Mommy took the family out to dinner last night -- haven't been to the Olive Garden in at least a year, and we just wanted to get out. Casey skipped his nap and apparently spent the afternoon giggling. I'm not sure what he thought was so funny, but after the first 20 minutes I'd been home, I started to think that maybe it was the oxygen deprivation. That stuff's hilarious. So yeah, let's take the Joker here to a restaurant, great idea.
As it turned out, he was well behaved once we were there. Except for the moment when he decided to try his crayons on a soup bowl instead of his paper placemat, I didn't feel any discipline was required, and that's a smashing success for a restaurant outing these days.
But we weren't pushing our luck either, so we weren't about to linger once his considerable appetite for breadsticks ran out. We asked the waitress to box up our food to go. Casey was back to coloring happily when she started removing plates, and as soon as she lifted mommy's ravioli from the table, Casey stopped coloring, whipped his head up, and shouted, "Hey, give that back!"
Where'd THAT come from?
Anyway, lessons on politeness can come later. Today I'm proud he's standing up for himself, protecting his family's food, and speaking in surprisingly well-formed sentences while he does it. Gold star, Casey.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Neurosis revealed!
Steve pointed out that I've been more open about my neuroses lately. Can't explain that, but I can substantiate it.
Here's my nightmare scenario: I'm stranded on a tropical island, and the only abundant source of food is coconuts. Starve to death or subsist on coconuts? I just don't know.
How hungry would I have to be to eat coconut? If I reached that point, would I still hate the coconut? Or could I actually achieve such a level of hunger and delirium that I could mitigate the awfulness of coconut? As I ate and satisfied hunger, would I then reach a point at which my coconut hatred would return, and I would be unable to eat further? I mean, then my life becomes a balancing act where I manage two levels of acute suffering, only eating enough coconut to reach that point again where coconut aversion exceeds my desperation. See what I mean? Maybe it's better just to starve to death.
And if it's pickles, I will never be hungry enough. Never.
Here's my nightmare scenario: I'm stranded on a tropical island, and the only abundant source of food is coconuts. Starve to death or subsist on coconuts? I just don't know.
How hungry would I have to be to eat coconut? If I reached that point, would I still hate the coconut? Or could I actually achieve such a level of hunger and delirium that I could mitigate the awfulness of coconut? As I ate and satisfied hunger, would I then reach a point at which my coconut hatred would return, and I would be unable to eat further? I mean, then my life becomes a balancing act where I manage two levels of acute suffering, only eating enough coconut to reach that point again where coconut aversion exceeds my desperation. See what I mean? Maybe it's better just to starve to death.
And if it's pickles, I will never be hungry enough. Never.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Darn it, Casey
This morning I prepared for work as usual and was about to leave the house -- all I needed was my ID badge, which I'd left on the nightstand over the weekend. But it was gone.
Probably fell on the floor, I thought, so I scoured the area around the bed. But I still couldn't find it. I turned some lights on -- the ability to get into the office is kind of important, so I wasn't about to leave without the badge. I didn't want to disturb Erika, who needs all the sleep the kids let her get, but I had to find that badge. She's a light sleeper and already knew what was going on and asked if I was looking for the badge. She said she hadn't seen it in the laundry or anything, to which I told her everything I already knew: it wouldn't be in the laundry, because I left it on this table, and I know that for certain, and I know you wouldn't move it, and I know I didn't move it, and that means that a child has moved it, and that means that it could be anywhere.
When I hadn't turned it up myself within another minute, she got up to help me look. I started checking the floor and the toy bins in the living room and was starting to think about whether Casey might have dropped it down the laundry chute when Erika called from the bedroom: "I got it!" She emerged, handed me the badge, and smiled at me. "You have to think like a child," she explained. "It was in the CD player."
Probably fell on the floor, I thought, so I scoured the area around the bed. But I still couldn't find it. I turned some lights on -- the ability to get into the office is kind of important, so I wasn't about to leave without the badge. I didn't want to disturb Erika, who needs all the sleep the kids let her get, but I had to find that badge. She's a light sleeper and already knew what was going on and asked if I was looking for the badge. She said she hadn't seen it in the laundry or anything, to which I told her everything I already knew: it wouldn't be in the laundry, because I left it on this table, and I know that for certain, and I know you wouldn't move it, and I know I didn't move it, and that means that a child has moved it, and that means that it could be anywhere.
When I hadn't turned it up myself within another minute, she got up to help me look. I started checking the floor and the toy bins in the living room and was starting to think about whether Casey might have dropped it down the laundry chute when Erika called from the bedroom: "I got it!" She emerged, handed me the badge, and smiled at me. "You have to think like a child," she explained. "It was in the CD player."
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