The long-term effects of little-boy sounding?

This morning I find myself pondering what might be the long-term side effects of unceasing exposure to the noises, utterances, dialogue, monologue and sounds that bubble forth constantly from two small boys I know, ages 6 and 3. Last night a committee I co-chair at J's school hosted a guided meditation based on a book about silence and finding the voice within by a Quaker author, Rex Ambler. We did this last year around this time, and I absolutely loved it. Having attended several of these sessions since, I'm always struck by how different my experiences are despite the fact that the meditative prompts are the same. I've felt  invigorated to enervated but witness the entirety of that spectrum in a deeply calm way. Last night I felt as if a thick blanket had settled over me, making it difficult to meditate well (seemingly so), but showing me just how very much I needed and could take advantage of the gift of an hour to focus only on myself.

In any case, 5:49am today brought all back to our norm with Oliver requesting his MIA tool sheet and imploring the sun light to come on while Jack built Legos and later yelled at Ol to "please give me privacy, I'm in the bathroom." And since then T and I have looked at each other, with somewhat wild and desperate eyes, wondering just how many more irritating other-languages, rapping snowmen (you know those drugstore holiday items that sing/dance when you press a button? we get them as gifts and the kids go nuts for them but all three at a time is truly a cacophonous torture), inane arguments and so forth we can stand before 7:30am. Perennial tiredness. Ah, just let me get my latte and a good breakfast in me.

I want to make a shrimp creole this week as well as some sort of braised bean dish. Will keep you posted!

Languid Tuesday, really!

Oh, today has been much-needed and much-enjoyed. It's weirdly warm again, and while it's totally unnatural, my feet have not complained about slipping into sandals rather than socks and boots. Carpool, cleaning, cooking- the regular Cs of my daily life. I made two dozen scones and some lemon curd for a faculty meeting at J's school this afternoon; the scones are just out of the oven and the smell is enveloping me like the ultimate luxe robe. Percy and I enjoyed a nice walk, my house looks much tidier than it did this morning, and I've gotten quite a bit done organizationally. I am full-on in the Christmas spirit. It's funny how loathsome I find Thanksgiving (in the sense of how I feel during and immediately afterwards; best summed up as such- I dislike it "with the white hot passion of 10,000 suns" a la KP though she refers to New Years Eve) but how chock-full of youthful joy I am imbued with come December 1. The tree! The mantle! Garlands! Stockings! Presents! I have even been taken over by a wild desire to make scads of holiday cookies even though I don't really eat them and recently made some ridiculously large, impulsive order of decorative sugars and edible pearls from the Natural Candy store (I am glad to know about this shop, but nonetheless, this order was a bit silly) in advance of some cookie making marathon that is not yet more than a figment of my mind. I'll take this versus Thanksgiving blahs any day!

Off for some lunch and then to school to set up for the meeting. And, as a bit of eye-candy, a cute pic of Mr. O.

Allllllmmmoooost over the edge

Today was positively summery- I wore capris and flip-flops if you can believe it. Something is afoot in our climate, yes? I think so. 60+ in December? When I picked J up at school - who, by this time had shed both hoodies and was down to his t-shirt- he sighed dramatically and said, "I guess it's going to be another warm winter." Poor buddy, he's probably correct. It's not normal, peeps, not right.

Although mostly good, today just felt extremely long. Oliver was plagued by an interior-butt itch that commenced before school this morning and which still required intense scratching tonight. Ultimately I said I could not handle any more scratching or conversation about butt-itches and get in the bath. Now. Too, one would have thought the children were in training to be negotiators, walking folks off ledges both figurative and real. And I finally decreed that what I said goes as I just could not be pushed back on one more completely inane thing like, "can't I please wear my entire Spiderman outfit to bed?"  "No, Mr. Just Has Completed Nighttime Potty-training, you cannot, because the Spidey suit velcroes up the back, and I'm not coming to get you out and back into it in the middle of the night." As a Spidey aside, yesterday J went to a friend's birthday party and there, a terrific face-painter was on hand. J refuses to let paint come near his face so always opts for arm-painting instead. Look at these fab web-shooters he came home with- wow! 

The tart and handpies I made for the catering order looked absolutely perfect and scrumptious; some that got away so to speak. But that's OK because I decided to make a taleggio polento cake onto which you could serve as much kale or mushrooms as you want. It is Meatless Monday, and I did have all this gorgeous stuff from the FM yesterday. Et voila! The shallot-tarragon-cream sauce didn't look pretty around the polenta (which is why you won't see a picture of it; looks like a dead body of some sort) but it did taste yummy. I liked this. A lot.

PS- I did muster the will to make the shrimp pie last night and it was fine but too ugly (in a soupy savory-pie way to publish any photo; suffice it to say that pureeing leek confit and cream is good stuff).