|Reality sucks. Or blows. Too tired to remember what he was doing here.|
Paul and I have been salivating in front of the t.v. at our new streaming find: Master Chef. We're no strangers to food but this show has us saying stupid stuff like, "Oh my gosh, yeah, we should totally become foodies!" or "Well, I know what my new hobby is; I'm all over this! I'm gonna like start reading about food and everything!"
Today, in throwing together a bit of left-overs alongside a couple quick edible finds, I haphazardly hit up lunch with a fit of flare a la some green beans I tossed in soy sauce and balsamic vinegar plus some other stuffs I was too speedy (and hangry) to notice or remember in the name of love for myself and my working-from-home-husband. Paul approached the kitchen, eyeing over our fare. He questioned my green bean concoction and upon closer inspection, both of us now hovering over the stove top, the sizzling pan confirmed our suspicions that Ashley had burnt what was green lovelies into limp, wrinkled imps of food. I'll hold off on my Master Chef application.
Yesterday, Paul was hit with a supernatural suspicion I was having an uber crappy day... And I was! It was that or the twins and I on an ever-revolving outfit display of sweats and onesies was a sign he needed to rescue me. He insisted I take a night to myself.
I was thrilled and sprinted around the house doing all that I could amid crying babies and a toddler capable of capturing every not so spare moment so that I could feel okay about fleeing the house after dinner. I was on the couch nursing the babes when Paul's car door shut. My heart leapt, no lie. He walked into the entryway and straight into his office after a grim hello. Some work need had him shut up in there for a couple hours, every minute of which I had a Gollum-like internal dialogue about how selfish I was hating that I could see my freedom slip, slip, slip away into darkness. When Paul surfaced I asked him if he was okay, darn proud I wasn't a puddle of tears.
Don't feel sorry for me. I made it out of the house yesterday. I went to Walmart in search of one thing only-- a pool for my toddler. The kid's form of outside entertainment this summer has been limited to whatever a three year old can dream up with a hose and a bucket. Not much.
I came home with a pool and water guns and black peppercorns and a can opener and baby shampoo and Avengers bubble bath and one of those shopping lists you slap on your fridge and cheeze nips for Thomas and you guessed it, way more things than only a pool because I tip-toe into Wally World on a rare basis and when inside find myself grabbing for so many things much cheaper than at Target. Also, I
On my "mother's rule" schedule of sorts the boys' bedtime routine outlines baths for all boys followed up with Thomas's time with a parent to read and talk and pray.
At Walmart yesterday a couple just about tripped over themselves oogling at the boys. I all but hid evidence of twins, one baby in a pumpkin seat in our very unanticipatedly (nope, not a word) full cart, until they made the discovery (OH MY GOSH, TWINS!) and I answered alllllll the twin questions. Husband and wife were truly sweet so I didn't mind much that she swooped right into my personal space and bowed down for a sniff of Emerick. The absence of declarations that she was pleased with her findings is proof positive I haven't exactly kept up with bathing the boys on a daily basis. Shoot me. Add my embarrassment and sense of violation on the list of reasons to avoid Walmart, or maybe public in totality, until I've got myself a bit more together.
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That's all for now. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you with all the awesomeness happening in my life at the moment.