Momservation: If Neosporin, Super Glue or duct tape won’t fix it, then it can’t be fixed.
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Here’s what I love about our little family of five (me, Hubby, Logan-12, Whitney -11, Darby – fuzzy baby dog):
At any given moment if you were to peek in for a snapshot of our family life, you would think we were seriously deranged.
Meaning, there is always something silly or ridiculous going on around here. My mother-in-law and my dad enjoy popping in because they know it will be their entertainment for the day. That is if trying to shoot raisins out your nose for distance is your form of good entertainment.
I just love that we don’t take ourselves very seriously. Cause hey, if you can’t laugh at yourself, than who can you laugh at? Besides Rick Santorum. (Sorry Republican friends, it was just too easy).
For example, if you popped in last night when the kids were supposed to be setting the table you would have found them doing Yoga ball tag. This is an impromptu game, not sanctioned by Mom, of trying to beam your brother or sister with a 3 foot circumference ball so hard that you knock them off their feet. It also has a tendency to clear off table tops and knock wall pictures askew with misses. Only then does Mom tune in to what’s going on to yell “Game over! Now set the table.”
In fact, Hubby’s Yoga ball, that’s supposed to be used to stretch out his back, has logged countless more hours as a toy than for any physical therapy use.
Like bouncing the dog’s tennis ball off it so she leaps through the air like a great white shark going after a fleeing seal.
Or slipping it into an oversized shirt and proceeding to be Cee Lo Green singing Forget You.
Or trying to sneak it out to the pool (any season) to see if you can jump on it without it squirting away.
Other Wheeler family moments, on any given day, that would leave you to believe you were a fly on the wall of absurd:
Everyone at the dinner table trying to prove it really is impossible to lick your elbow.
Neosporin being used on any manner of injuries, the cure all for everything.
Searching the carpet for meal worms – that were dropped when feeding the turtle.
Someone being closed up in the sleeper sofa.
Daddy leading the charge to see if a simultaneous laugh/cough/fart can be achieved to trump the cough fart that just happened.
The dog trotting through the house with random socks, a ball, a bone and a Qtip in her mouth, business as usual.
The kids and their friend sniffing pepper up their nose (again) rather than take their friend’s shrieking, “Owww! Owww! It burns! Oh, that’s terrible!” word for it. Then agreeing when he says, “You should try it.”
Mom singing Don’t Stop Believing into a spatula while making dinner trying to convince her children she should go on American Idol, while they protest that their ears are bleeding. Then telling them for the 100th time she had the 45 of that song way before Glee made it popular again while they moan, “I knowwwww Moooom. You told us already.”
Everyone balancing on one leg like a stork to see if it’s true that your foot is the exact same size as your forearm.
An endless and ongoing debate over who is the biggest Cheesehead in the house. Not Packer fan. Just the word Logan made up when he was four to describe his sister. On any given day in our house, someone is a Cheesehead.
If you dare stop by, it just might be you. Cheesehead.