No longer my BFF

I HATE Rubber Gloves.

It wasn’t an all-of-a-sudden sort of hatred, or even the funny sort - the kind when you see that hideous dress and pull it out so that you and your friends can mock it in burst of giggles. It was that sort of hatred that comes about because at one time we were best friends. I’m not a hating kind of person, but this was truly not my fault. The gloves turned on me.

I used to love rubber gloves; I even sang their praise. I traveled mile after mile in my home hand in hand and they never once let me down. But none of that matters - It’s over. And I hate them.

A week ago I cut my thumb. It wasn’t serious but it was large enough cut that it made it difficult to do anything with my left hand. I milked the situation for all it was worth and claimed that the family would have to take over the cooking and cleaning duties for the WHOLE week. I scrunched up my eyes and whined every time I was asked to put a little pressure on my thumb, but it only worked for the first two days. Clearly the children did not read the memo that I posted onto the fridge.
And I quote, “Thy Mother shall not be forced to work for a whole week."
AND YOU KNOW WHAT?! It didn’t work. IT! Didn’t! WORK!
Should I have cried longer? Should I have layered on more band-aids? Should I have packed my thumb in ice for a week? Should I have written the memo out in pictures?
Well, I couldn’t even fool the hubby man. Not one little bit. Why? - Because I have rubber gloves. Curse their waterproof hides.

I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking that in this month of thankful posts, I have the audacity to write a hateful post. Go ahead and judge me. I can handle it…maybe… I still hate rubber gloves.

You can never have too much fun.

The other day while I was upstairs getting dinner ready it sounded like the kids were having too much fun down stairs. The hubby had just gotten home from work and I sent him down stairs to investigate. As soon as he got home he called me down.
"Oh great." I moaned leaving the kitchen.
I envisioned great epic toy battles or cathedral sized art on my walls. As I neared the end of the stairway I braced myself for the next Apocalypse ( which, by the way, seems to happen a lot in our home.) But what I wasn't expecting was a whole lot of water...
and a necked little boy.
With help from his sisters (where are they, by the way?) he was talking a bath in the blue plastic toy bin. The first words out of his quivering blue lips, "Mommy, I'm cold."