Stupid Questions

Me: “InfaDel, why is the (not so) Baby crying?”

InfaDel: “I whapped him.”

Me: “Great, you can go back to your bedroom.”

It’s 8:20 am.  Sigh.

Hey Boo-boo

I do all kinds of workouts.  Two days a week I try to do some kind of strength training and the other two days that I work out I do cardio.  Monday was a strength training day.  Usually I do some kind of  Jillian Michaels or something like that but every once in awhile I do Yoga.

Monday was one of those days.  Now I know that yoga is supposed to be this spiritual, cleansing experience.  You’re supposed to center yourself and breathe deeply and focus on your energies and chi and a lot of other new agey stuff that I tend to be really dismissive of (except that I secretly sort of believe some of it).  Basically it’s supposed to feel kind of like this:

And I guess for some people, doing yoga alone on a beach at sunrise or something, that is how it feels.

But I do yoga in my living room with my kids and their friends running through and my two year old yelling at me that he hates me and well, my yoga experience feels a little more like this:

I think I may be missing something there.  Today I go back to squats and lunges.

Time (Well?) Wasted

I just spent 20 minutes trying to convince the InfaDel and the (not so) Baby to clean up the dirty laundry that they had emptied from the basket.

And then another 10 minutes trying to console the (not so) Baby, who was upset because his brother cleaned up more than he did.

Dishwater Salad Dressing

I’m starting this post with the punchline because there’s no way around it. You’re going to know what it is before we get there anyway. But it’s still a story worth telling.

Friday was the HERA climb for life. The climb that you guys helped me raise money for with your very generous donations.  In fact, I raised more than my goal amount which makes you about the best readers anywhere and I think you should know it.  You’re awesome!

But that’s actually not the point, the point is that I spent the day climbing and freezing (the cliff we were climbing left us in the shade at the top of a mountain) and then I locked my keys in the car so by the time I got home I was pretty tired. And starving.

It was time for dinner but there was nothing ready so Sean started heating up leftovers and I made a green salad.  Then I went to the fridge to get the dressing.  Now, around here we eat the make it yourself salad dressing (you know, you buy the packet of seasonings and fill the cruet with vinegar up to the line with the v and then add water up to the line with the w and then oil up to the o line and then you shake whole thing up) but the cruet was almost empty.  I poured what little was left over the salad and took the cruet to the sink to wash it out.  I don’t always wash it out between uses, I’m just making more of the same stuff in there after all, but it had been a while since I had washed it out so I did this time.

I put some water in the cruet and set it on the counter with the dish scrub brush thing (the kind with the soap in the handle) sticking out of the top while I got the lid cleaned, which takes a little doing given all the cracks and crevices, and was just turning my attention to the cruet, when the Infantile Delinquent came in to let me know that the (not so) Baby had gotten into my swag bag from the climb, which I had (stupidly) said that he could play with, and made a mess.  I left the kitchen to go to the entryway to assess the damage.  It wasn’t as bad as it could have been but the (not so) Baby had gotten into the one thing in the bag that one could possibly make a mess, the chalk (used on the hands to increase traction).  He had broken up the block of chalk and sprinkled it around the entryway and front room.

Did I mention that Sean had cleaned my house while I was climbing? Well he had.  (He really is the very best.)  And now the (not so) Baby was sprinkling chalk all over the place, and then the Pea and the InfaDel started running through the chalked up area and…. You know how it goes.  So I forgot about dinner, and turned my attention to preventing the spread of the chalk.  It didn’t take long but by the time I got back to the kitchen Sean was pouring the oil into the dressing and shaking it up.

I should mention here that Sean and I make the dressing differently.  I make it with cider vinegar and he uses white.  It’s a small difference, resulting in a slight difference in taste but it’s not a big deal.

We sat down to the table.

I wasn’t really that interested in any of the leftovers so I served myself a huge helping of salad, sprinkled some tuna, and some salt and pepper, over it and poured on the dressing.  I had a few bites but found that I couldn’t really taste the dressing.  I poured on some more.  My salad still wasn’t very good but I was really hungry so I ate it.

We had a slightly harder time than usual getting the kids to eat their salads but well, they’re kids and it was salad so we didn’t think too much of it.  The kids ran off to play and I sat at the table for a few more minutes trying to decide if I wanted to eat more.  I decided I was still hungry.  I served up the rest of the salad, doctored it up, poured on the dressing and took a bite.  It tasted almost sweet.

I dipped a finger into a drop of dressing n my plate and licked it off.  Nothing, it tasted like nothing.  I looked up at Sean, “what kind of vinegar did you use in this?”

He looked at me like I was crazy, “I didn’t put the vinegar in it, you did. I just put the oil in.”

After spending just a minute digesting that (and trying not to throw up my dinner) I said, “no wonder the dressing wasn’t good tonight, you used the soapy dishwater that I was cleaning the cruet out with as the vinegar.”

I spent the rest of the night with a greasy dishwater taste in the back of my mouth.

In his defense, apparently the dishwater had filled exactly up to the v line of the cruet and he had known that I was working on making dressing and… Well, these things happen.

So what’s your favorite kind of salad dressing?

I Don’t Like Pina Coladas Either

Last week I took the little boys on a walk (and by walk I mean that I walked and they rode their bikes) to the “duck place”. The duck place is part of a trail not to far from our house. It’s included in my ride home from work and part of most of my recreational rides.

It was a beautiful day and the kids had a great time (until I made then walk all the way around the circle and it was hot and they were tired and by the end there may have been some tears, but to begin with it was nothing but smiles) see:

So the next day The Infantile Delinquent wanted to go back to the duck place. Well, I’m in “attentive mom” mode these days (until school starts on Wednesday and then I’ll probably go back to ignoring the kids) so I said OK.

As we loaded up into the car I noticed that the sky was a little overcast, and I asked the InfaDel if he was sure that he wanted to go.  He was.  As we drove the mile or so to the duck place a few small drops of rain hit the windshield, I again questioned the InfaDel.  He wanted to go on.  As I parked and got out of the van and went around to the back to unload the bikes I mentioned to the InfaDel that it was cold and windy.  He hopped out of the car, said”it’s not cold” and took off on his bike.

The (not so) baby and I followed.

There’s a small trail that leads to the duck place. The trail runs right along the back of a few houses that have horses (I suppose it would be more accurate to indicate that the people who own the houses have horses but let’s just move on ok?) and as we walked and/or rode by we said hello to the horses. And as we did that it started to rain. Not too hard really, big fat drops but there weren’t too many of them and the InfaDel insisted so we continued on.

Do I even need to finish this story?

As we got to the duck place what had been a few fat lazy drops of rain had turned into a steady, but still lightish drizzle.

And then the heavens opened.

Within about 2 minutes we were all soaked.  Now people often say that they were soaked when they were in fact not soaked, occasionally they say  it when they’re hardly even damp.  This is not one of those times.  We were really really wet.  We were drowned rat kind of wet.  We were turn on your shower full blast, step into it fully clothed and stand there for five minutes kind of wet.

The (not so) Baby was so freaked out by all the water that just poured from the sky that he abandoned his bike and ran to me (as if I could protect him from the rain.  I couldn’t.)  I picked him up with one arm, picked his bike up with the other and herded the InfaDel back in the direction of the car.

The whole walk back both boys cried and I laughed (hey, when it’s laugh or cry I’ve never seen the point of the latter).  We got back to the car to find that the spot where I had parked was lower than that surrounding asphalt.  Giggle.  And the Infadel was too scared by the whole thing to venture out of the relative safety of the trees (The trail along the horse property is semi-wooded (although I’m here to tell you that the trees were not offering much by way or protection).) so I put the (not so) baby in the car, put his bike in the car and then ran (slogged) back for the InfaDel.  I got us all into the car at which point I turned it on and turned up the heat, in an effort to alleviate all of our shivering, and then removed my shoes and poured water out of them.

With some difficulty I coxed the kids into their cars seats (“It will get wet.” “Yes, it will.  But we can’t dry off until we get home and we can’t get home until you get into your seat.  It’ll dry.  Get into your seat.”  “It will get wet.” …)

We were so ridiculously wet that when we got home I really wanted to take pictures but I couldn’t find the camera.  But the memory is pretty lasting, I asked the (not so) Baby yesterday if he wanted to go to the Duck place.  He told me, “no.  It’s raining at the duck place.”

Conversations with a Two Year-old

Mom: Ok sweetie, I love you.  Go right to sleep ok.

Two Year-old: I want the door open a little bit.

M: I’ll leave the door open a little bit as long as you’re quiet, but if you start making a lot of noise I’m going to have to close it.

TYo: NO, DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!!

M: Shhhh… Sweetheart, I won’t close the door if you can be quiet.  You have to stop crying or I’m going to have to close the door.

TYo: I DON’T WANT  YOU TO CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!!!

M: That’s fine love, just stop crying and I’ll leave the door open.

TYo: I WANT YOU TO LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN!

M: I know you do, and I will if you can just stop.  If you stop crying then I’ll leave the door open.

TYo: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

M: If you keep crying like this then I’m going to have to shut the door.

TYo: I WANT DADDY! I WANT DADDY! I WANT DADDY!!

M: You can’t have dad and I’m leaving, now are you going to be quiet so that I can leave the door open?

TYo: I WANT YOU TO LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN!!!!

M: I will if you can be quiet.

TYo: DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!

M: Can you be quiet?

TYo: I WANT THE DOOR OPEN!!!!

M: All you have to do is be quiet.

TYo: I WANT THE DOOR OPEN A LITTLE BIT!!!!

M: Ok, just stop crying.

TYo: DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!!!

M: I Won’t close the door, if you’ll just … Oh forget it.

Mom closes the door and heads downstairs followed by the sounds of muffled screaming.

Welcome to my World

I’m really tired this morning and I don’t understand why, I mean, I was in bed by 2:30 (which is late but not too big of a deal) and then I got up to let the Baby in at 2:50 and then I got up to take The Infantile Delinquent back to bed at 2:55 and “slept” on his floor until 3:50 and then went back to my bed only to have him come sneaking in at 3:55 so I told him to go back to his bed so he sat on the end of my bed and cried, so I yelled at him, so he went to the top of the stairs and wailed, so I got up and shut the door, so he wailed louder, so after 5 minutes I got up carried him to his bed yelled at him to stay in it, closed his door, went back to the basement closed the basement door and was back in bed by 4:10. So that the Baby could wake me up at 7:00 because he couldn’t find his pacifier. Honestly I don’t know why I would be tired.

Did I mention that I’m not having kids?

Revised to add:

A slow painful torturous death is too good for my children.
We have about 4 fruit trees in the yard. Last year we got 1 cheery off the cherry tree. This year I was hopeful for a dozen or so except that this spring, some child (I’ve never discovered which one, that’s probably better for them) decided to cut EVERY. SINGLE. BRANCH. off of the cherry tree. I can’t even tell if it’s still alive, it may just be a dead stick in the ground that the crazy lady in the house keeps watering. We also have an apple tree that’s the oldest fruit tree in the yard, last year we had 5 or 6 apples on it but they never made it to maturity. This year there were 8 or 10 apples on it. Unfortunately just now when I retrieved my gardening bucket, that’s supposed to live under the spigot by the dead stick in the ground but was over by the deck full of leaves instead, I found that it was not only full of leaves, it was full of little green apples. Guess where they got them from? On top of that is the fact that while the plum tree appears very healthy and robust, it has never had so much as a single blossom on it, never mind a plum. And all the little tiny baby apples that were on the 5 apple tree early this spring have all disappeared.

I’m done with this gardening, growing my own food crap. What’s the point?

I spoke in church yesterday and I was thinking about posting my talk but I thought I’d just whine about my kids instead.

Look at me blogging again, you never know, it may just become a regular thing.

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