When you eat chocolate, but it’s really poo …

Plate full of delicious chocolatesChocolate and poo are on opposite ends of the gourmet spectrum {even though one turns into the other … eventually!}  I know this is a topic that may turn your stomach, but some stories just must be told!  And I should thank my husband, at this point, for being the best “blog material” around.

He has been known to “steal” chocolate from our children; and they have grown up with the knowledge that if their Dad can see it, it’s fair game.  So, they now hide all chocolate from him.  He even sleep-walks to the fridge and eats chocolate when he’s unconscious.  Truly!  {My post “I married a scary sleepwalking zombiewill enlighten you about his night-time antics!}

But one Easter, Karma paid a visit to the big chocolate thief.

Our son was a toddler at the time and was walking around the house eating his nice tasty Easter Egg, dropping much of it and leaving chocolate bits across the floor.  A bit like “Hansel and Gretel” leaving a track of bread crumbs to follow.  Like a starved sniffer-dog his Daddy was following him eating the chocolate trail.  But son didn’t just drop chocolate bits.  Unbeknownst to his Dad, a little poo land-mine escaped from his pants and landed amongst the chocolate pebbles.

I watched as my husband’s eyes bulged and his salivating tongue lolled out when he honed in on the largest brown nugget yet.  Like a seagull on a hot chip he swooped in and threw the brown morsel into his mouth, moaning with desire as he began to munch it and swoosh it around his teeth.  He froze.  Silence.  His face turned to one of horror as he leapt towards the kitchen sink, bent forward and began barfing into the bowl.  I ran to him, eyes watering, as I smelt a puff of his poo-breath when he screamed “THAT’S NOT CHOCOLATE!”  Oh, how we reap the seeds we sow.

Lesson:  “Just because it looks like chocolate … doesn’t mean it is!”

© 2015 CEW

Originally posted on my old blog site

Image courtesy of stockvault-chocolate138839

 

 

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The terrible joke they played on Nanna

Angry old woman cartoonMy children could be little horrors at times!  Especially when they teamed up and wreaked havoc on the world.  My poor mum, their Nanna, didn’t realise how “good” they were at it until her false teeth became their victim…

When they were little boys, aged 6 and 8, their Nanna was babysitting them while I worked late.  She’d made them a nice dinner and cleaned up my kitchen.  The best babysitter! Unfortunately, she got a bit of food stuck in her false teeth and couldn’t get it out.  It was aggravating her so she asked the boys if they had a spare toothbrush anywhere.  “No Nanny” said grandson.  She explained she needed something “like a toothbrush” and 8yo remembered the nail-brush, which was good at cleaning things, so they ran to fetch it for her.

The little inquisitive boys followed their Nanna into the laundry.  She popped her false teeth out into her hand and started scrubbing them vigorously under running water with the nail brush.  The boys started giggling their little heads off.  Nanny loved the laughter and presumed they’d never seen false teeth before.  She was so wrong!  They started laughing, louder this time, cupping their hands over each-others ears and whispering, as little children often do.

Nanny asked them what was so funny.  They just laughed louder!  Her Nanna-radar was beeping that something didn’t seem quite right.  Surely their laughter should have eased up by now.  She put her false teeth back in and turned to the boys, hands on hips, and asked them to fess up.  “Ok boys, tell Nanny the truth.  What’s so funny?”

Oh, the little angels could hardly contain themselves.  “Well, out with it!” demanded Nanny.  Through fits of laughter, 6yo said “Nanny, you are so funny?”  “Why? Surely it wasn’t that funny, was it?” she asked.

“Yes it was Nanny … ‘cos that’s the brush Daddy uses to get the dog poo off our gumboots!”

The little horrors broke down into hysterics again.

Nanny rushed back to the basin and washed her false teeth with soap and water, muttering under her breath!

Prologue:  Nothing much has changed with those two sons of mine over the years.  They have been completely exasperating at times with their antics.  Those same little boys are now 20 and 22 years old.  Their favourite victim now is their Dad; with Nanny coming in a close second!
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

I married a scary sleepwalking zombie

Zombie sleepwalker in front of moon“My name is Cathy and my husband is a sleepwalker.”  Sounds like a confession, doesn’t it?  But he’s not just a sleepwalker, he’s also a sleep eater!  I’ve discovered that sleepwalking and sleep eating are related.  {What a shame there’s not a sleep cleaning disorder.}

My first encounter with his sleepwalking was like a combined scene from the Walking Dead and Shrek.  It was a dark and stormy night, just after the midnight hour {now it’s sounding like a horror story}.  As a light sleeper I felt him get out of bed and walk out of the front door of our home.  I sat up with the realisation that he’d just gone outside.  I scurried barefooted onto the porch in my shorty-nighty … peering into the inky night {I’m setting the scene for you now}.  But I couldn’t see him anywhere.  Maybe he heard a prowler and he was going to investigate.  This scared me as he’s a lover, not a fighter!  I walked further outside, shivering, arms clasped across my stomach.  I heard a noise coming from the side of the house.  I tip-toed and peeked around the corner, heart drumming against my ribs.  There he was, standing with his nose almost touching the bricks and scratching them with his hands.  I asked him what he was doing.  Eerie silence.  I approached him and asked louder this time “Sweetie, are you okay?  What are you doing?” 

Donkey saying Dont you be lookin at me girlHe stopped scratching and turned his head slowly to look at me, Zombie-like.  With the muted glow from the streetlight illuminating his face I saw that his wide open eyes were looking straight through me.  With a monotone voice he said ever so slowly “Getting a drink, fat ass.”  I looked over my shoulder hoping there was an overweight donkey standing behind me.  No such luck.  It was just he and I.  He turned back to the bricks and began scratching again.

I had heard that you should never wake a sleepwalker, but I didn’t know why.  So I reached towards him and tugged on the collar of his pyjamas, which after a few attempts prompted him and he went inside.  I didn’t sleep at all that night because he didn’t come back to bed.  He went into the lounge room and laid on the floor, crossed his arms across his chest like a vampire nesting in his coffin, raised his feet up to rest on the coffee table and he slept soundly.

His sleepwalking continued over the next few years.  He would wander around the house, raid the fridge of any chocolate he could find, then fall asleep in a chair.  We had our two little boys now and moved into our new home at the end of a court.  I was still a very light sleeper and, for the second time in our marriage, I heard the front door open and he was off again!  As I darted to the front door I saw him on the front porch.  He was stark naked staring down the street and he began bellowing our cats name in his booming voice “WINKY!  WINKY!”  I couldn’t grab his collar this time, so I reached out and grabbed his … ear lobe, and led him back to bed.

In the morning when I was making our coffees I found his dressing gown rolled up in a tight ball sitting inside the kitchen sink.  Cat biscuits were strewn across the benches.  I went to our bedroom, looked down at him, poked him awake and said “Do you know what you did last night?”  As he roused, his lips started twisting and pulling in all directions.  “Are you having a stroke now?” I asked with sarcasm.  “Ewww, what’s that taste in my mouth?”  I couldn’t help but smile as I divulged “Oh, that would be the cat biscuits love!”

As our boys grew into their teenage years their Dad’s sleepwalking became a cause for excitement and adventure.  Some nights if one of them heard their Dad walking around the house they would wake the other and film his antics with their mobile phones.  I threatened them with violence if I found out they had ever uploaded them on YouTube.  On one such night I awoke to the boys giggling like a pair of schoolgirls standing over our bed, hands over their mouths stifling their laughter, watching their Dad balancing a big marrow on his stomach.  {A marrow is a big green vegetable that I was going to stuff with mince and cook the next day.} 

Their adventure this night was to discover their Dad lounging in his recliner and they convinced him that the marrow was our cat.  Each time they went to “pat” the marrow, their Dad would slap them and tell them to go away.  Finally fed up, he stood, cuddling the marrow securely to his chest and lovingly took “her” back to bed with us.  I awoke with the marrow snuggled down warmly between us.

The boys love that their father is a sleepwalker.  And true to their word they have not uploaded any clips onto YouTube.  They’ve fed him dog biscuits after convincing him it was chocolate, filmed him throwing the kitchen sponge around the house as if it was toxic and much more.  But those videos do make a showing and are highly entertaining at family gatherings.

How do my sons and I cope with a chronic sleepwalker?

We go on the journey with him and enjoy the adventures as a family. 

And I wouldn’t change it for the world!
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

How the hell do teenagers think?

Planet in outer spaceIf women are from Venus and men are from Mars, what planet are teenagers from?

I ask this because as I journeyed alongside my two sons through their teenage years, many times I wondered how their little brains worked.  Their logic was skewed, their behaviour was occasionally absurd, and whilst I didn’t laugh at many of their antics at the time I can chuckle now that we have come through relatively unscathed.

My friends tend to focus on their daughter’s hormonal changes through the teenage era.  But I can tell you that when you see your son stomping his feet, jumping up and down on the spot screaming blue murder with his fists pumping up and down, you know boys get hormonal too.  {OK, so I laughed hysterically at my son when he did this which didn’t help matters, but hey, I’m only human and couldn’t control myself either!}

When my boys began morphing into teenagers, the first thing I really noticed was the stench in my car when I picked them up from school.  I would look down at their feet noticing their shoes were still on as my gag reflex kicked in.  How did such an eye watering stink permeate through leather shoes to pollute the atmosphere?  I was sure their feet had turned toxic.  And their armpits – oh my goodness!  I had to open the car window and drive with my head tilted out the window, my lips flapping like those of my dog, eyes blissfully squinting as I refilled my lungs with clean air.  Yes, that’s how I drove home.  “Did you boys use deodorant this morning?”  I’d rage.  “Yes Mum”.  “Well…USE MORE!”

There was one particular episode of “teenage logic” that I will forever remember.  This was the defining moment where I hypothesised that teenager equalled alien.   Our home has evaporative cooling and I was forever telling them that if I wasn’t home and they put the cooling on, they must open some doors and windows.  I arrived home from work one very hot day and heard the cooling system whirring as I walked up my driveway.  {They better have the doors and windows open.}  I was pleasantly surprised that they did!

But something was just not right.  I could feel it in my bones.  I walked from one end of our home to the other, stopping, cocking my head to the side, waiting for my mother’s-extra-sensory perceptions to hit the jackpot.  Bingo! {It couldn’t be.}  I walked to the cooling control panel which was next to the central heating panel.  My eyes were snapping from one panel to the other and back again.  The cooling was on.  The heating was on.  I called the boys over and asked WHY the cooling system and central heating were on at the same time.

Without hesitation …. “It was hot so we put the cooling on” said son.  “Then why is the heater on?” asked I.  They looked at each other as if I was simple.  “Well?” I said. “Mum, it got too cold with the cooling on, so we put the heater on!”  Doh!  Silly me.

I stood there, perplexed, looking at the back of their little alien heads as they walked away.  I was response-less.

There are many more “episodes” from my alien teenage son’s soap opera that I will revisit soon.  Some are hilarious, others not so much.  My youngest son turned 20 a few weeks ago.  I bent and kissed the ground and thanked God that I survived the teenage years.

“Adolescence is a period of rapid changes. Between the ages of 12 and 17, for example, a parent ages as much as 20 years.”   ~ Author Unknown
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site