… because I have a cold that makes me feel droopy. I even skipped church council last night because of my high snot levels, and it’s really not at all like me to skip evening outings. Instead, eight-thirty found me snuggled under my down comforter, cup of camomile tea in hand, a video in the boob tube. I slept in till seven-thirty this morning.
I’m making vanilla bean ice cream—David Lebovitz’s recipe. The rich custard smells good, even through this thick cold.
Sweetsie drags herself around the house, fussing and sucking her thumb. She’s been doing this for as long as we’ve known her, and we’re finally beginning to wonder if she has more extensive allergies. Mr. Handsome took her to the specialist yesterday and had the jolly privilege of restraining her during her skin pricks and lab work. We’ll find out the results sometime next week.
Last week The Baby Nickel threw a rock and it accidentally hit Yo-Yo’s hand. (Apparently, Yo-Yo was digging around in the rock pile that Nickel was trying to add to, or something like that.) Anyway, Yo-Yo screamed bloody murder and didn’t let me look at his finger, choosing instead to bandage it up himself. After a week of being tightly bandaged, Yo-Yo started to complain that his hand was hurting worse. And it stunk. This morning, after I imparted a series of stern commands, Yo-Yo painstakingly removed the band-aids, piece by smelly piece. I made him soak it, and after he dried it, Yo-Yo looked at the finger and then freaked, “I need another band-aid! It’s leaking oil!” I scrutinized his finger, trying not to breath too deeply, and then stated bluntly, “That’s puss. Your finger is rotting.” Since then he has been rather docile about following my directions.
After his Saturday night bath, The Baby Nickel slipped on the tile floor and took a bite out of the toilet. Literally. There is a tooth-mark indentation on the toilet seat, and he knocked his top tooth loose. Sometimes after biting into a hard crust of bread or some granola, a look of shocked surprise and intense pain washes over his face. I’m hopeful the tooth will re-adhere, but I guess it’s not the end of the world if it turns brown and falls out. At least that’s what the experts say.
I didn’t get a picture of it, but last night Miss Becca Boo had me put her hair up into eight ponytails. Normally, she’s quite the ditz, floppy and spastic and random, and her new hair-do just served to intensify those personality traits. (An example of her zany sense of humor: the other night she ringed her mouth with applesauce, puckered up, and then said, with a snooty voice and her nose in the air, to Mr. Handsome, “Kiss me, Husband!”)