Well seasoned eggs…



“Mama, I’m sick…”

So this morning, I cooked eggs for my daughters. I know this doesn’t sound that earth shattering, but it is. I’m not a morning person. Or much of a cook. Or patient enough to stand in one place and focus on eggs so that they don’t burn. So it was a win. Times three.

I fed the eggs (with homegrown tomatoes, fresh garlic, local peppers and organic spinach – I was really pulling out all the stops!) to my girls, who of course wanted nothing to do with them. (Murphy’s law of parenting….I’ll get around to writing about it…eventually. Maybe.) So we went to play and my little one, Kathryn, decided that my eggs needed more “feasoning” (this is how she pronounces the word “seasoning”) and dumped a shitton of pepper on them. See the picture for reference.

This reminded me of a time when Susan, my not-quite-five-year-old, was the age the two year old is now. It was morning, and I was generally bitchy (see above). Add to that I was about 6 or 7 months pregnant with the new bean and hadn’t been sleeping well because: fetus. So we came downstairs and I got lost in the land of faceverse. I realized after a too long amount of time that I hadn’t heard much from Susan…and silence is never golden when you have a toddler.

I go into the kitchen and discovered that Susan has come across the pepper we’d left on the table from dinner the night before. She had dumped out all. the. pepper. And then tried to eat it. And succeeded, unfortunately for her. “Mama! It’s too spicy!!!”

So I clean up the baby, clean up the pepper, clean up the kitchen, the table,the floor.

And Susan starts sneezing. A lot.

“MAMA! I’m sick! Why am I sick?!!”

You’re not sick, kid. Just dumb. Two year old dumb, but still. Dumb.


Out of the mouths of babes…

So my husband and I recently purchased our first home, a short sale. Which is truly awesome for my family. It also means we’ve gotten a crash course in home improvement.

Today I was trying to fix something in my dishwasher and I exclaimed “Just get in the hole!” Rather loudly.

Susan, my lovely almost five year old, without missing a beat says “That’s what she said!”

I looked at her, stunned, and said “What did you say?”

She immediately replies “I’m sorry, Mama. Is it supposed to be that’s what your mom says? Or in my pants? It’s really difficult to tell which one is the best choice.”

I mean, she’s not wrong.