I really don’t mean to be one of “those” people. You know the type – the ones that insist on sharing every precocious thing that comes out of their offspring’s mouth. But honestly, remedy there’s so much little else worth mentioning going on in my life that I can’t help it. (that is unless you want to be regaled with stories of the two day training course I just suffered through enjoyed, viagra or why the poop I have to clean off the dining room carpet is not animal in origin for a change)
I awoke Monday morning to the sound of fussing, rehabilitation which is getting to be par for the course. Peanut is not a morning person. (which is good – we were starting to wonder if she had been switched at birth with all the early chirpiness) On this morning, however, she wasn’t getting out of bed. She was sitting, square up against the wall at the head of the bed, crying. When asked what the matter was, she informed me that there was a monster in the room. The monster was sitting on the pillow at the bottom of the bed, and it was eating pudding.
I made a big, noisy show of shooing the monster out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door. I told it not to come back. Peanut hopped happily out of bed. I am a hero.
ATTENTION ALL INTERNETS In a previous post I may have inadvertantly given the impression that my mother’s house is not lovely. I plead a lack of time to proof read, considering that by the time I get home from work and play with the girls and get them to bed and attempt to help DH with household things (quit laughing, I said attempt) and fire up the computer and check the backlog of e-mails and decide to tap out a quick, rambling post that I figure a maximum of 10 people might ever read, my sentence building skills might be a bit lax. I could edit the post and remove the specious portion of the post, but some people might miss it. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression, so everyone listen up: My parents’ house is the very picture of loveliness and genteel, renovated charm. It exudes beauty like a jelly donut exudes jelly when you bite into it and realize, belatedly, that you’re wearing a white dryclean-only shirt. Far be it from me to imply that my parents raised me in a pig sty (even though my portion of the house was frequently compared to such) or that their inability to afford a palatial estate befitting my discerning standards in some way scarred me for life.