It's a Full House

We are still at my parents' house. We've been here since Friday. It is Monday. We will probably stay until Wednesday. Enough said? No? Well, let me break it down for ya.

I love my parents. Love love LOVE them. However, I don't want to live with them. And yes, 5 days feels like living with them.

I will live close to them, I will live in a home that has two separate living quarters with them, but I will not live with them in a single home dwelling that is the smallest house they've ever lived in. (At least since I've been around.)

I'll just say it's cozy. (Did you know "cozy" is a nice word for small in realty lingo? Stick with me kids, I have all the inside scoop on life's secrets. I know how to read between the lines.)

A day in the life around here consists of everyone getting up and trying to get in the shower first because they have one shower and the hot water does not last long. My mom is normally the lucky one and manages to get in first. I am unlucky in this area because as hard as I try to get a shower in the morning (here or at my own house), my child has some sort of 6th sense that causes him to wake up out of a sound sleep as soon as my toes touch the floor to get out of bed. My alarm could go off... he stays sleeping. My cell phone could ring... stays asleep. Saturday morning a semi drove by right outside our window and blew his big loud horn... he kept on sleepin. But let me quietly pull the covers back and slowly move my leg off the bed and he's up. He has a special gift and I fully expect him to have a future in the military or CIA.

Normally I just put him in bed with me, nurse him back to sleep and lay there watching old reruns of Full House where Uncle Jesse's hair looks like this. I call these the "Mullet Episodes" and I don't like them. I can handle the newer reruns where Uncle Jesse's hair looks like this, but the old ones like make me like wanna gag myself with a spoon or spend the rest of my day saying things like "You got it dude" and "You're in big trouble mister".

My father does not shower at home on the days he works out so you'll typically find him sitting at the table doing his crossword puzzle while my mom makes his breakfast. Then he'll head into the living room to watch his 2 daily morning shows; Let's Make A Deal and The Price Is Right. As soon as the Showcase Showdown ends, he'll leave for the YMCA and return about 2 hours later.

Meanwhile, my mom is asking everyone else what they want for breakfast like she's a short order cook. And btw... if you ever spend the night, just know that she is willing and able and READY to make pretty much any breakfast dish you can think of at any given time. Eggs, bacon, pancake/waffle mix, an assortment of cereals, oatmeal, hash browns, potatoes, mush (yes, mush), danish or some sort of breakfast pastry, bread for french toast or just plain toast, bagels, cream cheese, OJ, coffee, an assortment of hot teas, milk... these things are ALWAYS in stock in my mother's kitchen. And I'm not complaining, this is one of the reasons why I gain 10 pounds every weekend we're here. (The other would be because I eat out of boredom and stress, but we'll visit that thought later.)

So, while my dad is at the Y, my mom is busy cooking or cleaning up or doing laundry or whatever chore she can think of to keep herself busy.

I am normally feeding my face and trying to feed the baby, T1 is either getting in his semi warm shower or on the computer. T2 will usually sit and watch tv and then get right on his schoolwork so he can play with his other homeschooled friends in the neighborhood.

And that my friends, is as exciting as it gets. Seriously. By the time breakfast is over, my day becomes a blur of chasing the baby around trying to keep him out of the curio cabinets or keep his fingerprints off my dad's huge flatscreen tv, or keep him from unplugging all the lamps or turning the DirectTV off (because it sits low and he loves the little blue light - or rather he loves the almost heart attack that my father has every. single. time. he does it.) I'm not sure why my father doesn't just pick up the remote that must always be in his possession and turn it back on, but I'm in my shoes, I don't walk in his. I can't pretend to understand the hardship of being right in the middle of Plinko and having it taken from you without knowing if that red puck make it into the $10,000 slot or the $1,000 slot. It's a hard knock life.

Have Mercy.