Is it feed a cold, or starve one? I can never remember, although I'm not sure it makes a difference since I've never been able to starve myself. Or even go a couple of hours without food, for that matter. Here I am with a stuffy nose, sore throat and a headache, but I'm wondering what we have to eat and wishing that McDonald's delivered. I suppose I should be grateful I don't weigh 500 pounds with how much bacon I cook with.
Do all children look at their mother like they've never seen her before and have absolutely no idea what language she is speaking, or am I the only one blessed with this frustration? It never happens when I announce that the chocolate cake is ready, or that it's time to go to the park to play. No, I only become unrecognizable when I ask them to not stand on the dining room table, or tell them to stop stuffing their mouths with fruit snacks and throwing themselves backward off the arm of the couch onto the cushions. That's when they look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock, speaking Swahili. Why am I the bad guy for trying to keep them alive? And why do they become so much more thrill seeking when I'm at my worst? They wait until I'm near death, then start moving furniture for greater distance on the jumps from couch to chair to ottoman. After spending the last 3 hours distracting them from death defying acts, I think I've convinced them to live another day. Right now they've got my exercise ball in the office and are hitting it back and forth with tennis rackets. I can live with that, and what's more- they can too.
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