Well, okay, Mom, if you insist.

Every so often my brain is going at such a clip that my mouth can't keep up and I suffer a moment of verbal dyslexia that would make Yogi Berra proud.

"Don't eat with your mouth full."
"No more broccoli for you, young man, until you finish your M&Ms."
"Brush your hair and teeth and put on shoes and socks - in that order!"

But the worst is when they obey something like yesterday's:
"Lock the car doors and take the keys."

D'oh. No wonder they don't listen to me!

Sometimes I just want to smack him.

My son is an amateur magician (and no, it's not him I want to smack.) One trick he does involves playing cards that have been prepared beforehand by burning. I have him do this particular chore on the front porch because it is cement, has no bushes, and is protected from the wind.

Hubby asked him to do it where he could supervise today. In the living room. All that lovely toxic, smelly smoke is stinking up my living room. I told him I thought it might be a good idea to do in the kitchen with the exhaust fan on. But NOOOO, he wants it done where he can "supervise." Supervision, in this case, apparently means being in the same room while hubby is glued to a football game and paying NO attention whatsoever.

So, there he sits, on upholstered furniture, flicking red ashes off playing cards into a wicker trashcan which sits on the carpeted floor under the wooden end table.

When he dropped the lighter down the cushions of the loveseat (after using it for 20 minutes and getting it good and hot) I left the room. They're on their own.

I'll bet you've figured out who I want to smack now, haven't you?

This Wife's Hardest Job

Teenage son has the next two weeks off from school. He's on this dumb 9-weeks-on-2-weeks-off schedule to ease the overcrowding of our local high school. Knowing full well that a bored teenage boy is scarier than Dracula, Frankenstein and the Mummy put together, I sent hubby an email at work, printed off a copy and put it in his home inbox as well. I told him dates and times of this "intersession" and suggested he think about constructive projects to occupy the boy's time. He agreed and said he'd work on it.

Well, here it is. Tomorrow is day one. Son is already sitting around shuffling a Rubik's Cube and asking why didn't I get to the store today to buy him some treats. Just so happens hubby took today off from work, so I sent him to go talk to hubby. Hubby comes to me and wants to know why I sent son to him.

"Remember the email I sent you? His two week vacation has started and he needs the list so he won't be bored making us crazy."

"What vacation?"

"The two-week intersession. Remember? 9-weeks-on-2-weeks-off no school for the next two weeks? I sent you an email and you said you'd help me come up with some ideas to keep him busy and out of trouble? It's now."

"Nah. Don't remember a thing about it."

"I can work on a list if you'd like."

"No, I can do it. But you should have said something before this."

The hardest job this wife has is shutting up. Every fiber of my being wants to march him into his home inbox, have him get out the note and read it. I know he saw it when I put it in there because he mentioned it to me that night. I know it's still there because every day I put his mail right on top of it. Which means that every day when he opens his mail, he knows he has reached the end of today's mail because there is the note from his wife. It all goes back to being ignored.

Lord, grant me the peace to not throw the toaster at dear hubby.

It came out of nowhere, officer!

Hubby was blindsided this morning. He's fine, there isn't even any damage to the car, because the collision was an emotional one.

Not that he shouldn't have seen it coming. He does this every year, so this year I tried to prepare him.

"Honey, the kids and I had so much fun today! There are 123 days left until Christmas and we sang Jingle Bells at 1:23!"

"Honey, we had another party today - there are 111 days until Christmas and we sang Silent Night at 1:11!"

"Hm. Honey, I can't think of anything other than a huge, long paper chain to help us count down to Christmas. It's only 100 days away now, you know."

All of these were greeted with various "hm"s and "uh huh"s and shoulder shrugs.

This morning, one of the littler children came bounding into the living room, all excitedly saying, "Only 89 days till Christmas, Daddy! Isn't it wonderful!?"

You'd think the poor man was in the midst of a massive coronary. His face went white, his jaw dropped and he gasped for air. I asked what the big deal was, it's been coming for a while now.

"But, it's so close!"

Did I mention that I'm invisible?

A place to speak

I confess. I have blogged before. I have started accounts on several other sites, only to abandon them weeks or months later. But, in defense of myself, those other sites were generally geared toward a certain kind of audience. Women with children, homeschooling families, Christian couples, etc. I felt like I had to temper my thoughts - to put them through a filter, if you will - to make them palatable for the intended audience.

I need a place where I can speak what's in my heart without filter or fear. I need a place where my friends can find me being me.

More and more these days, I find myself being marginalized by my family. Not the work I do - the laundry, the cooking, the teaching and kissing of boo boos - but the words I speak. Appointments are missed, opportunities lost, lessons not learned, all because Mom is being ignored yet again. I realize it's a fantasy, but a blog gives me the illusion that I am being heard. Someone out there is listening.

My words are who I am. When my words are ignored, I cease to be a living, contributing human being and become merely a functioning body taking up space. I don't want to be merely a body taking up space. So, here are my words.