Happenings that Should Only Take Place in Horror Flicks or Gross-out Comedies

I used to be able to find stuff to write about all the time. Now that I'm trying to catch up with this blog and keep up, I don't find much I want to say. You'd think with four boys, two dogs, four (and a half) kitties, etc., that the hits would just keep on coming. I still plan on doing a post for each boy, but time is limited and chaos ensues to keep me from sitting for long stretches to write. Well, the last two days have made sure to give me enough fodder for a good ol' longish post.

My fish, Russell Brand, was inadvertently killed by the flea fogger we set off this weekend. All rodents and fishies were herded into the safety of the laundry room, but Bryce overlooked dear Russell. Alas, he was flushed to a watery grave this evening.

Last night, Bryce was working, and after successfully putting all of the boys to bed (yay for Duncan sleeping in his OWN BED all night every night), I was ready to get a wee snack and paint my nails and chill to some Devil Wears Prada. I had just freed "the twins" from their constricting prison, so I was flopping free and I walked into the kitchen where I felt a substantial SPLAT against my chest. Down into my shirt. And it was moving. I looked down straight into the loving eyes of one of these "little" bastards: That's a Texas tree roach for those of you not in-the-know. And they're big. Like... as long as your finger. They come out in full force in the summer and sometimes I catch one, saddle it up and let the mouse take a ride. As if it couldn't possibly get worse - a giant ROACH, for crying out loud - but they also fly. So, yeah, one of these guys had decided to go to second base with me. After inventing a few new cuss words on the spot, I watched as he scurried under the sink. I checked my pulse and decided not to call 911, then promptly put it out of my head to prevent roach dreams.

Bryce's schedule is the night shift this week, so he's here every day until 2:00. Neither one of us could sleep well last night, so we agree to trade off naps this morning. He got the first nap, I took the second. He lets the kids snack more than I do, and it's often I'll come home from an errand or out of my room from sleeping in, and the kids are carrying boxes of crackers/cereal/cookies, crumbs scattering everywhere. This morning, it was Corgan carrying around a box of Cocoa Puffs. I came to put Duncan on the floor, and started picking up the cereal that had fallen so Duncan wouldn't find them and gag. All was well... until... I picked up a Cocoa Puff that wasn't crunchy. And it wasn't as... sweet... as said cereal. Ladies and Gentlemen, I had picked up a turd. It seriously was the same size and color as the cereal all over the floor. But it was a turd. Corgan's diaper had failed in its duty to serve and protect our family from stray turds. While picking up a foul brown ball was not in my plans today, I can say I'm very glad I found it and that the baby's mouth didn't.

And finally, tonight, Corgan sneaked the tricycle into the living room while my back was turned and rode it straight down the steep double step into our bedroom. His nose was bleeding. And it bled a lot. And bled and bled and bled. Then it bled some more. I was thisclose to taking him to the ER fearing he'd broken it; it was bleeding too much for me to even look at it. It did finally stop, but not before soaking his shirt and mine. I also had some charming bloody sneeze spatters all over me. He's fine now, but the tricycle might have suffered some injuries as it was thrown with great force out into the front yard.

Here's hoping for a calmer rest-of-the-week.