involves putting on pants. I don’t need every hair in place, flawless makeup nor stain-free clothes to leave the house, but I do need pants. And I’ve “panted” enough this week. I panted all over the DC Metro area this week: interacted with strangers while volunteering at a concession stand, having conversations with other basketball parents before, between and after games, matching the loud cheers of the other parents so well that I caused my own hearing aid to squeak and whistle and ensured the uniforms were washed daily so the teenager didn’t leave the house in stinky pants. I’ve even shamefully tried to convince my son to skip at least one, if not all three, of the 4-H activities he has this weekend, by telling him he’ll miss out on playing with his neighborhood friends, so I can stay home. So, TODAY, I need a break from panting. I just. Don’t. Want. To pant today. 
I went upstairs to shower and pant but put it off by visiting the boy in his room, instead. “You know what I’m in the mood for,” he asked. Please say staying home all weekend, I thought. “Pizza!” I didn’t explain to him that we are NOT going to get food out AGAIN, that we are going to the grocery store, because I knew couldn’t be convincing. I left his room and, instead of going into mine to pant up, I wandered back downstairs. 
I saw I had a missed call from the hubs so I called him back, if only to put off the inevitability of panting a little longer. 

 
Me: Sup?

The hubs: Back from grocery shopping?

Me: No. I’ve been busy. Going to get ready now. 

The hubs: Oh, good, I caught you! I’m in the mood for sushi!

Me: Ugh! The boy’s in the mood for pizza, but we need real food in the house!

The hubs: I’ll bring home sushi & pizza and then do the shopping tomorrow while you and the boy are at 4-H. 

And just like that, I got a “buy” (yup, I’m a sports mom, now). A buy that includes sushi. And I’m taking it. Because…pants. 

UPDATE: The boy just walked by with something crinkling in his hand. “What’s that,” I asked. “I found a cheese stick and ate it,” he replied. 

I burst into tears. “I’m sorry we don’t have any food but I just can’t pant today!”

He wrapped me in his arms and patted my back. “You don’t have to pant today, Mom. And it’s OK that we don’t have any food. You know why? Because we have ingredients and we’ll make food.”

Our bowels have GPS, and they’re off by at least a mile. 

Don’t believe me? Think back to the last time you were on your way home and the need to poop hit you. It wasn’t bad, just your body saying, “Hey – nothing urgent but, FYI, we’re ready to move when you find the appropriate place and time.” 

Then you got about a mile away from home and your body said, “Phew! We made it. High fives all around, everyone. Now…release the hounds!” 

And you freaked out! “Wait, WHAT?! We’re NOT home yet! We’re not in a bathroom! STOP!”

“Whadaya tawkin’ about,” your bowels replied. “We’re home. It says so right here on my GPS: ‘You have arrived at your destination.’ And not a moment too soon, I might add,” they chuckled.

And you squeezed your butt cheeks so tight, trying to prevent an accident in the car. Then the relief of making it home without making a mess was swiftly replaced with fear at having to get out of your seat and walk into the house. As much as your bowels believed you were already in your bathroom, you are equally convinced that the pressure of you sitting in your car is the only thing holding your poop in. 

You’re not alone; it happens to all of us! Our bowels make a conscious dcision to prematurely engage their release button when we get within a mile of our homes. They don’t mean to cause us such distress. They just have defective GPSes. 

“Roughing It”

Sometime between Thursday afternoon and Saturday morning, we sprung a leak in the basement.  At first, it appeared to be coming from the washing machine, but by yesterday morning, it was clear it was coming from the hot water heater.  A plumber came over and confirmed that the hot water heater tank is cracked and it needs to be replaced.  Unfortunately, we do not know when that will be.

In the meantime, we had to shut the hot water off yesterday and drain what is left in the tank to avoid further flooding.  So I am boiling water on the stove and wishing I had a real fireplace with a big, black kettle over it, to save on gas (and to fulfill a childhood dream of living like Laura Ingalls Wilder).  I piled the dirty dishes on the counter, filled one sink with hot (2 parts boiling water from the stove and 1 part cold tap water) soapy water for washing and rinsed in the other sink, using the dishwasher as a drying rack.  That’s what I did when I was single and living alone: used the dishwasher as a drying rack.  This morning I had to teach B how to take a sponge bath.

B: Yes!  I love baths!
Me: This isn’t a real bath; it’s a sponge bath.  I’m going to give you a bowl of hot water, a washcloth and a bar of soap. Stand on your towel in the bathroom, lather up your washcloth and wash your feet, pits and manly bits.  Then rinse off with more hot water, dry and get dressed.
B: Wait.  Backup.  Wash my what?!
Me: Your feet, pits and manly bits.  You know, your feet, your arm pits and the area covered by your underwear.
B: “Manly bits“?  Where do you come up with this stuff, Ma?   And when I take a real bath, the bubbles in the water do all the washing for me.
Me: Once again, this is not a real bath; it’s a sponge bath.
B (mumbling as he walked up to his bathroom): It shouldn’t have “bath” in it’s name than.

Poor kid.  He’s got it so rough, doesn’t he?  LOL  I’ll address the fact that he is letting the bubbles do all the washing for him the next time he takes a real bath.  ;o)

The Agony of De Feet

Fall is finally here; it’s my favorite season of all!  The smells. The colors. The sweaters. The crisp air. The pumpkins. The corn stalks. The costumed tiny humans. The darkness at bedtime.  The crunchy footsteps. The festivals. The apples. The turkeys. Important birthdays. An anniversary.  I love it all!  Even my legs are rejoicing that it’s Fall.  “We’re ensconced in jeans!  No more shaving!” they gleefully exclaim.

But not all of me is happy it’s Fall.  My feet are grieving. They can’t breathe in the socks I had to wrestle them into.  They beg to know what crime they’ve committed to deserve imprisonment within my sneakers.  “We were meant to be free!” they cry out.  “You have banished our soul (or is it sole?) mates to the back of the dark closet!  Your flip-flops will rot in there and their death will be on your head!”

I’ve decided to participate in “Throwback Thursday” by posting a funny, yet true, story that happened 6 years ago: “Mama, my balls are gone.”

“Mama, my balls are gone.”

That lovely sentence woke me up at 6:15am on September 9, 2008. I opened my eyes. “What?” “My balls. They’re gone. See?” Five year old B was standing next to my bed, underwear around his knees, pulling his empty scrotum sac to the right of his penis and sqishing it around to show me just how empty it was. Now, I ask you, how would you have responded? I am a woman. I know what’s in there and what it’s used for and I’ve even enjoyed a few pair in my life, but I had no clue if this disappearing act was normal or cause for alarm. And I certainly didn’t want to alarm B. But I don’t hit the ground running when I wake up like B does, so I was a little slow to respond.

“Mama? Did you hear me? Do you see?” Blink. Blink, blink. “Yes, I heard. I see. I’m sure they’ll be back.” That seemed to satisfy him. Thank goodness he did not ask me where they went! I don’t think I would have been able to think on my feet for that one.

We got dressed, went downstairs for breakfast and received the hub’s daily “good morning” call. I told him B’s balls were gone and asked if this was a problem.

“His WHAT are WHERE?” he asked.
“His BALLS. They are no longer in his SCROTUM SAC. Do I need to WORRY?!”
Silence. “Is he in pain?”
“B, are you in pain?”
“No.”
“No.”
“I don’t know. Have him check again before he leaves for kindergarten. If they’re not back, call me.”

That was funny, in retrospect, b/c what was he gonna do of they weren’t back by the time we left for school? Tell me to keep him home and monitor the situation? Call the ped? Go to the ER? Smack him on the butt and hope they popped out?

They were back before he went to school. And when he came home from school, I asked him to check again and they were still there. WebMD had been no help with finding an explination. But to be fair to the website, I didn’t really know what to look for. “Nuts disappearing” rendered an article on chocolate. I finally remembered that they are called “testicles” but looking for “testicles disappearing” brought up an article about a PGA Tour golfer who lost his game until he rubbed testosterone on his biceps…not really anything to help my 5 year old. I had put a call into my mom, my resident medical expert, but my dad was out of town so her not answering the phone told me she was galavanting with the girls and who knew when she’d return my call.

I’m thinking this is a normal male experience. I have heard several characters in movies talk about things that made their balls shrivel up or crawl back up. And you know all movies have medical consultants on site to ensure the accuracy of the script, right? RIGHT?!

%d bloggers like this: