There’s something particularly stinging about being mocked (sweetly) by one’s own Grandma. I called to ask about the specifics of cooking a roast, since I bought a huge hunk o’ beef off a local farmer at the farmer’s market this morning.
Once she realized I wasn’t kidding, she equipped me with a seemingly simple plan of action.
Should my meager kitchen attempts prove fatal, I bequeath this blog to…anyone, I guess, because surely it won’t be more neglected than it already is.
Speaking of which, how many non-monetized toddler Mommy blogs are out there that are updated regularly? I’d like to see the stats on just how many moms who work full-time (either wrangling their possessed offspring or outside the home) collapse at the end of another day of mitigating howls of injustice and screams of discontent, and still have the brain power to string coherent sentences together.
Andrew is a wonderful, engaging, brilliant child. Except for when he’s not. Then he’s a whirling dervish of pissed-offed-ness, with little understanding of what set him off in the first place. I love him deeply and am so thankful to be his mama, even when he is thrust into full on rigor mortis tantrum action because I cannot peel a banana while carrying him and all our crap to the car in the morning. At that point, I’m also thankful for daycare. Not going to lie.
Tomorrow, I will get him back around lunch and hopefully take him out to my parents’ for the day, so there can be bubbles, hugs and more of this: