Happy 26th Birthday to me. What better gift to give oneself than the challenge to maintain yet one more thing? What a better gift to give oneself than keyboard servitude? What better gift than to allow completely anonymous online access to my muddled mind? A gift for me that happens to be a gift for you. You’re welcome.
DISCLAIMER:
All I can really say to any of you poor people that happen to know me is that I am sorry. I do NOT promise this will be interesting. I do NOT promise that I’ll update it frequently. And I most certainly do NOT promise that it will be filled of cutesy “buttons” and good ideas. I’m fresh out. I DO promise, however, to give it the ol’ college try. I DO promise that if this turns out to be as awful as the Twilight craze, I swear I will stop this blog, dead.
Good luck to all of you brave enough to try to read my random thoughts. You’ll need it.
Oh, and, P.S.: Don’t tag me. I just won’t do it. That, my friends, is where I draw the line.
I had a busy morning. After getting myself and two boys ready and out of the house by 9:00 am, I managed to get the boys to the sitter, go Visiting Teaching, pick up the boys, and make a real fun drive all the way to Summerlin. The goal? To spend 2 ½ minutes picking up a form from my OBGYN. At least that’s what I thought. I didn’t factor in the fear that gripped my son as we stepped onto the elevator.
It wasn’t that bad on the way UP. Oh, he let me know he didn’t like it, but we had a non-stop ride from floors G-6.
After waiting in line to attain the form that they didn’t have ready that they called Friday to tell me was finished, we left the office in the grand pursuit of lunch. Reaching the elevator, I asked Sloan to push the “down” button, thinking this would psyche him up for the ride down. Wrong. All I got was a surly, “No.”. Ethan was happy to oblige, and in seconds we were stepping onto Sloan’s deathtrap.
As the doors were closing, he freaked. Freaked in a way I never thought a two-year-old could. He bolted through the closing doors! I manage to get a hand out the doors before I leave him 6 floors up, and drag him back into the elevator. Commence crying… hysterically. For some reason, this freaked Ethan out. So what does HE do? Bolts out the closing doors.
“Get back in here!” I say, officially losing my cool, throwing my leg into the closing door.
“Why’d Sloan do it?”
“Why’d YOU do it?!”
Finally, with two kids on board, one thrashing in my arms, the elevator begins to descend. Oh, please, please, let it not…
“Fourth floor.” Not sure if the elevator announced it, or if it was the sarcastic Jerk that lives in my head and comes to play all too frequently.
Enter 3 unsuspecting elderly citizens. “What’s the matter, buddy?” says one well-meaning woman.
“Not a fan of the elevator, we’re finding out.”
“Third Floor.”
Enter 2 more unsuspecting elderly citizens. “Oh, poor little guy… it’s alright.”
Pretty soon, my hysterical son has his own geriatric cheering section to take him down the rest of the way: “We’re almost there!”
“Second Floor.”
“You can make it!”
“First Floor.”
“Almost there, little guy! Just one more floor!”
“Ground Floor.”
If he wasn’t crying so loud, I swear I could have heard angels singing as we stepped onto solid ground. It took at least 20 paces from the elevator before my son would let me put him down. I even think that one of the old men tried to high-five him for his bravery on our way down the hall. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers! I have a newfound respect for the youthfully challenged of Las Vegas. Thank you, I love you, whoever you are.
