I Just HAD to Open My Mouth

Guess what happens when you talk about some kind of annoying thing that your kid does in the middle of the night? She changes it to something significantly more annoying, of course. Last night was not so much about the "Good night!" at 3:30 as it was about the "Woe is me, however shall I survive?" It took hugs, kisses, and a pacifier to convince Alexis that I needed to be asleep, not standing in her room holding conversations that I only partially understand. (Yes, I admit it. There was still one lonely pacifier in this house. In a moment of absolute desperation I seemed to incredibly gain the ability to find it. In the dark. Despite the fact that I could have sworn that I threw it away the last time I encountered it. This time I KNOW I threw it away. Promise.)

I finally returned to bed at 4:00. Strangely, I was really glad when the alarm went off at 5:00 because it interrupted a bad dream. The kind of bad dream where there is a really large spider crawling on your neck and you're not freaking out because it's a dream and in your dreams you're not altogether sane. During waking hours I would have been shrieking, screaming, and running for dear life if there was a large spider on me. So the interruption was welcome because it kept me from having to dream about being a crazy lady that stands still while spiders crawl on her. *Shudder*

So I went from spider dreams to the shower, where I was delighted to see that I had been joined by a REAL LIFE large spider. He (she?) was between the shower curtain and transparent liner, taunting me by walking around just inches from my real life neck. In plain sight. At a time of day when I couldn't scream like a sissy-girl. Which is probably just as well because my husband? Not a spider kind of guy. He'll do every load of laundry in the house but he will not rid my bathroom of some itty- bitty spider. While this particular spider was of the large variety, it's all the same. He's useless when it comes to spider-busting.

I was reminded of that when I was cooking dinner and a spider dropped down from the vent, right onto the stove. That particular itty-bitty spider met an ugly sort of death because, well, the means were right there in front of me. And the husband? He disappeared the second I said "Darn it! There's another spider!" (Let's pretend I said "Darn" and not that other word that is far more likely, mmkay?) Good thing it was his egg sandwich I was frying at that moment, now isn't it?

I'm Happy to See You, Too

We long ago mastered the art of bedtime. I'm proud to say I still have a child that tells me when she's ready to get in her crib and go to sleep. No screaming, no crying, no struggles. Actually, I dare say, bedtime is a pleasure. It's about six hours after bedtime that has me ready to jump off the nearest bridge.

For the past two months or so, Alexis has insisted on announcing she is awake in the middle of the night. It's not every single night, but it's frequently enough to keep me dependent on Starbucks (For the record, I still refuse to pay $4.07 for what I really want and have been settling for a Caramel Macchiato. Why, yes, I am bitter. Thanks for asking.). I don't really mind the waking up part, I mind the screaming bloody murder as if someone is ripping her toenails out one-by-one. I mind even more that I end up getting out of my warm, cozy bed to make sure she isn't actually being clawed to death by a cat or something.

As I stagger the twenty feet between her room and my warm, cozy bed (did I mention that it's warm and cozy?), I'm usually convinced that she really must be dying. There is no other explanation for the intensity of the shrieks. I peer through the doorway and am greeted by:

"Muuuuummmmmmy! Good night!"

Honest to goodness. She puts on airs like she is a prisoner in Abu Ghraib then cheerily tells me good night and flops back down to return to sleep. All she has to do is see the outline of my body. She's back to sleep in under 30 seconds and I'm left wide-awake, wondering what exactly just transpired.

I think this may be some sort of test. What I don't know is whether I'm passing it or failing miserably. I fear the latter.

Also, this is what happens when Daddy is put in charge of nap time:

Hi Grumpy, My Name is Grumpy

There's all sorts of grumping going on around here. Grumpy, grump, grump. I'm Grumpy McGrumperton because of football of both the real and fantasy variety. If I had been paired with any of the other eleven teams in my league besides the one I am paired against, I would be kicking some serious butt. But no, I have to be up against Mr. I-Have-Peyton-and-Santonio-and-You-Don't. Boo. Mr. Grumpy Husband is grumpy because he got a wee bit tired of me cheering against Holmes during the Steelers game. All I was trying to say was that Roethlisberger should throw it to any of the other players on the team. Just not Holmes. I wanted the Steelers to win, just not at the expense of my fantasy team. People, you have to have to think these things through all the way.

Also, there's much grumpy, grump, grump about the Steelers loss.

Before the Steelers managed to get us all grumpy, we spent the day cleaning the garage and putting out a few Halloween decorations. When I say "we" in reference to the garage, there might be a mouse in my pocket because I had absolutely nothing to do with it. But I also am not responsible for the Sanford and Son state that it was in. Me=organized. Husband=shove it where it will fit. (Shhhhuuuush with your "It's your Christmas crap that's taking over the house." I don't want to hear it.)

I have decided to embrace the fact that is apparently fall already and will be spending my week erecting a graveyard in the front yard, complete with lots of ghosts and ghouls. The neighborhood association will then promptly mail me my award for best decorations and I will promptly turn my attention to making it look like Clark Griswold lives here. Then I'll get another award and before you know it, Alexis and I will be collecting our birthday presents.

Speaking of birthdays, Alexis can expect one less Dora gift when her time comes. While I appreciate that she cleaned up the milk she spilled without having to be asked, using one's Terrible Towel to do the cleaning is a definite DON'T.