2012
Eggsactly
I thought I’d go all out this year and make gorgeous decorated egg-cup mini vases like these, but then I decided to laugh at myself instead because HONESTLY.
What I did do was help Wombat Mod Podge some strips I’d cut out of the latest phone book, which PacBell so doggedly keeps delivering to our doorstep. Don’t stop believin’!
I blew out four eggs using only a paperclip and the power of my lungs, after which point I was fairly certain I’d also blown out my eardrums, so four eggs was the limit, sorry boys, no more, you’ll have to make do with what we have…Guys? Hey, is anyone even paying attention to the sacrifices I’m making on behalf of allowing you to make secular crafts in honor of a religious holiday? Guys?
*crickets*
I may be deaf now, but whatever.
Wombat did help me, at least, and although his attention span only lasted for as long as it took to complete one and a half eggs, I’m nonetheless blaming him for all imperfections in the final product. They are definitely not my fault, although I will admit that my own attention span topped out after two eggs, which is pretty weenie. Easter is not a holiday for the lazy at heart. At least there are Peeps.
Simon’s out of town until Sunday night, but we’re doing a bit of celebrating without him: free egg hunt at a local park on Saturday, birthday party Sunday afternoon (the one at which Wombat will be the lone three-year-old boy among ten nine-year-old girls), and my first child’s first introduction to the exotic ritual of eating dinner in front of the TV, which Simon and I used to do all the time but he vetoed in the name of “family values.” Bah. Last night we watched The Wiz; I couldn’t convince Wombat the Scarecrow was Michael Jackson until the dancing began, and then he wanted to know who all the other people were who had merely dressed up to play characters in the movie. (Major revelation like WHOA.) “Nipsey Russell? That’s a funny name, Mom!” Indeed, son. Indeed.
Happy weekend, folks!
2012
Nestbuilding
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I’m not sure I’d call it nesting. Nesters, I think, feel an incontrovertible urge to clean things Hyperbole-and-a-Half-style because some primal cavewoman instinct has convinced them that only savages would allow a new baby to live in a home whose packed-earth floor hasn’t been deep cleaned in months. I, on the other hand, am just organizingcleaningsanitizing ALL THE THINGS;trade& because (a) the things need it and (b) I know from experience that it sure as hell ain’t gonna happen once the baby’s here, even if I chanced to find in some neglected corner of our humble abode a sturdy tree limb from which to hang Mompth’s papooseboard so I could vacuum cobwebs from the ceiling fan. As mothers have been doing for millennia.
My birthday is in a month, and if anyone asks what I want, I have two requests:
1. a steam mop
2. opera-length gloves (matte black)
Because I am nothing if not magnanimous, rather than hog the spoils, I’ve vowed to share my gifts with my beloved spouse: He can wield the steam mop while I supervise at the other end of my new matte black opera-length gloves.
I’m pregnant and exhausted and the nerves in my back are constantly pinched, and Simon…well, Simon’s tenure as whipping boy at the company he worked at for almost two years ended two Fridays ago, and although I’m completely sensitive to what this means for both our family’s finances and its morale, I’ve probably made a few mistakes in how I’ve handled certain things.
Mistake 1: Not twenty-four hours after the job dramz went down, I insisted we blow $50 on giant plastic bins to facilitate my non-nesting frenzy of wild-eyed organization because IT’S FOR THE BAYBEEEEEE.
Mistake 2: Do you…I…Um…Is it perhaps a bit emasculating to refer to my newly unemployed husband as “my house gnome”? To my coworkers? In front of our son? I think maybe that was a bad idea.
Nevertheless, the house has never looked so great! Well done, Dobby!
(That perfectly describes the usual state of things.)
