After a lengthy discussion with Carrie last night about BONES, EWW!, we realized that we stood in complete agreement on this one. It’s why we married wild men who may cringe at a little baby puke clinging to their shirts, but who simply don’t bat an eyelash about cutting up a wildebeest carcass and getting all the fillets carved off the bone. Thank goodness that Hubs has a strong constitution when it comes to meat in varying forms of rawness, because otherwise we would be total vegetarians here at the Jedi Manor, with Trix topping the menus as the preferred dinner item.
And yes… Some nights I really do fry (boneless) chicken in the skillet, and it’s those nights that I want to run to the refrigerator to see if there’s any vodka in the orange juice, because do you know what splattered oil looks like all over your cooktop? It’s very possibly worse than that time in ’05, when a nameless friend (Christy!) gave us a bottle of glitter for the boy to use, because she was all about USE THE GLITTER AND EXPOSE THE BOY TO THE WONDERMENT OF ART AND CREATION, AND JUST SUCK IT UP AND PUT ON YOUR BIG GIRL PANTIES, AND USE A WET PAPER TOWEL TO PICK UP THE SPILLAGE.
Except the spillage turned into SORRY, MOM. I KNOCKED THE ENTIRE LID-LESS BOTTLE OF GLITTER OFF THE DINING ROOM TABLE, AND IT’S SORT OF FLOATING AROUND ON THE FLOOR FROM HELL TO BREAKFAST.
We used the vacuum cleaner and the wet paper towels to clean up glitter until the spring of ’07, when we sold the house. And now… well… I imagine that the new homeowners are still battling little bits of sparkle on the hardwood floors from time to time, and wondering who on earth allowed her child to have it in the first place.
And THAT, people, is why we had something simple for dinner last night, which turned out to be one of the most fantastic meals of EVERNESS.
About two weeks ago, Hubs had this idea to just go on ahead and grill a homemade pizza, because he owns a Traeger, and WHAT CAN’T HE GRILL? I looked at him like maybe his marbles had slid to the other side of the box, because listen! We have a very decent pizzeria right here in Small Town, USA, and the owners are friends of ours, and SHOULDN’T WE JUST SUPPORT THEM BY LEAVING OUR HOUSE BEHIND AND GOING THERE FOR DINNER? Why would we want to grill the pizzas and miss out on YAY! SALAD BAR!, as well as the boy pestering us without mercy for quarters to put into the video games?
Hubs was persistent. And last night, we set up a mini cafeteria-type kitchen right on our island. We had bags of every boneless meat imaginable to man, from Canadian bacon to sausage crumbles to YAY, BACON! and even the pepperoni. We had vegetables in the form of colorful peppers. (Except, listen. We had no red peppers, even though I was craving the red peppers last night, because when I cut that sucker open, exactly 2 hours after I had purchased it at the grocery store, I was shocked to see MOLD! MOLD! MOLD! inside of it, and wow. Fine. Never mind. Just forget it. The red pepper is dead to me.) And then we had onions and different cheeses and different sauces, and Hubs and the boy and I got our pizza dough and we loaded it up with our own personal creations, and then Hubs grilled them on his Traeger.
And now, just as Hubs can grill a steak better than any restaurant in town, which means WHY WOULD WE GO OUT FOR STEAK DINNERS AND SPEND MANY AMERICAN DOLLARS FOR SUB-PAR STEAKS WHEN WE CAN EAT THE WORLD’S BEST FILLETS RIGHT HERE, FROM THE KITCHEN OF HUBS?, we can now pretty much never venture out into the public for good pizzas ever again either, because Hubs just conquered the market on even THAT last night.
Best. Pizzas. Of ever.
And the mess? Limited, people. Very limited. I had no flashbacks to Glitter Spill ’05, and I simply hummed my way through rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher and realizing that there was simply no leftover bacon to put back in the refrigerator, because I think the boy may have eaten bacon as a side dish to his meal.
And while all of this kitchen clean-up was going on, things were happening in my bedroom, because after I had washed my hands for the last time and dried them on a kitchen towel, I waltzed into my room to this:
It’s no secret that Thing 2 adores music. In fact, Hubs and I have decided that with his limitless energy and musical passion, he’ll probably end up being a drummer for a hard rock band. That baby of ours loves to have someone sing to him, and even at the age of four young months, he has a favorite song.
My mama, the preschool teacher, introduced him to it, and there’s no going back to something like a simple nursery rhyme now. Thing 2 is all about “Rainbow ‘Round Me,” and he never tires of hearing it.
And by never, I mean he can hear that song twelve thousand times in one morning, and be perfectly content, while Mama thinks she may very well beat her head against the dining room wall if I have to play it one more time on the iPad. It’s also a very catchy little rhythm, so the answer is YES: You really do wake up in the mornings singing it to yourself.
(Take a listen by clicking right here.)
Anyway, as much as Hubs was hoping that “You Shook Me All Night Long” would top Thing 2’s list of favorites, it’s “Rainbow ‘Round Me,” or bust. And last night, while I was cleaning up the kitchen, our children were laying on the bed together, and the boy was singing the rainbow song to Thing 2. And Thing 2 was mesmerized and content. This was a precious time, because the boy DOES! NOT! SING! Ever. The boy, in fact, boycotts any event that may require him to sing. But obviously his aversion to being musical is trumped by his cute baby brother.
And the love sparkling between those two boys was a tangible thing that could actually be felt in the bedroom, and it nearly dropped me to my knees with the sweetness of it all. To say that the boy and Thing 2 like each other is the world’s biggest understatement. They are the best of friends. They simply click, and each is head over heels in love with the other one.
And may y’all finally come to realize that fried chicken is just something that’s best bought at a restaurant, unless you want to pull your own hair out by the roots when it comes time for cleaning up the fallout. Because there ain’t enough happiness in that rainbow song to get you through a night of cleaning up splattered oil without making you realize that deep inside of you is the personality of a pit viper.