Dear Ole Dad...

My father is a relatively bright individual, but sometimes, he exudes the intellect of a toddler.  He is always capable of making me laugh, even in the most horrific of situations.

Most recently, he was to come up for dinner, but couldn't make it...uh, due to the "Creeping Crud."  Here are the events as follows:

Monday afternoon, he leaves a voicemail on my cell:
"Hey, I'm not going to be able to make it up there tonight.  I've still [laughing] got this crap blasting out of my butt.  I mean, Jesus...I'm not sure when it's going to stop, but I'm eating crackers.  So, I'll be up for dinner just as soon as the tidal waves subside...or I can figure out how to plug this up, you know, maybe with a plug..." [he hangs up laughing].

I proceed to play this voicemail for a coworker.  We get a great chuckle out of this.  Classic Dad.

He calls me back a week later.  "So, I thought I was doing pretty good.  I hadn't eaten for days, and I decided to eat a grilled cheese sandwich." [at which point, I think to myself, WTF?  Greasy grilled cheese after you've had the shitz for almost two weeks straight...and then I remember, that's one of the only things he can cook for himself.]

"That stayed in my butt pretty well. [Jesus, Dad...are you eating the sandwich, or did you use THAT to plug your poop shoot up with?].  So, then, yesterday I went to your brother's step-daughter's baby's birthday party - you know that kid, right?  [Duh...] And I eat two slices of pizza while I'm there.  Man, [laughing again] I didn't quite make it home.  I've crapped myself more than once.  This shit is really vile."

Silence on my end greets my father.  "You there?"
"Yeah, Dad, I'm here.  I just have no words to say to that.  Did the pizza have pepperoni?"
"Of course!"

OMG.  Who does that?  You've had Montezuma's Revenge for over 10 days and you decide to eat a grilled cheese with a two slice pepperoni pizza chaser?  Wow.  Not even my kids would make a decision that poorly thought out.

He ends the call by telling me once more he thinks that he has to go to the doctor's as, "my blood sugar's way up, b/c I keep crapping out my medicine."  Holy Toledo.  He laughs some more.  And promises to be up just as soon as he can make the drive without having a total explosion...

Thanks, Dad.  Thanks.

Something Wicked This Way Blows...

My children are snugglers.  This makes me exceedingly happy, although cramped as our couch was not meant to hold two adults and three tall and lanky children all at once (is any, really?).  In any case, they always want to snuggle.  While watching TV.  While reading a book.  While playing games.

And at bed time.

Sleeping with the kids has always been a constant bone of contention for them.  They're fascintated with the idea of snuggling with Mommy in bed...mainly because they've never had the pleasure.  See: long ago the hubs and I instated the rule that no kids would join us in bed; mainly because we've heard horror stories about how difficult it is to get them to return to their own.

We've all had countless conversations about this:
"Mommy, will you sleep with me?"
"No, baby.  I have to sleep with Daddy."
"Why?"
 "Well, because, he's a chicken.  He's terrified to sleep alone.  I have to keep him safe."

This seemed to pacify the children who have always found it funny that their father needs to snuggle their mother because he's too scaredy-chicken to sleep solo.  And it's worked so far...until....I fed him brussel sprouts and other noxious foods.  I casually mentioned that I was fearful for my olfactory health.  I threatened to banish him from our bed.

"But Mommy!  You can't send him to sleep on the couch, because then his butt will kill us!"

"YEAH!  And since he can't sleep down here on the couch...you should sleep with me!  That way, Daddy can stink himself out...by himself."

"Don't let his butt kill you!  Sleep with me!"

And then the obligatory, "Daddy's butt stinks!"

Touche, kids...Touche.  And then I got to thinking...if they want it so bad, they must need it.  And then I got to thinking some more: I already sleep like crap...what can it hurt.  And then I think, what if I've not been protecting me but them...from the light breathing (that my husband adamantly and incorrectly calls snoring)?  And then I thought, what if they end up being spooners (BTW, while I love the awake spoon as much as anyone, when it's time to slumber - stay your hot self on your own sweaty side of the bed), and I end up harming a child in my need to get away from their slumbered death grip?  And worse: what if I can't handle it and creep out of bed in the night...will that create lasting psychological issues?  And...

So, even though terrified, I'm going to take one for the team and snuggle my babies to sleep this week.  Life is too short.  Wish us luck.