More Monday Madness...

Today was Monday in all of its glory. It didn't end after the last post.

Nap time didn't happen. At all. Instead we insisted upon wearing the red truck T-shirt. And the yellow pirate T-shirt at the same time. And then he wanted his doggy pants off. And on. And off. He finally settled on jeans. And batman socks 3 sizes too big. After all of this and an hour of whining at the door, I gave up and let the monster free from the torture chamber of his bedroom.

We came downstairs, and I got to work doing the stuff that I needed to do while he was napping. He played happily with his dinosaurs and trucks. He ran around the house, passing me every minute or so. And then there were a few minutes where he didn't pass me. There were no truck sounds or dinosaur roars. Quiet.


Crap. Crap. Crap.



I enter the living room to find Little Monster (who earned his name today) sitting on the couch eating my TUMS. I have NO idea how many he ate.

And this is when I begin being grateful for poison control. I called, and was a little taken back when the lady sounded concerned. Of course, the concern waned after I told her he was 2. And that there were 60 pills in a new bottle, and 34 left, I had likely eaten at least 12 to 16 of them. Which meant that he'd eaten a max of 10. 10 is a lot of tums, but apparently not deadly or poisonous. He's just likely to be constipated. So after nearly exploding into tears of relief that we weren't going to have to spend our evening in the hospital, I fed him apple juice and raisins. I think he's in heaven. As far as he's concerned he ate some yummy candy, Mommy freaked out and he got to have juice and raisins after. (We don't have juice or raisins that often. They tend to make to quick of an exit.)

To settle myself down after all of this I called my mother. Is it wrong that it makes me feel better when I call all frantic, and she's sounding like she's having quite a "case of the Mondays" as well?

Her day went as follows:

She arrived home to find my Dad smashing on something repeatedly with a shovel. She got out of the car to find out it was a squirrel. A very dead squirrel. And the shovel he was using had been smashing said squirrel so hard that the shovel handle broke. When she asked him if he normally spent his afternoons smashing squirrels, his reply was "When the squirrel bites my dog in the nose I do."

Apparently, my parent's dog Buster caught a squirrel. It was probably injured (my dad thinks he had recently been run over by a car) and slow -- Buster's old. He caught the squirrel and was shaking it when the squirrel reared up and scratched and bit Buster's face all over. And so Buster began bleeding. All over. Buster, that dog, he likes to catch things that make him bleed. And then bleed all over. It seems like he's done something like this at least once per year that they've had that dog. Luckily, squirrels don't carry rabies, and his scratches/bites weren't deep enough to warrant stitches. Also, luckily the squirrel didn't have to suffer. Well, he probably would have suffered less if he hadn't been so stubborn as to live through getting run over by a car, and shaken by a dog. At least he didn't survive the shovel.



If you include the TUMS, the Squirrel and the bleeding, all of the other things that went on today, combine that with a dose of "not having the 700 software I need to install on my computer to do my job" and you've got yourself a great Monday.

Tonight we're having a quick and easy dinner. To be followed by a 9x9 inch pan of brownies. No. Not one or two brownies. The entire pan. If he's lucky, Not the Momma will get some too. How was your Monday. (Note.. If this keeps up, I'm going to be forced to join in on the "Not Me Monday" blog carnival.)