VivaCity

Well smack my arse and call me Busy, it seems this week has rushed by again with nary a chance to blog! Oh my dear, sweetly patient blogging audience, all 2.5 of you, thank you for waiting. You must have been very, very good, look what Santa brought you! More blithering nonsense. Ready?

If I should not answer the phone, or douse the lights and pretend not to be home, please don’t be offended. It’s nothing personal. It’s not you, it’s me. I am finding quiet, personal time to be more valuable than gold these days. Even Nathaniel has found himself talking to the hand on occasion, because, dear reader, at the end of the day, when the rapid-fire barrage of ceaseless questions are over and The Crying Game has ended, I am one tired, tired momma who wants nothing more out of life than to crawl under a rock where it’s QUIET.

I propose that instead of burning pokers under the fingernails or Chinese water torture, we send prisoners of war or terrorists to be subjected to the incessant, burning questions of very young children.

“Pick up your toys, please.”

“Why?”

“Because someone could trip over them and fall down.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to walk there, honey, it’s the middle of the doorway.”

“Where?”

“Right there, in the kitchen doorway, where your toys are!”

“Here?”

“Yes!”

“Here, where my toys are?”

“Yes!”

“Someone could trip over them? Who?”

“Yes, honey, like Daddy or Mommy or just anyone.”

“You would trip? And fall down? And go CRASH! BOOM! BANG! Like that?”

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

“Hey, Mommy?”

“What, baby?”

“I should pick my toys up.”

Oh. My. God. Stand back. Someone, quick, get me the waiting list for Stanford.

I love my son. Don’t get me wrong. I just sometimes wish I were on a white sand beach on the opposite side of the world, listening to the sound of the waves and THAT’S IT.

Lord help the attorney who asks me “why” on Monday.