(to James, 15 years old):  “You’re adopted.”

“I’m going to wear a half-shirt around town with your picture on it that says “James is My Son.” And a button, too.”

“Where are you? I’m in front of the food court showing people your photo and asking them if they’ve seen my baby boy.”

(sitting on the couch staring blankly into space) “I wish I had an automatic ball scratcher.”

1) Couch-shaking gas expulsions: Okay, so I’m sorry. This blog has apparently taken on the mission of being the farting-est blog in the history of the Interwebs, and I don’t really know how that happened, but it’s not stopping anytime soon. Especially since Vicodin both makes you constipated AND flatulent. Add some hospital-strength stool softeners (was there ever a grosser phrase written, oy vey), and you’ve got a Exciting Action-Packed Suspense Thriller!

2) Peanut butter cravings: He has been eating peanut butter all the day long. For three days in a row. He’s eaten so much peanut butter that it’s coming out of his pores, infiltrating his clothes, wafting tantalizingly around his head in a halo of Jiffy goodness. Normally, I’m a big fan of PB, but this might be going too far.

3) Odd tastes in documentaries: I had to sit through 20 minutes of GOOD GOD THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AHHHHH GLURMBBBB last night in the form of a couple of badly filmed 2012 documentaries. Now, normally, the Hubs eats these up with a spoon so this isn’t necessarily an abnormal situation, but my putting up with it? Sitting there and watching this tripe, nodding my head and saying “of COURSE I’d like to learn more about the end of world, gosh, yes please!”? THAT’S NOT NORMAL. But every time I think about protesting he winces and holds his owies and goes “ehhhhhhhhhowwwwww…….oh it hurts, it hurts”. Look, buddy. I applaud that you’re taking advantage of your situation to make me sit through some truly craptastic filmage. However, eventually, you’re going to heal, and then it’s back to quality programming that doesn’t make me want to visit Costco for giant tubs of zombie survival rations.

First, thank you for being so nice and welcoming and generally just super warm, cuddly, lovable people. I bet you could tell we were all kind of nervous and didn’t know what to expect.Thanks for making us so comfortable.

I do have a couple of things to apologize for, though. You probably know what I’m talking about.

The Farting. Okay, so Henry had a little bit of a gas issue and decided to share it with all of us, even though we couldn’t really tell that anything was happening. He needed to let us know. Plus, everytime I had, uh, a little “disturbance” (I’m guessing it’s due to the MASSIVE amounts of cantaloupe I’ve been eating this week; seriously, I have a problem), Henry would ask me loudly “DID YOU JUST FART MOMMY!?”.  Why, yes, Son, yes I did, and in fact, it’s so wonderfully tactful for you to point that out! And to pinch your nose and wave your hand in front of your face! HA HA HA!!

The Flashing. I’m pretty sure that hospital people have seen enough naked to get them through this life to the next and then some.  And generally, it’s probably not Happy Fun Naked, it’s probably Somewhat Disturbing Naked. So they are good with accidentally seeing some “kibbles and bits” if it happens to present itself. However, the Hubs really felt the need to flash me WHILST IN THE OPERATING ROOM or at least in the pre-operating room (see how fast I’m picking up the jingo here? I am a medical superstar), which made it awkward to say the LEAST when nurses and doctors and various other upstanding citizens are in the room and he was  all “hey baby, like mah gown? Wanna get up here on the bed for a little bow chicka wow wow?”

So, we’re sorry. Actually, more embarrassed than sorry, but whatever. Again, thank you for taking such a good care of us, and no offense, but we hope to never see you again (and I say that in the nicest possible way).

Hugs -

The RedHeadMama Family

P.S. I am sorry for “accidentally” taking one of your magazines home.

P.P.S. I’m also sorry that the spilled Jello didn’t quite get cleaned up real well. I tried.

While installing the huge things, he starts talking to it. Picture a large, silver rectangular thing, about four feet tall. Dean’s kneeling down, and all of a sudden, I hear:

“Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

Dean: I’m going to bring some barbecue sauce on the walk.

Emma: Why Daddy?

Dean: You ever heard of the Donner Party?

Me: Uhhh…..

Emma: What’s the Donner Party, Mommy?

Me: (glaring at Dean) Well, it’s this group of pioneers that traveled across the Rockies and got caught in the mountains in the winter, and they had to….uh…..well, they got really hungry and there was nothing to eat, and -

Dean: THEY STARTED EATING EACH OTHER!!! HA HA HA HA!!!!

Emma: What? WHAT?

Me: He’s just kidding, honey.

Dean: PASS ME ANOTHER HUNK OF CO-PILOT!!!! HA HA HA!!!

Emma: Mom?

Me: I’m sorry, honey.

“TRAVESTY!” he roared with anguish. Actually, he just kind of moaned and groaned about it for an hour, but I like the more dramatic rendering, don’t you?

We came up with a couple ideas:

– Wear man capris. There really are such things, and amazingly enough, he already has a pair that he swore up and down were just “really long shorts” and I told him a billion times were MAN CAPRIS. The tide has turned now, my friend. The tide has turned.
– Wear a kilt. Shorts, no. Skirt with no underpants? YES. God, yes. And not just any kilt: The UtiliKilt. Watch and learn:

I’m guessing that Dean’s bosses are going to rue the day they denied him his God-given rights to wear shorts once they get a load of him in his manly kilt-wearing glory.

He likes to groom people. With his tongue. Specifically, he likes to groom Dean.

Actually, let me rephrase that. He MUST groom Dean. It’s usually at night; as soon as Dean sits down, George will run over there and get going on his head, licking and licking and licking. When we go to bed at night, George gets really agitated if Dean is not in bed ASAP, and will run back and forth on the bed until he gets in there. Once he’s lying down, George takes the opportunity to (you guessed it) groom the living daylights out of him.

We don’t know why George fixates on Dean for this, but we all know that it’s freaking hilarious. Observe, the cat in action!