When I asked my son to vacuum the floor the other day, the roar of the vacuum must’ve loosened his tongue because, as he jerked the sucker-thingy back and forth across the kitchen tiles, this is what came out of his mouth:
“I have one question above all else: how did it all start?”
“How did we invent things?”
“How did people get started?”
“Is the Bible real or was it all made up by children?”
“Is God real?”
Then he switched from question spouting to whistling and I, having never made a single peep, scurried to my desk and jotted it all down.
Several days ago we had an awful morning that involved the three youngest in simultaneous meltdown mode. It was perfectly horrendous. As part of the rehabilitation plan, after rest time and lunch (note the reversed order), they were told they had to play together nicely for awhile before they could do anything else.
They decided to make cooked carrots with brown butter.
They made two batches. Skillets, tongs, saucepans, peelers, and little Beatrix Potter dishes were involved.
I have a feeling—for I did not supervise the merry mayhem—a splendidly excessive amount of butter was consumed.
And there you have it, two disjointed thoughts from the brain of a tired and disjointed mama. It’s all I have to give, so it’s all you’re going to get.