On the nights I work, I go in at 4 p.m. A few minutes prior, I drop the kids off at a drop-in daycare that charges $12 per hour. They are there for at least an hour and my mother picks them up and takes them home. However last Friday, she was out of town and that is usually Jeff’s day to stay out late. The kids were going to be at the drop-in daycare for at least 5 hours, almost 6 before Jeff could pick them up. At that rate, what’s the point in working.

I was in bind.

I know, I should just hire a babysitter. We had a babysitter last year, a real sweet high school girl that I have known since she was 11. While watching the kids, she decided to take a NAP and itty bitty Baby Troy crawled up the stairs while Zoe played Barbies in the living room. My mom came in the front door with groceries just in time to see 11 month old Troy, who couldn’t walk, tumble down the stairs like a sack of potatoes before coming to a stop by slamming his head onto the hardwood floor.

Needless to say, the babysitter was relieved of her duties.

So, last Friday in order to avoid paying $72 in drop-in daycare fees, I called in a favor to my ex-husband to ask him if he could watch the kids. Plural. Like including the one that isn’t his.

He actually said yes.

Zoe said they had fun and Baby T only cried once, when he got his crumbs on his hands and her dad didn’t know to wipe them off. Baby T does not like crumbs, he’s very tidy that way.

They also came home with this: Tackball.

I asked Zoe where she got it and she said she made it with stuff she found in her dad’s desk, stuff being 1,284 tacks and a ball.

This gives me a heart attack just looking at it. Why do you think a 22 month old would be interested in Tackball? Because he sees a buffet. Nevermind the $24,ooo worth of toys in our living room, a major UFC fight broke out in our house this weekend over Tackball because I took it away from them. Zoe opted to plead her case because she could see Tackball’s future was grim.

“Can I just play with it when Brother goes to bed?”

“You don’t understand, it’s an invention.”

And my favorite: “It’s not like I’m going to eat the tacks!”

There are a few things in life I’m sure of. The sun will rise and set everyday, I will breathe in and out (hopefully), the Earth is round and I wear a size 10 shoe. These things are a given. These things I know to be true.

I may not know much, but I do know there is no such thing as a steak “halfway between medium and medium rare”.

If you ask for a steak prepared in such a manner, you are wishing upon a star, spinning tales of fiction. And when I stand before you with my pen posed over my important order taking pad and you utter those godforsaken words I hear at least once a shift, I will smile, nod and take your menus, leaving you to sit with fingers crossed in hope, dreaming of fake meat temperatures.

I will then take my important order taking pad and make my way over to the important restaurant computer and punch in your steak. Temperature? Medium.

Last night at work, I voiced this opinion and we all agreed and had a good laugh. We all weighed in with our tales, told in different voices but oddly the same. Later as my shift was winding down, I sat down at the bar to enjoy my dinner, a lovely ribeye with bleu cheese crumbles and a salad.

I cut into my steak and peered at the bite on the end of my fork.

“Does this look medium to you?” I asked my friend Kory. “It looks too red…”

“Well, it’s not bloody, but it’s definitely not medium”, he replied while looking it over.

I chewed in silence, contemplating whether or not to have the steak thrown back down on the grill. I was already sitting down and it was already slathered in bleu cheese and I still had a lot to clean up.

Kory then leaned over and said, “I believe what we have here is halfway between medium and medium rare.”

Dammit, if he wasn’t right.

And in that moment, I knew nothing at all.

P.S. Don’t order your steaks like that. It was an anomaly, like my kids walking by a bag of Oreos and eating a carrot instead or my husband saying he really doesn’t feel like watching Nascar because Ellen is on.

You Capture-Happiness

Zoe and Troy are both sick. Zoe has something that resembles the flu (it so better not be the you know what) and Troy is still blistery with Hand, Foot and Mouth disease goodness. I haven’t showered in two days and the three of us have made a pretty large dent in the couch this week.

To keep them entertained, I spent some time yesterday finding videos on You Tube. You know, the usual, like Yo Gabba Gabba (Troy), funny videos of people tripping (Zoe), Whtiney Houston music videos (me) and Elmo (everyone).

Of course, this isn’t what we had in mind, but if our household is stricken with the you know what, it might be*.

*Don’t shoot pigs.

I went to work this morning and promptly received a call from the drop in daycare that Troy visits every so often while Momma is at the bar. Working. He seemed to be developing blisters on his hands right before their eyes and could not stay. I drove over and picked him up and his hands had little blisters on them, mainly around the nails. I called the pediatrician’s office and spoke with a nurse, who asked me if he had them on his feet. I indignantly told her no, that I had just bathed him a few hours before and I noticed nothing unusual, sigh, but hold on and I will take his socks and shoes off and check.He totally had blisters on his feet. And all over his cute little toes.

The nurse informed me he has Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease (not to be confused with Hoof and Mouth) and that it is going around hardcore. It’s a viral infection and there isn’t anything he can take, it just has to run its course.

I couldn’t get a good shot felt bad about putting a photograph up of sick Baby T, so if you want to see what HFMD looks like, go here. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s really gross.

His mouth is full of sores, they are all over his gums and tongue. I feel just awful for him. I also feel very guilty because this morning for breakfast, I gave him an orange. He only ate part of it and if he could talk, he probably would have told me his mouth hurt and to shove it. Instead he just yelled “Hookah!” and threw his sippy cup.

Also, you might have noticed that this here blog has a new name. Welcome to Raising Colorado. Momma went and got a fancy new dot com and will be leaving Blogger shortly. I just need to pack up my stuff and get my new place ready. I haven’t mentioned it to Blogger, I’ve never been good at breakups. We did have a good run, almost two years, but I’ve changed. It’s not you, Blogger, it’s me. Please don’t show up at my work and hand me my dog that has a Post-It stuck on its side that reads “Paul called-YOU BITCH!” and tell me you won’t dog sit for me anymore. (Editor’s Note: This totally happened to me.)

If you have me on your blogroll and you have some free time, would you be so kind to switch it ovah to www.RaisingColorado.com? I think if you are subscribed to the feed it will just be the same, but don’t quote me on that. By the way, you are looking fantastic, really. I think you’ve lost weight. Not that you needed to. It must be your hair. Perhaps you did something nicer to it.

God, nevermind. You probably shouldn’t even be reading this. I would totally just put a Post-It on my dog and call it day. (Please stay, I need you. I promise I’ll change.)