I have never sprung for the idea of paying money to see EXACTLY WHERE people are from who stop in at my blog, because there are better things for me to spend my money on.
Starbucks, for instance.
I have a blog counter that is as stripped-down, grade-D, low-quality, and utterly simple as a blog counter can be. In it’s effort to be NOTHING FANCY, it simply tells me WHAT COUNTRY I get hits from here at Jedi Mama.
Do you live in Small Town and read my blog? It will tell me you came from the USA.
Do you live in Rival Town, one hundred miles down the interstate from us? It will tell me you came from the USA.
Do you live on one of the glorious and gorgeous beaches of Nantucket? It will tell me that you came from the USA.
Do you play hockey up north, across the border, and pop in once in a while? My counter will say, CANADA.
And so on, and so forth.
Your identity is always safe, and I’ll never be alerted to stalkers.
BUT… where my counter fails at providing specific locations of readers, it DOES tell me what terms folks plug into the Google to find me.
This morning, someone found us here at Jedi Mama, Incorporated by doing a search for JEDI MIMOSAS.
I may have to find one of those myself, because SURELY such a breakfast drink would help us cope around here… maybe even better than the coffee is helping us cope.
Do you want an example? I mean, in case it’s been a while since you shared a home with a four-year-old?
I usually make Thing 2’s breakfast. I mean, 98 out of every 100 days, his breakfast-making falls on my shoulders. It’s because we are creatures of habit and routine, and the timing of his morning meal coincides with Hubs’ shower.
It’s difficult to make breakfast while you’re lathering, rinsing and repeating.
I feel like I should be clear here, because I am a parenting failure when it comes to breakfast. My boys are NOT living the breakfast dream over here, like I did when I was their age. My mom felt that she was doing her family a disservice without sending us off into the world each morning with homemade pancakes, from-scratch waffles, hot French toast, biscuits, fried eggs, poached eggs, scrambled eggs, boiled eggs, fresh fruit, bacon, sausage patties, sausage links, turkey burger, toast, oatmeal with raisins, bagels with cream cheese, eggs and bacon stuffed into an English muffin, blueberry muffins, apple strudel muffins, banana bread, homemade coffee cake, breakfast burritos, fresh cinnamon rolls, juice and milk. Sister and I had to BEG for mornings free of a seven-course breakfast, when we could have a giant bowl of Froot Loops and dig around in the box for the prized and coveted toy.
Although Thing 2 doesn’t know what kind of gloriously wonderful breakfasts he is missing out on with me as his mother, the boy DOES KNOW. And he informs me all the time that he might just run away to live with Mam and all of her breakfast love.
For breakfasts at our house, our boys have protein shakes, which I blend in the Magic Bullet with ice and organic milk. I feel like this is a solid win of nutritional goodness. I pay enormous dollars for those big tubs of raw protein powder, and I feel like they fuel my boys nicely.
They can also choose cold cereal, oatmeal, fruit or toast.
My boys live lives under primitive circumstances, and are in desperate need.
This morning, our schedule was different, in the sense that Hubs was up and showered before Thing 2 was up, so he ended up making the breakfast, while I was showering.
He asked me what he should make for our preschooler.
I referred him to the same breakfast menu we have had in this house for our entire twenty-one years of marriage.
Protein shake. Cold cereal. Oatmeal. Fruit. Toast.
Hubs made Thing 2 toast. He buttered it, and he cut it into forty-seven tiny squares, just like Thing 2 requests. And then Hubs left for work.
A few minutes later, I noticed that half of Thing 2’s forty-seven tiny squares of toast were sitting on my desk, while the other half of those squares were still on his plate, getting his utmost attention. He was devouring them with gusto and fervor.
“What’s wrong with these pieces of toast on my desk?” I asked.
“Oh… Daddy didn’t butter those right.”
“How did he butter them? They look like they have butter on them. They’re fine.”
“No, they’re NOT fine. The butter is all smeared weird on them. I don’t like butter smeared weird. I don’t want to eat those pieces.”
“But they HAVE butter on them. You LIKE butter now.”
“I don’t like butter that’s smeared weird, and those pieces are full of weird butter. It’s smeared ALL WRONG. I don’t want to eat those pieces.”
“These chunks of toast ARE FINE!”
“They’re not, Mom! They’re NOT fine! Look at how weird they look! I don’t want them! I want new toast with butter that’s not weird.”
Which is exactly why a Jedi Mimosa would have come in quite handy first thing this morning. I may have to add a new breakfast item to the standard menu for the first time in twenty-one years.