Where else can you nearly get barfed on three times in one day by someone larger than yourself except in a high school classroom?
Nowhere, I’m telling you.
Apparently, my magic mind-reading powers extend to being able to determine, in spite of your protests, that yes, indeed, you are about to vomit.
If I can tell that you are about to vomit, why can’t you tell that you are about to vomit? And really, couldn’t you have told me you weren’t feeling well from say, more than 9 inches away?
Three times today, I had to guide a dear, spewing head into the trash.
And I thought toddlers were bad…
Speaking of infantile behavior and things that trigger a gag-reflex, this was dinner:
Actually, I’m lying. That was my dinner–because even though my children are made of chicken-liver-green-guts, they aren’t willing to try anything that looks remotely “like chicken-liver-green-guts”. Which was fine with me, because then I got it all to myself. (Brussels sprouts, sea-salt, cracked pepper, olive oil, vinegar, grilled chicken breast on the side, excellent. And yes, that bowl has seen better days; if I threw away every chipped bowl I own, we’d be eating out of our hands.)
Lest you think I’m turning soft and not making my children eat what I cook or starve, me having it all to myself was Plan A, anyway. I didn’t actually think they’d consider eating it. It’s fun to freak them out though.
They had breakfast for dinner. They maintain that breakfast isn’t really dinner, and that the only thing that keeps their wager from being won today is that I also made bread. I maintain that anything which ties me to the kitchen for two solid hours and then is served to everyone at the table, better count as dinner. And also, said “breakfast” included two kinds of grain, two vegetables (yes, hash browns count!), two fruits, and a protein. What’s not dinner about that?