Since we’ve had no measurable rainfall here in Armpit, Florida for something like 2465 days, my skin is starting to shrivel.
Much like the grape I recently found underneath the couch.
Oh humidity, how I miss thee.
One happy byproduct is that without the rain, the grass is dying a slow and agonizing death. Which means less lawn mowing.
And fewer letters from our intrepid Homeowner’s Association.
We always know that it’s time to mow when we receive such a letter.
Which we then file in the circular file. After a quick thrill ride through the shredder.
I fear though, that another letter may be on its way.
Cailey puked in the yard this week.
Which I believe is clearly laid out in the bylaws, article XXXBITEXXXME. “Thou shalt not puke on the front lawn.”
Out of the blue, as we were driving home in the mommymobile, Cailey announced from the cheap seats way in the back that her tummy hurt.
Not five minutes prior, I had witnessed this same child running and frolicking. Yet of all the children, she is the one most likely to get car sick. As was documented in this particular post. (Should you be squeamish, don’t click on it. Save yourself. Just don’t.)
Now, if you have a child who has been known to get car sick, why in the world would you place that child in the nose bleed section of the van?
I’ll tell you why. It was her turn. I got so tired of the two sisters fighting over who gets to sit in the middle seat that I had to implement the revolving chair rule. Every other week they have to take turns. Jensen has to sit in the middle because I have to wrestle him into his 5 point harness carseat. And the chances of that happening if he’s in the back aren’t good.
Besides. I’ve learned it’s best to be able to keep an eye on that one. I have a rear view mirror trained on only him.
So I look in the other mirror, trained on the cheap seats, and see a very pale 7 year old. And I start praying.
Let her hold it together until we get home. And please forgive me as I break the law whilst speeding down the street.
I whipped into the driveway, stopped the vehicle, and watched as the other children bailed out as if there were a bomb sitting in the back seat.
Not far from true.
I got Cailey out, and she headed to the door. “Mom, I just want to go inside.”
“No way sister. Let’s linger right here by the nice grass and breathe in the fresh air.”
I think you know what happens to me if I’m trapped in an enclosed space with a puking child.
Within moments, Cailey fertilized the grass. I waved the neighbors away, “Nothing to see here folks, just go about your business.”
And I hustled everyone inside.
I noticed a couple of days later that particular patch of grass was looking rather healthy, comparatively speaking.
I may be on to something. This could be my ticket to fame and fortune.
If I can just figure out how to bag and market it.