Optimus Mom

Optimus Prime piñata
The Optimus Prime piñata endured the batting of five kids and three dads.

Last Sunday was my son’s 4th birthday party and I thought I had learned something from the previous 3. But I didn’t. Once again I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off for two hours before the party. I had to pick up pending supplies at two different stores in the middle of church traffic. Did I mentioned I live in North Florida? There are churches on almost every corner.

Finally, I made it home with a bunch of balloons covered by a huge bag that looked like a flying mattress, a Transformers cake and 4 bags of ice and soda. I scrambled to put the last touches on the decorations, which I spent the entire morning hanging and taping on the walls and ceiling. Then I had a glass of water, the only thing I drank since breakfast, and enjoyed the silence before the storm.  Continue reading “Optimus Mom”

“Yes baby, I’m fine…”

Sharp mind in a sharp body
Age is not only a mental state. No matter how much it hurts, we have to accept our body’s limitations.

This past week I noticed my husband was limping. I asked him, “Are you o.k. baby?” and he said, “Yes baby, I’m fine…” A couple of days passed and he started to get quiet. That was my cue; I knew something was going on. Yet, I asked him if he was feeling well but he answered again, “Yes baby, I’m fine…,” as he stretched and squatted in the family room letting out quiet grunts and muffled curses.

Around seven o’clock on Friday evening–after playing 18 holes with some business partners–he limped into our bedroom and dropped on the bed. I asked him again, “Are you o.k. baby?” even though I thought I was going to get the same B.S. answer, but this time he admitted, “I screwed up.” Then, he showed me where the pain was and that it was radiating from his groin down to his knee.  Continue reading ““Yes baby, I’m fine…””

Chase with a broom

Rusty

Yesterday, while I was rushing out the door for a doctor’s appointment, my Shiba Inu/Terrier mix named Rusty, decided to battle my command, “Go in the crate“. Instead of going in peacefully as he usually does–I’m lying, he always fights me!–he decided to give me crap and ran around the dinning room table.

In a split second, I lost my cool and ran to the garage to get the broom. I chased his little a-hole for two or three minutes around the table until I stopped and flipped him off. He stared at me like saying, “You are lucky I don’t have hands, woman!

Continue reading “Chase with a broom”