Blowing Chunks and Other Nice Things

A confession: I washed my hair this morning, swept it into a ponytail, and now, at 7:35 (it feels like 9 at least), it's still not brushed. That's due to my house-boundedness; Bea blew chunks (tossed her cookies, puked, etc.) last night at some point (she apparently slept through the ordeal and I didn't realize until after breakfast that she reeked). . .and I spent a day enjoying the sunshine flooding our playroom, Dr. Suess, laundry, stroking the back of a very tired little girl. . . .

I'm trying to figure out when I will get my column written this week, when I will be able to drive out and interview someone, when I will actually brush my hair. And so it goes.

Here's a funny bit: Martin was playing tea party with Bea. She set a tiny green and pink pot to boil on her pretend stove, held up two fingers, drew together her little eyebrows, and warned Martin: "It's HOT. You touch, you dead."

I have warned the children of the possibility of death in other circumstances, but never have I been quite that dire about the kettle. Losing fingers, hands, and other various body parts, eye skewering, "big owies that will make you cry and cry--" those I hold out as possibilities fairly often. As my Dad says, Hell is the place where everything your mother warned would happen to you, finally does. Think about it. Your eyes would get stuck crossed, you would trip over your lower lip, your hands would get consumed by snakes when you stuck them down a hole, a dog would rip you to shreds because you teased him, you'd get flattened by numerous cars, you'd trip about a thousand times over your shoelaces, fall down the stairs, cut your fingers off with the paring knife, your hair would get so tangled you'd have to cut it all off, your teeth would fall out from lack of flossing, even rot right out of your head because you ate that JubeJube. . .the possibilities are endless, varied, and truly horrible. Good thing I listened to my mother.