Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Potato warning

No one is hungry at dinner. Ever. Everyone is ravenous two minutes after bedtime. I am steadfast and stern. Dire words about " dinner is at dinner time" bring much complaint. Then silence falls in the room. For about three breaths' time. The baby has to go pee. Who can argue with that? So we all migrate out and the boy dashes to the kitchen to nab a VERY large spoon full of mashed potatoes. I do not recall ever buying a spoon the size of an Army surlpus ladle. Perhaps he has borrowed an oar. I shake my head, wipe backsides, and wave girls back to bed. The boy trots behind. A bit to close. Eating potatoes. He is distracted by bacon bits and forgets to brake, thereby slamming into my back. With potatoes.

I recite the rule about not eating in the bedroom. He cunningly counters with the defense that potatoes have no crumbs and thus must not be a danger to eat in bed. This is brilliant. Until he drops a large blob of potatoes on my foot. He ninja vanishes with the offending potatoes, wipe foot and tuck the now whining girls into bed. Boy and silence return in seconds.

One and a half minutes is all it takes for sleep. Mr. Sandman has upgraded to chloroform these days. After thre minutes Baby A sits bolt upright screaming "POTTY" and adrenaline practically spurts from my nose in the race to get her there. And then I step in potatoes. Cream and butter make an excellent lubricant to glide me down the hallway like a sodden Busby Berkeley extra. Careening on walls, bumping into the bathroom door. Screaming girl runs the wrong way to pee in the dining room. I wipe pee with my last good towel then follow the white footed trail back to clean potatoes.

I see it all now, Spouse sadly telling how his wife died in a potato accident. The shame.