Saturday, December 26, 2009

Special Agent

The C.I.A. should be recruiting me any day now. My interrogation skills are supreme. Not bragging's just a fact.

I walked into the kitchen this morning to find Evan in a puddle of spilled cereal. His pajamas looked like Swiss Cheese because of the holes freshly cut in them.

Me: Evan? What happened to your pajamas? Why are there holes in them?

Evan: There's no holes. ( With a tone that implied "you silly, silly woman)

Me: Evan, I see the holes and I see the scissors on the floor. Don't lie to Mom.

Evan: There's no holes.

Oh to be young again and not even flinch at a bald face lie.

Me: What color were the scissors you used to cut your pajamas?

Evan: (starting to squirm now) sharp ones.

Me: That's what I thought.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Tajma Super Fance

I'm in a good mood this morning. I'm purely tickled with my lot. The kids have bed heads and milk moustaches and are chasing each other around with uncooked spaghetti noodle swords. Jemma is warm and floppy fresh out of her crib. Her cheeks are pink and I love the sound of her nursing to beat the band first thing in the morning. When I nurse this baby I feel like I could take down 50 rabid tigers in a field of broken glass with bare feet...the mothering urge is so strong. Is that weird? I want to absorb her!

I went in my room to answer the phone. That's not interesting, but this is: Earlier this week I was bummed that I had no paint or furniture to decorate this big room with. I saw it as an empty place. Today though, I walked in and the covers were pulled back and a sun beam had landed on my blue snowman flannel sheets. The pillows were askew, the room was every bit as empty as before with nothing more than outdated night stands and a lamp with no shade. But something about the sun warming that little spot on my bed... and the tiny particles of dust even glowed with contentment...that room looked like the presidential Taj MaSuper Fancy suite of the universe. I was grateful for it and didn't want anything else.

I was feeding Jemma in her highchair and a feather from an upstairs comforter somehow floated down stairs, around the corner, into the kitchen and right above Jemma's sticky face. She reached for it and bounced in her chair. It was like a scene out of Forrest Gump.

The vacuum-like draw of my bed beckoned us back and the kids and I lounged around like lazy island natives with not a care. Afton stroked the bit of my calf that peeked out of my terry cloth p.j. bottoms. How perfectly satisfied I was. Then Afton said, "You need to shave your whiskers mom. You must have like 2000 whiskers." I wonder if there really are 2000? I'm too stupidly happy to care.