Editor's Note: Somehow this story, which occured mid-August during cousin's camp, got buried in editing mode. I had to post it late because it demonstrates a very rare* instance of me keeping my cool.
This is the ensemble cast that is cousins and brothers, who are in a bedroom this week, ostensibly getting along well while I get ready to take them to Chuck E Cheese.
The players. In order by age.
1. Oldest male cousin (very analytic; sees the world in black and white.)
2. Oldest brother at home this week (a comedien to be. Very concerned about keeping the peace. Loves his female cousin**.)
3. Only female cousin (sweet on the outside, cunning on the inside. My kind of gal.)
4. Youngest brother at casa (Knows he can pretty much get away with anything if he feigns being hurt or looks cute. Prone to potty mouth.)
Every one of these kids grew up in or within spitting distance of East Texas towns. They, therefore, are versed in "ya'll, ya know, and fixin'". They all talk at once and never stop. When they get riled up, it just gets louder and louder until some one taller than 5 foot has to scream above the din.
To set the stage, remember that I am getting ready: washing my hair and face, drying my hair and putting on make-up. Total time: 10-15 minutes, tops.
Upon exiting the bathroom, towel on head, I hear a noise eminating from the bedroom that sounds like "Kaboom, thud". LAUGHING. "Kaboom, thud". LAUGHING.
Also remember that we've been in remodel mode for slightly longer than it takes to incubate a human baby. So, I spring into action, trying to avoid the big hole in the wall I'm afraid the "Kaboom, thud" routine has created.
When I open the door, the source of the disturbing racket becomes apparent: the washer/dryer box fort has been turned into a slide by turning the box on it's side. Access to the "top" of the slide is had by a strategically placed chair, from which the lucky contestant launches him/her self and "slides" down to the other side, which has been squished to the ground by the weight of the participants. A ground which is made of hard, potentially skull-cracking, tile.
It's like watching an episode of "World's Stupidest, Most Dangerous Tricks" and my son is leading the charge.
To add insult to injury, every one of the crayons and stickers used to color/decorate the forts yesterday is "in" the slide***.
Until I pick up the "slide" and look, I don't realize the jumping and sliding has created shards of crayon that are marking up the floor. A tile floor which now has grout in shades of crayon yellow, red and blue.
I'm not sure where the restraint on this one comes from. I look at every one of them and state: "This will be cleaned up in 15 minutes or we will not be going to Chuck E Cheese."
That's when it starts: "So and so hit me and I'm so injured I cain't (not CAN'T, cain't) help", "He's the one who put all the crayons on the floor", "I didn't do ANYTHING."
I give a good long stink-eye**** to the complainers, then exit the room, turn on the timer, and leave them to figure it out on their own.
There is a frenzy of work going on: brooms, plastic bags, plastic boxes, wipeys. The brother caught in the act is orchestrating the entire clean-up.
Surprisingly, the room is clean and ready to go in 15. I only have to add the encouragement that you have to put a LOT of elbow grease into a wipey to get crayon off a tile flour and out of the grout.
Chuck E Cheese is, as usual, a kid's paradise and a parent's worst nightmare. The kids have a blast, I drink too much Cherry Coke, and the sickly smell of vomit doesn't leave my nostrils until much later in the evening.
But, the slide incident doesn't lead to the ER*****, I regain my status as "cool" Mom and Aunt, and everyone is worn out and goes to bed on-time.
I have to give credit to the cousins and brothers. Nice reuse of the box that became a fort that became a slide. When I think of it that way, I realize this is the old "ashes to a Phoenix" story; it is ugly to watch but turns out pretty well. And it only took fifteen minutes!
Chuck E Cheese? Now THAT felt like 1,000 years.
PS: Just this week I was cleaning the "slide room" and noticed something green on the floor. You guessed it, crayon stain. Cripes.
*Think Hope Diamond rare.
**Whom he CAN'T marry, even if they are super-in-love and would die a thousand deaths if their parents repeatedly said "No. Not just no. HECK no."
***Approximately 5000 of them.
****At least five seconds. Which, in stink-eye, is FOREVER.
*****A MIRACLE in the Nowell house, as almost anything that even remotely looks dangerous ends up hurting SOMEONE to the tune of a $1,000 medical bill.
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