I got a call yesterday morning at 8:40. 8:40?! My kids aren’t toddlers anymore. This means that I can sleep in until whenever I want.
Yes, you read that right.
I get to sleep in until whenever I want! Or until 8:30, whichever comes first.
Ok, ok. 8:30 comes first, so I don’t technically get to sleep in to whenever I want, but 8:30 is stinkin’ sweet!
I sleep in late because I stay up late. This wasn’t always true. I used to go to bed early and get up early. Had to. If I wanted my bowl of ramen noodles for breakfast before work (and I did), then I had to get up extra early.
And then I had babies, which meant sleep was all mixed up and gotten in bits and pieces.
And now the babies are seven and nine years old. And they kind of like their free time to play in the morning without Mom interfering. And I kind of like staying up late writing blogs and reading books and watching tv.
So…I got a call yesterday morning at 8:40. I was still stumbling around the house trying to find the bathroom at 8:40. I let the answering machine get it.
It was a request for babysitting for this morning at….(are you ready?)…7:45 a.m.!
7:45! I haven’t gotten up at 7:45 since…well, since Sunday. We go to church early, so I get up at 6:00 on Sunday, but still! 7:45 on a Wednesday?! That’s just crazy!
I waited to call back about the babysitting until 7:00 that night. Maybe by then, she’d have gotten someone else to help her. Because I knew I was going to say yes. She asked me to watch the kids because she needed blood work done. You can’t tell someone, “No, I’m so self-centered that I will not watch your three young children while you’re having shards of metal stuck in your arm.”
No one else had stepped up to watch the kids, so I got the job. Which meant I had to head to bed early. I wrote The Blog extra fast yesterday, which is why it was just a long story about stinky socks. I mean, seriously. An entire post about stinky socks? Oh, and that butt rash that poor trainee got. You’re all hoping that I never get asked to babysit at 7:45 in the morning ever again.
And then…what to do with these three kids? The two oldest were pretty easy to handle. They’ve been drooling over our Game Cube for a while now. I sat them down with Boy7 and he taught them how to play on it and they were happily mesmerized by Juan for the entire hour.
But the Girl3? What to do with her? I don’t know what to do with a Girl3. I have a Boy9 and a Boy7.
First I showed her the mouse. There’s only one left now. Little Rose died a couple of weeks ago. I put her in the box that my rose perfume came in. It seemed fitting for Rose to be buried in the rose perfume box. I put the box in a bag for us to bury her later, but I forgot about it until now. (Thursday to do list: bury mouse.)
Girl3 took one look at the mouse and started speaking in the squeakiest voice I’ve ever heard. Male children cannot duplicate the squeakiness of a female child. It was a bizarre sound, though I’m sure those of you with daughters are familiar with it.
After she was done squeaking at the mouse I gave her some Playmobil toys to play with. I heard her saying, “Nay nay,” and thought, “What an archaic way to say ‘no’.” Then I realized she was holding a horse and it was neighing.
Another difference between boys and girls: My boys have never said, “Nay” or “Baa” or “Bark.” They make the actual noise. And horses don’t make a delicate “Nay” sound. When I was a child I was always so impressed by how the boys could sound exactly like the animal they were mimicking. Now that I have boys of my own, I have discovered the secret. The secret is that boys don’t mind spraying spit everywhere and having strings of drool stuck to their chins. You can’t make accurate sounds without a lot of spit.
After she squeaked at the mouse and played with the horse, she got hold of one of my boys’ lightsabers. Boy9, who loves to babysit babies and small children, was idly sitting near Girl3 playing on his DS, so she stabbed at him with the lightsaber and said, “I kill you dead!” Without taking his eyes from the DS, he hammed up playing dead, so she stabbed him again and said, “I kill you dead.” Without taking his eyes from the DS, he hammed up playing dead again.
And, I swear I am not exaggerating, she stabbed him and said, “I kill you dead” while he hammed up playing dead, never taking his eyes off the DS, for the next thirty minutes! And neither one got tired of it. I tried to rescue Boy9 after 10 minutes of this, but he said, “It’s ok, Mom. She’s happy.”
I sat in the kitchen eating a pancake and watching Desperate Housewives, relaxing.
What a great morning!
I didn’t get a picture of all the stabbing. Instead I got a picture of the rain on the windshield, my umbrella, and my empty bag of sugar snap peas. It’s a twenty minute ride home from the grocery store. The peas don’t stand a chance.
If you’ve been following my blog, then you’ll know that it rains, sleets or snows every single time I go grocery shopping.