August 26th

Booooook glorious booooook!  My second book is going to be done soon.  Then I shall see if it was mere freakish chance or if I am capable of repeatedly producing something that other people enjoy.

Keep your fingers crossed, while I'm finishing it up.

****

Someday I hope to write books of a different genre.  I've got two high fantasy plots simmering in the back of my mind, and three non-fictions.  Unsurprisingly, two of these potential non-fiction books are intended to be humerous.  One you've basically all been reading since Elliot was born.  It will be titled: Life in the Slow Lane; One woman's thoughts on the motherhood racket.  Or something like that.

The other will be something along the lines of "Jessica Woodard's guide to being a half-assed homemaker."  Catchy title, right?

On my front porch there is a child's wading pool.  Once upon a time it was filled with sparkling clear water.  Then my daughter (along with her best friend) decided that really, water is nothing unless it is bounded by shining sand, creating a place where earth meets ocean, and sky burns with bright blue fire above.

Of course, their manual dexterity is poor, so instead of creating a mini-beach they just dumped half the sand box in the pool.

Then they started adding other things. 

A Ritz cracker box, which, due to lamination, was curiously willing to float for almost two days before it began sinking.  It's now fully submerged, and I'm half convinced that only the external pressure exerted by the water is keeping the box from dissolving into minute particles and drifitng down to join the sand.

A half drowned doll.  This baby is both loved and cherished, so I can only assume that Charlotte remains unaware of the negative impact floating face down in a pool of water for two days may have on the human body.

There's a spoon and a sieve and a couple of cups, not to mention at this point there are almost certainly any number of dead bugs floating in my poor child's wading pool.

And do you know what I have done about this?

Nothing.

A while ago Waxor poured a little bleach in there, to make sure the bacteria didn't get out of control.  Other than that, I let the kids play.  I mean, I've tried dumping the sand out.  They just put it back.  And I could retrieve the doll but they're only going to submerge her again.  The Ritz Cracker box is already a goner, so I'll throw it away when they're done playing with it.  And I don't care about the bugs.

Maybe the secret to being a half-assed homemaker is infinite practicality mixed with just a dash of slovenly disregard for hygiene?

I dunno.

****

Lemme run a scenario by you.

When Waxor is ill, he stays home from work.  He ignores me, and ignores the kids, and either spends his day in bed or (if he feels well enough) sitting in front of his computer.  This sounds exactly like what you're supposed to do when you're sick, right?

When _I_ am sick, Waxor goes to work.  I am left at home with the children.  Just like I am EVERY OTHER DAY OF MY LIFE.  I do not go to bed.  I do not spend the day on the couch reading, or watching TV, or on the computer.  Because the children are still children, and they still want or even NEED something from me roughly every two minutes.  So when I am sick I just live my life, only in misery because I feel like crap.

Now, does that sound fair to you?

Does it?

****

Today I feel bad.  Remember "You Can't Do That on Television"?  Remember the slime bucket?  I pretty much have the entire contents of that slime bucket, endlessly pouring out of my face.

The children have responded to this by putting very concerned looks on their faces, and couching their demands in sweet and loving ways.

"Mommy, can I have a pancake?"
"Okay."  I haul myself to the kitchen, where I discover that my husband, who is destined to burn in the fiery pits of Tartarus, has eaten the last of the pancake batter.
"I'm sorry buddy, Daddy ate the last of the pancake batter.  Pick something else."
"But Momma," comes his sweetly reasonable voice, "you can MAKE more pancake batter."
I have, at this point, limped back over to a chair and seated myself.
"No, Buddy, not today."
"Why not?"
"I feel bad."
"Well, Momma, maybe you could just stir slowly."
"No, buddy."
"But, Momma, I really, really, really want a pancake."
I turn to my son with misery plain on my face. "Elliot, please, just pick something else to eat."
He sits quietly for a moment.
"Momma, I think you need some medicine."
"You're probably right, dude."
"And then you can make me a pancake."

****

Charlotte has become the most adorable thing on the planet.  Now, you shouldn't take this to mean that my son is any less cute than she is.  Not at all.  But he has been a walking, talking, source of adorablation for quite some time now.  Charlotte has just now come into her most cutest phase, and it is flabberghasting me.

She sings.  This was only to be expected.  She is, after all, my daughter.  But it has been many, MANY moons since I got the same kind of reaction from my vocal antics that Charlotte receives on a regular basis.  We were in the grocery store the other day, and passing by the Lucky Charms.  My eagle eyed child spotted the star on the box, and immediately launched into one of her favorite ditties.

"Twinkle, TWINKLE, LIL star!
Howayewunner wha'choo ARE!
Up a buh da wurl so HIGH!"
Pause
"Hi! Hi Mommy!" 
"Hi Chaz.  What were you singing?"
"LIKE A DI-MUN IN DA SKY!"
It should be noted, that what she lacks in lyrical accuracy, she more than makes up for in volume.  and my fellow shoppers, far from being annoyed at the noise, seem to go out of their way to tell me how very cute she is.  One woman actually melted into a little puddle in the produce aisle the other day.  My daughter slayed her with her rendition of "I love you, you love me."

Waxor's favorite is the Itsy Bitsy Spider.  I think he likes the dance that goes with it.  My personal favorite is Baa, baa, black sheep, because the master, the dame, and the little boy down the lane all get their own personal verses.

Also, the black sheep is apparently in possession of "Wuhl."

In addition to singing, she is enamored of her brother.  Every morning she rises before him, and every morning when he comes downstairs he is greeted the same way.

"ELL-YOT! Das my brudder, das my BRUDDER!  I lub you, Ell-yot!"

No wonder he has a god complex.


Right, so, I'm gonna send this, and then send another, because I KNOW some of y'all just skim these things.