This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.
[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]
I got a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law last Tuesday that cut right to my heart. Now, a two-sentence e-mail from me would mean that 1) I am sad/disappointed/angry about something or 2) I am sending the message while simultaneously wiping urine off our bathroom wall and my face (true story). However, a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law means something else entirely. It means that he is reaching out without wanting to seem intrusive. It means that he took time out of his work-filled schedule to let me know that he’s thinking about me. It means that I had better get back to blogging.
So, when I read, “How are you? Haven’t talked to you lately,” I knew exactly what he was trying to say.
Warning: The following post may be disturbing to some readers. Particularly those with a weak stomach. Reader discretion is advised.
If you caught Wednesday’s post about our exciting car ride on Monday afternoon, then you can probably guess how the rest of my week has been. I have cleaned up vomit 5 different times. FIVE. That’s about five more times than I would have to do it if I had that live-in nanny Brian promised me before I agreed to marry him.
Yesterday at 5:45 a.m., I awoke to JJ’s blood-curdling scream and the reconstituted remnants of his evening meal. I think Bill Engvall is so right about this one: someone should invent an alarm clock that sounds like a baby vomiting because there is NO snoozing!
So, as I watched 12 solid hours of kid-friendly programming yesterday, I put a great deal of thought into Mr. Engvall’s words. If I’ll never have that live-in nanny, then I should probably consider how I can turn these unpleasant moments into a lucrative business opportunity.
My Super-Simple, No-Fail Diet Plan
I hopped in the car with the kids on Monday for a week-long trip to the booming metropolis of Knob Noster, Missouri. Yes, since you asked, we do lead glamorous lives.
Brian is working in Knob Noster all week, and I thought it would be a sanctifying experience if the kids and I joined him there for five days in a military hotel. I woke up with no alarm at 6:30 a.m. on Monday (seriously, that’s a miracle in and of itself) with a list of things I needed to accomplish before our 4:00 p.m. estimated departure. I wanted to wait until after Averi’s nap to hit the road, and I knew I would need every bit of the morning and afternoon to pack for a week in a hotel with two toddlers.
Did I mention it is a one bedroom hotel?
I was shooting for super-sancitifed.
Guyyyyyyyys, WHERE have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!
[Huh? Wait a minute…SHE'S the one who didn't post anything for a week! So, why is she looking for us?]
I’m confused. Have you been looking for me?
[Why does she keep having these stupid conversations with herself?]
Have y’all seen my medication lately?
If you’re one of my lovely gentleman readers who is squeamish about “female things,” now would be a good time for you to find something a bit less unsettling to read. Like 2,000 pages of ObamaCare legislation.
Take care, and we’ll see you tomorrow. Or after the next election.
It’s weird to live in a place where snow just isn’t a big deal. Where we’re from in Georgia, a snow day is almost as thrilling as a Honey Boo Boo sighting.
There was a HUGE surge in traffic to my blog on Friday (the day I published a video all about my trip to the ER), and I can only assume it’s because so many of you were concerned about my well-being and wanted to make sure I wasn’t still suffering from Bleeding Esophageal Verices (henceforth known as BEV). Especially if you’ve recently been to my house because I heard they’re contagious.
Some poor person out there actually suffering with BEV is hating me right now.
Please don’t hate me. Hate WebMD.
They’re the ones who sent me on this wild goose chase.
I can’t even begin to count the number of times WebMD has recommended that I visit the emergency room. It probably numbers in the thousands.
I mean, I could count to a couple thousand, but I don’t really have the energy.