Ah yes. The Weekend

Saturday Morning: Will someone please, please tell me they are all the same? Do men really think that when they take their socks off in the family room and leave them there, that the socks grow little sock feet and walk themselves to the laundry basket? This also applies to coffee mugs, shirts and newspapers. I have yet to see any of these items grow little feet and walk themselves to where they belong. Yet, this week I think I shall train them to do such. Monday paper, be warned!

Saturday Afternoon:
(please read in a sing-songy voice)
“No, no sweetheart. Pweese do not put your little delicate angel finger into the frosting.” And when said delicate angel finger does it again, “sweet snookums? Didn’t you hear your mommala? I said no wittle finger-wingers in the frosting-wosting.” And yet when it happens a third time, “Oh sweetie must really want some cake. Mommy and Daddy are getting you a piece just as fast as we can. You are so silly!” At this point the mother actually looks at all the party guests and says, “She’s not sick, I promise.” Oh Lord.

I mean, really?! At a birthday party yesterday my oldest daughter witnessed this debacle of frosting-poking goodness and watched in amazement as her little playdate friend got to stick her little nasty toddler fingers all over a perfectly good cake that others HAD been intending on eating too. Call me old-fashioned. Call me germ-a-phobic. But the moment I saw my daughter’s dainty little finger reach slowly for the frosting, eyeing me with the utmost caution, I looked at her and sternly said “IF you touch that frosting, THEN you will not have a piece of cake.” At which point she reeled her hand in just as quickly as she could without giving herself whiplash and said, “Ok, Mom. I won’t touch it.” Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I am damaging my daughter’s self-esteem by setting these ridiculous, un-obtainable standards of living. Who knows? Only time will tell.

Sunday Afternoon: I have to admit that I took a nap. A delicious, cozy, warm nap on this cold, dreary, rainy afternoon. It was fabulous. And what was even more fabulous is that my wonderful better half actually changed four (oh yes, FOUR) lightbulbs that were burned out in the kitchen, changed a dimmer switch that has been broken since we moved in AND cleaned the vacuum. Who is this man and what have you done with my husband?? I walked out from the bedroom to him sitting on the floor, screwdriver in hand (which is a scary sight by itself) and the vacuum in 1000 pieces all over the floor next to him. “Um, sweet love of my life? Man I chose to father my children? Please put down the screwdriver. What are you doing to my pride and joy? If you destroy that Dyson vacuum that we took a mortgage out on and I use to rid our home of 80 pounds of animal fur per week, whatever will I do with myself, and to you?” and he looked at me, that sweet innocent fixing-machine and replied “maintenance.” Ummm. Ok dear. Just let me know when you need me to put it all back together. And for some reason he didn’t think it was funny when I asked him if he was going to take the ladder back outside with him or wait for it to grow little ladder legs and walk itself out to the garage. Men. Whatever.
-C