I.
Am.
So.
Sick.
Of.
Renovations.
Our house is starting to feel more like a house now, though. Goodbye mint green kitchen and hello sage green kitchen. Yes, we went to all the trouble of taping, moving furniture into the middle of the room and keeping intrigued eight-month-old and overzealous "helping" four-year-old gremlin paws out of the paint just to change the hue a little bit.
I admit to being a huge snob when it comes to paint colour. I'm a visual person, much like that guy who tells his girlfriend she needs to lose those five pounds. Except I don't have a girlfriend, and even if I did, I would be incredibly hypocritical if I told her to lay off the donuts. And then she might yell at me, throw my clothes out the window and burn our couple pictures.
Good thing I don't have a girlfriend.
I thought I might do more outdoor-type things and bought some discounted plants. A gardener I am not, but I like to pretend. If plants could grow legs and run, they most certainly would at the sight of me. The problem is simple: plants can't scream. They have no audible way to tell me they need care, and I am far too busy to notice little things like drooping leaves or stalks burned to a crisp from a week in the sun.
Generally, my gardens look fabulous in June and are nearly obliterated by July. Except this year I've fooled Mother Nature in the best way possible: I won't be finished planting until mid-July. Hah! Take that, you crunchy old hag. You won't defeat me this year! I'll have delicious lush gardens until at least the first week in August!
So anyway, now that I'm finished with my tangent... The long and short of this is that I bought plants and bought soil and bought gardening gloves... and it's bloody raining outside.
I think Gutsy must have handed in one of his 'Piss on Mom's Parade' cards he got from Satan for all the time-outs he's been given this week. He has the worst attitude ever. I think Super Nanny would run crying in the other direction after a weekend with this kid. He's eviler than she is. He's as predictable as a tornado and about as destructive. I think the child deserves his own documentary.
He also, just to spite me, I'm sure, woke up with pink eye today.
Don't tell me it's not deliberate; he's the only one with goopey eyes. He obviously befriended the Demon of Lesser Plagues and asked for something funny to pass around to his family members. I've washed my hands so much today they're raw.
Oh! And the best part? He's decided that he's going to be sweet and cuddly today. We've all received more hugs than I can count, with eye goop smearing on our clothes in the process. Normally I'm hard pressed to get one or two hugs in a day, in which I'm doing most of the hugging and he's doing something closely resembling a stiff stand.
Good thing for breastmilk, baby. Liquid gold. It's cured more eye infections than Rosie O'Donnell has pissed off celebrities. I got some drops just in case, but our first line of defense is homemade. I've decided this time not to squirt it directly in his eye as I'm sure saying 'Mommy put her booby in my face' might not go over so well with neighbours or subsequent authority figures. For as much as he's driving me nuts, I'm not quite at the point where I'm considering preschooler relocation options.
I just had to pause a minute because Intrepid came out from the playroom to tell me about *ick* the anime show he's watching.
I really don't like anime very much. Well, not the kind he likes. YOU KNOW: THE KIND WHERE THEY YELL REALLY REALLY LOUD INSTEAD OF TALKING AND MAKE EXAGGERATED FACIAL EXPRESSIONS AND BATTLE EVERYONE AND DEFEAT EVERYTHING AND GAIN LEVELS?!?!?!?!?!
It's very difficult to feign interest when he comes into the kitchen to give me updates on the commercials. I try very hard, I do. I deserve a medal or some chocolate.
Speaking of which, it's time to apply some chocolate brown paint to the accent wall in the livingroom/diningroom.
Trust me. It's going to be terribly sexy. As sexy as me.
No, no... I was kidding. For real sexy, not post-three-children sexy.
Am.
So.
Sick.
Of.
Renovations.
Our house is starting to feel more like a house now, though. Goodbye mint green kitchen and hello sage green kitchen. Yes, we went to all the trouble of taping, moving furniture into the middle of the room and keeping intrigued eight-month-old and overzealous "helping" four-year-old gremlin paws out of the paint just to change the hue a little bit.
I admit to being a huge snob when it comes to paint colour. I'm a visual person, much like that guy who tells his girlfriend she needs to lose those five pounds. Except I don't have a girlfriend, and even if I did, I would be incredibly hypocritical if I told her to lay off the donuts. And then she might yell at me, throw my clothes out the window and burn our couple pictures.
Good thing I don't have a girlfriend.
I thought I might do more outdoor-type things and bought some discounted plants. A gardener I am not, but I like to pretend. If plants could grow legs and run, they most certainly would at the sight of me. The problem is simple: plants can't scream. They have no audible way to tell me they need care, and I am far too busy to notice little things like drooping leaves or stalks burned to a crisp from a week in the sun.
Generally, my gardens look fabulous in June and are nearly obliterated by July. Except this year I've fooled Mother Nature in the best way possible: I won't be finished planting until mid-July. Hah! Take that, you crunchy old hag. You won't defeat me this year! I'll have delicious lush gardens until at least the first week in August!
So anyway, now that I'm finished with my tangent... The long and short of this is that I bought plants and bought soil and bought gardening gloves... and it's bloody raining outside.
I think Gutsy must have handed in one of his 'Piss on Mom's Parade' cards he got from Satan for all the time-outs he's been given this week. He has the worst attitude ever. I think Super Nanny would run crying in the other direction after a weekend with this kid. He's eviler than she is. He's as predictable as a tornado and about as destructive. I think the child deserves his own documentary.
He also, just to spite me, I'm sure, woke up with pink eye today.
Don't tell me it's not deliberate; he's the only one with goopey eyes. He obviously befriended the Demon of Lesser Plagues and asked for something funny to pass around to his family members. I've washed my hands so much today they're raw.
Oh! And the best part? He's decided that he's going to be sweet and cuddly today. We've all received more hugs than I can count, with eye goop smearing on our clothes in the process. Normally I'm hard pressed to get one or two hugs in a day, in which I'm doing most of the hugging and he's doing something closely resembling a stiff stand.
Good thing for breastmilk, baby. Liquid gold. It's cured more eye infections than Rosie O'Donnell has pissed off celebrities. I got some drops just in case, but our first line of defense is homemade. I've decided this time not to squirt it directly in his eye as I'm sure saying 'Mommy put her booby in my face' might not go over so well with neighbours or subsequent authority figures. For as much as he's driving me nuts, I'm not quite at the point where I'm considering preschooler relocation options.
I just had to pause a minute because Intrepid came out from the playroom to tell me about *ick* the anime show he's watching.
I really don't like anime very much. Well, not the kind he likes. YOU KNOW: THE KIND WHERE THEY YELL REALLY REALLY LOUD INSTEAD OF TALKING AND MAKE EXAGGERATED FACIAL EXPRESSIONS AND BATTLE EVERYONE AND DEFEAT EVERYTHING AND GAIN LEVELS?!?!?!?!?!
It's very difficult to feign interest when he comes into the kitchen to give me updates on the commercials. I try very hard, I do. I deserve a medal or some chocolate.
Speaking of which, it's time to apply some chocolate brown paint to the accent wall in the livingroom/diningroom.
Trust me. It's going to be terribly sexy. As sexy as me.
No, no... I was kidding. For real sexy, not post-three-children sexy.