I think my kids are trying to kill me.

_{*a excerpt from a letter to Jim from 1997}

I think my kids are trying to kill me.  I swear, there must be a plot.  They are punishing me for sneaking away to write you a letter when they both feel they should have my undivided 100% attention.  Both kids are home today from school.  They’ve come down with a nasty flu.  They’ve been home for three days.  They are throwing up, have fevers but being my kids that doesn’t mean they are lying groaning in their beds. They aren’t exhausted, I am.

You are just going to have to excuse the spelling and grammar in this letter.  I’ve had a total of six hours sleep in the last three days.  

Is it child abuse to want to offer Charles Manson the chance to babysit just so I can have five minutes in the shower?

Why is it the only thing siblings will happily share with each other are cold bugs and lice?  They didn’t get sick at the same time of course.  First Breyan got it and then he shared with his sister.  You can’t blame me for wondering if they have an “illness” baton and they are playing relay.

  Breyan woke me up a couple of nights ago with, “Mummy, I puked in my bed.  Can I have some more grape juice?” Caitlin came down with it yesterday.

The Mountain Man is useless when the kids get sick.  I’m not saying he doesn’t help I’m just saying I can’t ask him to clean anything up because he sees one kid barf and next thing I know---he’s on his knees right beside them. And Goddess Forbid they should bleed!!!  How is it a man that can hunt Bambi’s, try to pry the door off a burning truck with his bare hands to save someone in an accident and can bench press 375lbs will turn into a statue of a deer in the headlights when he sees a drop of the kids blood?  He’s tried to explain that it’s because it’s our blood but I just don’t get it.

So I’ve now got two kids parked in the living room in front of the Nintendo whatever and I’ve stolen away to the dining room for a cup of tea where I can hear them if they need me.  So why do I think they are trying to kill me?  Because these are some of the comments coming out of the living room;

Caitlin:  Bet you I can puke farther than you can.

Breyan:  No you can’t, put the bucket back there and I’ll prove it.

Caitlin:  You’re cheating.

Breyan:  I’m not, I’m just better than you.  Ow!!! What was that for?

Caitlin:  Now you’ll have to play with one hand.  That should even the odds.

Caitlin:  Why do I have a little bird and you have a big one?

Breyan:  (sigh) First of all Caitlin, they are not little birds.  They are Chocobo’s.  They grow through the game.

Caitlin:  They look like baby chickens.

Breyan:  No, baby chickens are fuzzy little yellow birds that grow up to be chicken nuggets.

Caitlin:  If you don’t stop cheating I’m gonna make sure you never hear from that girl you like again!

Breyan:  (sarcastically) You can’t stop my friends from talking to me Caitlin. 

Caitlin:  Yes I can!  When they call, I’ll just tell them you’re dead.

Breyan:  What colour’s your snot?

Man, my kids are weird!!  If I survive this I promise to write more.  As it is I may just need it for proof of sanity when the men with the little white jackets show up.

Kimberley