This evening Flyzilla, made famous by his appearance in the world-renown blog “In the Blink of an Eye”, met an untimely death. His death was expected at least two or three days ago, making his demise today long overdue.
Flyzilla lived a full life and had an extended reign of terror in Casa de Raehl for at least three weeks. While pausing for a brief rest from buzzing loudly about while the children were going to bed Flyzilla was pinned between a sneaker and the bathroom mirror in the land of Upper Bathroomonia.
Preceded by several of his small minions, Flyzilla is survived by one semi-large underling and at least a dozen of his fruity relatives, all of whom temporarily reside at Casa de Raehl.
Services were held in Upper Bathroomia immediately following Flyzilla’s demise. Services included a private wake and burial at sea.
In lieu of flowers, please make cash contributions to the Raehl family for upkeep of the memorial shrine, a sparkling monument to peace and prosperity signifying the spot where aforementioned reign of terror ended. Upkeep will require many rolls of paper towels, several gallons of Windex, and a weekly maid to be utilized over the course of the next several years.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
An Open Letter to an Unwanted Guest
Dear fly,
I know we have been having quite an interesting relationship up until this point. You keep me wake with your loud incessant buzzing. I try to swat you only to break my flyswatter. You dive bomb me just as I begin to fall asleep. I sic the cat on you. You terrify my poor children who are afraid you may be a bee. So far it may seem like you are winning.
But I have news for you. I have a weapon you cannot imagine. It is the one thing that guarantee that I will prevail in this fight to the death. My secret weapon? A life span measured in years instead of days. For you see, I googled your kind. And what I found out is not going to bode well for you, or your descendants.
Tomorrow I will break out the big guns, and you will be helpless. Resistance if futile. Tomorrow when my husband goes to work, it would be best if you would go too. That is all I want. I do not need to see you die. I know that time is coming soon enough. Seek freedom, peace, and the wide open outdoors for your final days. If you are still here when I wake up, know that the traps I have set are for you. You will know them when you get stuck in them, for I am a master at stealth, cunning, and tricks I have learned on the Internet.
Never again will your kind terrorize my household thanks to the goodness of the people who contribute to Wikipedia. Never again will I cower in fear as you attempt your kamikaze mission while I sleep thanks to the people who have developed the Paper Chef flyswatter, with it’s handy tweezers and little dustpan feature developed to dispose of your remains. And never again will your kind scare my children in the middle of the night, sending them scurrying to my bed to tunnel like naked mole rats between my husband and I thanks to Dawn dish liquid that I am strategically placing in shallow cups of water in the places you lurk. And if those attempts to rid my home of you and your descendants fail, you should know that I have three frogs left, and I am not afraid to lure you into their home for supper.
For the final time I bid you good night, my winged nemesis.
Jenn, Ninja fly fighter extraordinaire
I know we have been having quite an interesting relationship up until this point. You keep me wake with your loud incessant buzzing. I try to swat you only to break my flyswatter. You dive bomb me just as I begin to fall asleep. I sic the cat on you. You terrify my poor children who are afraid you may be a bee. So far it may seem like you are winning.
But I have news for you. I have a weapon you cannot imagine. It is the one thing that guarantee that I will prevail in this fight to the death. My secret weapon? A life span measured in years instead of days. For you see, I googled your kind. And what I found out is not going to bode well for you, or your descendants.
Tomorrow I will break out the big guns, and you will be helpless. Resistance if futile. Tomorrow when my husband goes to work, it would be best if you would go too. That is all I want. I do not need to see you die. I know that time is coming soon enough. Seek freedom, peace, and the wide open outdoors for your final days. If you are still here when I wake up, know that the traps I have set are for you. You will know them when you get stuck in them, for I am a master at stealth, cunning, and tricks I have learned on the Internet.
Never again will your kind terrorize my household thanks to the goodness of the people who contribute to Wikipedia. Never again will I cower in fear as you attempt your kamikaze mission while I sleep thanks to the people who have developed the Paper Chef flyswatter, with it’s handy tweezers and little dustpan feature developed to dispose of your remains. And never again will your kind scare my children in the middle of the night, sending them scurrying to my bed to tunnel like naked mole rats between my husband and I thanks to Dawn dish liquid that I am strategically placing in shallow cups of water in the places you lurk. And if those attempts to rid my home of you and your descendants fail, you should know that I have three frogs left, and I am not afraid to lure you into their home for supper.
For the final time I bid you good night, my winged nemesis.
Jenn, Ninja fly fighter extraordinaire
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Like Father, Like Son: The Concussion Chronicles
For sure all of you are thinking that I am the Concussion Queen, and yes, that is true. And some of that will make a great blog that I shall write later. But for those of you who hang out here on a regular basis, which is pretty much Sarah and Anna, you have probably seen my husband hit his head. On everything in our house. It happens often, and usually goes something like this:
BAM
Me: “What was that noise?”
Andy:*grumbles*
Me: “What?” Because if that was not a kid, I am so not getting up…
Andy: “…..”
Me: “You hit your head again, didn’t you?”
Andy: “Umm……”
Me: “BWHAHAHAHA….I mean, are you OK?” Note my deep, deep sympathy.
We have that conversation almost daily. Pipes in the man room, that low ceiling as you go into the basement, open cupboard doors, open other doors, the shelf that keeps getting knocked out of the fridge, and, more recently, the wall, have all fallen victim to my husband’s forehead. So far he is on the losing end. Now he never gets a concussion, just a bruise, scrape, or a cut. But he passed his awkward-headed-ness on to poor David.
At first I blamed the head bumping on toddler hood. Every toddler I have ever know has tried the walk under the table trick when slightly too tall. Or misjudged and bumped his or her head when trying to jump up on someone or something. Or even the pew diving escape route from church has caused a few bruises in each of my children. And the parent or uncle who attempts to stop them.
David has all that down to an art and still he hits his head. Bending over by his toy shelf he misjudges how close he is standing and hits his head on the way down. And then on the way back up. Walking onto the back porch he hits his head on the railing. He frequently opens the door so that he gets hit by the door knob. He pulls, pushes, or knocks things over on his head. Occasionally the bump is a bit much and he starts getting a bit loopy.
The first time he had a concussion he tried to jump off an wooden swing. He succeeded in the jumping part, just not the getting off the swing the whole way part. He got dumped on the ground and the swing hit him in the back of the head. He fell into the mud, which to him was way worse than the bump on the head. We attempted to handle this like we normally do: an Iron Man ice pack, some hugs and chocolate. Then he started staggering around, said no to the chocolate, fell over a few times, and began talking nonsense. It was not until he kept asking who turned off the sun because he could not see that I became worried and took him to the ER. One CT scan, two orange Popsicles, some ibuprofen, a band aid and three hours later we were back at home. No sweat. The youngest of four has not thrown us something we have not handled before for at least a year.
Fast forward two months. Several small head bumps, bruises, skinned knees, and attempts to defy death later we get a second bump that sends us traipsing to the ER. I decided, against all other cautionary tales of my exercise mayhem that it would be a good idea to begin to enjoy family bike rides now that Faith and Isaac are getting good at riding their bikes without training wheels. First family trip: the park. We grab some water, jump on bikes, and head out. Angel, Faith, Isaac and I are riding, and David is relaxing in what he calls his rom-pom-pommer, but what normal people call a toddler seat, on the back of my bike. After a few blocks the kids start getting overconfident, and I have to admit I did too. They start weaving back and forth in front of me and one of them hits my front tire. My bike came to an abrupt halt and the back end, rom-pom-pommer, David and all fly into the air and land on the ground. David’s head hit first. It was kind of like that creepy nursery rhyme, Rock A Bye Baby.
Anyway, after untangling all the bikes, kids, and myself, we got David our of the pommer and his head was gushing blood. A few passersby took notice and came to our aid. I figured this was like every other bump on the head, but with more blood and embedded gravel, until David leaped out of my arms into the arms of some random guy and hung to him for dear life. He was screaming, “Daddy, you are here!” Over and over. Then a lady came and brought him paper towels, a Popsicle, and an ice pack. David said, “Thanks Grandma!” Then he proceed to shimmy away from “Daddy” stagger around and fall on his head. He proceeded to talking nonsense and falling over several times while trying to get away from me to “Daddy” until my mom got there to take us home. I had called out doctor and he recommended the hospital. Again.
.
We came home, picked up the kids, tracked down our bikes, and in the meanwhile David fell asleep in the van. We rode our bikes home, and as Andy was pulling the van into the driveway, David opened his eyes, looked right at me and asked for a ride in his rom-pom-pommer.
BAM
Me: “What was that noise?”
Andy:*grumbles*
Me: “What?” Because if that was not a kid, I am so not getting up…
Andy: “…..”
Me: “You hit your head again, didn’t you?”
Andy: “Umm……”
Me: “BWHAHAHAHA….I mean, are you OK?” Note my deep, deep sympathy.
We have that conversation almost daily. Pipes in the man room, that low ceiling as you go into the basement, open cupboard doors, open other doors, the shelf that keeps getting knocked out of the fridge, and, more recently, the wall, have all fallen victim to my husband’s forehead. So far he is on the losing end. Now he never gets a concussion, just a bruise, scrape, or a cut. But he passed his awkward-headed-ness on to poor David.
At first I blamed the head bumping on toddler hood. Every toddler I have ever know has tried the walk under the table trick when slightly too tall. Or misjudged and bumped his or her head when trying to jump up on someone or something. Or even the pew diving escape route from church has caused a few bruises in each of my children. And the parent or uncle who attempts to stop them.
David has all that down to an art and still he hits his head. Bending over by his toy shelf he misjudges how close he is standing and hits his head on the way down. And then on the way back up. Walking onto the back porch he hits his head on the railing. He frequently opens the door so that he gets hit by the door knob. He pulls, pushes, or knocks things over on his head. Occasionally the bump is a bit much and he starts getting a bit loopy.
The first time he had a concussion he tried to jump off an wooden swing. He succeeded in the jumping part, just not the getting off the swing the whole way part. He got dumped on the ground and the swing hit him in the back of the head. He fell into the mud, which to him was way worse than the bump on the head. We attempted to handle this like we normally do: an Iron Man ice pack, some hugs and chocolate. Then he started staggering around, said no to the chocolate, fell over a few times, and began talking nonsense. It was not until he kept asking who turned off the sun because he could not see that I became worried and took him to the ER. One CT scan, two orange Popsicles, some ibuprofen, a band aid and three hours later we were back at home. No sweat. The youngest of four has not thrown us something we have not handled before for at least a year.
Fast forward two months. Several small head bumps, bruises, skinned knees, and attempts to defy death later we get a second bump that sends us traipsing to the ER. I decided, against all other cautionary tales of my exercise mayhem that it would be a good idea to begin to enjoy family bike rides now that Faith and Isaac are getting good at riding their bikes without training wheels. First family trip: the park. We grab some water, jump on bikes, and head out. Angel, Faith, Isaac and I are riding, and David is relaxing in what he calls his rom-pom-pommer, but what normal people call a toddler seat, on the back of my bike. After a few blocks the kids start getting overconfident, and I have to admit I did too. They start weaving back and forth in front of me and one of them hits my front tire. My bike came to an abrupt halt and the back end, rom-pom-pommer, David and all fly into the air and land on the ground. David’s head hit first. It was kind of like that creepy nursery rhyme, Rock A Bye Baby.
Anyway, after untangling all the bikes, kids, and myself, we got David our of the pommer and his head was gushing blood. A few passersby took notice and came to our aid. I figured this was like every other bump on the head, but with more blood and embedded gravel, until David leaped out of my arms into the arms of some random guy and hung to him for dear life. He was screaming, “Daddy, you are here!” Over and over. Then a lady came and brought him paper towels, a Popsicle, and an ice pack. David said, “Thanks Grandma!” Then he proceed to shimmy away from “Daddy” stagger around and fall on his head. He proceeded to talking nonsense and falling over several times while trying to get away from me to “Daddy” until my mom got there to take us home. I had called out doctor and he recommended the hospital. Again.
.
We came home, picked up the kids, tracked down our bikes, and in the meanwhile David fell asleep in the van. We rode our bikes home, and as Andy was pulling the van into the driveway, David opened his eyes, looked right at me and asked for a ride in his rom-pom-pommer.
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