Hello from the land of running in place, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, and sucking at life

I must have 5 posts in the works, ready to go when I manage to upload photos of videos from the new iPad but someone how the "git 'er done!" phase just never comes to pass.  Why is that?  Is it the old folks in the nursing home?  Is it answering Claire's questions like why doesn't Grandma turn her head  (because she stopped doing it and now she can't)?  Is it getting too distracted with delight and laughter when Hannah says things like "that is stinky, indeed!"  I thought February would bring a modicum of peace and at least a less frenzied pace and I was wrong, on all accounts.  My husband thinks I am nuts to put Hannah (and Claire, obviously) in swimming lessons if it means he has to get up on Saturday, no matter how many times I tell him that the use of her hand starts in the strength of her shoulder and getting her to a full stroke in swimming would be huge in PT and OT ways.  And I still have to combat the badness of my cute idea as a baby to let her play with receipts from all my shopping because she would crunch them in both hands and stuff them in the bag and tear them and so on - only to find out all that register paper is loaded with BPA.  After carefully putting my breastmilk in BPA free bottles she will still get breasts at age 8 because I gave her receipts to use to stimulate her hand.  Best OT tip of the week - buy half price Valentines for next year, and to play with this year so you can more half price sets to get the child tearing things apart at the perforations, and hanging window clings.  (but don't say crap to me if they were all made from melamine eating child slaves in China)

One last thing to say before bed, besides that I don't know anything about the Oscars because I only saw 5 kids movies all year and Puss in Boots and Harry Potter were snubbed, so I skipped an Oscars party to stay home, read to the girls and bedgthem to wear clothes, and work a pile of files from work . . .  are you ready . . . . are you sure . . . .Girl Scout cookies are in on Monday! 

The one that got away, and other domestic failures

Observe, the tri-tip roast.  Notice the extra sparkles, glinting on the surface of the carefully prepared meat, perfect for a Sunday dinner?  No, those sprinkles are not a new take on an old theme (glazing) or I guess maybe they are, but not intentionally.   While this roasted at a fairly high heat, per a carefully chosen recipe from the Internet, natch, the Pyrex pan exploded.  I wish I hadn't been out shopping, as it purportedly gave out quite an unexpected BOOM when it went, which had followed a few sessions of the smoke alarms going off as the olive oil burned off the roasted root vegetables also being prepared.  Sigh.  Yes, I am that good.  I stayed away long enough to ensure my husband could get the oven cleaned up and order in pizza.  Happy Anniversary, Lord Honey!  We had actually celebrated with a date night the previous evening, so it wasn't too likely to cause marital devastation, even though we courted each other with me preparing food for him while he worked on my house for free, thus generating a perpetual expectation that I can provide a decent meal every night.  Not so, but whatevs. 

I don't have my tree.  I took last year's Christmas cards off the mantel today.  I have yet to complete the long threatened toy purge although I did at least begin.  But the middle of that project leaves things in a muddle, rather, as the 17 pieces of 17 toy sets are sorted back into a harmonious grouping of like things alike, leaving roughly 1900 pieces of toys on the floor waiting to be grouped.  I have not completed my Christmas shopping, and I have baked nary a treat for my neighbors. 

Eggnog, it's time.  Come to Mama.  Bring Captain Morgan's spiced rum, please. 

Haiku Friday: the brown smear slalom during dinner event

A tired old leaf
rests quietly on our floor
from last summer's pears

What is that, that glob?
Smeared across the kitchen floor?
And behind the chair?

Oh dear, a turdlet
A dingleberry dropped off
the furry beast's bum

Oh horrors, here's more.
Some dollops and a big smudge
strewn hither and yon

What the hell happened?
Lord Honey says "check her paws!"
When you examine

the last paw you check
behold, you find she
stepped in her own crap.

The brown smear slalom
requires hopping, mopping,
cleaning profanely.

We nailed the dismount
had to skip the day's fine meal
but we still medaled.

Today is appreciate my husband day

Except that I accidentally read a blog wherein the blogger had a rant about the unequal division of labor at her house in regards to her husband and the many duties that go along with childrearing, I've been feeling rather pleasant towards Lord Honey today. After I read that blog entry I had to come put this disclaimer on the post I was writing earlier, because, hey, I don't want to like, lie, or fudge the truth, or be less than honest just because this is on the internet, and all. He really doesn't do anything like 50% of the stuff that gets done. Nope. But . . .

Today is be nice to Lord Honey day because he is as we speak, doing work on my parents' house, and he won't be mean later. Not at all.

My parents are not tidy. They are not clean. There are levels and layers of dirt at their house that most people would only see in nightmares. They are trail people. I don't mean they go up and down trails for exercise, I mean there are trails in their house that run between the stacks of things, generally books and periodicals, but all in peril of tipping over. Under the books you can find some general filth and perhaps some old stuff. Under the old stuff will be some other stuff you can't quite identify. As kids, we only invited over people who were also "bookish" since we thought they were the least likely to notice the rest of the story. I can always win the prize in the popular party game "my mother was even crazier than your mother." It hasn't gotten better as they age.

Lord Honey is a professional remodeler, and I am certain he has seen things in other people's homes that are also scary like my parents' house, but he is too nice to talk people down behind their backs. Not like me. So today, when he will help my aging father replace some faucets and do some other plumbing and try to avoid eating any food prepared there, he will be sweet and kind and gentle with my people. So I have to appreciate him today, even if only behind his back, for not telling me anything remarkable about being at their home without me. Today, I will be glad is the strong, silent, and kindly type. Whew. Now back to regular programming. Shhhh. Don't tell.

Tinkle, tinkle from afar

My daughter's physical therapist came to the house for our session today, and of course, I didn't get home early to tidy up before the visit. After I told him that he had apparently been demoted to a person for whom I no longer tidied up, given the frequency of his visits, I gave him the baby and asked him to head downstairs to the family room while I made a bathroom stop. About halfway through what might have been a nice peaceful pee, I remembered that the baby monitor for Hannah's bed is just outside the bathroom door, and everything done in the bathroom can be heard quite clearly in the family room through the monitor. Now, at this point in our lives we just don't have a lot of visitors, or privacy, and certainly not in the bowels of the house, where the receiver is set to loud so we can hear the chirping baby when we spend our few hours downstairs of an evening. I decided it was better to just own up and so I came downstairs and said I was sorry about the oversharing. Mike kindly said he turned the receiver down. He also told me that he would never notice what was found under the sofa cushions should we disassemble my furniture for physical therapy purposes. My mind went towards what I thought we'd find here: popcorn, cheerios, used Kleenex, and small toys. He thought back to finding a crack pipe, and how he and the patient's mom just pretended it hadn't happened. Then I was full of smugness at my virtue in not having any drug paraphernalia and confessing my baby monitor FAIL. Roll of thunder, hear my pee. I'm sayin' it loud! I pee and I'm proud! And, he knows I wash my hands. Don't I just rock? Don't I?

Remember how I said I would be funny soon?

Here it is: no iron sheets.

HA HA HA! Who in their right minds would iron sheets? Especally kids' sheets? Why is this still a selling point? If I had time to iron bedding I'd probably have my photos in albums. Yeah . . . you're gonna have to work on Saturday.