A Week at the Spa

I'm telling you, I'm forever writing blog posts in my mind. Sam is just not a fan of getting much done, so what little I do get done tends to be those pesky things like laundry and sweeping the mountains of crumbs off of the kitchen floor. Everytime I sweep, I can't help but ask myself, "Is there any way I was this messy when I was a kid?" It's a wonder they grow since it seems like most of the food ends on the table, in the chair, on the floor, or in their hair.

I have been spending a lot of time with my feet up watching tv, just relaxing the day away. I'd love to tell you I've been hanging out at the spa, but I prefer to spend lots more money than that for a chance to relax. Yes, my place of choice for chillin' out is in the dentist's chair. I mean, it's basically like a spa...ladies in stretchy, comfy clothes lead you to a room where it's just you and them, turn on some background noise, adjust the lights, and go to work repairing your body. They just charge a LOT more for it and, unfortunately, there's a lot more pain, discomfort, and large needles and drills involved. If only I frequented the spa as often as I do the dentist these days. I'm pretty sure his children mention me every evening as they bless their supper. "God our Father, God our Father, we thank you, we thank you, for Amy Bond's teeth, for Amy Bond's teeth. Amen. Amen."

Jack's been getting some medical attention lately, too. I guess since his ambulance ride, he's figured it's pretty fun to be sick, so he has turned into a five-year-old hypochondriac. (I hope I spelled that right, because I just don't have the kind of time it takes to look it up.) It seems he complained a lot to his teacher earlier this week about his many ailments. I guess he figured he'd try it out on her since he wasn't getting too far with old mom and dad. She didn't give him a whole lot of sympathy for it either, apparently, so he decided to take things into his own hands. The little stinker left the room under the guise of a potty break, but headed straight for his old, dear friend, Nurse Donna. I'm pretty sure he has his own chair waiting for him in her office and a pre-packed ice pack in her freezer. I'm keeping the dentist in business and he is providing job security for Nurse Donna. He struck out for the third time as Nurse Donna sent him back to the classrooom without so much as a cough drop and then he had the face the music of trying to pull one over on his teacher. My only consolation as a parent was that he was not the kids who'd complained of his hair hurting earlier in the week. Well, he probably was that kid and the teacher just couldn't find it in her heart to tell me. You'll be relieved to know that all the drama was really easily solved...when he got to the van that afternoon and tearfully announced his "bad news" to me. "I have to poop NOW." Apparently, he'd come face to face with the age old dilemma of needing to go #2 at school and being unable to bring yourself to do so.

I'd love to thrill you with more exciting tales from the exciting life I lead, but Sam has decided this blogging business has gone on long enough. I'd also love to be able to proofread this, but if I wait to publish it until I have time to do that, you'll never see this oh-so-touching and meaningful post. And I just can't do that to you good people.

Off to address Christmas cards one-handed.