I rolled right off your side of the bed this morning.

Go ahead. Have your moment of trying to stifle your overwhelming urge to laugh hysterically.

Really. Go ahead.

Done? Need another moment?

Alright.

Just fyi, I may have heartily bruised my knees in the 3 foot fall.

Oh, and scraped off a rather large part of my thigh-ass skin, too.

Go ahead. Laugh, you evil brat. Somehow this is your fault.

There’s a long standing “joke”* with my dad that everyone should eat bugs to get their protein. To which both my mom and I cringe and squeel, shiver, and tell him to shut up. So, it was no surprise that when the hubs and I brought up the idea of vermiculture (worm composting), my dad’s automatic response was, “OH! And you can EAT them if we run out of beef!” To which my similarly icky husband said, “Ooh! Yeah! We could eat them!” And I launched into a head shaking that was probably felt from a mile away. At that moment, my mom scurried in from the kitchen, looking slightly peaked, to ask, “What?! What about worms?” To which I only responded with a, “Nothing. They’re nuts.”

Later in the day, my mom pulled me aside for a Starbucks run, which is code for, “We have to talk about something that we must be sneaky about, for no apparent reason.” The moment we got into the car, she very worriedly said, “So, tell me about this worm thing.” I barely got the words, “worms” and “ordered” out of my mouth before she interrupted. “Are you going to eat the worms? Because I heard him say you were going to eat the worms. If you guys are having trouble with groceries…”

I’m not sure whether her thinking we were so poor we were going to eat worms is hilarious or really, really sad. Either way, it took me about 20 minutes of interruptions and reassurances before I could convince her that we were not going to eat the worms, that our house wouldn’t smell like poop, and that we weren’t going to be living in filth and flies up to our knees. Although, to be honest, I still think she’s going to be popping over with groceries every week from now on, just so that her grandson doesn’t have to have worm stew for dinner.

*This gets a star because the word “joke” implies that the object is funny. It’s not.

The food poisoning, that is. We won’t ever, ever discuss that I got God awful food poisoning and may or may not have spent a good part of the night asleep on my parents’ bathroom floor.

We won’t discuss how, now, I am uber paranoid about hand washing and may or may not be searching frantically for a step stool so the boy can wash his own hands whenever he chooses (which manages to be All.The.Time. – Is it too early for an OCD check?). Which may or may not is causing a slight problem, seeing as how he’s only 2, not quite able to get up steps without some hand holding, and a little small for his age.

This is the first stool that caught my eye, the Ecotots Surfin Kids First Wave Step Stool. It’s entirely adorable. However, it’s also not nearly tall enough for the kid to reach his intended destination. There are two types of stools in the child world. One steppers and two steppers. One steppers were not what we needed. On I went.

While I found the Safari Storage Step-Up Stool ridiculously adorable and that it had storage (!!!). it really didn’t solve my “can’t climb so well” problem. I needed a two stepper with a railing. I had no idea if anyone even made them.

Apparently, they do! The High Rise Step Up would raise the boy up just enough to not only reach the sink, but the kitchen counter when he wants to help make his snacks! It looked perfect!

While I would love to end this blog with a “and I got it and it was perfect and I never had to sleep on my parents’ bathroom floor again”, unfortunately, the husband is just not convinced it’ll do the job. And, for the price, if he’s not sure…well, you know.

So, here I sit, trying to figure out if I can build a railing for a double stepper out of plywood and craft glue.

Not so much, huh?

This is the second time the plug on my laptop has gone all “I hate you” on me. We have ordered the part but Lord knows how long until it arrives and then is put in. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the damn thing was out to get me.

Luckily, I still have my Blackberry to post, because using the hubs comp is just too easy.

I have more than willingly allowed my mother-in-law to come see Ben, under the requirement that she remain on her medication and continue seeing her psychiatrist. She was doing great for a while. Stopped plopping down on my floor and dumping her purse all over. Stopped squeeking (because she is not allowed to scream in my house) unintelligable phrases to show how excited she is that there’s a bird outside. Lately, though, it’s started getting strange again.

While being pet by my mother-in-law as Ben napped on my lap, I noticed a curiously filled pillowcase sitting on Ben’s swing. I didn’t have an opportunity to ask before my mother-in-law skittered over there to grab it. She fiddled with it for a moment and, I shit you not, pulled a ukulele out of a pillowcase. A ukulele. Out of a pillowcase.

I’ll wait while the strangeness soaks in.

My mother-in-law was a little annoyed because Ben had been napping for about 30 minutes. “Is he going to wake up anytime soon so I can play for him?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t napped this morning so I’m going to let him rest.”
“I wish he was awake! He’d love this! I WISH HE WAS AWAKE! Can I play it and maybe it’ll wake him up?”
This is where I look horrified and Eric’s aunt says, “I’m sure he’ll love it another day. He’s napping.”
“CAN I WAKE HIM UP?”
“Um, well…I…” My need to be polite in front of company superceeded the needed to tell my mother-in-law that she was batshit crazy.

And then, she began to play and sing.

Seriously. She played the ukulele and sang, loudly, in an attempt to wake Ben. Her fingers were slipping off the ukulele, she was trying to play that thing so forcefully. She was quite cranky when, at the end of her song, Ben had done no more than snore. He hadn’t even wiggled slightly. At this point, I called victory and expected to move on.

I was premature.

Another song began, more loudly. Another wailing on the poor ukulele in an attempt to wake Ben. I looked around at the rest of the room, just to see if anyone else had the “I can’t fucking believe this is happening” look I’m sure I had on my face. I found Eric’s aunt and dad staring at the ground (”We are not related” faces), his cousin with his hand over his downcast eyes (”I cannot be related”), Eric averting his eyes in any direction but his mother’s (”I’m not here, this is not happening”) and his uncle fast asleep, his head all the way back on the couch, mouth wide open. The man.was.out. I immediately wondered if I might be on candid camera or in a new National Lampoon’s movie. It was surreal, to say the least.

At the end of the second song, there was a bit of discourse between his aunt, his mother and his cousin. His aunt and cousin talking gently, his mother…well, not.
Mother-in-law: “WHAT’S ANOTHER SONG?!”
Aunt: Tom (cousin) liked that dog song when he was little. What song was that, Tom?
Tom: I don’t know.
Mother-in-law: “DOG?” She begins singing some random dog song.
Aunt: “No, no, that’s not it. The dog song. Tom, you remember.”
Tom: I don’t know.
Mother-in-law: “DOG?!” Another random dog song.
Aunt: “No, no! Tom, what was that song?”
Tom: I have no idea. I was like 3.
Mother-in-law: “DOOOOOOOOOG?!” Seemingly begins singing the correct dog song and the aunt joins in. “No! That’s not right! Stop!” Because, apparently, the aunt was not singing in the correct key or the correct words and the ukulele was not quite in the beating position yet.
They started over. They sang different words through a dog song, mother-in-law as loudly as she could. Tom looked horrified. Eric’s dad stared at the floor. Eric stared at the ceiling. His uncle snored. I tried not to get up and run Ben out of the room, hollering, “These are not your genes! You are not destined to become this! YOU WILL BE NORMAL!”

After the dog song failed to wake the sleeping baby, mother-in-law shoved the ukulele back in the pillowcase and grumbled, “He’s going to sleep all day. We’re going to go.” I was grateful. I loved his aunt, I loved his cousin, I love his dad and his uncle was a great guy, too but his mom is such a bundle of nervous energy that it’s really hard to enjoy time with her. Especially when there are people around that she’s hoping to impress, she seems to lose all semblence of sanity.

Just as I was saying good-byes and thanking my lucky stars that the day had ended, my mother-in-law proceeds to proclaim, in obvious hopes that everyone would hear, “I hope you let us see him again!” Wow. Well, you know how much I love the whole victim act! Of course you can come over again! Since I’ve been such a racuous bitch and have allowed you to come visit whenever you express an interest, you can totally come over even sooner to try to wake up my baby with rabid ukulele sing-a-longs, feel me up and then throw guilt trips at me as you leave! I’m so excited, I could vomit.

And, my poor husband’s response, in his ever so sweet, avoidance sort of way, to the entire incident? “That was my ukulele.”