Heidi’s transitioned into a size five diaper. And since both her sisters potty trained once they hit this diaper size, I expect we’ll start potty training her in the next couple of months. We’ll subscribe to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, then line the house from wall to wall with whatever is left of the real estate section.
Heidi and I snuck in a quick shower after my Dad left this morning. I say snuck because we’re not supposed to be running the water until the well-tank is replaced. I won’t go into the salacious, riveting details surrounding the well-tank issue, except that there’s a well-tank and a float-thingy, and they have a problem. Trust me, discussing this subject in any further detail would be as pleasant as receiving a noogie administered by a girl, like me, who’s observed the no-running-the-water-or-shower-rule for the past four days. It’ RIPE here people!
Now it’s my understanding that running the water won’t actually damage the well-pump. However, if my Dad caught wind that we took showers this morning, his brain matter might come shooting out of his ears with such velocity that we’d need to clean-up the mess with soap and a bucket of water. Thus requiring we buy more bottled water. So let’s just keep it between you, me and the entire Internet. M’kay? Hear that Jordan? – you never read this post.
After our illicit showers, we toweled-off and Heidi made a beeline for her castle. Ben went to look for something to put her in since we’d forgotten to take care of this little detail before the shower, just as we always forget to find clothes for the girls before all the other thousands of prior showers. And each time we look at each other and are…Did YOU forget the clothes again? EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. We also enjoy, repeatedly, knocking our heads against the concrete basement walls.
Back when I was in college, my Mom would drive the hour, or so, to see me. On one of her visits, we’d gone to a Greek diner for lunch, and while scanning menus the size of maps, I happened to mention I’d gotten a song stuck in my head. It’d been playing on repeat mode for a good couple of days and I asked if she knew of a trick to shake it that didn’t involve slamming my head into a concrete wall?
She said she didn’t, but that this was probably a sign I suffered from OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). “It runs in our family, Meredith, and you should see someone to talk about this.” Seriously? There I was sitting in a booth at a Greek restaurant, with my overly dramatic mother, waiting for my eggs, while being told I have a psychiatric disorder. Is this what all mother-daughter luncheons consist of – daughter making small talk and mother committing daughter to sanitarium? Is this why college-age kids apply to out-of-state schools and forget to write their mothers? Luckily, I hadn’t yet mentioned staying up all night cramming for an exam – one mother-diagnosed mental disorder was enough for one meal. She could diagnose me with Manic Depression another day.
