I hear horror stories about the dreaded "Mother's Day breakfast in bed," where moms are forced to smile and choke down soggy Froot Loops or lumpy pancakes missing the salt while their children stare at them.
Luckily, I don't have to worry about that. Phillip's a food snob, remember? I breakfast like the Queen of England on Mother's Day.
I was so focused on getting it all in my face I didn't take a picture, but this year Phillip whipped up the most delicious breakfast sandwich I've ever had: scrambled eggs with avocado and tomato slices on a toasted English muffin, topped with a special sauce of which he won't reveal the ingredients. He says he invented the recipe and is keeping it a secret "so I still need him around."
I'm slightly concerned about what's going to happen to my sandwiches in the event that he dies first. I think the recipe needs to go in his will, just in case.
After breakfast, the next best thing about Mother's Day is seeing the kids' handmade cards. There were some very creative ones this year, but this one seemed to really resonate with me:
|From our 11-year-old, who probably never wants children of her own.|
This kid gets it. She really gets it.
Lately our preschooler has been waking up two or three times a night for various ridiculous reasons (hence the card) and waking up the sisters who share her room.
With no other bedrooms and our older girls looking like extras from the set of Thriller when they get up for school in the morning, we had no other choice but to find an alternate sleeping arrangement for the preschooler until she starts sleeping through the night again.
|Taken right after reading her favorite bedtime story, Goodnight Toilet. I mean, Goodnight Moon.|
Yes, we put her on a mattress in the master bathroom.
Actually, she likes it, which creates a whole new problem because now she doesn't want to move out. I worry that she and her dolly are going to be sleeping in our bathroom until she goes to college.
Movie night has always just been Family Time in our house, but now that we're getting older children, sometimes that means a 3-year-old is watching The Hobbit.
We've tried just having me leave the room with the little kids during the scary parts, which works okay but it means that I miss all the good parts.
Last time, we put the younger kids to bed, then swore the older ones to secrecy and to silence if we put on a movie. Also okay, but Phillip still talks about the first time he wandered downstairs in the night as a child to find his parents and older siblings sitting around the TV with ice cream without him. He's 34. This method works, but it obviously leaves lasting emotional scars.
This week I finished packing away the kids' winter boots for another year, a new record for me because we still have several weeks before June hits! (I know, I'm impressed with me, too.)
I also decided that all their previously outgrown boots (stored in the basement until they can be handed down to the next kid) needed to be reorganized. I pulled a pink pair out of the box, threw it across the room to where I was piling up the boots, and a SHOWER of little seeds went flying everywhere.
Mice have been stealing our birdseed and hoarding it inside my kids' outgrown boots.
Phillip thinks it's "cute" that they're storing seeds for winter in such a funny way. I'm this close to vomiting and think we should burn the house down immediately.
We'll probably compromise and set up some mouse traps.
On my way to the library, I drove behind this car:
|Really likes tuna.|
While I was sweeping up the mid-sized mountain of food on the floor after dinner last night, my 3-year-old came over with her plastic toy cell phone and started pressing the button that makes camera noises.
I asked what she was doing and she answered, "Taking pictures of the mess for my blog" and continued snapping away.
I fear for how this blog might be molding her young brain.