Herding Cats and Pushing Rope

Or in other words:

I think he's teething.

and

Liz writes a trendy-looking post

(you know, the ones with everything centered, random words and phrases made larger and smaller and different colors, horrible punctuation, grammar, and lots of made-up words).

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I walked on the treadmill today as part of an ongoing effort to lose the baby weight (yes, I realize my "baby" is almost eight months old). While I walked, we listened to the Andrews Sisters on Pandora on my phone. Bugga was lying in the bed reading books, asking me questions I couldn't hear and showing me pictures I couldn't see. Buddha was on the floor next to the treadmill alternately hopping around and doing Singapore math problems in his workbook. The Pipster was asleep.

And then he woke up. 

(This seems doubly worthy of gigantic font in my mind, like I'm screaming and running for cover because

- dun, dun, dun -

my child woke up.)

He woke up before sweaty Liz could shower.

So I nursed the baby while my older cats got in some exercise on the treadmill and I made a mental note of asking The Chief to turn the treadmill around so that if one of the boys decided to fling themselves off the end of it, they wouldn't destroy my new laundry sorting thingamajig.

I should have kept that thought mental.

(New font.  Did you notice the new font there?  I just wanted to make sure you did.  So I made this aside in a different font, too.  Did you notice this one?)

Instead, I voiced that thought out loud.

And Buddha lectured me: "Shouldn't you worry more about a person than a laundry thing?"

. . .

*crickets*

. . .

"No. Nope. Not in the case of Buddha v. Laundry Sorter. You would come out of it fine, surviving the ordeal with a few bumps, bruises, maybe some scrapes, but my laundry sorter would be ruined. And I don't want to spend money I don't have to buy a new one. So . . . no."

Loving parental moment?

Probably NOT.

But at least my laundry thing is safe . . . for now.

When Il Pipilodi finished munching and I shooed the cats off la cinta para correr, I deposited my chubbalub in his Exersaucer, charged the older boys with keeping the peace, and made a mad dash for the shower.

Where I was happily covered in hot water and soapy bubbles when all hell broke loose.

Literally.  

(Not figuratively or virtually, but literally.)

Fire. Brimestone. The works.

Pipster took up weeping and wailing (and probably would have gnashed his teeth, too, if he had any) and I could hear Buddha and Bugga's screams fading in and out and around, suggesting they were cutting a heated swath of poundings, scratchings, and walings through our casita.

(Hmm, underlining is not so prettified.)

My first move was to glance toward the window.

Yep. Open.

Then I sighed and hung my head and tried to escape to my happy place where my life doesn't sound like an episode of Jerry Springer. This turned out to be as futile as trying to "go somewhere else" while giving birth.

The sibling cyclone descended on the master bathroom with wind speeds upwards of 500 mph.

Pressure was building up fast.

Wailings and walings were increasing in intensity and frequency.

Escalation was the name of the game.

So I put on my Gryffindor robe (hey, it was a red-ish sort of towel), took up my wand (shampoo bottles are incredibly versatile), and in my best Dumbledore impersonation ever, worthy of an Oscar (is that the movie one?), yelled at the top of my lungs,

"SIIIIIIIILENCE!!!"

The cyclone evaporated and the muffled calm that followed was truly awe-inspiring.

I emerged from the bathroom with a shimmery glow streaming from behind me onto my three obedient soldiers standing at attention for their commander in chief.

But not really.

'Cause that's not really how it happened.

Or, unfortunately, how it ended.

If there's one thing that Liz is good at, it's telling a better story than the one she lives. I'm a closet embellisher. Okay, not so closeted. The Chief has to stand by me to make corrections whenever I'm telling stories. Like my ectopic pregnancy retelling. Remember that one? He says I got it all wrong. But, hey Buster, I lived it! Apparently I lived it wrong, though.

Okay, so here's what really happened.

Pip fussed and cried and the boys got in a fight over a Lego guy . . . wait for it . . . while I showered.

That's it.

The end.

Isn't it such a better story when embellished?

I'm a fan.

I think I'll start a new blog entitled My Life, Embellished (click that) on which I shall tell countless stories about my Supreme Court Justice husband, my college-enrolled Kindergartner, my MLS-scouted middle-born, and my 30 (not 20) lb. baby boy.

And I'll save this blog for the boring, real moments of my life, like just now when I went to put my teething baby to bed and his mouth found its way to my baby-weighted arm and delighted in zerbering me.

(On my honor, this last paragraph is brought to you embellishment-free.)

(And just in case you missed the sarcasm, I actually, matter-of-factually, enjoy living the REAL *boring* moments and just writing the embellished ones.  Scouts honor.)

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And now for the random, unrelated (but cute, cute, cute) pictures . . . .

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