Ever since I was a teenager, I've prided myself on having a thick skin -- that is, not being easily upset by what others say to or about me. Generally it's an issue of interpretation; most folks just don't go out of their way to be rude. . . at least not on purpose.
But my children seem to have missed my personal pride in this facet of my personality. Not only did they miss it, but they often trample right over it -- and me.
Just this week we had 2 such occasions, both on the same day.
At breakfast, sweet and funny Boy #2 turns to me, wide-eyed, and asks, "So, Mom, did you ever have any friends?"
Perhaps it was the lack of caffeine or still-sleepy ears, but I'm pretty sure he emphasized "ever" just a bit too much. Smoothing my feathers mentally, I explained that I do have friends, most of whom he knows. They come over, we go to their houses, we meet out at places. . . we do stuff together.
"I meant," he explained slowly and loudly (why is this boy so loud in the morning?), "when you were a child."
Yes, of course, I had friends then, too. In fact, some of them are still my friends now. "Oh. Okay." And he sauntered upstairs to brush his teeth.
Sitting down to dinner that night -- and not to be outdone -- Boy #1 looks at his plate and exclaims, "Oh good, overcooked! Yum!" Honestly, it's an exact quote. And he said it with much gusto and enthusiasm, not the snarky, in-a-year-or-so-I'll-be-painfully-sarcastic-every-living-moment attitude we often hear.
I gave him my patented you'd-better-watch-your-step glare, while The Husband suggested he rephrase what he just said.
"Oh, I just meant the cheese gets all brown and crunchy when Mom cooks them this way," he gushed, cheerfully. "It's how I like them!"
So there you have it: Proof that hair isn't the only thing to thin with age.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
I have a confession: the gecko green room (belonging to Boy #1) is really pretty nice. After the first coat -- OK and the second -- I was pretty sure it was horrible and that we'd have to find somewhere else to say our bedtimes prayers. Because there was no way I'd be able to set foot in it ever again.
But somewhere between coats 3 and 4 -- oh yeah, you read that right. We needn't go into now why Sherwin Williams is both my most and least favorite of paint stores -- it started growing on me.
Which is good. Because I'm having trouble growing much of anything else at The House. For instance:
|The painting begins|
|Behold: gecko green abounds|
|Sorry tomato plant|
My <ahem> lovely tomato plant. Actually, it's two plants: one regular tomato and one grape tomato, plus a sweet red pepper for good measure. With all our rain this summer, it's actually produced a decent crop. The grape tomatoes were huge -- looked like mini romas -- and were pretty tasty. The single sweet red pepper it produced was wonderful.
But something kept tasting the full-sized tomatoes. And then the ones that hadn't been sampled ended up tasting sorta fishy. How? No idea. And yet, look at the close-up: there's new growth and blossoms alongside the sorry, dead shoots.
And then there's this:
Once upon a time, when it was gifted to me, it was a lovely succulent with sweet little yellow flowers. Now it's a stick showing off just a bit. It's a good thing I don't take this personally. . . and that I can grow other, normal houseplants.
Also that we live fairly close to the grocery store.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Editor's note: Do not be alarmed by the title; this is a family-friendly blog.
I'm sure you've heard what They (even when we wonder who They are) say: In order to keep a relationship fresh, you need to surprise your honey from time to time. I did that today.
Now, The Husband is used to answering odd calls from home at work. They generally involve matters of technical import (When the printer does that thing it's been doing, what do I need to do so I can still print?) or, when I still had a child or two home during the day, first aid (Remind me what I'm looking for when I shine the flashlight in his eyes to make sure he doesn't have a concussion.).
But today I stumped him. No kids at home during the day, relatively few tech hiccups this week, and he heard: What's the 4-letter acronym to stop bleeding? You know -- the one that involves "elevate"?
Yes, folks, I'm keeping the romance alive by surprising my man! If it hadn't involved bodily harm, it would have been even better.
But I learned several invaluable lessons this afternoon. Stuff like, without 2 operational opposable thumbs, it's very difficult to:
- Bandage the thumb you just sliced open, especially while simultaneously trying to apply direct pressure and not bleed all over anything. Well, anything else.
- Chop. Anything. Making dinner was an experience.
- Lift hot, heavy items. Grateful to have help getting dinner out of the oven and on the table.
- Fold stuff decently. No comments on the laundry this week.
- Open zip-top bags. Putting things away was trying.
- Put hair in a ponytail. I look lovely; leave it at that.
If only the bandages would have held, I'd have been in much better shape. As it was, I had to redo a load of dress slacks that somehow got bloodied, as well as change my own clothes after I ended up looking like an extra in a zombie flick. And, actually, I needed Boy #1's help to do that, because my opposable thumb deficit left me unable to unbutton my own shorts. Doesn't anybody think about this stuff when they design clothes?
I managed to bluff my way through doing the dishes, but face-washing set me off again. Next time the knife-sharpening guy tells me the knives are sharp and to be careful, I'll listen more closely.