If a picture is worth a thousand words...

How many of those words came out yelling?

Answer? A lot.

Today was a faow day [pronounced faux, as in fake snow day]. You know, the kind where they keep everyone home for no real reason at all? Normally I am a huge fan of these days, as it means sleeping in, lounging around in PJs, and hanging with cheerful and happy kids all day.

Today it started at six a.m. when the phone rang with the [then] joyous news. I was the only one who went back to sleep.

I was startled awake by the first fight of the morning a mere hour later.

I fed them, showered, and was getting ready when I was interrupted by the second and third fights of the morning.

Apparently, brother one had been throwing ice balls at the sister, resulting in tears, heartache, and tattling galore. Brother two staunchly defended his own innocence. (Though me thinkest thou protesteth a bit too loudly...)

I came downstairs to find three doors flung wide open to the frigid cold outside, soggy piles of melted snow at every turn, and a lonely trail of discarded snow gear leading the way to a large mess in the kitchen.

All before ten-freaking-thirty in the morning.

Lord, I love them something fierce, but sometimes they make it really, really hard to do so.

"I'm just walking like it's a park, without a shirt on"

Yesterday afternoon I was folding the laundry. Movement out in the backyard caught my eye, and I looked up in horror at the sight.

My second born son was roaming the backyard in nothing but a pair of shorts and sneakers. Keep in mind that it was LITERALLY FOUR DEGREES OUTSIDE.

That's right, I said four. Not fourteen. Not forty. FOUR FREAKING DEGREES.

He had the Flipshare video camera in his hand, and was talking to it, filming himself as he went.

I knew immediately what he was doing.

He was living out his own version of Survivorman. My boys are both big fans of the show and have watched and re-watched every episode at least a dozen times. Were I to give the approval, they would immediately be off the grid, living off the land -- no food, no shelter (and no fun, if you ask me).

It boggles the mind. Truly.

Here is our very own Survivorman, Chase. Best part about the video is around 0:59 when he says, "Well, I think I'm going back in. Not because I'm cold, but because I think I might be getting yelled at. Better get it over with."

How well this child knows his mother.

Stay home and eat all the flippin' chips, Kip!

Last week, McKay got his braces on.

In case you lost count, that makes TWO children in orthodontia. (Ah, money. How I miss you. We used to have such good times at the mall.)

But I find that braces totally suit my boys' smiles. Gives their crazy teeth a purpose. Makes their smiles seem much more full of promise, instead of just snaggily and crooked in those mouths of theirs.

Lately, though, every time I turn around, I get what we have dubbed, The Kip Face.

For those of you not versed in Napoleon Dynamite speak, I am referring to the scene where Kip and Lafawnduh share a milkshake across the table and he looks up at her through his eye brows while raising them up and down, and smiling like a hyena.

It's oh so suggestive and alluring.

[Turn your sound off though for this clip. The music makes you want to kill yourself. And you really only need watch the first two seconds to get the gist of what I'm talking about)

Meet Kip. And Kip.

Brothers bonded forever by their love of stupid movies, braces, and their need to make their mother crazy.

Seriously, though. How cute is this boy? It's a good thing I like him so much.

We better have the cleanest teeth known to man or so help me...

Now that school is in full swing, I have been trying to get my routine put together. I forget with the chaos of summer how much I love a rigid schedule.

Like, laundry on Mondays and Thursdays. Bathrooms on Tuesdays and Fridays. Random closet organizing on Wednesdays.

It's pure OCD bliss, I tell you.

[And yes. I realize I'm totally weird. And, no, I do not care.]

This morning I decided to tackle the top level of our house. I started in my own closet, worked my way to the Husband's, and ended with both bathrooms.

There was dust, 409, and magic erasers flying everywhere.

So when I got to the kids' bathroom, I was prepared for the usual globs of toothpaste dribbled down the cupboard. I expected to find at least eight empty shampoo bottles lining their bathtub. [Which, naturally, I did.]

But what I was not prepared for?

The secret stash of old toothbrushes that someone has been collecting in the bottom drawer of the kids' bathroom.

It was like the serial killer trophy case for toothbrushes.

Remember that scene in the movie The Ghost and the Darkness when they find the lions' den and there are just piles and piles of bones?

It was like that. Only with toothbrushes.

I counted them (whilst wearing rubber gloves and tossing them into the trash) and there were 23.

Yes. TWENTY-THREE.

I am pretty sure that is like every toothbrush they've ever owned in their lives.

The question I have is why. Why?

I sort of get the rock/stuffed animal/coins/paper airplane collections. But old toothbrushes?

They have to get this from their father.

Red one! Blue one! Green one! Black one! (and that's just my right arm)

I remember the first time I saw this commercial. I really liked it then and mentally praised the brilliant ad agency who came up with such a gem. I may have even laughed out loud (though I am sure I did not LOL. I never LOL).

But that was before.

Before my life became this commercial. Before my arms sported permanent bruises in the shape of my children's fists. Before I could ride in the car and not panic with fear every time a car drove by.

For, you see, my kids take everything to the next level. Not only do they punch for VWs, but they invented the notorious "BM-Punch-You." And, "Hit You Honda." Then they even made up "Jeep Weep," named aptly for the crying you inevitably do after you are punched.

This pretty much means that I am getting slugged in the biceps every time a car passes us.

You know, like every 1.2 seconds or so.

And if you think for one minute that those punches don't hurt, then you've never been on the receiving end of Hannah's little fists of fury. Girlfriend packs herself some power in those scrawny little arms.

I am sore, and I am so over it.

So much so that I am selling my car and will now be calling my friends for rides. Plus, I'm drafting a court order for the neighbors across the street that will prohibit them from ever again opening their garage door.

You know, the garage that houses their GREEN ONE!

Stupid, clever ad agency. I'm not laughing now.

Callling all evil geniuses

Let's just say you happened to get together with some friends last night, had a spectacular time, and ended up staying out until the wee hour of two in the a.m.

And let's just say that at the unholy, dark, evil hour of four-thirty in the a.m., an alarm starts ringing somewhere in your room. It is not your regular alarm clock, and you scramble about trying to find it. After much blind rooting, knee bumping, and swear-word-uttering, you find the source of the awful ringing.

In a pillow. Stuffed under your bed.

You scratch your head, puzzled, wondering how or why it got there. But the comfort of your bed pulls you in as you drift back to sleep, even overriding your slight annoyance at the Husband for sleeping blissfully through it all.

Unfortunately, your regular alarm clock goes off at the usual unholy, dark, evil hour of six in the a.m. You painfully pull yourself to an upright position and wonder if you can bribe the hospital to hook you up with some diet coke intravenously. You stumble in a daze to the bathroom, splash some cold water on your face, and discover that all of your bathroom towels are missing.

And, just when you thought it couldn't get any stranger, you hear your cell phone ringing. You get that heart-stopping feeling of, "Holy frick, something's wrong!" grab your glasses, and put them on your wet face as you fly down the stairs. On the way there, you trip over some toys that you could swear were not there last night. You get to your cell phone, buried in the very bottom of your purse, just as the caller hangs up.

Scratching your head, you wonder what cruel joke the universe has decided to play on you until you walk into the kitchen and see your oldest son, falling on the floor in a fit of giggles. His face is red, he can barely sit up straight, and he utters the words, "APRIL FOOLS!"

Now.

While I love my firstborn more than my own life, at that moment, I seriously considered sending him back to meet his maker. I wondered briefly if they'd let me take a nap in jail.

But instead, I smiled, and told him that he won't know where, he won't know when, but someday I'd be coming for him.

So what I require here is your help, internets. I need your best tricks. I need your evil genius. I need something that he will never expect. Something that will make him think twice before placing that alarm clock beneath my bed next year or stealing my bath towels.

Please help me in my sweet, sweet revenge, won't you?

This troll must be stopped in his happy little tracks.