(They're having so much fun.
This picture just makes America look good!)
The Zombie Artist left brownies everywhere except on the walls--shocker. Like a baby tornado, he threw them at his sister's mouth (and missed). He tried getting them on the ceiling fan so he could watch them spin. He used the chocolate as snowshoes. He even made brownie balls, because that kid loves eating balls.
Doctor Jones (my one-year-old girl) cried because she wanted some brownies too, but The Zombie Elf kept taking them from her and wreaking havoc. When I realized what went on, I screamed, "I'd rather deal with a vacuum salesman than clean brownies all day!"
I glared at my zombie. Steam poured from my ears, nose AND mouth (tell THAT to an E. N. T.). "No! No!" I said in slow motion. "We eat brownies. We do not throw them everywhere. We do not make messes. We do not chuck chocolate AT THE BABY!" I took a deep breath to avoid turning into the dark ruler of the universe. Then I pulled out all the stops, and I said the "s" word. "Do you want it? Little Zombie, do you want . . . a spankin'?"
The ground practically cracked. Thunder and lightning stirred in the front room. The air felt cold, ominous. That's when The Zombie's hand quivered and he gave me the last bit of brownie ammunition.
I felt like Hermes; I had wings! Victory was mine. The word "spankin'" is awesome because when I utter it, kids forget about everything else, including making messes.
"No spakin'," he said. Defeat dimmed his boyish eyes, and he rested on the couch.
As I cleaned, he fell asleep and I remembered that the only times he acts up so badly, is when he's sick. I shook my head. There was no way my zombie was sick. But when I covered him with a blanket, I realized he had a very high fever.
So after I cleaned up AN ENTIRE PAN of brownie-mess, I hauled my four children to the doctor.
Note: If you've read about my experiences with doctors, you know we don't do well together. Something bad always happens (like when I thought caffeine leads to bigger boobs AND breast cancer, or when I called one doctor a Sagget Lover). This time may have been worse though.
We got to the doctor's office. The only pediatrician available happened to be a young newbie. I have a hard time bringing my kids to him because he doesn't take me seriously AND he wants to gab forever. This visit was no exception.
"Go ahead and sit with your boy on the exam table." The paper lining crinkled as The Zombie sat next to me; poor little dude, he looked white at that point.
The doctor talked about everything as he examined my boy. "Have you always lived here? Do you enjoy having so many kids? What's your favorite hobby?" I just looked at him. I felt uncomfortable being there, let alone visiting with him. He is a nice guy (who would make a good James Bond), but my boy had turned to a hot coal in my lap. I didn't want to talk about hobbies and houses. I wanted to get an antibiotic and go.
"He has another ear infection. Fifth one this year," the doctor said. As the exam ended, The Zombie sunk from my lap and went to sit on a chair.
"Just sign these papers?" the doctor said. His back was to me when I scooted off the exam table. But something strange happened, The stupid paper lining, crinkled sticking to my butt. The doctor didn't turn as I pulled the paper from my jeans. My mouth fell open like the entrance to Hell. My hands shook. On the lining rested a BIG, FAT, SMASHED, brownie!
I was in the room with a Doctor--wannabe movie star--and I suddenly loathed him and brownies.
The Hippie and The Scribe (my older girls laughed.) I put my finger to my lips and shushed them.
"Your kids are so happy," the doctor said.
Ya think. Of course they were happy. Their "Clown Mother" looked like an idiot.
"Do you have any hobbies?" he asked them, his back still to me.
What's his obsession with hobbies!
I freaked out then. The brownie was right behind me. I didn't want the guy thinking I'd laid a gift right there in the office. I mean, it's not good to lay gifts like that anywhere, but in an office--that's just wrong.
He patted each of my girls on the head. "Your kids are hilarious, just like you," he said. The man was about to turn. I looked around like a double-jointed chicken. I really panicked then, and just as he was about to see me, I jumped back on the exam table--on the brownie of doom--put one foot up and rested my head on my knee. I was aiming for "nonchalant," when really my action screamed "GUILTY," or "brownie killer!"
"Wow," that flirty doctor said. "Adults don't usually like sitting on the exam table that much. Most people seem scared of it." He raised an accusatory eyebrow. "Maybe they relate it to bad childhood memories."
"Not me." I grinned, wishing he'd scamper from the room. Didn't he know I'd flattened a brownie? An elephant sat in that room--and it smelled of chocolate!
"I had a great childhood," I whispered.
The brownie seemed to become larger and larger--how much weight had I gained! I was a damsel in distress, like Rapunzel, The Little Mermaid, Frodo without Sam. Heck, I was The Princess and the Pea except it wasn't a pea, and it was staining my jeans!
"I have to say," Dr. Gabby said, "I love visiting with you, Elisa. It's kids like yours, people like you who make being a doctor, so much fun."
Really? People with brownies on their butts! Could he just leave the room.
"Oh," he said. "You forgot to sign the paper."
I wanted to die. I smiled, showing my teeth like a drunken clown. I blinked a couple times. Maybe if my inner beauty shone strong enough, he wouldn't notice the brown splotch on my second-hand jeans.
I almost cried. I hate brownies AND doctors. I should have known they were a bad combination. Nothing good ever comes from lab coats and chocolate! "Can I sign it after you leave?" I smiled again, a deer in the headlights.
"What? Ummm . . . I guess. Well, thanks for coming in."
I shook his hand, but stayed literally glued to the exam table as he left.
"Mom, you're acting really weird," The Scribe said. "Is it because of the brown thing?"
"Brown thing? BROWN THING! There's a brownie . . . on my butt!" I jumped off the table and showed them the brownie on the paper lining AND my pants. "You saw it earlier. I know you did. Why didn't you tell me before we came in here?"
The Hippie wrinkled her nose. "We didn't see it."
"Mom," The Scribe said. "We don't stare at your butt for a living. Moms' butts are gross!"
"Oh, really?" It stung. I know my butt isn't like it was before kids, but did they need to rub it in?
"And other butts are better?" I whimpered like they were my magic mirror. "Whose butt is better? Whose butt?"
The Scribe suddenly giggled. "Any butt is better than a poo butt."
They laughed more wildly after that, even the pale Zombie who needed meds.
I burst with laughter then. Maybe it was pretty funny. Plus, I got to feel like The Princess and the Pea. I've always wondered how it would feel to be a princess.
It wasn't so great--I'm just sayin'. Being royalty sucks.