I don’t even like the goddamn lobsters.
Okay, that’s overstating it. I like lobster, but I generally find crustaceans to be more work than they’re worth.
But Mark does. So when he suggests he go up to the market and get a couple of chicken lobsters to steam for dinner, I agree. If he goes to the market, he will come home with ice cream. Ice cream is always worth the work.
Of course, I am the one scrubbing the beery sludge off the bottom of the lobster pot the next morning. I am choosing to be passive-aggressive about this. It’s a flaw. I’m working on it.
We’re potty training here this fine weekend, which is taxing business. I’m not going to turn this place into a dumping ground for my preschooler poop, but suffice it to say? I am tired of locking horns with The Most Willful Two and Three Quarters Year Old In the History of Ever. Happy Labor Day.
The laundry is endless. Pairs and pairs of tiny Buzz Lightyear briefs.
Two mornings in a row it has been my job to deal with our little bundle of joy, who, for all his clever songs about goats and lovely sweet hugs and kisses, is not always a morning person. This morning, it was just a little chilly in our room, and the down comforter was perfect the way it sometimes is. Lightly molded to my skin, warm without being stifling. The chilly side of the pillow under my sleepy cheek. One foot peeking out from the hem of the covers to test the morning air. Getting out of bed, finding pajamas, reprimanding a cranky little boy for trashing his train set in a fit of pique? Not on my agenda.
And now, because I said I would, I have to bake a batch of muffins.
And wash out the steamer basket for the lobster pot.
And shake off the crabby mood in which I’ve wrapped myself, because the weather is beautiful, I’m not at work, and there’s fresh pee in the potty.