As we were driving home from
dropping off the olders at school,
the youngers were involved
in a deep conversation:

B#4: I got pinched on that spot right there.

B#3: That's called your "ankle." You got pinched on your ankle.

B#4: I got pinched on my ankle!

B#5: Ankle. Ankle. Ankle. Why do they call it an ankle? Ankle is a really silly word. Ankle. Ankle. Ankle.

B#4: Look, my ankle is broken.

B#5: That's not broken. That's just a pinched ankle.

B#4: Oh. Moma! What's a broken ankle?

Monkey Moma: Well, that's when the bones in your ankle break.

B#4: How do you break them?

MM: I guess there are lots of different things that could happen that could make them break.

B#4: Oh. Yeah. Like a dog? A dog might bite your ankle?

B#3: Maybe. Or a hand saw. That could break your bones!

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For the last couple days, I’ve been saying that my tummy just feels blah. Not sick-sick but not not-sick, either. Last night, I said it was almost like a mild form of morning 24-hours-a-day-for-4-months-straight sickness… just that constant icky tummy feeling.

Blessing #4, who hasn’t been feeling too great either, put herself to bed late yesterday morning, slept through lunchtime, and woke up mid-afternoon. She was mostly acting like she was fighting off something—more sleepy than normal with the occasional low fever and not much of an already-little appetite. All in all, after all her napping yesterday, she seemed to be doing better.

I woke up today and found that she had at some point early this morning climbed into bed with me. My pregnant belly was hanging off the edge of the bed, and she was stretched across the width of the bed, her feet at my back and her head clear to the other side of the bed. T-boned… and she definitely had more space to sprawl. To my advantage, I was able to very easily roll out of bed and head to the shower.

By the time I was out of the shower, she had moved and was over in my spot, head on my pillow, sleeping away peacefully. I got dressed, heard her cough in her sleep, and went into “alert” mode.

It wasn’t just a cough. It was that cough. The one that signals something bad is about to happen.

Like kid vomit.
In my bed.

On my pillow.

At least I knew it was coming. Unfortunately, by the time I waddled out of the bathroom and around the bed, I was too late to do anything about it.

So into the washing machine went the bedding and my fluffy goose-down pillow. Out of the washing machine came the bedding and my lumpy hard pillow. Into the dryer went the bedding, my lumpy hard pillow, and a tennis ball. As I type, we are being serenaded by the drumming boom-boom-boom of the ball knocking around in the dryer… hopefully bringing my pillow back to super fluffiness.

On the drive to school, I thought ahead. I put a towel over B#4 in case of another vomit-emergency. That way maybe I would not be out trying to clean it out of the carseat and seatbelt and all that. We had not made it half-a-second down the street when the towel came in handy. Yay for towels... especially ones that stayed in the car after the big clean out.

I’ve got almost 2 hours until lunch. I’d skip out on it, but I don’t think B#3 or B#5 will let me get by with that. That means I’ve got almost two hours to relax.

It is definitely going to be a lazy day around here. And I’ll have a good excuse to plop my bottom on the couch, put my feet up, and close my eyes. Just as long as B#4 doesn’t throw up anymore. ‘Cause then I’ll have to get up again.

Oh, yippee. I just caught B#5 drinking from B#4’s cup.

Great.

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I’ve always known that I’m a bit of a packrat... but, as it turns out, I'm a bit of a baglady, too.

The monkey bus was going in for an oil change this weekend, so it was a good time to clean out all that had accumulated in there over the last months.

Apparently the bus is useful for so much more than hauling the troop around. It also serves as an oversized closet/toy box/trash can.

Fortunately for us (if we'd ever gotten stuck in a blizzard, that is), the kids would have been nice and warm in all the jackets they could layer on. No wonder there were never the “right” ones on the hooks at the front door. Apparently, each time a jacket went out to the car, it stayed out. And the next time another one was taken.

I am now aware as to why the bucket of matchbox cars had gotten so empty. That was really puzzling me, as we have a kazillion and three of them. Alas, they were all over the floorboards. Nice and cozy under all those jackets.

The art supply just increased by tenfold. I collected lots of crayons- most appear to have been brought home from restaurants, never making the journey into the house. Some are no longer crayon sticks- it appears as if they got an eensy bit hot in the sun and are now melded together in rainbow wax blobs.

I found lots of gloves and shoes… though no pairs. Each time two were worn out of the house, only one made it back inside. In fact, during the clean-out of socks and gloves, Blessing #3 discovered, as he pulled a leather glove out from under his seat,

"AHHH! MOMA! A BAD GUY'S GLOVE!!"

The dark and sinister ol' thing.

It was a pretty random collection of stuff...
hiding between seats, under seats, behind seats.

Rocks.
Sticks.
Acorns.
Sunday school papers.
Halloween rings.
Candy wrappers.

Hair clips.

Unsharpened pencils.
Those free apartments-for-rent and houses-for-sale magazines.

As I wheeled around the driveway with my laundry basket of booty, at least four grocery sacks dangling from the handle and several more already on the garage floor, I had visions of those women who live out of grocery carts.

Even if only for one morning, I was a baglady.

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Cankles?
Not for this preggy moma.
No sirree. No cankles for me.

I don’t seem to have the problem of my whole ankle swelling up and blending in with my calf... I still have a defined ankle. But by the end of the day, the bottom of my ankles swell and melt down into the top of my feet. Or maybe the top of my feet swell and grow up into the bottom of my ankles. Whatever the case, I’ve diagnosed it.

Yup. I’ve got nighttime fankles.

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Smelly Spiffy socks

Last night was the end-of-the-year awards ceremony for our two Awana Cubbies. Blessing #4 wanted to wear the sparkly dress she saw hanging in the laundry. B#3 went upstairs in search of his clothes.

He decided he wanted to wear his suit, or as he calls it, his "fancy pants outfit." When it was nearly time to leave and there was a still-undressed and now quite sad monkey crying from his bedroom, I went up to help.

He could not find those fancy clothes. (Of course they were on the hanger on the closet door right where the Monkey Moma said.) I grabbed the hanger, took those spiffy duds off, and helped him to quickly throw the outfit on. I asked him if he just wanted to leave the vest at home since he'd be wearing his Cubbies' vest over it anyway.

Nope. That was not an acceptable suggestion. So double-vested he went.

As he stood there proudly in his brown dress pants, his button-up, long-sleeved, white dress shirt, his brown pin-striped vest, and his brown and white diagonally-striped tie (clip-on, of course), I finished buttoning his shirt and vest. During said buttoning, I commented on what a mighty handsome fellow he was.

He beamed.

"Why do these clothes make me look so fancy, Moma?"

"What's that, babe? Why do your fancy clothes make you look fancy?"

"Yeah. Oh, it's my socks, isn't it?!
My socks are what make me look so fancy, aren't they?!"

Yup. Absolutely.
Those white, green-toed, Hanes athletic crew socks inside those Thomas sneakers.

I just grinned.

"Most definitely, bud."

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