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A Quick Joke

My Mother-In-Law started it.
I tell one little joke and she laughed so hard she peed her pants... literally.  (I ended up mopping the floor since I was the indirect cause.)  She did a few other things too, but I'll be nice and not mention them.

Ever since, I tend to face a lot of situations with humor.
So tonight, while in a battle of wits with my husband (the poor unarmed bastard!), I came up with this little gem:

Cthulu and Schrödinger's cat both managed to get into the same taxi in New York.  It being late at night, the cabbie asked if they minded sharing.
In reply, he hears a loud slurp from the back seat.  The tip of a tail is poking out of Cthulu's mouth.
"Why'd you do that?!?!" shrieked the cabbie.
"It's ok," Cthulu shrugged.  "Schrödinger's cat is dead."

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Yeah, it's a bit geeky... but I think it did the trick.  Hubby hasn't found a comeback quip yet.

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I Fought the Flu and I Won

On Wednesday night, Chaos woke me up with the phrase every parent hates: Mommy, I throwed up.

Sigh.
Then he used the only phrase I hate more: Mommy- I didn't make it to the bathroom...
*face palm*

So, after tossing a sick six-year old in the tub (at THREE IN THE MORNING) I cleaned his room and an hour later got back in bed.

At five, my husband yells upstairs: Morgana- you've got to get up!  He's throwing up!

*double face palm*  Yeah.  Hubby doesn't deal with "teh sick" very well- no matter who it is, he panics.  The only good news with it being Chaos sick was that it wasn't the Hubby being sick.  THAT is a Jabberwocky I hate facing down.

I clean again...head back to bed.  And you've guessed it... repeat performances every hour or so until I get up for the day.
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Hubby was nice enough about it once kidlet's stomach settled.  Kiddo slept.  I was sent back to bed.  Hubby and Doc watched Price is Right re-runs that we taped.

I woke up a couple of hours later feeling better.  Since Chaos was feeling ok, I ran out to the store to pick up some soup and stuff.  It was cold.

The rest of the day was pretty boring; TV watching, cleaning, kids in bed...  Hubby and I stayed up to watch a movie.

I went to bed and felt my ribs ache.  I'm no stranger to bronchial infections so I found my inhaler *just in case*. 
I couldn't sleep.  I tossed.  I turned.  It was too hot.  It was too cold.  My bed was uncomfortable. 
I finally get up to stretch--- and then it hits.

Yeah.  I had "teh sick".

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Hours later I had an enforced day off.  I was weak.  I was sweaty.  I could barely lift my glass to take sips of water.  Hubby was truly panicked.  Then he accused me of whining.  ME?  WHINE?  Holy crud- PukeMan... I NEVER whine.

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Next day I woke up feeling, not better... but better.  I could move again.  I wasn't nauseated non-stop.  I was still tired, still sore, still weak.  But, it was an obvious improvement.

Then I chanced a look outside.  Hubby was home from work awfully early.  (He's on nights this week.)  My Mommy-senses went all tingly.

Sure enough... Hubby's got "teh sick".
He called me whiny.  Let me tell you about Hubby's brand of "neediness":
-"Can you rub my back?"
-"I'm thirsty..."
-"Can I get some more medicine?"  (And no- he can't.  He's on medication that means NO cold meds)
-"I'm gonna be sick..."
-"I'm thirsty..."
-"Can you make me some soup..."
-"Are there any popsicles..."
-"I didn't make it to the bathroom..."
-"Don't eat near me."  (Umm... the dining room is all of TWO FEET from the living room.)
-"Can you keep the kids quiet?"

My response to him: "Can't you just go to bed and stop leaving your whiny ass prints on the couch?"

Sigh.  There's a special place in hell (somewhere near Rachel Ray, I'm certain) for people who beat their sick husbands silly with cast iron skillets.  And since I have no desire to end up anywhere near there (or near Rachel Ray for eternity), I'll put the frying pan away and just smile and nod.  And go get him another popsicle.  And fluff his pillows.  And adjust the volume on the television...AGAIN.

And count down the minutes until he's well.

(And, for what it's worth, he's feeling a little better now.  So I suppose I should stop picking on him in my prose.)

The "S" Word and Other Traditions

My Husbeastie is the love of my life.

I can say that right now, at this moment (and well, every moment for the past 8 years that I've known him) without any hesitation whatsoever.

My scruffy Nerf-herder-  Isn't he just adorable and cuddly looking?

My first husband... heck, even my first boyfriend- I was crazy about.  But, all those relationships are totally boring and pale next to how goofy I feel when I catch my Hubby looking at me.

Tonight, we got to discussing the upcoming holidays- which is like a two week long series of mini-festivals at our house- and I finally just had to ask, "Sweetie, why do you hate Christmas shows so much?"

He pointed out that a good chunk of the Christmas movies are about spoiled people who decide they're dissatisfied with their perfect life, try to do something stupid or selfish, then learn a "life lesson" and get exactly what they want in the end.  I thought about it... yeah.  He's right.

Turns out, my Hubby isn't too big on the holiday season in general.  I mean, we've made Thanksgiving our tradition, but the holidays after that are kind of dumb in his mind.  Now, by no stretch is my husband a Grinch.  He loves that the kids are so excited and filled with wonder during this time of year.  No, it's worse- my husband has no family traditions to bring to the table.  He feels very overwhelmed by the whole idea of the holidays.

My childhood, while incredibly poor and miserable for me, seem incredibly rich in comparison to my Husband's.  He's an only child.  I, on the other hand, am the baby of the family- a family I might add that my Mother was one of seven children- who all went on to have many many kids. So, while I might not have gotten a ton of toys or went out to fancy restaurants ever, I had the tradition of family and friends to spend the holidays with.

Then there's the "S" word.  Yes, folks, I'm talking about Santa.  I was allowed to believe in Santa as long as I wanted to.  (And I've never really stopped believing.)  Hubby was barely five when he became disillusioned.
He assures me that he's happy to have the kids believe as long as possible.

This takes me back, though, to our first Christmas together.  I remember how incredibly overwhelmed he was by my super-pregger nesting instinct taking over.  We didn't have a ton of money, but I decorated my little heart out.  I made him sit and watch White Christmas with me over and over again.  I sang at the top of my lungs.
Then Christmas morning came and he had no clue why there was a stocking filled for him. 

"Santa came and left it for you!"
He sat there kind of puzzled before looking through the loot.
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Poor Husbeastie- I know traditions are not something he's used to.
But, he's a good sport about the traditions we've forged for our family: wearing PJs and watching Polar Express, eating Jambalaya on Christmas Eve, leaving an empty chair at the dining room table to welcome any unexpected visitors... the apple and orange that are always in the toe of the stocking.
He even helps me put up the tree.  Sometimes.