Ever have one of those blank staring days. You know where you sit for who knows how long staring at the little smilie icons, the back of a Pringles can or the corner of the wall. I am trying hard to catch a thought but somehow that little piece of torn callous seems to get the devoted attention of a new lover. There it is again, I just spent 10 minutes spell checking callous in the dictionary only to get caught up in all the definitions and usages of the word. Only the fact that I just ate kept me from checking Google images. Speaking of my lunch, is there anything that screams selfish more than the little Dinty Moore heat-em-up cups. There is barely enough there for one, I can’t share. When I pull one from the pantry the man and child sigh in wistfulness of a dinner uncooked. I have just told them without saying a word that you two must fend for yourself. My lunch is all about me. Here is a can opener and the microwave is now free.

Fast forward, it has now been 20 minutes since that last paragraph. I get swept away back to the joining of the north wall and east wall, and the fact that the previous home owners could not keep the taupe paint from marrying the white paint in the corners of the ceiling. It’s true, there is nothing in my head today.

The man and child are both napping. I should be to. The man woke me up whispering sweet nothings in my ear. This is his way of getting me out of the bed so he can hog all of my pillows, yet keeping me from getting angry with him for disturbing my sleep. It works. The child has not learned this technique yet. She feels that the moment she wakes up she must scream “Momma” at the top of her lungs, until I stumble crazily into her room looking for the python or tarantula that has obviously crawled into her crib. When I cease looking for a outlet of panic, she will smile sweetly and raise her arms “Up Momma” Well, heck yeah I am up. She then grabs a handful of loose neck skin (What is it with turning 30 that makes your skin transform into Stretch Armstrong flesh?) slides down the front of my body, successfully taking my pajama pants with her and then takes the oppurtunity, in which I couldn’t run if I wanted to, to hit 30mph down the hallway towards the open bathroom door that I neglected to shut. It seems that a morning ritual for toddlers involves making sure the toilet still flushes. The best way to do this is to grab a shape-sorter block and throw it in to see how many revolutions it can make before Momma will cringe and thrust her hand in, hoping madly that the man flushed. She will then make her move towards her booster seat. She will stop and give me the “Feed the Children” expression while I rummage for non-staining, non-throwing food. The last thing I want to do before my eyes unglue is try to dodge meatballs from the aspiring, heat throwing pitcher that inhabits her body. I cook up a grilled cheese as she babbles about her dreams. No, don’t want a grilled cheese, throw it down for the dog. I heat up a nice veggie mix with enough butter to clog a Clydesdale’s veins in 10 seconds because the butter was frozen and 3tbsp is all that would chip off. I refuse to sit and whittle butter. (Although last week I did make a nice bust of George Bush until the ears melted and dripped off) Nope, don’t want veggies, but note how they stick to the fridge better than those stupid letter magnets that the man is always using to spell out “See Man Eat, Feed Man, No Eat, Will Beat” She begins eyeing my Dinty Moore cup. OH NO! Momma doesn’t want to share. That’s the whole point of the Dinty Moore cup. “Feed the Children” star begins her silent dramatic pleading. OK, since I don’t have the money I would have spent on my cup of coffee today, have my Dinty Moore. You know if I time this just right, the beef stew will pass at the exact moment I elbow the man out of bed. Serves him right for taking my pillows. For good measure, I shall go make sure there is one diaper wipe in the container and the rest are 20 feet away in the closet. Insert evil wife laugh here. Now that the man is in drooling stage in the middle of the bed and the child is rubbing her droopy eyes with a beef stew filled gut, my eyes have come unglued. I am now the only one left standing, with no beef stew.

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