Yup.  The hubby and I have become QUITE the spider-killers around here.  Specifically, BLACK WIDOWS.  They are quite numerous in these environs, and apparently they love dry heat.  Goody!  So far, none inside, thank goodness.  But the whole family can I.D. their webs, egg sacs, males, females, and juveniles.   The kids sometimes have false positives, but they’re pretty good.

Since the nasties are primarily nocturnal, we all keep an eye out for the webbing during the day.  Then at night (not every night) once the kids are in bed, I grab the big spotlight, Tim grabs the spray, and we go hunting.

It’s quite special.  We get some nice couple time out in the 95+ degree “cool of the evening,” amid the smell of spider killer, and the various bugs dive-bombing the big light (and me.)  Not really what I envisioned any date I’d ever have would look like.  Married date, or not.  But this IS real life, is it not?  I’ve even had a neighbor ask me to take her family on a creepy evening nature walk to teach them to i.d. widows.  (They’ve got tons too, of course.  They just didn’t know how to find them.)  And I’ll tell ya, there’s some serious satisfaction in spraying and/or squishing the things.  The first 50 are just creepy.  All over body-shiver creepy.  But after that — pure satisfaction.   <insert evil scientist laugh>

Oh!  What’s that?  You want to know how many we’ve killed so far this year?  Well, since we decided to start counting, as of tonight we’ve got 106 confirmed kills.  There are more we think we’ve gotten, but couldn’t find the bodies. One hundred. Six.  Blech.

First off, I have to acknowledge my friend Mandy’s comment about Potty Training.  She said, “At least no one has pooped in a floor vent.  I’m just sayin’…”

Yes, you are soooo right.  I still hate potty training.  But Mandy, your post about M. doing that made me laugh so SO hard!  And also made me so glad I wasn’t you — or, really, your dear husband.  Still hate it though.

Okay.  The rant of the day:  Today at McD’s I really thought I could have given one of the customers some life coaching.  My advice would have gone something like this.

If you really want people to acknowledge you and treat you like  someone worthy of respect, maybe try having a little more of a pleasant look on your face.  Not yelling “Oh. My. G–!” at the people cooking your food might help too, esp. when you have your two little boys with you.  They just MIGHT be picking up on your behaviors, and might one day also wonder why they receive very little respect.  And I highly recommend NOT wearing a shirt that, in I don’t know how HUGE a font, says, “You are a non F’N factor B—-.”  No one enjoys being insulted like that — not even by a t-shirt.  Just a thought.

Now if I can only get people to pay me to tell them things like that, rather than want to kill me, I’ve got a new career!  But seriously.  I absolutely could not believe that shirt.  Total class act, as  she was sitting in the kids’ play area at Mickey D’s.

Totally worth the money for the big screen experience!  Totally worth it.

Suggestion to others: don’t spring for a large popcorn and Coke.  Chances are quite good that less than halfway through you’ll be so into it you’ll forget you bought them.  Then your bladder will remind you at a key moment in the show and you’ll curse your lack of planning.  By the end you’ll realize you still have 40 oz. of Coke and 8 cups of popcorn that are not worth transporting home.  You’ll curse your lack of planning once again.  But you’ll still be so enthralled by the cinematic encounter you just experienced that you’ll just not worry about it too much….  Then you can go home, give a mouse a cookie, and see what happens.  

So save some money and kidney pain.  Go in dehydrated and chew a piece of gum.

(Yes, there were some things I wish had been done better in the film.  But it was certainly a wild ride — very fun.)

Yesterday the kids and I went up to the church building to work on my Sunday Bible class lesson.  I gave big speeches about potty-ing every time.  ”I’m not taking extra clean stuff, so you HAVE to use the toilet every time, or you’ll end up wearing stinky wet icky pants.”   He said he understood.  He said he’d do it.   I even thought to ask about every 45 min. if he needed to go.  He did pretty well until we were about an hour from leaving.  Maybe 15 min. after asking if he needed to go I noticed a big wet spot on his britches.  When I pointed out how sad that was, and that it sure would be embarrassing if Miss A noticed (she was up there too), he apparently decided he’d better step up his game.  Miss A is cool people, and we don’t want to disappoint her.  Mommy?  She can be disappointed, but NOT Miss A.

So 5 min. later Ethan shouted, “Mommy!  Caleb needs to be wiped!”

Well, the poor thing needed more than that.  He LOVES all the tiny toilets in the pre-school area, but he hadn’t realized that if the seat is up you should lower it before sitting.  So of course he had sat on the rim and had fallen in.  He finished his business, but his rear was dripping with toilet water.  His shirt was wet halfway up the back with toilet water.  And of course the front of his pants were still wet with urine.  The boy needed a bath in a bad way — esp. before Bible class that evening.

(A few weeks ago he discovered the tiny urinals.  He didn’t know how to use them, and sat on one to poop.  He needed a bath that day too.)

We got home with just enough time to clean him up, change my clothes, and go out to find something to eat before Bible class.  It’s relevant (I think) to remember that it’s been really hot here.  The A/C just can not keep up in the afternoon.  So our second floor is often in the low 80′s by 4pm.  As I climbed the stairs I smelled something really bad.  Didn’t take long to realize it was urine.  Old urine.  Warm, cooking, old urine.  It was almost gag-inducing.

I called to Ethan and said, “I have a gross favor to ask of you.  You know I don’t have a lot of time to clean up your brother.  But the whole upstairs smells like old urine.  I’m thinking that there might be an old pull-up in your room that needs to be thrown away.  Can you try to find it and toss it out?”

I could not believe his response.  Ready?

“Oh yeah — there is!  It’s under my bed by the dresser.   Oh yeah — and there’s pee-pee on his bed too.  I stepped in it this morning when I was getting a stuffed animal.”

I didn’t even address all the issues that brought up.  I just thanked him for his service, and cleaned up Mr. Pee-Pee Pants.

I swear I live in the ape house.  I can’t believe they haven’t started throwing their poo at each other yet.

I hate potty training.

That’s pretty much it.  I hate it.  (And no, I don’t think “hate” is too strong a word here.)  As precious as my children are, and as much as I love them, I absolutely detest potty training.

I’m starting to prepare myself for Caleb going to college in Depends.  As long as he can change them himself, by then it will be his problem.  But we are right on track for that to happen.

Today he said he had to go.  I was thrilled and sent him off to do his business.  (He can do it himself, the real problem is consistency.)  He came back letting me know that, “I only got a little pee-pee on my legs.”

Me: Well, did most of it go in the toilet?

C: No.

(pause, pause, waiting for more info that never came.)

Me:  So where did the rest of it go, if only a little got on your legs?

C: On the wep- wipe.

Me:  Wet wipe!?  What!?  What did you do?

C: I holded it like this (held under his “business) and goed pee-pee.

grrr…. GRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

The rest of the story: He thought it would be interesting to pee on a wet wipe — ya know, just being a scientist, as that is what most kids really are.  He of course did not factor in possible volume differentials, and therefore got stuff all over the floor, toilet seat, his hands, legs and socks.  And then tracked it through the bathroom, kitchen, and dining room.

I may need to make an appointment with my doctor to get some blood pressure meds just to get through this phase.  I was soooooo frustrated!  As much as I want a third, this is something I purposely don’t let myself think about too much.   Doing this a third time could be my undoing.

I hate potty training — so much.