Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts

Remember the barf-in-the-car episode following dinner at Olive Garden?

Remember that the Big Guy had lasagna that night?

Remember that we picked up a lasagna on Thursday?

From Olive Garden?

Did I stop to think that most of it would be eaten by the Big Guy (since the missionaries ditched us?)

Did I realize what that meant? Aaiiiiiieeeeee!

It happened just as the spouse and I were heading to bed, tired and worn out from the days activities, (i.e., trying to make a stupid slide show appear in my stupid blog for reasons that seem stupid even to me, the perpetrator) and after the Big Guy had actually been in bed for some time. We won’t say much more than that except that instead of using the photo for this post that I took halfway through the clean-up process (it made me think of crime scene clean-ups since copious amounts of red crystal lite were involved) I used this photo of Peter and Mary because it is gross, yet not as gross as the pics I took of said crime scene. Because, in my book, it is a crime to consume that much lasagna and red crystal lite and then puke it into the sink (use the toilet, Michael, the toilet!!) simply because you have a bit of a tummy ache.

If you are interested in the stats (number of non-virus related pukes since I started this blog, percentage of those pukes that were Olive Garden related and, just for fun, how many toilet floods) I have included them (and the gross photo) at the right hand side towards the bottom of my blog. Just in case you are, you know, fascinated by horror.

A few of my "Abraham Darby" David Austin English Roses--they smell like lemon and sunshine.


It was late and I hadn’t yet fixed dinner. I blame it on the summer time schedule; the kids don't go to school or do homework, my husband, an elementary school teacher, doesn't have to work. So, why should I have to cook dinner? That’s my summertime question. It is my question spring, winter and fall, as well, but I am pretty sure I know the answer to that one. But when everyone is frolicking about, I resent, just a teensy, being the only one who has to adhere to her school year schedule. Besides, I was really tired. It hadn’t even been a full 24 hours since we arrived home from our six hour sojourn at the amusement park and I still hadn’t recovered. Besides, who wants to cook when there are roses such as these about?

My little guy generally doesn’t eat so no need to worry there. My daughter can fix her own bowl of ice cream or cold cereal (hey, it’s okay once or twice a week, right?) and my husband is fully capable of interpreting those stomach pains to mean hunger. He knows where the fridge is, too. No worries, there. My big guy, on the other hand, who has no problem whatsoever acquiring his own breakfast and lunch, seems to be fully and woefully incapable of fixing himself something to eat anytime after 4 o’clock. He will roam around the house (not a long trip, it’s pretty darn small) and say things like, “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?” over and over and over again. When he sees that this elicits no response, he adds this catchy phrase, “BUT, I guess nobody cares . . .” Then he heaves a huge sigh and stands around in a way that threatens “I’m not leaving until you feed me”.

The double decker four piece of bread three layers of lunchmeat and pickles with 6 sides smothered in mustard sandwich in question---my boys wouldn't leave it alone long enough for me to get a non-fuzzy photo of it . . .

The little guy emoting true sandwich appreciation and lust--he's a theatrical type.

There was joy and laughter and generally, life was being enjoyed to its fullest. Who knew it was so easy to avert future therapy disaster?

Meanwhile, I could go back to doing what's really important--smelling the roses.