'Tis the Season
If I were President of the United States, I would make it mandatory that all cell phone alarms have a minimum 9-minute snooze because this four minute thing my new phone is doing is just not fair. I've started setting five separate alarms to go off at 9-minute intervals so I can just turn the alarms off and not depend on their stingy snooze.
My plan was foiled this morning when the babysitter called saying something about massive vomiting, digestive parasites and possible cholera, so guess who had to wake up that very second to track down a child sitter pinch hitter? No snoozing for me. Luckily, our Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker back-up was available which made me think (1) Thank God for this gracious woman, and (2) I totally could've slept for seven more minutes.
All was not well when I went to wake the baby, who looked at me with one eye open ala pirate style due to the fact his other eyeball was crusted over with a gunky puss. Then he smiled this cute little adorable smile and all I could think of was dear god, he looks like a mangy barn cat.
"Come, Dotter," I called to the 9-year old. "Come grab your brother from out of his crib."
"But you're right there," the ungrateful child answered.
"There's no way I'm touching him. He's got mange. Now, take him out before Santa sees what a poorly behaved child you are and all he brings is coal."
Who says the Christmas Spirit is dead?
My plan was foiled this morning when the babysitter called saying something about massive vomiting, digestive parasites and possible cholera, so guess who had to wake up that very second to track down a child sitter pinch hitter? No snoozing for me. Luckily, our Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker back-up was available which made me think (1) Thank God for this gracious woman, and (2) I totally could've slept for seven more minutes.
All was not well when I went to wake the baby, who looked at me with one eye open ala pirate style due to the fact his other eyeball was crusted over with a gunky puss. Then he smiled this cute little adorable smile and all I could think of was dear god, he looks like a mangy barn cat.
"Come, Dotter," I called to the 9-year old. "Come grab your brother from out of his crib."
"But you're right there," the ungrateful child answered.
"There's no way I'm touching him. He's got mange. Now, take him out before Santa sees what a poorly behaved child you are and all he brings is coal."
Who says the Christmas Spirit is dead?
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