Alarm Clock Shock

My children are pretty heavy sleepers. We've had many thunderstorms, false alarms on the security system, and other similar events that registered on the Richter scale that my precious little zombies have slept right through. After many unsuccessful tries as babies, they now have sleeping down to a fine art.

When Emma started 2nd grade, her Grandma bought her this cute little doggie alarm clock. At the set time, the dog gets up from a reclining position and barks in this friendly voice until she wakes up and shuts him off. Waking her up with an alarm clock was so wonderful because it saved me the begging and nagging to get her up by myself. Emma is more awake and marginally more pleasant to be around when she wakes this way.

It only makes sense that Santa thought Luke needed an alarm clock, too. Santa knew that Luke totally digs Spongebob, so that's what kind of alarm he got last Christmas. It's kind of cute in its own sponge-y kind of way. You can choose if you want to hear the radio, seagulls, a catchy marimba tune, a FOGHORN (not kidding), or a ukelele. Spongebob's face pops up (not unlike a jack-in-the-box) at alarm time. It's very, very loud when he pops up. Hence, this explains the stack of bedtime books that now live on top of it to keep it from popping out at you like a serial killer in a bad horror flick.

The first time I set the alarm, Luke asked for ukelele. As I made breakfast the next morning, I heard Emma's alarm go off, followed by Luke's. Emma and I were laughing at the ukelele tune which played over and over and over and over and over...until I realized Luke must be sleeping through all that noise! How was it even possible? I sprinted trudged up the stairs, laughing at what a zombie boy my son was. This is what I found:

He was all curled up in a ball with his hands over his ears making this face! (I can totally relate, though. That's how I feel EVERY morning when my alarm goes off.) How pitiful is that? (This is a re-enactment, by the way. I was laughing too hard the first time to think about taking his picture.)

It's not over yet. Day two with alarm clock--we have now learned that it is important to keep books on top of Spongebob's head. Check. Got it set on marimba because it is truly the least offensive sound that this thing makes. Check. What I didn't anticipate was what a cloudy, rainy day it was. In fact, it was still quite dark when the 6:40 alarm rolled around for Mr. Sensitive Zombie Sleeper.

I held my breath as I heard his alarm shut off. Emma and I watched with anticipation as his bedroom door was flung open. We observed the foul look on his face as he stomped out of his room, glared out the window at the sky, and shook his fist as he yelled, "It's P.M.!! P.M.!!! NOT A.M.!!! YOU SET MY CLOCK FOR P.M.!!! I'M GOING BACK TO BED!" Then he stalked back in his room and slammed the door shut. That was a fun morning.

Why kids shouldn't have calendars in their rooms...

I could see the hope--mixed with confusion--in Luke's eyes as he asked me, "Mommy, why are you getting me clothes out for tomorrow? I don't go to school tomorrow."

I said, "Yes, you do, silly monkey boy."

He said "No I don't. It's a holiday. It says so on my calendar."


I really hated to tell him differently.

The respiratory virus is still having its way at our house--one week later. Luke is better, but still has the lingering cough. Emma was up nearly until midnight coughing her head off. What age is acceptable for NyQuil? I offered to let her stay home and rest today, but she actually WANTED to go to school. (That child is dedicated, what can I say?) And now, to make matters worse, I woke up with a killer earache and a voice like Barry White.

This could be a tough week. At least we have the circus to look forward to this weekend. Oracle is going all out for a pre-circus luncheon for Compass employees--feeding us lunch, facepainting, and I think there will be a clown in attendance--all I know is it better stay away from me. We need this distraction (not the clown) considering Compass announced last Friday that they are laying off 10 % of their workforce. How's that for employee morale and job security?



**Shuddder**








Have a great Monday. (I think that's an oxymoron.)

Oh, DEER!

I didn't mean for my next post to be a rant, seeing how I've had several of those lately. (Not just on blogger, but at home, too. I'm hormonal, leave me alone. Unless you have chocolate...then, just approach carefully.)

As I was driving to pick up my daughter from school yesterday (just the daughter, son has been home sick 2 days this week), I noticed a large, dead deer on the side of the road. To save myself the prerequisite "ewwwws!" and gagging, I didn't mention it to the kids. This morning as I drove back home from dropping them BOTH off at school (PRAISE GOD FOR A QUIET HOUSE!), I accidentally looked over at it again. Not only was it still there, but it had been decapitated.

(No worries. There will be no pictures to illustrate what I saw. It is forever etched in my memory. That is more than enough.)

I don't like--but I understand--hunting and the mounting of deer heads as trophies. Heck, if I got up really early and braved the mind-and body-numbing cold of an Alabama Winter morning, I would want something to show for it, too. Like the Friday after Thanksgiving when I go stand in line to go to Wal-Mart at 4:45 a.m., I get to bring home my trophies in a shopping bag. Exactly the same, really.

What I don't get is the concept of getting a deer head mounted if you (a) Hit it with your truck, or (b) You just happened upon it and you weren't even the one who killed it. I can see maybe having a personal vendetta against poor Bambi if he damaged your car massive truck (This is Alabama), but I don't see what good his head does you. He was no John the Baptist. And if scenario (b) happens, well, that's just dumb. There was no skill involved. You didn't aim your truck at the deer and skillfully manage to kill it (although in scenario (a), it is somewhat plausible it could happen. Again, this is Alabama I am talking about.)

I will leave you with a much happier image and thought from my backyard last summer.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Bitter about Glitter

I am back to blogging! Woo Hoo! Not that I have time for it yet, but I feel like I have neglected my poor little blog. It's all dusty and cob-webby. The milk is out of date and the bananas are black and squishy. No good!

So, awhile back I mentioned that I am glitter intolerant. Don't get me wrong, I like all things sparkly (Husband, are you reading this? Valentine's is coming up.), but I don't enjoy glitter.

I took down all our Christmas decorations on December 27 (I told everyone I was going to leave them up longer this year since Thanksgiving was later this year. By December 26, I was going nuts to take them down. OCD out of control!), yet I am still vacuuming up glitter 15 days later from the various ornaments and bedecked decorations. It is ground into the carpet and refuses to budge. Such is my life.

I realized early in life that glitter was the bane of my existence when I got some in my eye during an Easter project where we had to use glitter to decorate a giant cardboard egg. Oh, it was beautiful and pink and sparkly, but somehow the glitter got in my eye. And I think I may have inhaled a little. I was young. Anyhow, it made my eye all scratchy and sore for a long time. And it didn't taste good.

I forgot how much I hated glitter until last Fall. My precious 8 year old daughter decided to dress up as Tinkerbell for fun. She put on the costume and got out something that had come with it called "Fairy Dust." Innocuous enough, right? How bad could it be? HORRIBLE! She went traipsy-ing through the house with her magic wand and little pouch of fairy dust. I even complimented her on how very cute and pixie-ish she was. That is, until I looked down at our living room sofa. "Why is it twinkling at me?" I thought. Then I looked at the carpet and the kitchen tile and the countertops and the breakfast table and the stairs and the ottoman and the hallway floor and the wooden stairs and the bathroom floor and her bedspread and...need I say more? This stuff wasn't that big chunky kind of glitter either--you know, the cheap stuff? It was that finely ground, powdery kind of glitter. Like Martha Stewart makes, only not with pretentious names.

(Insert separate rant here: What is that woman's problem??? Why can't she name the glitter normal color names? Nooooo, she names them "Golden Beryl, Lapis Lazuli, Tourmaline, and Fire Opal!" I couldn't pick "Golden Beryl" out of a line-up if I my life depended on it! For the uneducated, it is described as "a bright, springtime yellow-green color." I say "snot green." Why can't she? When's the last time your kid asked you to hand them the tourmaline crayon? FYI: It's HOT PINK.)

So, long story short, many vacuumings later, this stuff is still around. I see a little and I vacuum and think I got it all. Finally. But no, alas. It mocks me. And I made it oh-so-much worse with the glitter shedding Christmas decor.

Final thought: They make glitter somewhere. Somebody has to clean the glitter-making factory. Some guy that works there comes home and his wife says, "Honey, you've got something under your eye. Let me get it. Wait, I don't see it. No, there it is...wait...where did it go?" That would be my version of Hades on earth. That and having to watch Mariah Carey act in a movie about said item:








Rant over.