We’ve decided that “What am I doing in a pteranadon nest?” is a pertinent question for all situations.
The boys may one day curse me for calling them “chickadudes” but I sure am glad they let me get away with it right now.
Even if small talk with construction workers about the warmth and comfort of my Vibram FiveFingers were the only thing I got out of them, it would still probably be worth wearing them. (That and they are cheaper than normal running shoes and give me fewer blisters.)
I realized this week that I’ve lost faith that God will provide me a quarter in the street when I’m a little short on my laundry money. Apparently I’ve got to clean my clothes all by myself.
There is nothing quite as amusing as hearing yourself in the voice of a two-year-old. “Boy howdy?” he’ll ask in his little voice, making sure he’s heard it right. “That’s right! Boy howdy!” (“Say it again, Son, say it again!”)
Give a 4-year-old a joke and he can laugh himself silly for the better part of a day. That includes, of course, the silly, nonsensical derivatives he comes up with on his own. It’s enough to make doing the laundry the preferred chore of 100% of mothers in this household.
I probably should have been supervising more closely when I allowed my toddler to place a cardboard box of pasta right next to the open flame that was boiling the water that would eventually cook the pasta. Tragedy averted, but lesson probably not actually learned.
I’m still trying to figure out how 20 degrees could be a perfectly acceptable temperature for running some years but this year anything lower than 35 seems like a really, really bad idea.
Can we talk about “The Little Match Girl”? Like, who decided it would be a good idea to turn that story into a picture book? And why must my children continue to torture me by picking it as a bedtime story? Not that I don’t think it’s a powerful story, and well told . . . but the girl dies. Freezes to death. On the streets of a busy city. I feel culpable.
And, finally, here’s some more fuel for my Olympic dreams.