Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Reba got in Friday, packed her overnight bag and sleeping bag, and was gone with the older girls in a blur and a flash. Would that they could get ready for church so quickly.
So, there I was with the two littler ones, both complaining of intense starvation. I told them to go turn on the television and anesthetize themselves with SpongeBob for a while, because Daddy had some work to do before there was any food cooking to be done. Laundry, you know. Jeans (two piles), darks, boy underwear and towels, girl underwear and delicates, reds. And various bedspreads and comforters that had been dampened by a certain Tiny Girl who occasionally still has mornings where she dreams she’s gone to the bathroom. But hasn’t. Those go in first.
Piles made, a quick mental note made of the order in which they should be done--since it’s evening, we first wash the stuff that can be left in the drier overnight in case I don’t feel energetic enough to stay awake and fold them. Which I never do. So, smelly blankets, jeans (two loads), then the towels and boy underwear. Nothing that will matter if it’s wrinkled.
With the machinery humming and sloshing along, it was time to fix supper. Hmm. Something fast. There’s tons of various leftover stuff in the refrigerator, and an equal amount of non-leftovers in the deep freeze. But, I want something quick, that they’ll eat and not fuss about. Hmmm. Ahhhh.
“Hey, you jaybirds want the rest of the pot stickers!?”
We’d gotten a giant bag of chicken and cabbage pot stickers at Sam’s a couple of weeks ago, and we were finally down to the last few. 18, to be exact, enough for each of us to have six, and enough for us to have highly explosive flatulence for the next 48 hours. (As opposed to the more normal, less-explosive variety we usually possess.)
I plopped those (the pot stickers, not the kids) in some boiling water and unloaded the dishes and put them away and reloaded the dishwasher, and then it was time for some good Chinese eating. And then, LET THE GAMES BEGIN!
“DADDY! Can we all play ‘Life’? PLEEEEEASE?”
I looked at the clock. Eh, whatever.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
They finished up and ran off to get the game while I finished putting the rest of the dirty plates in the dishwasher, swapped laundry loads, and settled in for a game that turned out to be remarkably unlike what I remember from my own childhood.
NEXT: Man, them kids gotta lot to learn about life!
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