Here's the non-related visual interest for this entry. I got dreadlocks a few weeks ago (still haven't washed 'em, Mark). Brooks posted his status update on Facebook as such: "Have a Christmas as big as my wife's hair". I obliged him with a photo (guest-starring my sister Lindsey).
What I really want to write about is how Brooks, the boys and I left the house today to go shopping. We returned three hours later to discover that I had forgot to turn the gas burner off on the stove and nuked an entire pot of split pea soup. The house was filled with smoke, of course, and stinks so bad that at this writing I am wearing a respirator mask to keep from getting a headache. And its been nine hours since we came home.
I'm mad. I'm mad because I've been working on that soup for days now, starting it from the bone of the Christmas ham. I'm mad because I thought I was ahead of the game, adding the remaining vegetables this morning so supper would already be taken care of. I'm mad because there goes a perfectly good pot. I'm mad because I'm only thirty-five and this kind of forgetfulness shouldn't be happening so soon.
Admittedly, I was trying to juggle a lot today. Now that the tile was done, I had been making a big push to finish the rest of the bathroom before the holiday break is over. The plumber was due any minute to set the toilet and I still had to finish cleaning the tile around it. I knew the boys would be getting hungry any minute (see how the soup would have been so handy?) so I dashed upstairs to cook up some cottage fries. Not about to make the same mistake, I ran back to spray the tile saying, "Don't forget the potatoes. Don't forget the potatoes." Well, I didn't forget the potatoes. But while I was downstairs, a dishtowel next to the stove caught on fire and in addition it set aflame a wooden spoon I had left on top of it. (Incidentally, why is it that I can't get a campfire going to save my life but can make a nice little marshmallow-roaster on my kitchen counter without even being present?)
"@#$%&!," I say softly as I come on to the scene.
"Mom, did you just say the @#&%&! word?" Brahm wants to know. He's in the next room playing a computer game.
"Yes," I concede, "but that's because the kitchen is on fire."
Oliver is next. "Just because the kitchen is on fire doesn't make it OK to say that word, Mom."
OK, so maybe I should take a lesson from my mother. She is known to leave written reminders to herself scattered about her home so as to stay on track. This image (swiped from my sister Mindy's blog) serves to illustrate my point:
After today, here's what I'm thinking mine should look like: