My father, Peter, likes to complain that I don’t post enough but considering that 1) I don’t see him offering to come up and relieve me of some of my responsibilities (babysitters are always welcome!) and 2) where are his blog posts? I say to him a big fat thpppppp.
Today was one of those days when my greatest achievement was not killing my children. I have officially turned them over to Adam and I’m sitting her drinking my chardonnay, too lazy to get up and turn off the Miley Cyrus, which means tomorrow “Party in the U.S.A.” will torture me on my morning run.
Not related to my children’s monster meltdowns: After school today, I was sitting outside with my neighbor Beetle while Tab and Doodles played in their “clubhouse,” aka the bushes outside Tab’s house.
“So,” Beetle said. “Doodles has to wear all green tomorrow to school?”
“What?”
“He has to wear all green tomorrow for school.”
“For his play?”
“I don’t know.”
I yell to Doodles, “Hey, Doodles! Get out here!”
He lumbers out. I ask, “Why does Beetle know you have to wear green tomorrow, but I don’t?”
I get the mother of all “duh” looks. “Because I told her!”
Of course. Tomorrow all the first graders in the school are celebrating an African festival. There will be a play. My son will be playing the Boa Constrictor. There will be music on drums they made themselves. There will be a feast. Provided by the parents.
Another parent and I were assigned to make Benne Cakes. Of course, allergy-free Benne Cakes with Ener-G Egg Replacer, which I’ve never had much luck with. She starts first. I get a call. “These things are absolutely flat. Completely unusable.” In my cocky Martha-Stewart way, I assured her that I’d make mine and let her know how they were, fully confident that they’d be great. I made them. They’re flat. Completely unusable. And dark. And weird looking.
So I do a little Web research on Benne Cakes. Only to discover that benne means… sesame seed. Which we aren’t using. Because of allergies. So these things I’m making? My African Benne Cakes aren’t African and aren’t cakes. Yum!
Now I get to stay up late making more non-African, non-Benne, non-cakes. Lucky me!
So, Peter. You were saying?
Hah!