It was a fun notion: me making time to write a fresh post errday this week. Just a notion, though.
Because in the case of these particular seven days, the word making would be defined as: kicking small human bodies off of my legs.
So, I chose not to make time for the sakes of three small human bodies.
Craig’s work load has been extra heavy this week and when he isn’t getting home til I’ve found myself pinned under a mercifully sleeping crabyearold, blog I cannot do. Wrench my eyelids open, I cannot do either.
I posted what might be interpreted as a sad photograph of my little Emmett on the Insta-G a few days ago, noting that he naps not. It’s true, maybe once every week and a half – 2 weeks, he will lay his sweet head down for a heavy 2-3 hour nap, and I frolic about the house excited to do all the things I could otherwise not do, and in that excitement I spread myself too thin and nothing gets done anyway. But that’s about it.
Yesterday was one of those days, and I was blessed with the chance to either blog, or bathe myself. The only reason I chose to bathe was because we were out of bread and other staples of the food sorts, and I’d feel bad for the grocer-goers who’d have to walk in my wake as I carefully selected eggs (it’s an art); or who’d have to stifle their own breath as they sidled by me as I found myself standing in a daze in the middle of the canned beans aisle.
GLORY TO GOD, my mother came to watch the boys for an hour so I could mumble to myself about the cost difference between organic and not at the fruit section. I chose poisonous strawberries and healthy bananas.
So that was great.
But then bedtime came and Sir Heavy Napper chose to sing loudly to himself til nearly midnight.
–aaand my point that I’ve lost on youse all by now is that I’ve been dying to photograph this part of the house at that time of the day, and while Emmett was, in fact, not napping, he was happy. And I was happy too, because I had him all to myself to photograph, which is a rare thing.
Otherwise, who am I supposed to photograph?
My sister’s mom-in-law shared with us a cheddar, spinach, bacon quiche recipe and the whole family will eat it for breakfast, brunch, lunch or dinner. Except Lexington.
“What’s a KEESH, Mom?”
“It’s like a pie, with eggsspinachcheese and bacon in it!”
“…I think you should just make it taste like a pie.”
I had grand plans to make said delicious quiche for breakfast this morning, but when I came to the kitchen to assess Collin’s refrigerator pillaging, I didn’t notice that he’d managed to turn the entire thing OFF until an hour later while I was pulling out lukewarm cheese.
Which is fine.
I suppose we’ll be investing in a temporary child lock this weekend –and I suppose I could have sought one out yesterday at the grocery store, but see, it wasn’t ON THE LIST.
Quiche completion: 1pm. Which is fine.
So now we come to the point where we’re all going, I just read this entire thing and she really didn’t say anything. Why am I still here?
I don’t know, but I sure thank you for visiting, commenting, and letting me know this is all very normal and I’m really kind of a wimp. If you were here, I’d share with you a large piece of quiche and a quawfee or a tea, or byob, and we could join my boys in throwing the laundry about the house.