No More Centipedes in the Bed

Last night as I was putting the older two kids to bed, Cubby noticed a very small house centipede near the ceiling in their room. He asked me if centipedes bite. Well . . .

The actual answer is yes, they can, although they don't usually bite and most of them can't even pierce human skin. Especially not one as tiny as the one in their room. But I didn't want to go into all of that, so I told him he didn't need to worry about it and swept the baby centipede away.

Then this morning at 4:15, A. catapulted from our bed and started stomping on the floor around the bed. He informed me there had been a bug crawling up his leg in bed. I thought he had been dreaming, but I told him to turn on the light and check. And there, racing up his side of the bed, was an inch-long house centipede.

OH NO YOU DON'T, YOU LITTLE BASTARD.

A. killed it immediately.

I don't care how many ants they eat, they are not welcome in my bed. And we shall never, ever speak of this to Cubby.

GrossgrossgrossGROSS.

Too Tired for Tequila

It is an unfortunate reality that the times I feel most in need of the temporary relaxation afforded by an alcoholic drink are the times when I'm too tired to bother.

All three children have had a cold this past week. The older two have been their usual insane cyclone selves (how do children maintain that level of activity even when ill? I will never understand this) with the additional joy of the sick-whines, and Jack has been awake. All the time. Every two hours at night for a few nights now. I can't begrudge him the comfort of my presence at night, but it's making me into a zombie.

So I did not, as is my habit, celebrate Cinco de Mayo yesterday with a margarita. Bummer. All I managed were some taco meat and guacamole. And I managed to eat it without face-planting into my dinner. Party on.

And speaking of acting drunk . . .

I sent Cubby upstairs this morning at 7:10 to get dressed. Forty minutes later, he was standing in the living room in his socks and underwear, holding a pair of pants that were clearly too big for him. I told him to take them back upstairs and get a pair that fit.

So of course, he put the pants over his head and groped his way up the stairs in his underwear and socks. Because five-year-olds are perpetually drunk, even without alcohol.

He came back down a minute later holding properly sized pants, and with the overly large pants still on his head. Ten minutes after that, he was finally dressed. And the pants were off his head.

Who needs liquor? I have kids.

The Shirts Say It All

Baby Jack is currently wearing a shirt that reads, "I Love Mommy." It has a hole in it, because he is the third child, and hand-me-downs are his life.

Cerebral Cubby's t-shirt has an abstract drawing of a muskox on it, and reads, "Robert G. White Large Animal Research Station." (The MiL brought it back from a trip to Alaska last year.)

Rough-and-ready Charlie is wearing a t-shirt featuring a large tractor tearing through mud, and it reads, "Play In The Mud."

I couldn't have picked more representative shirts for them all if I had tried. Which I didn't.