Tired, fines, shortbread, lunacy

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Is someone kidding me? We, by which I mean the children, are melting down about water temperature, did the Angry Birds Carbonite melt and "WHY MOM CAN WE NOT CHECK IT NOW?", and whose Mad Science star chart that is. It's Jack's, for the record. I know this because he actually took a Mad Science class this year; Oliver did not. I cannot even tell you how much chocolate frosting is grafitti'ing the front of Jack's shirt -did any make it onto his candy house in Spanish Club?- and Oliver is repeatedly making us look at his shoes lighting up as he warps into "cheetah speed." Note: this is about his seventh pair of light-up shoes, so really, this feature isn't new. I am so honking tired that I had to think about my middle name earlier and the boys are still eating. Why Jack feels the need to pick each green bean up with his fingers and then affix it to the fork tines is beyond me; why the finger middlemen? Just spear, for the love. Oliver looks like Shaggy after a long week and keeps scrunching his nose like he smells poo. Hell, that kid might just. I had to fine them each a dollar yesterday for egregious overuse of the immensely unpalatable "butt-hole." The fine jar laid dormant for a while, but lately? Shit, I could open a business with the funding in there.

I.am.so.tired. SO.TIRED!

This time of year is insane. For every parent every year. I looked at my calendar for the next fortnight today and nearly hyperventilated. Chastened, it's day-by-day from here on out.

I am excited to be cooking for some friends this Sunday! The menu is lovely and today I made shortbread dough in anticipation. Ming Tsai's, natch, because I haven't made it in about 7 weeks. TOO LONG! And I did get to spend an hour with the cutest little gal today. Nearly four, she is a spitfire of epically appealing proportions.

Off to deal, obligatorily, with the damn King salmon I splurged for yesterday only to find that hubs was again working late. Balls.

A three-martini lunch kinda day

/

It's really a three-martini lunch kind of day. If only I drank martinis. Or during the day. Alas, I'll content myself with the fact that Ol is back to school and nothing has yet happened to my car. Though my washing machine broke with a just-washed load of sheets inside and sopping and a Mt. Fuji-sized pile just waiting on the floor. Terrific.

Last night, I was Mother Theresa², all up for hours with Ol, lovingly wiping his brow and limbs with a cool washcloth over and over, singing You Are My Sunshine like a CD on repeat, finally giving up the ghost of breaking up with him as my bedmate and inviting him in. He brought Tool Sheet, Wrenchie and a large, decorative, rectangular pillow monogrammed with You Are My Sunshine (really, it is our song), and finally we got to sleep.

Meanwhile T was mostly enjoying Lady Gaga and then got to sleep in the basement. Balls. He said "She's really very strange" which is undoubtedly true but T doesn't do "strange" terribly well so seemed relatively unfazed by the last-minute experience he got; "She wasn't nearly as good as the Rolling Stones," another free ticket he was gifted. It's a rough life.

Anyway, my maternal font of endless caretaking and love has morphed, via the barbed bottleneck of now-significant sleep deprivation, into a peevish, leaky spigot of exasperated irritability. Bad drivers and outfits everywhere are making me feel positively inflamed. And damn you, PFAPA (the periodic febrile crap with which both boys have been albatrossed).

Thank goodness for sunshine and leftover tart. And you can be sure that tonight, this gal's the one in the basement!