Who is running my house???
It seems I’ve lost complete control this weekend. The dog think she’s human and my daughter thinks she’s a dog. Oriana, my junk yard dog, sat with the children at the “kid’s” table. She also drank fruit punk from my son’s cup. Yes, he did drink after her. Currently, he’s being de-wormed.
Friday afternoon with a house full of kids, my daughter sat perched among couch pillows licking butter and pop-corn kernals from the bottom of her bowl. She also barks, scurries around on all fours, and licked me tonight. I fear she may begin growing fur along her spine. Currently she’s being treated for heart-worms.
It’s been raining all week in New York. Imagine a house full of screeming children bouncing off furniture and being tripped-up by the puppy. My walls stretched with the press of their bodies intercepting sheetrock. Popcorn lay strewn across the floor like winter’s first snowfall and in her excitement, the pup confused a bean bag for a toilet. My son stood punching the air. Each swing of his fist flying across his chest allowed a large pocket of air to escape his mouth. Oh when will the rain end so I can kick the children out of the house?
I’m suffering from a slight case of anxiety. Parent-teacher conferences are rapidly approaching and I fear being sent to the principal’s office. Friday’s are spelling test days. Amid Friday’s chaos, I asked my daughter how she did on her spelling test. Bouncing on the cushion beside me she said, “Well,” with a smile.
“What does well mean?” I asked. I’ve learned not to take simplicity for granted.
“How many did you get wrong?” I probed.
“Four out of eight.” She responded without a blink or frown.
Yes, improvement comes slowly in my house. My son is not exempt from causing me anxiety. When I asked him what I can expect to hear from his teachers, he confessed that he was being loud in class. Again, nothing my children say should be taken at face value.
“Loud as in you’re using an outside voice inside?” I began my query.
“Not exactly. More like I’m talking so much that I start getting loud.” He confesses. “But don’t worry, my teacher moved all the kids I was sitting next to.”
He always confesses. My first-born suffers from diarrhea of the mouth. One day he’ll have a blog.