Hey Wait! I Read That Book...

This week was a shit show in my house.  My husband went a-travelling for work.  Not uncommon.  And while I'm not a fan of the single life for a week, I make do.  That is, I make do when I'm not vilely ill.

Each night dragged on and my illness got worse.  I had no energy.  I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone *make* something for my lovely children to eat.  They were left to brush & floss their own teeth, as who wants Mommy's "snot hands" in their mouth?  Yuck.

Monday started out well enough.  I was bullied into picking up Taco Bell.  These kids felt empowered.  I was too worn down & tired to care.

Tuesday saw some Wendy's drive through action.  The salty taste of victory was upon their little fingertips, and they liked it.

Wednesday night reached the boiling point.  I had no voice left, and couldn't even muster off the couch.  I ordered Papa John's online with my phone.  A few things suddenly occurred to all of us.  They realized they were in control, and I realized they realized this fact.  I was frightened, they were emboldened.

The oldest steps up to the plate, "Do I really have to go to bed early just because you are too sick to stay awake?"

Are we going there?  I've read this book.  I know how Lord of the Flies ends [caution: spoilers coming]...This mutiny is not going to end well for any of us.  With the last vestiges of my strength, I collect and squawk out - remember that I have no voice - as menacingly as possible, "Yes.  And if you would care to consider, I will not be sick forever, and I am capable of tightening up your bedtime from now until kingdom come should you really feel the need to challenge me..."  She backs down.  Good, I've effectively kicked Ralph back into place.  There will be no ritualistic murder dance on my watch...even if my eyes are swollen & weepy.

My sweet son tries next.  Now, I'm not too certain if he was genuinely concerned and trying to take care of me or if his plot had sinister motives, and I wasn't too keen on finding out just then either.  "Mommy, you look so sick.  I don't want you to die.  Just close your eyes and it will be ok.  I'll take care of you.  Close your eyes....close...your...eyes..."

OMG!  NO!  I've read this book!  You people murder Simon!  He was sick, and had a seizure or some shit...and I'm sick.  And while I may not have a seizure, THAT kind of chaos is not going down.  I'm aware of the ugliness that will ensue should I just 'rest my eyes' for a moment tonight.

This book does not have a happy ending.  Piggy dies in this dystopia.  Since I've already discovered who Ralph and Simon are...I look to my littlest.  Poor Piggy.  NO!  I can't let this happen.  As the wolves begin to circle, I decide that NOW is the perfect time for bed.  Much longer and all hell is going to break loose.

I usher the kiddies to bed and take my temperature.  100.5, nice.  Not too bad though.  I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a sick day.  And it is.  My fever reached a 101.3 pitch, and I downed more NyQuil than a human should consume in a 24 hour period, but I come through the ordeal sweaty and slightly bewildered, but my reign on the deserted island is still in tact.

A Tribute to Jerry...

Growing up, I likened my father to Bill Cosby.  He could tell these glorious stories about every day life that innately made you laugh.  And if they didn't make you laugh, his own mirth over his story (imagine that closed & teary eyed laugh that is completely silent, head thrown back and no sound coming out until the laugher gasps for air) would infectiously make you laugh, until you had no idea what you were even laughing at to begin with.  Jerry can spin a yarn (albeit the same yarn 15 times over in his old age) that was so magical, you felt you were a player on the stage - even though you knew no one in the tale.

Over the years, I've come to wear my "Jerry's Daughter" badge proudly.  I've perfected my righteous indignation for any time someone tells me that I'm exaggerating.  I'm not!  I'm merely ad-libbing to enhance the storytelling purpose.  Tell me, are you not entertained?  ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?

What was I talking about?  Oh, right.  Jerry.  His lavish stories....His GRANDAUGHTER.  That's right folks.  His beautiful little tow-headed granddaughter.  And the apple tree she fell from.

This pint sized little imp, at the ripe old age of four is already casting her magic with a velvet tongue; stories told with the utmost seriousness that the unsuspecting listener may just take for fact.  Let me explain.

Yesterday, I got to spend an unexpected day with my children.  That means, I got the older two on the bus, and hung out with 'the baby' until her bus came to take her to afternoon kindergarten.  As I was brushing her hair she began to tell me about the horrors of bees and why she hated them so.

"And so yesterday, Mommy...I put my finger in my ear and I did it because I felt something HUGE go in there...so I put my finger in and I pulled out a bee!  There was a bee in my ear."

"I'm thinking you're confusing a bee with ear wax, lovie.  There wasn't a bee in your ear.  Your ear isn't big enough."

"You're wrong.  It was a bee.  A teeny tiny bee.  (Remember a few moments ago it was huge?)  This itty bee was trying to sniff me to see if I was a flower and I hate that.  It makes a loud buzzing sound when it is in your ear,  and I was like 'GET OUT BEE, GET OUT!', so that's when I stuck my finger in and killed it.  Even though it stung me in the inside my ear first..."

Apparently, this was her story and she was sticking to it.  So, I rolled.  "I hate when bees fly into my ear."

"I know.  It's terrible.  All this buzzing and then sometimes [her eyes get wide at this point and she whispers while cupping her mouth]...sometimes they pee in there too!  And when they pee in there, it all oozes all over the place.  And, it stinks!"

Jesus...who knew bee pee was such a vexinig issue?  By the end of her wonderful little tale, I was in tears.  She's good.  Knowing her as well as I do, I knew not to believe a word of it, but I'll bet $5 that my mom would have looked in her ear to treat that 'sting'...I know her brother & sister would have been mesmerized into awe and dumbounded wonder over her great experience.

So, the next time you encounter a gifted story teller...just ask yourself, "Is this Jerry's kid?  Maybe a grandkid..."  Shake your head, sit back and enjoy the ride.