Apparently, We’re Not Allowed To Speak.

I spent the better part of today trying to recuperate from what is evidently a raging UTI (sorry, dudes, if you don’t know what that is, ask your wife.)

By last night, it was clear that I was getting worse, not better, after my Wednesday doctor visit. Fortunately, I had a follow up appointment scheduled for today. I would normally not be moving quickly for an 8:20 am doctor appointment, on a Saturday morning. I felt so bad though, I could not get there quick enough.

The doctor was perplexed as the lab results indiciated  that I should have been responding to the medication. My body indicated something totally different. I could have cared less, new drugs, man, I needed some new medication FAST.

It was obvious I was going downhill, so he proposed an antibiotic injection, plus a new dose of a different oral antibiotic. Whatever, stick a needle in my butt if it will make me feel better. I got the shot  and muddled home, hoping it would kick in quick, and that I could go back to sleep and wait for the magic medicine to take effect.

‘You poor soul,’ I am sure you are thinking, ‘I hope you were able to rest and eat chicken soup and feel better.’

Can’t you just hear the violins playing?

Well, I might have been able to hear the violins if, when I walked in my house, we hadn’t adopted two extra kids overnight and they weren’t all in my living room waiting for my husband to finish making the pancakes he was cooking to the theme of Guns N Roses, ‘Welcome To The Jungle.’

So, about that plan to rest? It crashed and burned quicker than the Hindenburg.

I got in bed, pulled the covers up, put on my Ipod, and tried to sleep.

Back when they whispered...

The thing is, I don’t care how quiet tween boys try to sound, it’s physically impossible, for them to control the sounds of their size 12 feet going up and down stairs. I don’t care if they are on their tippie toes wearing freakin’ ballerina slippers, they cannot do it. And, no matter how much you plead, beg, scream, or bribe them to just PLEASE whisper, their version of a whisper and mine just are not the same.

Right before I took drastic measures, they were trying to whisper. But, when someone forgot to whisper, the others would go “SHHHHHHH” which, combined, was louder than all of their normal voices.

FUUUUGGGHHET ABOUT IT!

I was tired, frustrated, cranky, and I had giant lump on my a** that hurt like hell. You can imagine where this all went.

Tyler’s Facebook status read: 

Damn straight. Could ya’ spread the word, please? And clean up the house while you’re at it?

Enter my super neighbor. She texted me, and I replied back the fact that we might not be neighbors for much longer.

She suggested I go use her house to rest, since they were not home. And THAT is why she is my super neighbor.

I packed up my pillow, Ipod, computer, book, Diet Coke, Cheez Its and blanket, and headed out the door. I heard Tyler ask on the way out, “where are you going?” and I mumbled that I was going to rest before I ended up in the ER Psych Ward.

I padded next door in my socks and pink pajamas and plopped down on her couch.

It was so quiet, all I could hear was the clock ticking. Peace.

Well, peace for about three minutes, until my cell phone vibrated with Jordan looking for me.

I told my husband that the first kid who rang her doorbell was not making it home in one piece, and I turned the phone off.

I went to sleep, finally, just me, the ticking clock and my blanket.

I’m home now. My rear end still hurts. Tyler changed his Facebook status. I think I’m recovering.

Just don’t ever ask boys to tip toe or whisper.

You’ve got a better shot at winning the Power Ball.

“You never know how loud you are until you have to be quiet.” Sarena, age 10

When your mother is mad and asks you, “Do I look stupid?” it’s best not to answer her. Megham, 13

Every time I am at home and I am getting on my parent’s nerves, they wish I were at camp. And every time I’m at camp and nothing’s bothering them, they miss me. – Ashley, age 12

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