Just Call Me Chef-Boyardee. I Made The Pasta In The Middle Of All The BUSY.


Do you know how you sometimes have those days where you twirl a dinner plate on your left index finger, juggle four juice boxes with your right hand, kick laundry out of the way with your left foot, hold your right foot in front of a staircase so the baby doesn’t fall down it, and then try to clutch a phone between your ear and left shoulder so that you can listen to the recorded message from the school, stating that your son’s lunch account has a negative balance of $1.05?

Excuse me?  He doesn’t eat hot lunch.  Ever. 

(I asked him.  He has been buying milk in the cafeteria.  When you don’t have money to buy milk, you CHARGE milk.  And when you forget to tell your parents, the school calls them and shames them for allowing their son’s account to fall a dollar and five entire cents into the hole.)

All of this nonstop motion is great, if you’re hoping to spruce up your resume for the Harlem Globetrotters’ tryouts.  But sometimes, in real life, the juice boxes fall because you miss one in the juggle rotation, and then you’re standing in a big mess, which is really all your fault, because you should have just PUT SOMETHING DOWN ALREADY, GLADYS!

So I’m putting the blog down tonight.  I’ve been to a mother’s group this morning, while Thing 2 played with his herd of friends and ate a sticker.


I also taught PE.  The highlight was when one of my pre-kindergarten boys ran up to me and yelled, “It is so much fun to take a shower, isn’t it?  Showers are for big boys, and my mom said I could be a shower-er now!”  Milestones, people.  Life is all about the milestones.  First they take their nightly baths in the kitchen sink, and then BLAM!  They’re shower-ers.

And then the boy and I hauled Thing 2 into the grocery store (and not the Wal-Mart variety of grocery stores, because that is a petri dish of RSV and CROUP at the moment), where I meticulously labored for eight minutes trying to scrub a cart down with the disinfectant wipes at the door.  Eventually, the boy said, “I think you’re taking the paint off the cart now, Mom.”

(People, I was never a germ-phob before.  I always encouraged the boy to play in the McDonald’s playland, lick the shopping cart, and swim in the irrigation ditches.  And then Thing 2 brought RSV into our house for the first time of EVER, and I am SO OVER germs.)

(Don’t judge me.)

And then I cooked dinner.  Yes, I cooked.  I made fancy pasta, with little grape tomatoes and olive oil and balsamic vinegar and real chunks of Parmesan cheese.  And then we scrambled to yank the boy through homework and JUST HURRY AND EAT YOUR PASTA!, so that we could get him off to youth group.

And then there was a bath in the sink for Thing 2, because he is not a shower-er yet.

And dishes.  Because when you cook, you get dirty dishes.  It’s a no-win situation.  It’s a big factor in why I simply ignore the nightly cooking and try to convince my family that Krave cereal for dinner is ALL THE RAGE these days with the Duck Dynasty crew and the Colorado Avalanche.  (Because Hubs and the boy will do anything that the Robertsons and those skating boys will do.)

And now?  Well.  I’m going to shove my boys into bed early, and Mama is heading out the door in her PAJAMA BOTTOMS, and no.  I am NOT heading to Wal-Mart.   I’m going to Katie’s house, where we intend to flop on her sofa in our comfy jammies and either talk our heads off with one another while her boys sleep and her husband is out of town, or watch some movie involving ROMANCE, which Hubs would deem a Snooze Fest that is Unworthy of His Grand Attention.  And what I’m really planning on is that I’m going to be pulled over tonight by a law-enforcement officer, IN MY PAJAMA BOTTOMS, for something as mundane as a missing tail light.  It’s how my luck rolls.

(And that will not make me HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY.  I think driving in my PJ bottoms is going to insure that I obey ALL posted traffic laws meticulously.)

And that is the long-winded version of why I’m not blogging tonight.

The end.

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