Thursday, October 20, 2011

Warning: Slingshooting beanie babies does not produce the same result as a Looney Tunes slingshot.

It's fall break and my delinquents are out of school. It's not been too bad except for:

*a disastrous attempt at Rice Krispie treats
*a minor medical emergency involving Zack and aforementioned Rice Krispie treats
*another medical emergency involving Zack and a wasp
*a frantic search looking for Bob the Pterodactyl
*Regan and Wesley pushing each other in Target over a disagreement involving salt and pepper shakers
*a vain attempt to deliberately stain a shirt for a Halloween costume
*another vain attempt to make reindeer antlers out of craft foam
*discovering I have bought 7 bottles of ranch dressing in an overzealous coupon spree
*packing bags for Wesley and Regan's Scout camping trip with Dave. This also led to a yelling and foot stomping fit by Regan when I pulled out four stuffed animals from her bag.

Now, readers, it does seem like a lot for a week. But if you have read my blog, you'll understand (especially Kitten with a Whiplash) this is normal for my little corner of paradise.

The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back--or in my case, Bob the Pterodactyl--was the construction of a slingshot made from one of my bras. If I had known Bob was to be abused this way, I would have never found him hiding in Regan's sock drawer. Regan and Wesley decided to use the bra to propel Bob across the house.


By the time I stopped the revelry, one of the kitchen drawers were upended. Zack was cowering in the basement, frantically trying to chew off the bandage covering the wasp sting. The mantle of the fireplace had been rearranged to become a target. Wesley was spitting out commands like a four-star general to make sure Bob would land on the mantle in one piece. Regan was soothing Cutie Pie (another stuffed animal) because she was next in line to be shot.

"Mean. You're just plain mean." Wesley accused me. "We're not fighting now and we're having fun. Blah, blah, blah." I tuned him out until he said, "You're not the boss of me. And I've got rights." Honestly, that kid is going to be a major crime figure in the near future and so he continues, "Someday, you're gonna miss us fighting with each other." He will not be a psychic for the police force.

I not so quietly remind him that I am indeed the boss of him and if he could name five of the Bill of Rights, I'll let him continue playing. He named two (religious freedom and right to bear arms). He tried to slide in "Freedom to think" but I nixed it.

"Benjamin Franklin Pierce wrote it." My little scholar grunted. Too many MASH reruns.

Turning my attention to the girl, she lets Cutie Pie loose on the slingshot down the stairs. The poor dog (Zack) never stood a chance as Cutie Pie assaulted him in mid-bandage chew.I disassemble the sling shot and put it back into my drawer as Wesley puts on a pair of socks.

"I'm going outside," he announces with anger. I almost tell him that he put on Regan's Hello Kitty socks but remind myself that I love my children. I love like my children. I like tolerate my children.

Please remind me to look into military academies for Wesley and convents for Regan.

3 comments:

Kitten With a Whiplash said...

I don't suppose it's a good idea to tell Wesley that if he needs a bra to build a slingshot, he can save his allowance and buy his own? No, definitely not. But I would love to read your description of that shopping trip. Wesley to Victoria's Secret Saleslady - "My Mom brought me in to buy my first bra!"

Meanwhile, I suppose Zack is lucky he was the target, not the ammo. OK, lucky isn't the right word here, but I really don't know what is.

BTW, is it comments like this have earned me a place of honor in this post?

Christy said...

Yes, Kitten, you are probably the only person who truly understands that although my children and dog drive me crazy, you know I wouldn't trade them for the world (well, maybe for a trip to the beach)

Christy said...

And, Kitten, you are honored because you have not called in a police report a person named Christy has a total nervous breakdown.