Have you ever thought about what people might think if they saw what goes on behind-the-scenes at your house? Do you ever wonder what it would be like to catch a glimpse of someone else’s daily life? Here’s your chance. Today 13 bloggers are inviting you into their homes to be a fly on the wall.
This post is yet another brilliant idea from my friend Baking in a Tornado. If I can just get her to come up with 2-3 ideas per week, I’d never have to think again and wouldn’t that be just lovely. So, I’ve amassed brief snippets into my life over the last few weeks, and somehow managed to condense these voyeuristic glimpses into a manageable post. Pull up a chair, get a beverage and some popcorn or your snack of choice and enjoy the show. You don’t even need binoculars or a telescope. I promise, you won’t be able to look away. Could be horror. Could be laughter. Could be shock. Could be boredom. Whatever it may be for you, happy reading (hopefully). Oh, and watch out for that fly swatter…
If you were a fly on the wall, you would have witnessed this conversation between my husband and I:
Husband: “So, man-child’s teacher pulled me aside after school today.”
Me: “Ruh-roh, why?”
Husband: “Apparently, there is no money in his lunch account, but she wanted to reassure me that he would get fed at lunchtime. Apparently, they have special lunches for kids who for various reason can’t buy or bring a lunch every day.”
Me: “Oh…ummm yeah, I may have forgotten to do reload his account. Ooops…”
Husband: “Ya think?”
Man-child: “Yeah, thanks a lot mom. It was weird jelly on the sandwich.”
I promised to load his account before Monday. Monday afternoon, I get a text from husband:
Husband: *Did you remember to put money into man-child’s account?*
Me: *Umm…yeah…* I race furiously back to my office and do it real quick. Damn, it takes 2 days to post. Craptastic.
Me: (texting husband) *Yes, I did it…just now.*
Husband: *He’s gonna be so mad at you.*
So naturally like any good mother, I race up to target to buy appeasement/guilt surprises for man-child. Because we can totally afford a new Xbox game, just not a school lunch. Priorities.
I remember when he informed me he wanted to start buying his lunch at school:
Man-child: “Mom, I want to be a buyer.”
Me: “what?” I’m thinking a buyer? Like, for department stores? This is his life goal in the 1st grade? Why not astronaut or firefighter? No, I get the kid who wants to shop so other people can shop. This is weird right? It’s not just me?
Man-child: “I wanna be a buyer. You get cool stuff. Like spaghetti and nuggets and tacos! Oh and chocolate milk. I love my chocolate milk mom.”
Me (the light dawns): “Oh, you mean you want to buy your lunch at school?”
Man-child: “yeah..duh, what else?”
Me: “Sure. Ok.” I feel like I dodged a bullet there.
The other day, I walk into man-child’s room and he’s packing a bag. He’s filling it with his favorite toys and books. Curious. Hmmm. Very curious. I can’t wait to hear this.
Me: “Are you going somewhere?”
Me: “Oh? Where are you going?”
Man-child: “To visit my stepdad.”
Me: “Oh. Ok…well, let’s not tell your dad ok?”
Man-child: “Ok. It’s not like he was invited.”
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Man-child loves Adam Levine as much as I do! Best. Day. Ever. But, I probably should tone down the Adam Levine talk for a while…at least in front of man-child. I can just see what my husband would do with this nugget of awesomeness.
Man-child: “Mom, is Willy Wonka real?”
18-year-old daughter (with extreme sarcasm): “Just like ‘Santa’ is real.”
Me (death stare to daughter): “Why do you ask?”
Man-child: “Cause on my box of nerds it says Willy Wonka. So that means he’s real and he made my candy?”
Me: “Sure. Oh and guess what! Your sister wrote a letter to Santa and she has agreed to let all the presents she would have gotten from him come to you! Isn’t this awesome!”
I then turn to daughter and cock an eyebrow as if to say “what now, biatch?”
Daughter: “Whatever. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
Me: “Yeah…speaking of that, how are those college essay’s going?”
Daughter suddenly remembers something she has to do upstairs.
Mom wins this round!
I see a tweet from middle daughter, *HAHAHA no. #byenow*. She rarely tweets, so I asked her about it. Man-child was sitting next to me watching Spongebob.
Daughter: “Oh yeah, I tweeted that after my teacher threw a fit AND a chair!”
Me (alarmed): “Your teacher THREW A CHAIR?”
Daughter: “yeah, crazy bitch…I mean…” She then looks wild-eyed at her little brother and then back at me. I give her the death stare.
Man-child: “I know, I know…it’s one of those words I can hear but not say. Don’t worry mom. I know. Ironman and Spiderman use bad words all the time. It’s not a big deal.” He then pats me on the leg.
Awesome. Parent of the year. Right here. I don’t even remember if she finished telling me about the chair story. I need to follow up…probably. Later. Tomorrow.
I think I’ve mentioned before that I refuse to use the bathroom in public places, this includes work. I work with Seniors. I’ve seen bathrooms smeared with feces and/or vomit or pee puddles or used depends left next to the toilet. Yeah…I can hold it thank you very much. The first thing I do when I get home is head for the poopcan. I’m peacefully trying to drop some buddies off at the lake, when I hear my oldest daughter yell my name. My husband is in the bedroom folding laundry. That little bastard rats me out, and tells her I’m taking a dump, so he totally deserves what happens next:
Me (with a sigh of resignation): “Yes?”
Daughter: “I’m pretty sure I have a yeast infection! Itchy. Discharge. Yeah.”
Husband: “Really?!?!!?!? You had to announce that right here. Now!”
Daughter: “What? It’s not my fault you’re in here.”
Husband: “It’s MY BEDROOM!”
Daughter: “It’s mom’s bedroom too!”
OMG why can’t I ever just crap in peace! They know I get performance anxiety. Now, I’ll be constipated for the next day or two.
My middle daughter joined the land of the gainfully employed recently. She’s quickly adapted to the thrill of having her own money to spend. Every year on her Christmas list, she puts down a Juicy Couture Jacket (or as I call it Juicy Cout”whore”). I feel it’s redonkulous to pay over $150 bucks for a velour track jacket or sweatpants with the word “Juicy” bejeweled across the butt. To each their own. I find Juicy to be the female equivalent of Ed Hardy, and don’t even get me started on Ed. I get it’s a thing and lots of people like it. It’s just not my thing. I told her to save her money and buy it herself. So she did. Ugh. UPS delivered it the other day while she was working. I sent her this pic and text:
“Your brother lost his jacket at school today. He said thanks for ordering him a new one!! It fits perfectly!! You’re the best sister ever!”
We get this response.
“THAT BETTER BE SAFE AND SOUND IN MY ROOM OR I’M TAKING HIS TOOTH FAIRY MONEY TO BUY ANOTHER ONE!”
Wow. Someone takes their Juicy seriously… That’s ok, I have this pic of her which will be paraded out at a time of my choosing…
Yes, those are drinking straw glasses….
Yeah, I love my job. It’s a mantra I repeat to myself several times a day…or minute. I’ll preface this work moment by saying that if there is a hell, I’ve probably got a penthouse suite reserved. Bless the hearts of my senior citizens, they mean well…most of the time. I used to help a sweet lady with her taxes, and she we would thank me by bringing me cookies from our deli that she frosted with icing circa 1948. Needless to say, I’m a little weary of seniors bearing gifts, especially of the food variety. One such gift arrived in my office the other day. A resident, we shall call her “Jill”, knocked on my office door. She came in and asked me if I knew where to find the woman who had eye surgery. I tell her I’m not aware of anyone who had eye surgery, but she might ask the nurse station. She comes back a minute later, and announces that it was me she was looking for after all! I don’t remember having an eye surgery, but maybe I should go home….rest. In her hands, she is holding a cake. Apparently, it’s her birthday today! I wish her a happy birthday, and she informs me she wants me to have a piece of her birthday cake as a thank you for all the hard work I do. This is a very sweet gesture, and I’m touched really and truly. But I’m not eating that cake. She proceeds to cut it using a wooden spoon and then scoops it up with her bare hands and plops it on a napkin. Yeah. So not eating this cake.
Of course, I thank her profusely for her generosity. It was a very sweet gesture. I am truly thankful she didn’t wait around to watch me eat it, because that would have been horrifying. Unfortunately, I had to throw it away, and I never waste cake. Or dessert. Ever. It broke my heart. I promise.
Man-child finally got a hair cut! He no longer looks like a Bieber wannabe.
The hand signal is a high school football thing. It’s often accompanied with the shout “Can I get a Wolfpack!” It represents a wolf. It’s our local version of “Hook Em Horns”, I guess you could say. His sisters (Middle and Youngest Girls) attend rival high schools (don’t ask…a district cluster f@*$). Like it wasn’t bad enough when we had the Woodwind versus Brass intrument rivalry. Man-child likes to pester one sister or another by cheering for the opposite high school. He really doesn’t have a dog in this fight right now, but eventually, he will be attending the same high school as my youngest daughter, unless we move, so I’m down with the Wolfpack.
Last but not least, if you were a fly on the wall in my house, you’d see me wearing this all day, every day…
You’d also see me caressing his face all the time, which is placed strategically over my boobs (if I’m wearing a bra). You might want to fly away now little fly…things could get awkward.
Check out the other participants, I know I can’t wait to see what they did! It’s like going through someone’s medicine cabinet without the fear of getting caught. Not that I’ve done that. Ever.