Saturday was basically cleaning up and watching movies over and over. I swear they should have a looping button on DVD players like they do for CDs. Somewhere inbetween all of that I made brownies with the daughters-of-my-heart. Also somewhere inbetween all of that Bighead (3) and Hardhead (almost 2) were standing outside the door to the backyard. Will (6) (I don’t have a nickname for him yet, but he gets mad if I call one of the other kids stinky. “I’m Stinky” he says as he stamps his foot) was inside the door in the dining room. I hear out of the side of one ear squeals and a taunt in the singsong dialect of the little people: “You ca-An’t get me!” I call from the kitchen, in the voice of the elders: I know you’re not using water guns in the house, right? A rousing chorus of “No Mama!” returns. So daughters-of-my-heart and I go back to crafting our brownies. I hear things softly hitting the carpet. It is obviously not the sound of my children’s feet, be they in my heart or not. I peek. I shouldn’t have peeked. Bighead and Hardhead, darlings that they are, were throwing dirt-bombs at Stinky, and Stinky, not satisfied with the amount of mud on the floor, was egging them on still, in singsong. So I grunt and beat my chest and push them all into the backyard, and grab the vacuum. Plug it in, turn it on, and proceed to rub the dirt into the rug. Apparently, the vacuum is broken. So now I’m completely hosed. No, I mean it. I grabbed the hose and got them REAL good.
At least the story cracked my brother up. He said it’s my fault for having boys and that he was smart enough to have a girl. I’m patient, I can wait for my revenge, he’s got about 6 years left before he’ll have to retract that statement.
The brownies were REAL good. Crunchy on the top and sides with just the right amount of gooey in the middle. Bet you want some milk now.