As I understand it, the Year of the Rat is supposed to be for new beginnings.
We were going to celebrate Lunar New Year with our adoption group this weekend, but one family has some paperwork tedium to do for their next adoption, another family has been hit by the flu, and some other families never RSVPd one way or the other, etc., so we are rescheduling the celebration for a different weekend in February.
So what will we do with what was going to be our Tet celebration Saturday? Go explore Radiator Springs and the outlying communities! How’s that for new beginnings?
The girls will spend Friday and Saturday with the grandparents while McH and I drag Tank Boy from one teeny tiny little town to another to get a feel for the local businesses, the local haunts, the local parks, and, well, the locals. We are also going to start looking at houses.
I swore up and down we would absolutely, positively NOT contact a realtor to look at houses until the official offer is signed, sealed and delivered; but then we realized my parents are going on vacation and won’t be available to watch the girls for the next couple of weekends and oh. my. gosh. House hunting with four kids?!? Are you frapping crazy?
My nerves just can’t take the loud, multiple choruses of, “This one can be my room and that one can be your room, and . . .”
“NO! I want that room to be my room!!! Why should I have to share that one? It’s not fair!!!!!”
“No, wait listen . . . “
“You’re being bossy!”
“No I’m not, you are!”
“No I’m not, you are!”
“GIRLS, STOP YELLING!!!!”
“Tank Boy, stay out of it!”
All this bickering would, of course, take place while they are running around from room to room, floor to floor, as if possessed by some demonic force that must see the entire house in 25 seconds or less, lest it be cast off to the netherworlds, never to wreak havoc on an over-stressed mother again.
Why must kids always run through the houses (and the emptier the house, the faster they go)? Why must they flip every light switch? Open every closet? Look inside the refrigerator? Flush all the toilets? Really? Why?
And the thing is, my kids (well, maybe not Tank Boy) are generally well-behaved kids. They are not the ones running amok at inappropriate times and places, causing distractions and destruction, making grumpy old men grumpier and patient young women impatient and gray-haired. Mine truly are not those kids. But get them into a house on the market? They become those kids.
I do not know. But I’ve seen it happen. And I’m not doing it this weekend. Except with Tank Boy. But a two on one ratio of sane parents to possessed child is doable.
I shall take the laptop and the new, tiny digital camera that we recently bought for the trip to Vietnam (the digital Rebel is just a bit much to lug around for international travel) and I will post pictures. Of course chances of me finding a
n unsecured wireless connection up there are slim to none, so I may not be able to post anything until Saturday night when we are home, anyway.
Now I need to run. Phullabaloney Fill should be emerging from his home soon and I think I need to find some galoshes so that I can go out there and snap the pic.
Who invented that word? Galoshes. It sounds like drunken footwear. Like they’d just make you fall down and fail the walk-the-line test no matter how sober you actually are.
“Really officer, I haven’t been drinking. It’s just these here galoshes . . . “
“Save it for the judge, son. Save it for the judge. “
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.