This post started out mainly as a series of pics taken throughout the day to explain to Shawn why, after months of working the flylady technique, he was still walking into a sloppy home day after day. How could this be? We always go to bed with a spic and span house, we awake to a shiny sink, clear floors, clean clothes -- what the hell happens in between?
Well, honey, Jax happens.
Here he is helping me with breakfast this morning:
It was so cute when he climbed up and started playing with the stove knobs.
This is him working the laundry scene. (You really should just climb on in there to make doubly sure you didn't forget anything -- it can work wonders in saving that spare sock.)
Okay, so here he is channeling Shawn as Ryan and I destroy the kitchen making dessert for Daddy.
Maybe that mess wasn't all his fault, but just look what he did while we tore it up with the sweets:
So you see, Shawn, I really do work around the house while you are gone, but with all the help I've got, along with having to stop every few minutes to take pictures, it just seems as though nothing gets done.
Luckily, he had Ryan's dinner conversation to take his mind away from the tragic mess that is his oasis away from the RESTAURANT.
She immediately hit us with the fact that while she was posted up in her room (punishment for whacking Jax with a spatula) she began to notice that her chest and/or stomach area began to feel "on fire and like there were needles all over it." And so begins World War III.
Lax Mommy vs. Anal Daddy, circa 2006. Shawn starts worrying about what multitude of medical mysteries she may have contracted, while I'm rolling my eyes in disgust at what a sucker he is. "Shawn, you don't think this could just be a diversionary tactic to get us to forget about the spatula thing?"
"Yeah, but what if it's not."
Damn, the cautious reasoning of the stable parent. Damn, the wonders of the over-imaginative child. Damn the skeptic Mommy's Catholic guilt.
Needless to say, we will be making a call to the doc tomorrow.
Thankfully, Ryan quickly followed with a scrumptious audio entree as we were finishing our real one. She walked over to retrieve her old booster seat and we told her she didn't need it, put it back.
"But I want to get high, Mom."
Holy Moses mowing the lawn. As Shawn choked on his salmon, I barely managed to squeak out, "Well, I'm not the one to fight you on that one, babe. Have fun."
And though that portion of the conversation was both filling and satisfying, she saved the best for dessert.
I don't remember how we got back onto the subject of the spatula incident, but we did, and as we were discussing it, she broke rank and blared out, "Hey! SpongeBob has a spatula!"
"Yes, Ry, but that's not the point of the story."
"I know, I know, I know."
"Okay, so what was the point?" I asked.
"Blah blah blah blah." she replied, with what I SWEAR was a wink and grin towards her father.
Yepppp. That's about right.
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