So, we had quite the night with Thing 2 last night, because Thing 2 has a horrible INABILITY (exactly like a handicap), where he cannot burp like a 5th grade boy. Or even like a seven-week-old boy, which is what he actually is today. Seven weeks. My, how the time flies. But for some reason, Thing 2 gets a belch the size of Texas lodged somewhere between his belly and his chin, and it gurgles and bubbles and sounds like a boiling cauldron that Harry Potter is stirring, but it plum won’t come out. And I don’t know about you, but trying to sleep when your belly is manufacturing a disappearing potion is rather difficult, so he simply STAYS AWAKE.
And we pat his back, and we beat his back, and we bounce him on our shoulders, and we bounce him on our knees, and then… usually… about ninety minutes later, Thing 2 unleashes a burp from the bowels of the universe that will make your hair blow backwards in the fallout and wonder if the Apocalypse has begun.
So today I was loving the coffee, and I could hardly WAIT to get a cup out of the Keurig and filled with ALL THE SUGAR and EVEN MORE HALF AND HALF early this morning, and I announced that coffee is what sustains me on a day like this.
Except Hubs has pointed out that I drink the decaff, so really? The sustaining is all a figment of my imagination. I told him that I can’t handle the full-o’-the-lead variety of coffee from the mountains of Colombia because it makes my heart race. And Hubs looked at me and said, “And THAT is why people drink it.”
Really? Coffee lovers, do y’all enjoy a good heart race?
I’m playing my Pass Card on that one. When my heart races from a caffeination overload, I usually tend to talk twice as fast and scurry around my house like a hamster in a wheel, going nowhere. Besides, the decaff does for me what eight shots of untamed espresso does for Hubs.
Well, I just want y’all to know that I am still slapping the reigns of the LET’S TRY COOKING AT HOME ON A REGULAR BASIS wagon these days. I’m sure everyone imagined that I drove the wagon over a steep incline weeks ago and rolled it, good and proper, to the bottom of the canyon, where I found myself covered in dust and grime and grit and Jimmy John’s sandwich wrappers. All I have to say to that is O YE, OF LITTLE FAITH. I can’t say that I have developed a love for all the cooking I have been doing. I won’t say that at all. I still see it as a wicked chore that does nothing but dirty up my kitchen, but I have persevered.
And last night I roasted enormous Brussels sprouts, which I have never, ever done before, because I just decided that I actually even LIKED Brussels sprouts last July, and the only kind I have purchased since then have been the kind that the Jolly Green Giant picks and prepares for me and then freezes in a bag, which I can find in the frozen section of my local supermarket. But last night, I roasted them in a pan, with olive oil and salt and other spices that made me ask, “Really? Do we actually need THIS MANY SPICES to make this taste good?” Because apparently my ADD was kicking in with all the measuring, and not even a good cup of decaff will help with my attention-deficit when it has settled in whilst I am cooking.
And then the boy came in from running wild in the great out of doors (because it was Sunday, and because Hubs and I firmly said THERE WILL BE NO VIDEO GAMES TODAY, on account of the ten hours’ worth of rainy-day gaming that happened in our family room on Saturday with the neighbor boy), and he asked, “What smells so delicious?” And that, people, was my cue to say, with some satisfaction because I KNEW that the boy would wrinkle his nose in disgust, “It’s Brussels sprouts, Son. Do you want some on your plate tonight?”
I may or may not have even grinned like the stepmother in Cinderella, because I was delighted to assure him that good smells COME FROM COOKED VEGETABLES, regardless of what he thinks.
The boy looked at me like I’d sprouted a new chin whisker and said, “Nope.”
But get this, people. As the meal wore on, the boy decided that the Brussels sprouts really did smell quite delicious, and he was brave enough to try one, and then he said, “You know what? I actually LIKE this!”
So there you have it. He skipped an ice cream treat at the Dairy Queen on Friday and ordered ice water. He asked, with intent and purpose and premeditation deep in his heart, for me to stop at the library on Friday so he could get a book. And he read, without me standing above him, harping like a Queen Bee, saying, “You will flunk the 5th grade if you don’t have enough minutes recorded on your independent reading log this week!” And he ate a Brussels sprout right along with his grilled salmon and declared it good.
Obviously he is turning into a Stepford child.
I may need another cup of decaff to jazz myself up enough to cope with this.
Happy Monday night, y’all.