• the quotidian (3.31.14)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace



    Flowers (not ours, but at this point I’m not being picky) and raindrops: spring!
    Oh, fudge.

    Sink jungle.
    Music prop: a wigged out pumpkin as choir director.
    To use, stare at pumpkin with laser focus while singing music from memory.
    After-work snack(s).

    When regular words didn’t grab my attention, my son resorted to taking pictures of me. 
    (I was intent on writing an email to a friendhey, Sarah!on the other side of the world.)

    Truly quotidian.

    Untangling a (very complicated) yarny knot.

    When a soggy world blurs and runs together.
  • wuv, tru wuv…

    The cord for our handheld mixer is cracked and broken. The wires are poking out. It got so bad that this past Sunday, when it came time to make the whipped cream for the waffles, the mixer refused to run unless the cord was held just so. So my husband held the wire while I beat the cream. Raising or lowering the cord even the tiniest bit resulted in less electricity and slower-running beaters.

    Him: This is stupid. We’re going to be electrocuted. In front of the children.

    Me: It’s kitchen fireworks! If sparks are gonna fly, then we should kiss!

    Him: I am not kissing you. Just beat the cream.

    Me: Hey kids! Someone get the camera and take a picture!

    Him: I’m risking my life for whipped cream.

    Me: Aw honey. It’s sooo worth it.

    Actually, this picture pretty much sums up our entire marriage: making do, him helping me (he’s always helping me), idiotic risk, whipped cream, humor, working together, and bickering.

    P.S. Mom, calm down. No one got injured—not even a twinge of a zap—and the mixer is now out of commission until it is properly repaired. (Though he better get it fixed before next Sunday, or else.)

    P.P.S. When whipping cream, I cover the bowl and beaters with an old dishtowel to eliminate splatters. Thus the reason it looks like I’m holding a wired towel.

    P.P.P.S. Title from Princess Bride, the movie that forever altered how I articulate “true love” in my head.

    P.P.P.P.S. The beater wires are now fixed (kinda) so whipping the cream is once again a one-person job, nostalgic sigh.

    This same time, years previous: on being together, warts and all, cream puffs (for Kirsten) (who had twins last week!!!), and oatmeal crackers.

  • our oaf

    My older son, now 14, is in what I (mostly) fondly call The Oafish Stage. He’s too big to delve into dress-up and play-acting but too young to have a real job. It’s an awkward, in-between stage. It’s also—I’m starting to notice—perhaps the perfect age for piling on the work, both academic and otherwise.

    I’m a novice at these teen years so I really don’t know anything. Experienced parents, what do you think? Have you noticed that young teens have a particular aptitude for grunt work and straight-up knowledge acquisition?

    This same time, years previous: the visit, a spat, the thumb thucker (who still is, by the way), and brandied-bacony roast chicken.