Monkey Business: The Sliding scale of Sanity

You have to excuse me. I've been teetering on the edge of insanity lately. Seriously. I gathered every. single. toy. my children own and dumped them all in the middle of my basement. I feel for my cousin and her boys. They're coming to stay with us and will need to learn quickly how to navigate a toy mountain in the dark. I'm not sure if they offer classes for this at sporting goods stores or what. If anyone knows, please post on that.

So as I said, I've been teetering on the edge. But I rallied today and have my brain firmly planted on sane soil. For now. I managed to somehow seal up that incessant blathering my daughter is so prone to. I gave her music and headphones. If you haven't plugged your kid into some music, let me HIGHLY recommend it. Sure, she looks like a 16 year old angst ridden teen, but what the hell do I care if she shuts the fuck up for longer than three minutes?

Ah, yes. The silence was golden. And just what the doctor ordered. Hell, the kids didn't even fight since Reilly Kate wouldn't even acknowledge Roman's existence while she grooved to The Killers, Green Day, and Pink. Not even when he took to throwing sticks at her head. She didn't even pay him so much as a glance for his efforts. Sure, he walked away feeling lonely and dejected, but the hell do I care if it keeps them from screaming at one another for longer than three minutes?

Better to have a well balanced mother, I always say. Even if the balance is fleeting.

Our weekend, in case you were wondering (because I know my enjoyment of weekends is a pressing issue for my blog readership), was hectic but shit tons of fun. Oh, sure, it made me wish my husband had a weekend job in Siberia, but that's par for the course when one has a busy summer weekend planned that doesn't involve guzzling copious amounts of beer. But that's more his problem than mine.

On Saturday, after Reilly Kate's soccer game, we went down to Kings Dominion. Tons of fun for the kids. Roman is, apparently, an adrenalin junkie. He rode on every roller coaster and daredevil ride a person of his stature is allowed. This picture was taken on the kiddie version of The Clipper. It was his first thrill ride ever. I was a wreck, so nervous was I. But my three and a half year old baby ran straight up to the damn thing, demanded to sit in the very last seat, and then proceeded to raise his arms straight in the air. It was only after I just about stroked out (remember, my mental state as of late), that he put his arms down, fingers safely curled around the bar in front of him. My heart, by the way, hasn't stopped racing since. I'm too old and too fat for my kid's adventuresome spirit.


Reilly Kate loved her some race cars. Too bad for her, it appears she has inherited my complete and utter misunderstanding of navigation and vehicle control. Good thing they keep these things on tracks. We avoided the bumper cars completely. Just don't think it's a good idea for her. Do you? At least she kept her eyes open. I mean, no hands is one thing, but with your eyes closed you can't even brace yourself for the impending crash.

And then there was Irina. My sweet little cherub who is quite honestly the easiest baby I could have ever dreamed of. She is the least of my problems, completely absent of worry. She's a true delight. And she's discovered her toes. She's an ardent worshipper of the foot, it seems. Just loves her some foot action. A real foot fetishist, she is. I'll let you guess where she inherited that from. And, ummm, it ain't me so don't guess that.

By the end of the day, the kids were really wanting to win stuffed animals. You know, those damn games that you spend 20 bucks to win a fucking $5 piece of crap made by political prisoners in China. Well, Mike did win one. An ugly Pokemon thing that he gave to me as an apology for the temper tantrum he threw. Yes, Mike. Anyway, the kids were buggin'. I saw one of those Amazing Houdini type things where the park worker is trained to guess your weight or age or whatever. I told Mike that I really didn't think anyone would guess my weight within five lbs. Dumb move on my part because Mike then was insistent that I go and do it and win the kids some animals. So, after discarding my pride in the nearest trash can, I waltzed up to the Houdini, paid my five bucks and had her guess my weight.

"Turn around," she directed.

I did as told, sucking in my gut and wishing I had stuffed my pocket with whatever it is in my purse that makes the fucking thing so god damned heavy.

"I'm going to say... 130," she said.

I laughed. "Is that really your guess?"

"Well, I can't change it now, can I? Get on the scale."

There, in the middle of an amusement park, on a crowded weekend, in front of God and everyone -- oh, and did I mention it was Mike's company picnic? Yes, so in front of God, everyone, and all those that Mike works with, I stepped on the scale.

183.

Yes, I beat that Houdini bitch by 53 lbs. So bad was her beating that I won EACH child a stuffy.

Yep, it pays to be fat. In technicolor monkeys.