Whack a Mole

My husband and I blessed my sister-in-law with the presence of our family of five at her annual summer outdoor party yesterday.  We definitely upheld our end of the entertainment value with two children falling off of her swingset slide (and screaming bloody murder), our youngest scattering sand from the sandbox throughout the yard for hours on end, and my husband and I engaging in a hot dog eating contest in our tent seats, all the while pretending we didn’t know who’s kids were screaming. 

But everything my family did yesterday pales in comparison to the showstopping abilities my brother-in-law showcased just past dinner time in the front yard. 

After dinner time a dozen kids were playing in the front yard – football, volleyball, bikes, chalk, you name it – it was pulled out of the garage and being used. 

Five girls (age range 3-13) were bumping the volleyball back and forth to each other in a circle.  A few moments into the game one of the girls missed the ball altogether and it landed right in the flower bed.  She leaned over to pick it up and noticed something moving in the mulch.  Oddly, she didn’t scream, but instead told the other girls to come over because there was a “cute little mole” that they just had to see.

Within minutes, the mole was named “Joey”.  I will call the “naming” girl Angelina Jolie from this point on, as she apparently had intentions to adopt the mole, move it to a third-world country for its own safety from the paparazzi, and fly back to the States to update us on his conditions regularly.

In the meantime, my five-year-old niece had raced to the backyard to tell my sister-in-law the news.  A few moments later she rounded the corner, her facial expressions telling that she wasn’t sure whether her daughter’s story was legit or not. 

A few leg kicks from the mulch pile confirmed her disgust.  She called to my brother-in-law as she quickly announced the fate of Joey to the girls – bye bye.

Angelina Jolie looked heartbroken.

My brother-in-law quickly rounded the corner of the house, half-listened to the mole story, went straight to the garage, picked up a metal shovel and squared himself to Joey. 

I thought this may have been a good time to tell children under the age of 12 to back up or at least turn their heads.  Apparently I was off on this one or didn’t account for my brother-in-law’s Bud Light intake, because instead he instantly whacked the mole on the head.

Angelina Jolie gasped.

The younger kids giggled. 

The first whack didn’t get the job done and was followed by a second smack/thud.  No one questioned whether or not the second whack took care of business.

My brother-in-law lifted the mole onto the shovel, and walked him across the driveway.  Everyone paid their last respects by fake-gagging at the sight of him just before he was tossed into the trashcan.

What I’ve taken away from this experience is the following:  Who needs pet fish and a toilet to learn about the circle of life?  Whack-a-Mole on the front lawn takes care of that life lesson all on it’s own – just be sure to invite the neighborhood kids over before you start the game.

Read from Left to Right

I sat back and watched as my three-year-old attempted to help my five-year-old cheat on his eye exam in the doctor’s office today.  I probably should have been telling her to be quiet or something, but I was too busy laughing like a hyena in my head to say anything audible.  The nurse took care of it for me by re-directing the questions to my son and saying “and how about you tell me this letter and your sister can tell me the next one”.  Who knew his kid sister had half the alphabet down already? 

What I learned from today’s annual doctor check-up is that this may be yet another event that is best with the two of these kids separated. 

They quietly debated who was going to get their blood pressure taken first, giggled uncontrollably as the doctor inspected each others behind, and then turned the “hop on one foot” assessment into a battle of the sexes, barreling into the doctor’s exam table face-first as the event’s grand finale. 

Don’t worry, neither one of them were hurt.  They were much more concerned as to when they would receive their sticker and candy sucker versus a table shot to the shoulder blade.

By the time the eleven pages of required school forms were filled out, the two of them had had just about enough of the friendly doctor and began the chant “are we about done yet?”, as they hung on me like chimpanzees.   By the seventh form, I thought about saying it out loud myself. 

When the doctor handed me the papers, I chuckled as I looked down at half of the sheets reading “N/A” or “Not needed at this time” or “OK”.  I think I could have administered the exam at home and completed the forms with more detail. 

That being said, I thought about saving myself a trip to the doctor next summer.  I pointed to a letter on one of the pages and turned to my three-year-old daughter and said “step back and cover your right eye”…………………….

Jersey Boys Take Me Away

I’ve come to the realization that anytime I make the decision to partake in an adult activity sans children I have to pay a dues.  It’s like kids across America have banded together to ensure if parents even THINK they’re leaving them with a babysitter, they will make sure they don’t leave the house without a stain on their pant leg, a face with 1/2 makeup, and above all an enormous guilt complex.

I usually end up setting out for my grown-up adventure with a pounding headache and the ironic thought that maybe staying home with my children would have been “more fun” (or just easier).

Tonight I was going to see the Jersey Boys.  And yes, I’m under the age of 89, as questioned by my co-working friends. 

Sure enough, forty-five minutes before I had to leave tonight, my three-year-old peed through the rug of the bathroom, my eldest decided to try his aim at pouring the remaining gallon of milk into his cup through a straw, and my youngest moseyed around the house picking her butt – literally.  There’s only so many ways you can rephrase “get your hand out of your crotch” without losing your mind.

It was 98 degrees out, so the option to let them run out their energy outdoors wasn’t an option.  Instead, inside our air-conditioned castle, I popped in a video and pretended blankets were sleeping bags and set each of them up with their own bucket of popcorn.  It would be a night at the movies for the rat pack….until the dvd started skipping because somebody had scratched it, two popcorn buckets got tipped over, one kid got trapped in their blanket and the babysitter showed up. 

Let the real chaos begin!

By the time I inched my way out of the door with my daughter’s fingernail marks in my thighs and my son hollering out for me to bring him back some Transformers or Superheroes, I contemplated forgetting the whole thing. 

Instead, I set off on my grown-up adventure.

I walked outside, where I handed my van keys to my father who planned to drive.  My mother then jumped in the passenger seat.  That left me, well, in the booster seat in the waaaay back next to the Ninja Turtles and a 1/2 pack of M&Ms.  I thought about asking them to stop for a McDonald’s Happy Meal, but I passed. 

As the Five Seasons later sang, “Oh What a Night!”.