‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through our house
the only creature left stirring was me with my mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The muppets were nestled all snug in their cribs,
While I came up with these clever ad-libs.
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”
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There is little to no hope for a white Christmas in this neck of the woods. So in the balmy chill of 60 degree California weather, we headed out for some autumn adventures in the outdoor air.
There’s just something so enticing about a giant pile of fallen leaves. And also, punching penguins. Continue reading
I was just getting ready for a lunch meeting when my phone buzzed. My first inclination was to ignore it – my preference for most phone calls (email me please folks: tricia@streamoftheconscious.com) – but I saw the number.
I don’t even have the number programmed into my phone so I have those extra few moments of hope that it is not the preschool. Because nothing good ever comes from the preschool calling me in the middle of the day. Nothing.
No good ever came of a phone call that began, “Don’t worry, they’re okay.”
“Destroy’s had a rough morning…” Miss Stephanie continued. “I felt that I should call and warn you before you came to pick him up as he looks a bit worse for wear.”
I forced myself to hang onto the phone as I dropped my head onto my desk. “What happened?” Continue reading
I write this in the midst of living room rubble.
The toy box exploded. There is mysterious fuzz embedded in the carpet, lining a crushed layer of Cheerio dust. Pages from what I assume were once books are flung far and wide. And the vehicles sit askew from where the muppets laid down their bikes – tricycle wheels spinning harmlessly head over heels. Continue reading
It’s been 18 months.
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he? Continue reading
Several months ago, I was enjoying a lovely large glass of wine with several fellow mamas while upwards of 20 sub-3-year-olds ran wild around us. (They were mostly the reason us moms had the wine.) Suddenly a rogue toddler broke from the pack, marched up to a mom-like woman, and began babbling.
“Sorry sweetie,” said the nice lady. “I don’t speak toddler.” Continue reading
For those of you eagerly playing along at home, the score is now 4-for-4. And yes, this is the second post in a week dealing with bodily fluids.
Search bit another one of his friends this afternoon and served actual time in the official preschool penalty box.
It was one of those days. Continue reading
