Friday, March 21, 2014
- __2__ Gratitudes (friends who call when I need a pep talk, Mexican Coke in the glass bottle with real cane sugar, and March Madness)
- _2__ Units of Caffeinated (yum that sugar cane Coke might be 2,000 times more addicting than crack cocaine;)
- __45 min_ Spent Writing (probably all crap)
- _2__ Culinary Delights/Disasters Created With Own Hands (1 delight; homemade garlic and tomato spaghetti sauce for spaghetti, and 1 disaster: homemade black beans and brown rice--the brown rice was fine, but the black beans were still hard as Hulk balls two hours after "quick soaking" them according to the directions on the bag. Which is why I moved on to the spaghetti. Yes, I managed to spend 2+ hours in the kitchen when I have no time for such domestic bullshiz)
Mr. Humphries and I exchange a look as if we couldn't have heard him right. This little angel of a boy has never cursed before. Yes, I might have said this word under my breath in his presence. I have to admit that "son of a bi#$(!" is one of my go-to's when I can't contain my potty mouth. I figure it could be worse. And Mr. Humphries knows this so I feel like it's my duty to smooth this over before it's me who's getting the talking-to.
I say, "you mean, bridge?" I prod him with my eyes, giving him the double brow glare, knowing that makes no sense.
"No," he says nonchalantly. "Every time I try to put my eggs on the toast and then take a bite, the eggs keep falling off. It's a bitch." He looks down in his lap where most of his eggs have landed.
There are oh-so many ways to handle this. A broad spectrum of reactions that could be selected. Time slows as all eyes turn to me, and I can see that my mothering skills are now being tested. The bright morning sunshine filters through the windows and shines on me like interrogation lights. Mr. Humphries crosses his arms like the cop who has the perp backed into the corner. The other kids stop eating in mid-bite anticipation. Even the tea kettle gets in on the action and begins whistling at me, alerting me TIME IS UP.
What do I do?
I laugh. Like belly laugh. Like hyena laugh. Like deranged madwoman laugh. Like Mom-you're-scaring-us laugh. I can't help it. It's just so perfect. It's all just so true. So Bitterly and Beautifully true.
Eggs falling off your toast into your lap just as your about to take the perfect bite...is a B-word. It also sucks when it ends up on your face.
So I say, "Just keep trying, buddy. You'll get the hang of it. But let's not say that B-word anymore...even if you hear mommy say it sometimes."
Isn't that the way life works sometimes? From the little things to big, life can be a B-word. BUT we keep going...
Jessie With A Shot At The Night