Fresh Air

Unpacking boxes teaches you a lot about yourself. Like, I learned that I have less clothes than anyone in my family. And I learned that I have a lot of extra blankets. I have enough tea to open my own store. And, sadly, my husband was right about the addiction I have to air fresheners.

I like them.

I know I like them, but I have been defending myself against his accusations of excess for years.
"You know you have a lot of those at home," he told me at Wal-Mart after I tossed a package of plug in air fresheners into the cart.
"I only have a few," I informed him.
"You have more than a few."
"Nuh-uh." I argue brilliantly.

Then I unpacked a box. Then I wished I had left it packed. Because I finally had to admit that Mike was right, and I did, indeed, have more than a few.

I'm not going to talk about the box I opened yesterday that was oddly similar to this one. I already admitted I have a problem.

But I like them.

I do not plan on getting help.

Fire, Go-carts, and Deoderant

What could be better than a huge bonfire? Answer: six teenage boys, a go-cart, and cans of Axe deodorant.

Since the house we are trying to tame was previously cared for by an eighty-six year old woman, the vegetation is a bit out of control. My husband and boys spent some quality time with a chain saw and, subsequently, we had a pile of twigs, limbs, and brush that was taller than a building. In anticipation of the largest bonfire to ever exist, my boys invited their friends to our house.

I'm not sure if our bonfire was visible from the moon like the lights of Belgium, but I know it was visible from the next county. I know because we got a text from a friend who lives there saying, "Nice fire." Our wordy friend could see it from his deck.

Fire makes boys giddy. They found a release for their energy by riding the go-cart around the yard like drunken clowns.

The sun set, the fire raged, the go-cart raced. Could anything be better? Yes. Because then Drake ran into the house, grabbed his can of Axe deodorant, and threw it into the fire. After about forty-five seconds, we were treated to a glorious explosion.

We stood in awe, transfixed by the sheer power before us. Until the sheer power of the go-cart, under the influence of a teenage boy driving in the dark, almost ran us over.

Then we ran for our lives.

Upon further reflection, I do admit the irony of running for our lives AFTER calmly watching the explosion.

Garage Nonsense

This last weekend ushered into our area a storm the likes of which is only known in nightmares. I thought the wolf was huffing and puffing to blow my house down. I was up during the night, but I'm guessing I wasn't doing what all of my neighbors were doing. Because once I fall asleep, storm or no storm, I sleep very soundly. And when I am rudely awoken from my slumber, I do not participate in logical reasoning. Which is why at 3 A.M. things around this house got a bit strange.

I heard from my soft, comfy bed a strange noise. A noise different and louder than the constant thunder. So I shot out of bed and ran into the front yard. But then I was confused because the noise was not in the front yard. So I ran back inside and figured out that the sound was my dog. He was howling and barking from his bed out in the garage. Since he was recently attacked by a bulldog that lives down the road, I decided that he must be under attack at that very moment. Vowing to rescue the poor creature, I ran to the mud-room, but then I stopped in my tracks. Because what if it wasn't the bulldog? What else could it be? Right then I reasoned out the possible scenarios Arrow might be experiencing out in the garage and decided upon 3 likely situations:

1. Bulldog attack
2. Thugs from the mafia killing my dog
3. Horrible slimy monster from the otherworld eating my dog

I began to sweat worrying about how I might fend off such frightening creatures. Then I developed a brilliant plan. I reached for the doorknob on the door between the mud-room and the garage, took a deep breath, told myself to be brave, and then swung the door open. Then immediately swung it shut. Then open, then shut. Then open. Then shut.
"What are you doing?" the scariest voice ever heard by humans said from behind me.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I yelled back, because repeating monsters when they talk to you seemed like good idea.
"I'm checking on Arrow," my logical third child said calmly.
"DRAKE?" I shouted even as I told myself to calm down for pete's sake.
"Yeah?"
"Oh, I was just opening the door quick so I could see what was going on in the garage and whatever was in there would know that I know they are there."
"Okaaaay... but why don't we just go in there and see what is wrong with Arrow?"
"Um, good idea."

So I opened the door, ran fast as lightening to our jeep, got inside and locked the door.
"I think he is just scared," Drake said from way across the garage by Arrow's bed. "Mom? Where are you?"
"In the Jeep! You should get in!"
"What are you doing in there?"
"Flashing the lights on and off!"
"I can see that, but why?"
"So whoever is hurting Arrow will go away!"
"Okaaaay...," again with the long okay. "He is just scared because of the storm."
"Well, hug him," I said, offering my first bit of helpful advice of the night.
"Yeah, I did. I'm going to bed and you should go to bed too," Drake told me like he was the boss of me.

"Did you sleep though that storm last night," Mike yawned the next morning as I was just beginning to stir.
"Yeah, but Arrow was up at 3:00."
"Really? What was wrong?"
"I don't really remember, but I opened and shut the door."
"You did what?"
"Um, well, I'm not sure why I did that, but he was making a lot of noise and I was worried about him and thought someone was hurting him so I ran down to the garage and it seemed like a good idea to open and shut the door over and over."
"Why would that seem like a good idea?"
"Well, now it doesn't really seem like that good of an idea, but Drake was there so we went into the garage to check on Arrow."
"Was he okay?"
"I didn't see him."
"Was he gone?" Mike asked, worried.
"No, but I was in the Jeep so I could flash the ..."
"Flash the what?"
"Um, I mean, maybe you should just ask Drake about it."
"I can't wait to."

Mean Girls

My son spent his spring break away from us. We gave him the choice of hanging out with his parents and siblings on an exciting adventure to visit Great Grandma and Great Grandpa or taking a lame trip with his boring old band friends to Orlando to march at Disneyworld in a parade and then visit the stupid theme park followed by swimming in the drab old ocean. He didn't choose us.

When he returned we all got excited and wanted to hear all about it. His blistered and peeling face told a sunny story of its own as he stirred up our jealously with tales of ocean waves and Harry Potter roller coasters.

"What was your best experience and your worst experience?" I asked, expecting the ocean to be his best experience (because once that boy enters the water it takes a pry bar to get him out) and the bus ride to be his worst experience. Because bus rides always are. He did not fail to surprise me.

"My best experience was a text I got from a friend. I sat by him on the bus, but I had never really talked to him before. We got along fine, and after about twenty hours he texted me even though he was sitting right beside me. I'll let you read it," he said as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his text messages.

HIM:  I know you don't know me that well, but I have Asperger's Syndrome. Basically it is just a disorder that makes me awkward in social situations. You probably noticed something was weird. Thats just how I am. Anyway, will you be my friend? I know it is awkward to ask that, but will you?
ME:  Sure thing
HIM: Really? 
ME: No problem, bro. Its all good.


"What was your worst experience," I asked, proud as a peacock.
"When we had to watch the movie Mean Girls."
"That is a good movie," I told him.
"Well," he explained, "we got to choose a movie and there were a lot of good choices, but then some girls in the back of the bus just put in Mean Girls so we ended up watching it."
"What is the movie about," Drake asked.
"It was about the girls in the back of the bus," Josiah answered.

Davey Jones Trauma

When a mom awakes early in the morn to ensure her children are fed, clothed, and schooled, she is probably tired. When she swings by the gym on her way home and ends up getting involved in the movie showing in the cinema room and rides that orbital machine into the ground, she is probably tired. When she pulls the car into the garage after honking, shouting, and flicking of headlights to convince the garage-dwelling husky that he and the car cannot share the same space, she is TIRED.

She does not deserve to be scared witless by the undead.

So, whoever hung the scarier-than-death Davey Jones mask on the garage wall by my car door (DRAKE AND JOSIAH) can rest assured that their prank succeeded beyond any of their wildest hopes, and the scream the mask elicited probably reached the space station. And it also got the husky to run, because he is a big chicken who I know now will never protect me from undead pirates.

I feel that, although my reaction might have been a tad over the top, I had every right to karate-chop that thing into oblivion.

I WAS TIRED.