Chloe Gump's Pet Company

For T’s 6th birthday she got a fish tank and a few fish since she had been begging for months for a pet of her own. After a few weeks we decided to upgrade to a larger tank so we could get more critters and Chloe was able to get a pet of her very own too. We went to the pet store and Chloe got a shrimp. Yes, a pet shrimp; not the yummy kind you dip in drawn butter but a see-through tiny creature with beady eyes. Chloe was thrilled and gave him a really unique name – Shrimpy.

Every morning the girls would rush to the fish tank to feed them and to look for Shrimpy. He (I am assuming it is a he, I don’t know how to tell the gender of a shrimp) liked to hide in the pink princess castle in the tank. Since he was transparent all you could really find were his creepy little eyes or his antenna-thingies; I am pretty sure that is the scientific name for them. At the pet store he was pretty cool, swimming around all over the place, but in our tank he was ridiculously boring and almost never moved into the open.

One morning my husband was looking at the tank with the girls and there, floating in the tank, was what appeared to be Shrimpy. It was his husk floating in the tank and Hubs showed it to the girls. T thought it was cool but Chloe started to scream and cry as typical and ran away to wallow in agony. He explained it was just Shrimpy’s old shell and that it meant he was growing which is a good thing. He then pointed out the actual Shrimpy cowering in a corner just like always which pacified the beast, I mean Chloe.

Later that day they told me about the incident and Hubs let me know Chloe was crying over the shrimp. These shrimp are literally $0.50 at the pet store so I declared when he actually does die I am going to buy a new one and no one will know the difference to save myself the drama. Hubs disagreed and made the point that we don’t need to lie to the girls, that we will tell them the truth like we did when Mr. D (my cat) died. Seeing as how they still cry over that cat and we let them eat breakfast with his ashes I am not sure that is the best approach but I agreed (see “Nothing a dead can’t fix” for the details on that one).

Last weekend it was time to clean the tank, the filter was nasty and there was a ton of stuff floating around the bottom of the tank. The girls were really excited to help me and caught the fish and snail and put them in the holding tank. T was worried about Shrimpy and I told her not to worry, he was most likely in the princess castle like he had been the last 2 weeks. He doesn’t move much so I wasn’t concerned.

When I picked the castle up no shrimp came scurrying out. He wasn’t in the rock or around the plant. Crap, where is he? I pulled the filter out; nope, not stuck to it or inside.

The girls started to cry.

“Don’t worry, I am sure he is in here. He is see-through, he probably is just among the fuzzy stuff on the rocks.”

He wasn’t. Super crap. That damn shrimp was nowhere to be found. Not an antenna, a husk, nothing. The girls REALLY started to cry.

“Momma!!! He’s dead! You killed Shrimpy!!!” yep, blame me. It’s always the mothers fault.

“Maybe Shrimpy is tricking us and wanted to go down the drain because he wanted to go to the ocean” Ah-ha! This will make them happy, they’ve watched Finding Nemo a hundred times and love when the fish escape!

“NOOOOOOOO!! HE’S A FRESHWATER SHRIMP!! THE OCEAN WILL KILL HIM!!!”

Damn-it! These kids are too smart.

I couldn’t pull anything else out of my rear. I admitted I thought he was dead.

Oh the wails! Tears, sobs, snot, and misery all erupted out of them like lava from a volcano. They were howling and hugging each other and declaring how much they were going to miss their favorite pet shrimp.

“T, didn’t you just tell me a few days ago that he was boring and you wanted to return him to the pet store?”

That was adding salt to the wound.

“BUT *sob* I LOVED *hiccup* HIM!” snot, tears, more snot (kids are gross).

I had to leave the room, I didn’t want them to see how much their pain was entertaining me. I went in the living room and heard them start to sing songs about how much they loved Shrimpy – “I am going to miss Shwimpy, he was the best pet evew!” this continued for quite a while.

They went over to the craft table, still singing, pulled out the crayons and paper and drew several pictures of shrimpy, some with hearts all over the paper. T came up to me with her picture, tears glistening in her eyes, Chloe beside her with tear stained cheeks.

“Momma, can we put Shrimpy in a can like Mr. D?”

“No honey. We have to have a body to be able do that. Shrimpy is gone. But we can keep this picture to remember him”

Sniffle. “OK. Can we go to the pet store? I want to tell them he died, and maybe we can get a new fish?”

Rest in Peace, Shrimpy, you won't be forgotten. Just kidding, it had been a whole 15 minutes - time to fill the vacancy in the aquarium. 

My hubs made a good point about that shrimp after he read this post - The only thing exciting that shrimp ever did was die, twice.

Going out in College vs Going out Today

A few months back my friends and I got a rare treat, a girl’s night out. It was a lot of fun but it struck me how different a night out is now compared to many many (many) years ago when I was young, single, and my body wasn’t wrecked from babies, age, and way too many M&M's.

In my single days:

Work till 11 pm, go home smelling like fried chicken and sweat after working a 9 hour shift at a restaurant in town. I need to hop in the shower but there is only one bathroom at the house I share with 2 other roommates. No big deal; there is a shower curtain there for a reason, right? As I shower my roommate comes in to pee.

“Hey” I call out, “Bring me a beer, I need to catch up!” They started at Happy Hour so I needed to start chugging if I wanted to achieve their level of drunk-ness.

I drink a beer while finishing up my shower. I shave my legs, (who knows what will happen tonight, I might get lucky) wash my hair and dry off quickly. At this point in time there are random people in my home. No big deal, I wrap up in a towel, walk through the kitchen and head to my room to get dressed.

I put on a slinky, sexy outfit (i.e. 2 sizes too small and my muffin top is popping out), blow dry my hair, use a putty knife to slather on my makeup and slip on the highest heels I can stand (which only make me 5’3” as I am ridiculously short). During this time I drink another beer. Crap! Am I missing a game of Never Have I Ever? I need to hurry up!

I am finished getting ready, I grab another beer and head to where everyone is. The music is loud, people are laughing, dancing, drinking. It is midnight, still too early to go out; it doesn’t get busy till 12:30 – 1 am, no point in heading out yet. Yuck, this canned beer is hot, better chug it and grab another.

Finally, 5 beers and 2 shots later, it is time to go out. I get to the bar/club with my friends and drunkenly attempt to not have to pay the cover charge. After paying to get in we dance, yell over the ridiculously loud music, and drink until last call. Then I head home (plus or minus a few people).

The next morning we lay around, hung over, and decide who is going to go get biscuits from Hardee’s. We clean up the mess from the night before, collecting beer cans, solo cups, and cigarette butts, the smell is awful, I dry heave a little. After that I take a nap, I have to be at work at 4 pm so I need to get some sleep, it is Saturday and there is a great band playing at the bar tonight.

You know, hair of the dog and all.

Going Out Now

After a week of reminding my husband that I have plans to go out I am SO ready for some crazy fun!

Seriously? He forgot?!? Ugh, ok, we will go at 7 when he gets home from work instead of 6 like originally planned.

Sweet! My friend is here in her boss Mini-van to pick me up, I don’t have to worry about drinking and driving – whoop whoop, I can have 2 glasses of wine tonight! We head to over pick up our other friend who is eagerly awaiting our arrival in her driveway, giant purse in hand; I hop in the back after moving aside her son’s soccer gear and toys. This is going to be EPIC!

We go to the nail salon and get pedicures. After consulting with each other we get wild and splurge for a design on our big toe – with crystals on mine, I feel special. Gotta take a picture to capture this! Now what? Time to go get dinner; it is still early-ish at only 8 pm. Maybe we’ll go see a movie after.

We pile up into the mini-van and head to a restaurant/bar. We all want to sit in non-smoking away from the bar; it stinks and is too loud. No one is in the mood to have to yell to be heard. Man, it is dark in here; can they not afford decent lighting?

I order a glass of wine and sip on it before I get my entrée, as do my friends. We talk and giggle about work, kids, men, whatever comes up. I bring up how Mini-van friend had to do the stop and squeeze earlier that day because she began to laugh and nearly peed herself. Our other friend calls out “I pee myself all the time!” and whips out a bag which contains a pair of spare panties. She slaps the panties on the table and lets us know that anytime she laughs, sneezes, coughs, she pees herself and has taken to always having a spare pair of underwear with her. Her husband even asks her anytime she laughs if she peed herself and typically the answer is yes. Having babies will wreck your bladder control, along with other things.

Man can I relate to that. Good to know I am not the only one. I am so going to have to get a cute bag to put some spare panties in; that is a genius idea.

I yawn. It is 9:30, getting kind of late. At this point we have all agreed that we will have to go to the movies another time; my friends don’t want to have to pay their babysitters more than they have to, it is nearly Christmas and Black Friday is 2 days away. The babysitter for one of my friends is on her way to the restaurant and drops off her son since the sitter has a date tonight, it is still early for her so she has plenty of time to go home and get ready.

I am home by 10. Good grief I am exhausted, I wouldn’t have stayed awake for a movie anyway. Yay! Hubby got the girls to bed so I don’t have to do that I can put on my pj’s or any pants without a zipper and crawl into bed.

Hubby gives me “the look”; he is hoping to get lucky. No thanks, I didn’t shave my legs, I have my jammies on and I am really tired, maybe tomorrow?

The next morning I wake up at 6, quickly get dressed and head out the door. The minivan pulls up and we head over to grab our friend from last night, there is a big sale at K-Mart and we need to get there early to take advantage of the deals.

My head hurts; I think I have a hangover from that second glass of wine. I need a cup of coffee and an Advil. Won't be doing that again for a while.

I think this quote pretty much sums it up:

“I used to carry a pair of spare panties with me in case I got lucky, now I carry them with me in case I sneeze” - A wise woman who obviously had a kid

This is nothing that a dead cat can't fix

This morning Chloe woke up happy as could be, she ran into the living room, said Good Morning, gave me a hug and requested chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. No problem, I can do that, we survived to Friday (who would've guessed?)! As I began to make them she asked me for Daddy’s iPad since she saw T was playing mine. I went to go get it and *gasp* Daddy was using it.

Oh the humanity!!! Chloe was beyond mad, she wanted that iPad and she wanted it RIGHT NOW! I know because she screamed it over and over. Then she switched to yelling “I JUST CAN”T HELP IT!”, what she couldn’t help I am not quite sure, but it was obviously outside her control.

After about 5 minutes of flopping and screaming in the hall she realized that her efforts were not working so she came into the dining room to ensure I could hear her howls of discontent.

“I HATE HOUSES! THEY ARE STUPID AND THEY ARE UG-A-LY! I NEVER EVER WANT TO LIVE IN A HOUSE AGAIN!!!”

Seriously? I mean I knew today was dress-as-what-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up day at school so apparently I am sending her as a hobo?

“Chloe, what do you want if you don’t like houses?”

“I WANT TO LIVE OUTSIDE! HOUSES ARE STUPID!”

“Then go outside. I’ll bring your breakfast to you”

“NOOOOOOOO!!! IT IS COLD!!!”

She ran off into her bedroom, throwing the pillows and blankets off her bed all the while screaming how much she hated pillows, how stupid blankets are, how socks are the bane her existence, etc. After about 10 minutes of that I decided enough was enough and she needed to eat breakfast which I am sure was stupid and ug-a-ly by that point.

When I tried to open her door she was flopped against it so I had to tell her to move so I can open the door. She huffed and puffed and ran into the closet and yelled at me “GET OUT!!! YOU ARE MEAN!”

I did not get out. I sat in there and finally managed to calm her down, attempting to explain that she can’t take the iPad from someone if they are using it. She continued to sob, sniffle and whine but the screaming had ceased (I think only because her throat was parched from screeching for 20 minutes straight).

I set her at the kitchen table with her pancakes and juice and she took a bite and within seconds burst into tears.

“Chloe, what is wrong now?”

“I miss Mr. D!!”

You have got to be kidding me, Mr. D is my cat that died 18 months ago. She is only 3, that is literally half her lifetime. When he died my husband had him cremated since I didn’t want to bury him so I keep him in my room in his little kitty urn.

“I can bring him in here, he’s in my room” I said, only half joking.

She turned to me, tears streaming down her cheeks and nodded “Ok”

I set his urn on the table and Chloe continued to cry. T, being the good big sister said “Cwo-e, it’s OK, take a deep bweafases and cawm down. He is still here in our hawts.”   

So my daughters ate their breakfast with a cremated cat on the table. Hey, I'll do whatever it takes to make it through the day, it was only 7 am and I had a long way to go.

Learn from Me; Leave Your Kids at Home When it's Time to Shop

All my friends and family have always thought that Chloe was the "sweetest little thing". While she was a fatty-boo-batty at birth (8 lbs 1oz - I am 4'11", I wheezed while talking since she was in my ribs) once she left the sanctity of my womb she slowed her roll and has remained a pip squeak ever since. But her big personality makes up for her tiny stature and she always makes sure her voice is heard. Due to her undeniable cuteness and the dimple that allows her to get away with murder most do not believe me when I say this child has a horrible temper.

When Chloe was a few months old I must have forgotten to take my meds because I made the irrational decision to take both girls grocery shopping. My husband was at home and offered to keep both of them but I insisted "It will be fine. I worked all week and want to spend as much time with them as possible". So I went on my way, strapped Chloe into the Baby Bjorn and put T in the front of the cart and set to it.

Everything was fine and dandy until I was nearly finished. Chloe was tired of being in the baby-straight jacket and was getting hungry. The bad thing about breast feeding is you can't just shove a bottle into their mouths and keep browsing through the yogurt selection. Knowing I was almost done I just kept on and popped a paci in her mouth. This soothed her for about 15 seconds before round 2 started.

Once again I put the paci in her mouth and scurried to the checkout line. Every friggin' lane had a line so I jumped around and bounced like a junkie going through detox in the hopes of soothing her.

What a futile effort. She had had enough, she began to scream and cry, kicking her little feet to the point where her shoes came off and pounding me with her chubby fists. Every time I would put her paci back in her mouth she would spit it out in rage. How DARE I try to quiet her. It was so bad that people from other lines were walking over to see if they needed to call DSS on me because surely I was ripping her arm out of socket. It was finally my turn to check out and I threw everything on the belt as quickly as possible not even caring that put the milk on top of the bread all the while apologizing for the baby Hulk strapped to my chest. I threw my debit card at the cashier to pay and hauled ass out of there, keeping my head down hoping no one would recognize me.

I had learned my lesson and the next week I left the kids at home with the hubs to go to the store. It was so nice, like a mini vacation where I could look at labels and not worry if anyone was raking boxes of crap into my cart when I turned around or asking every 5 seconds for something. I was quite pleased with myself, I was able to get everything I needed and even make sure to check prices in about 30 minutes, something that would take half a day with the kids. I was planning to treat myself to a latte after that!

As I was sorting all my items onto the belt like a normal person(cold with cold, boxes with boxes, etc) the cashier had a smirk on her face.

"I remember you" she said

"You do? Um, OK" - Weirdo.

"You're baby was pitching a fit! I had never seen a baby act like that before, good gracious she was screamin' and hollerin'!!" *guffaw,chortle,laugh*

"Yep, thanks for reminding me. It wasn't bad enough when it happened so I appreciate you bringing it up today" *eye roll*

I am just glad that now we have a new grocery store I can shop at so the next time I am horribly embarrassed by my kids (and it will happen) I can switch to another one till they forget about the incident. Chloe continues to snow some but her jig is up at the grocery store.

Say "Yes" to the mess

My house is an absolute disaster. With a full time job, 2 kids, and pets there is not a chance of ever having a single nice, orderly square foot in my home. I knew that it had gotten really bad when the last time I was cleaning the kids had asked me who was coming over.

I realize that I am not the only one who fights the non-stop chaos and doesn’t win. We all complain about laundry and dishes while the hubby sits on the couch watching football wondering why you keep giving him the evil eye as you go in and out of the living room putting up clothes and straightening the clutter; just to have your kids dump out a pile of Legos or *shudder* get out the play-doh.

I try. I really do, but I think I suffer from cleaning ADHD - that's a known medical condition, right? Maybe just ADD now that I think about it, I am too lazy to be considered hyper. I will start cleaning the kitchen and do the dishes, sweep the floor and then while putting the toys back that were on the counter I get distracted by the barbie bin that has been dumped out. While picking the naked barbies (why are they ALWAYS naked?) I will find a random sock so I will put it in the hamper, then I realize I need to do laundry. I will put a load of clothes in the washing machine and will see a pair of shoes in the laundry room. I will put them in my closet which I notice really needs straightened, and so on. I end up spending 5 hours "cleaning" and the house is still a catastrophe.

Sadly I have reached a point in my life where I just don’t give a damn if you come and see my home the way we live in it. If you judge my home then quite honestly I don’t want you in it. A good friend of mine feels the same way and not only do we not do the scurry-and-clean before having one another over, we tell each other our dirty (literally) secrets.

Before her son’s birthday party she resorted to placing dirty dishes in a bag and hid them in the laundry basket, this was after tossing the dirty laundry that was in the basket into the washing machine crossing her fingers it wasn’t already filled with wet clothes molding and waiting to go into the full dryer. She, like me, will grab all the crap off her counters and toss it into whatever drawer/cabinet/purse that isn’t already crammed to the brim with junk. I have been known to toss the towering pile of mail that lives happily on my counter top into a closet (only to forget and then later realize I never paid the cable/water/electric bill – oopsie).

My mom and my sisters are probably horrified when they walk into my home. They are the kind that no matter how clean their home is they apologize for the mess. I am not sure if they actually think it is dirty or if that is their passive-aggressive way to make me feel inferior about my lackluster housekeeping skills. I am not at all worried about that one lonely spec of dirt on your floor or the coffee mug that you haven’t yet washed, thank you very much.

My friend battles the same thing with her family. Whenever her mom is coming to visit she gets out the mop (that her mother gave her as a Christmas present – hint hint) and dusts for the first time since the last visit. The pressure to clean her home before her mom visits must be pretty bad (or they haven’t yet reached the “I give up” phase like I have). Her sister recently had the flu and got so sick that she hit her head and passed out. Her husband rushed her to the ER and got their Mom to come watch the kids. When she came to her first concern was not that she was so sick that she gave herself a concussion while throwing up and passed out.  Instead she was upset that her Mother was in her home without her having the opportunity to be able to do the "cram-clean".

Don’t get me wrong, I wish I were more organized and a little more anal about vacuuming and dusting. I realize it isn’t October anymore and I should really get rid of my cobwebs that helped to create a spooky ambiance (worked at the time). It would be great to be able to not lose my car keys 3 days a week or to be able to sort clothes in the laundry room without first having to move a hundred things.

I really need to suck it up and hire someone to come in to keep the house presentable. Problem is I would have to straighten it up first and lets face it, probably isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

So tell me, what are your dirty little secrets?

Why you shouldn't let your kindergartener watch Shark Week

I took my girls swimming at the local Y this Saturday in an effort to get some of their energy out and for me to burn a calorie or two. My oldest is a little fish and my youngest, well she loves her water wings.

We got there and thankfully the water was not too cold. I personally hate cold water and my kids have -2% body fat so they turn purple and shake within 5 minutes of being in 85 degree water. I, on the other hand, am insulated like a walrus so I never turn purple, instead I just bitch the entire time that my blubber is cold. Of course the girls would rather go into hyperthermic sleep before admitting they are cold and they want to get out.

The girls always want to play a game. Usually at the pool it is mermaids which I don't mind. Naturally they are sisters in the game and their mom is dead. I am assuming that is due to every damn Disney movie having the mom be dead, normally that wouldn't bother me but since that whole pesky cancer diagnosis I am not a big fan of the kids pretending their mother is deceased. Anyway, I have to play the evil aunt/human/squid or whatever they decide. They also never let me say what I want, I have to follow their script or else I am yelled at for ruining the game. I typically oblige unless I just am in the mood to pester them which happens about 20% of the time. They are so cute when they are angry.

T, like every other little girl, likes mermaids but more than that she loves sharks. We still have to watch Shark Week shows that are recorded on the DVR (shark week has long been over). She even recently participated in a pageant where they asked her on stage what her favorite movie was. In a strangely low voice I have never heard before she said "Shawk Week". I'm telling you, this kid is super cool for a 6 year old girl.

Alright, alright, simmer down folks, I am not a Mama June wanna-be with a little Honey boo-boo, although my second chin is starting to fill in nicely. She wasn't dressed like a 14 year old prostitute, I don't do glitz and glam - and she didn't win, the 8 year old that looked 22 won. Not a glitz and glam pageant my ass.

T's favorite shark is a hammerhead and one of the shark week shows we watch is "Monster Hammerheads" which is about a huge hammerhead shark that has been spotted in the Atlantic Ocean and was named "Old Hitler". Mid-way through our time in the pool, right when other people started coming in to swim, T decides it is time to start playing "Shawk Week".

So as the other swimmers are approaching where we are T places her hands on her head to make a fin and yells out (apparently her ears are full of water) "Mom, watch out!! Here comes Old Hitler!" to which Chloe replies in her equally loud voice that echoes "No! Mommy don't hurt him, I love Hitler".

I could practically hear the snapping and feel the breeze from the others in the pool whipping their heads in my direction to see what kind of mother would let their kids play Hitler in the pool. I tried to redeem myself somehow before the pitchforks and torches came out so I replied in an unnaturally loud voice "Girls, didn't that SHARK you saw on SHARK WEEK have another name?"

"No Mommy, his name was Old Hitler! Stay still, he is going to come kill you."

We won't be visiting the pool at the Y for a while, I feel for our safety we may need to lie low. The girls will have to make do playing sharks in the bath for a few months.

WTF is wrong with that Chicken?

I hate winter. Combine the too cold temps to go outside with cold and flu season and you have the perfect recipe for really bored kids. Lately we have been watching way too much television and playing the iPad to the point where my 6 year old can not only work the remote for both normal tv and the dvr but I think she has figured out the sound system too. Did I mention that she asked me for her own Facebook page?

We had a large-ish box sitting waiting to be thrown out with the trash this week so yesterday morning I pulled it out and cut a window in it. Chloe climbed in it and pretended she was on TV and T and I had to sit and watch her. That was the sign that I needed to get them out of the house when even their games were TV related. That and the fact that the girls were about to come to blows over who was going to play in the box.

I packed the girls up, stuck them in the car and skidded out of the driveway to go to my parent’s house. I left the hubs at home so he could continue to laze around without the disturbance of the girls having a cat fight every 30 seconds. I didn’t bother to ask him to do anything since he had a sore throat and the idea of doing the dishes or vaccuming may bring on a hospital stay and I had not yet hit my deductable.

Last year my father finally got something that he has been wanting for quite a while – chickens. Personally they scare the crap out of me. I don’t know if it is the constant pecking, the flapping of wings, or the dead zombie look in their beady little eyes but they straight up give me the heebie jeebies.

My girls, on the other hand, LOVE the chickens, so much so that they each got to name one and tell their friends that they have pet chickens. My neices also were able to name some chickens so they all had cutesy names like Shiney and Pecky. So when we got to Mom and Dad’s they immediately had to run over to see them, chocolate stained princess dresses on and all. My sister was there too and as we were looking at the chickens and feeding them she asked my mom where One-eyed Jackie was.

Who the hell is that?

My sister and mother proceeded to tell me (in front of the kids of course) the horrendous story of how one of the hens was attacked, presumably by a chicken hawk, and was found lying on its back, feet sticking straight up in the air. Of course at this time even if a cotton candy truck pulled up filled with kittens my girls could not be dragged away from hearing the details.

Once she found the chicken feet-up she left it there and got my dad telling him one of the chickens was dead. Dad went out there and the chicken was still lying there but was softly clucking for help, apparently Mom didn't get close enough to it to check it's pulse. They put the chicken in the barn and decided to wait a day to see if they needed to “take care of it” or if it would survive.

The next day the hen was still breathing and Mom noticed her eye was gross looking. Her Kansas
farm-girl background kicked in and she proceeded to clean the eye out with God knows what. Every day, a few times a day, she would go out there and gently clean the eye and squeeze a little around it to get the puss out (barf). A few days in while doing this the freaking eyeball fell out and was just dangling there.

Me- I would’ve probably screamed, passed out, thrown up, or got out the box of Shake n' Bake. Not my mom. Instead she PLUCKED THE EYE OUT.

Naturally T wanted to get a closer look at the pirate chicken so my sister took her in to the coop where that hen was. T comes out a few minutes later looking a little sad and says to me “Aunt Lisa said that it was my chicken that got attacked" I shot my sister and dirty look and asked how they knew it was her chicken.
"Aunt Lisa said they all had name tags on their feet and her's said 'Shiney'”. Thanks a lot, sis. T got over it quickly and was actually pretty excited about her chicken being the one that needs an eye patch.

This morning on the way to school there were some buzzards flying over the field near our house. Chloe looked up and said “Momma, there are some chicken hawks, you need to call Grampa to come and shoot them before they attack your eyeballs”.

Great, now my girls will be wanting to wear safety glasses to go outside.