Mr Lannis Shouldn't Be Allowed to Leave Me Alone. Ever.

When I opened the laundry room entrance to the garage in flew THE GIANT BLACK HORNET THING and I ran like a mofo to the back of the house before a part of my brain said, "MR LANNIS IS IN OTTAWA AT KARATE CAMP! YOU ARE THE PROTECTOR OF YOUR HOUSE, YOUR CHILDREN, AND YOUR FURNITURE AND JUNK!"

And I was all, "GAH! NO! I just washed the sheets, they're divine! HE CAN'T HAVE THEM!"

So I ran back in and rummaged through the coat closet, and under two sinks before I abandoned ever locating the fly swatter* and hit the laundry room for the dust wand, tore off the reusable microfiber pad, and proceeded to track down THE GIANT BLACK HORNET THING which was easy because apparently when you're a GIANT BLACK HORNET THING your buzz sounds like a motorboat of DEATH!

And there he was, bumped up on the trim of the front door, so I HIT HIM! YES! I used said dollar store duster to pummel THE GIANT BLACK HORNET THING into a jammy smear on the glass, successfully protecting my children and junk from certain doom.

Raising my dust wand in triumph, I bellowed, "YOU CAN'T HAVE THIS HOUSE! I AM A NINJA!" And the kidlets came running in from the backyard because despite their usually selective hearing apparently when your mother shouts about ninjas your radar goes berserk.

At which point they regarded the smear and were all, "That's not what a ninja does, Mom. A ninja fights crime."

Pffft. Kids.



*The fly swatter, which was discovered hanging on a nail on the way to the basement, which proves that when you really need something you'll never remembered where you put it. Or you're me.

Never Ending Mending

So. It's late February and I'm mending jeans. A lot of jeans. Unexpectedly.

Why unexpectedly? Oh, because this is snowpants season and these boys aren't outside rolling around on hills busting out knees. Or at least if they are, they have a pair of snowpants buffering impact on the jeans themselves.

Or at least you'd think so.

That's eleven pairs of jeans right there. Some with double knee blow outs. Whee... ugh.

But this? This is deja vu. I swear it wasn't that long ago that I tackled a pile this size.

Okay—I checked. It was around a dozen pairs in December(!). And the pile is already this large again.

That's it; clearly the mending pile breeds. Suddenly I understand.

Either that or my kids are ninjas and they're practicing an ancient art of destroying denim...

Oy.

Inner Ninja

A happy thought for Monday...

This song has been spinning in my head lately.

A lot.

Why yes, I have found my inner ninja... have you?

Ninja Sandwiches

Yes, you read that correctly.

Lately my youngest (he’s five and a half) has taken to eating butter sandwiches. Those are exactly what they sound like—two slices of bread glued together with butter.

As we only buy hearty whole grain brown bread, I don’t see a problem with this.

(Yes, we’ve totally deceived them—they’re going to grow up and realize that unless it was a hamburger or hotdog bun, they missed the childhood boat that is soft gummy white bread. And yet if our kids grow up and decide the only thing they can hate their parents for is our choice of bread, well, I figure we’ll have done a lot of other things right. Heh.)

Every day when preparing his lunch (for school or our own table), I ask him if that’s all he wants for a sandwich. Plain butter.

To my surprise one day, there’s an adjustment.

“Ninjas,” he states.

Just like that. Ninjas.

Um. Okay, weird child who is clearly mine. Ninjas, sure. I wave my hands around, clang about the kitchen and (obviously) add ninjas to his sandwich.

He’s ecstatic. Until he looks at the sandwich, peeling the bread back to inspect the gooey peaks of butter clinging to the underside.

“Uh, Mom?” He points. “There’re no ninjas in here.”

“Well if you could see the ninjas, they aren’t very good ninjas, now are they...?”

Point for me, yes? Heh...