What Kind of a Man Am I?
So the other day I'm doing the usual routine. I get home from work around 6:00 and start cooking dinner. This wasn't one of the easy nights, like Taco Tuesday or Pizza & Movie Friday. This was one of the adult meal nights: Greek oregano chicken salad with yogurt tahini dressing. James (a.k.a. Seamus) is spastic, talking up a cyclone, running from room to room, automatically contradicting every word out of Anne's mouth. I'm trying to mix the dressing while not forgetting to turn the chicken while trying to remember to "clean as I go" while watching the clock, knowing that we need to leave enough time for a bath, when the kid runs into the kitchen and plows into my leg for fun. "GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!" I hear myself scream as I rip open the baby spinach.
Kill me.
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How'd the recipe turn out?
(My weekend consisted of going to the beach, drinking beer, a cookout, a pool game, a pedicure, a mini-massage and a John Grisham novel. Wait..I did get annoyed Friday when the screening room equipment wouldn't work for the showing of "Breach." So we went and had a few Guinness across the street. Um...you need to come visit.)
And, Christy, I'm sorry, but James does NOT want a little conversation. He tells me repeatedly throughout the day, "You don't get to talk, Mommy! I want to talk all the time!" And indeed he does. Where does he get that gene?
I recently had a root canal and was telling some friends at a bbq about the dentist who kept making puns to the songs on the radio ("With or Without TOOTH!" and "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, root canal is what you need!"). One of my friends said "It must be really hard for you not to talk." Ha!
(wait, this isn't my blog, is it?)