I am so dumb.
So very very dumb.
Remember when I bought the kids musical instruments for Christmas? Belle got a guitar, Xander got an electric piano and Buddy got electric drums.
I had heard horror stories about such a parental folly, but I just KNEW I was different and it would be awesome to have kids with musical instruments.
I am not different.
I am SO not different.
You are probably thinking, "Kimber, it is March! It can't be that bad if you are just not realizing this!"
True. However, there is something wonderful that had happened that shielded me from the torture I have recently been suffering. The kids lost a drumstick the moment they woke up Christmas morning. This rendered all the instruments useless in their eyes and they have mostly ignored them this entire time.
Yesterday they found that drumstick.
No big deal, right? Buddy and Xander running around banging on stuff, typical boy loudness. Who cares? Not me.
But then, this morning happened. Sam woke me up as he was getting ready for his shift at work. Whimper. I hate waking up when he does because I rarely fall back asleep.
This time, I did. It was glorious. I was dreaming fabulous dreams. Musical, magical dreams.Joel McHale and I were dancing and singing together in an awesome band. I love Joel McHale.
I love him silly.
I love him serious.
I mostly love him as Rainbow Brite.
(In case you are wondering, Sam knows about Joel McHale and me. He's accepted it so we're good.)
But, I digress.
Anyhow, we were dancing around to this wacky beat. But it kept getting off. And louder. And I tried to tell the drummer that he was off but he just kept banging and "woo"ing away.
Gradually I woke up.
I thought I woke up.
But I couldn't be awake because of those stupid drums.
I laid in bad for several minutes trying to wake up.
It was awful. Not only was Joel McHale out of my subconcious, but I was somehow trapped in there.
Then I realized what was happening.
Buddy was upstairs, right above my head. He was banging everything he could find upstairs with those wretched drumsticks and shouting "woo" while he did it.
And I was pinned under a sleeping baby who I desperately wanted to sleep longer, yet who would surely wake if I moved AND if I didn't get Buddy to stop drumming.
That is a special kind of torture.
Somehow I wriggled out from under Ozzy. I tip toed out of my room, cartoon style, then I sprinted up the stairs where I found not only Buddy banging away, but Xander picking up a large rock and dropping it on the floor over and over again.
I stop and stare at them.
They stop and stare at me.
Time stood still.
Then I silently take the drumsticks and the rock and I put them in a far away place where humans will never again dare tread to get them back. At least for the morning.
You don't buy a 6 year old (or really any child, no, any human) a drum set if you want to sleep past 7am.
I understand that now.