Because, yeah, been doing a lot of random around here lately.
I will confess to not feeling very inspired recently. And it seems like every time I get the urge to sit and write, I get distracted with kids or work or dinner dishes or sleep. And then I come back and all the brilliant thoughts I had have just poof! disappeared from my poor noggin and I’m stuck with things like “Why is France so far away?”
So here’s some random for you. Because random is easy, which is about all I can handle on a Wednesday evening anyway. Especially a Wednesday that involved me and a whole bunch of college juniors and their article analysis papers for Doctrine IV class. (I have this job where I help students with their papers– organization and grammar and punctuation and spelling and all that. I know, right? Who would have thought from reading this blog that I actually do know how to use the English language?)
Today being St. Patrick’s Day, I made green scrambled eggs for breakfast and dyed the boys’ milk green. I thought poor Art was going to hurl at the sight of the eggs, but Stinky saw them and said “OH YUMMY!!!!” and proceeded to gobble them right down. This is the kid who doesn’t like bread and complains about having to eat French fries. But green eggs? No problem. That Sam-I-Am.
I realized the other day that Little One did not own a green shirt, so I made my way to my friendly neighborhood Goodwill and procured one for $1.50. And then didn’t take a single picture all day. Yes. I fail. Truly. I also realized this morning that neither of my boys had green shirts either. Worst mother ever. Tonight at AWANA was green night, and poor Bubs was all worried that he didn’t have any green to wear. So I drew a shamrock on his face with green marker. It’s hard to beat this kind of awesome.
Speaking of AWANA, tonight the story time teacher, Ms. Patty, was using some garbage as an illustration. She asked what you could do with various items instead of throwing them away. And one of the little girls said you could make the egg carton into a coffin for your Polly Pockets.
I’ll just let that settle there for a little while.
A few minutes later, Ms. Patty said that God is always watching us. And one of the little boys popped in with “He is always watching us, and He tells Santa if we’re bad, and then Santa won’t bring us gifts.” There is so much fascinating theology there. Maybe some of those Doctrine IV students should try to deal with that instead of the blah blah dispensational premillennial blah blah whatever.
I love that job. I really do. But those Doctrine IV students did my brain in today.
In other news, Bubba is still pursuing a career as a detective, although he has given up on the Lisuner 2000. Currently he is working on “The Case of the Litter” or something like that. When all the snow on the school playground melted, it revealed great gobs of trash apparently. And Bubba has decided that this is a mystery that he must solve. I would think the great gobs of dog poop in our back yard that have been uncovered thanks to the melting snow would be a clue enough, but Bubs thinks he needs to spy on the playground. And of all the possible spying mechanisms Bubs could have thought up, he has determined that the best method of spying is to build a helicopter out of sticks from the yard and then fly over the playground to catch the litterbugs.
Master of subtlety, that one is.
Why can’t anyone write a series of children’s books where the kids spend all day thinking of new ways to organize their dressers and wash the dishes? The detective genre is getting a bit wearing.
Speaking of the word genre, my friend Holly and I named a tree on our college campus Genre the Unhappy Christmas Tree. This was back a couple several quite a few OKAY FINE TWELVE years ago when we were freshmen and Genre was a scraggly evergreen in a row of big fat ones. I walked past Genre the other day and she seems to be flourishing. That made me happy. I always felt sorry for Genre, being so small when the others were so big.
Of course, I also always felt sorry for the last lonely toilet in the row of toilets in the airport bathroom. I worked in the airport in Omaha in high school. They replaced all the toilets in the ladies’ room with automatic flushers except the last one in the row. No one ever used it. And I thought it must be very sad, and I imagined myself writing a children’s book called The Last Lonely Toilet. A dream which, alas, never came to fruition.
Holy cow aren’t you glad you stopped by today?
Just to make up for that last bit of excruciating randomnessiosity, I think a story about my son is in order. Today we had the following conversation:
Me: Ugh. I’m getting old.
Bubs: You’re not old, Mommy.
Me: You don’t think so?
Bubs: No. You don’t have those, um, bumps.
Bubs: Well, not to be mean, but you know, Grandma has bumps.
Me: What in the world are you talking about?
Bubs: You know? on her hands? Those blue bumps that stick up?
Me: Her veins? Bahahahahaha . . .
(My mom does have very veiny hands. I never knew they were a requirement for being old, but now I do. I’d feel sorry for her, but she brings this upon herself. She will amuse the kids by holding her hand up by her ear so the blood flows out and then putting it down on her lap so you can watch the veins pop up. She does this in church. While my dad is preaching. So she deserves it.)
Maybe I should write a children’s book about that. The Bumpy Hands. Sure to be a best seller.