I was SO looking forward to hiding Easter eggs for the lil’ ones and making the big dinner for after church but my cough has gotten progressively worse, so much so that Mommy was pretty alarmed for the health of the children should they come in contact with me, an alarm that is probably well founded. *sigh* This morning, too, lil’ baby Zoe woke with pinkeye.
So, today there will be no baked ham. No casseroles. No yeast rolls (sniffle). No colored egg hunting. No deviling 60 or so eggs (muffled sobbing). No squeals of delight. Just me hacking and coughing, and SwampMan quietly working in the background. (open weeping and wailing)
On the other hand, Mommy did point out that I could color and hide 60 or more eggs NEXT Sunday! I could cook yeast rolls! I could bake the ham! I can make spinach artichoke casserole! I may even be able to breathe and walk* again!
Hope y’all have a good Easter and remember that He is Risen.
*Had another lil’ incident at school in which teeth were dug into my inner leg just below the calf muscle, right where the inside seam of the jeans (thank the Lord it was jeans Friday) hits. I’m missin’ some skin and flesh, and have a huge bruise. Whenever I take a step, the bite area flexes and weeps anew. Yuck.
Well, sorta. I had my ass kicked by a virus picked up from a child that was sent to school by a mom that didn’t have any other choice, natch, because she might lose her job if she had to stay home with the sick kid. Grin. There are meetings ongoing with parents, staff is out sick, and science FCAT testing was this week, so I went to school sick, too, generously sharing my virus among staff and kids. Ah, well. It’s my last year there, after all. They can’t say I never gave ’em nothin’!
In the meantime, the last lamb has finally been born. Chicks and ducklings are hatching out so quickly that I’m not capable of keeping up with them. I know that there are new chicks in the stationary chicken house that need to be moved out tonight but danged if I know where I’m gonna put ’em.
Peach pie is in the oven baking for SwampMan tonight, and I still have to run and do the outside chores. Have a good rest of the week, y’all.
Dang, I feel like I think a zombie would feel every Friday evening if zombies were actually capable of feeling. Oh, wait. On Friday evening, I’m not actually capable of feeling, either. I’ve got the mindless stare and zombie shuffle down, too. Maybe I AM a zombie. I’d visit the neighbors for the purpose of brain devouring, but I live in Florida. There just ain’t that many brains available. I settled for BBQ chicken with fried okra and tater salad and garlic bread.
Had another lamb born this morning, a lil’ boy. When I got home, he was crying and crying. Mom did NOT want me to catch her and check her for milk, understandably, even though I assured her that I didn’t want to eat sheep brains because it would take too long to get enough to make a meal. I was able to tackle mom (literally) and establish that the waxy plugs in her teats were intact and lambie hadn’t been able to get food ALL DAY. I had to milk her down in order to reduce the size of the nipples so lamb could get his first meal. I don’t have a problem with the female lambs figuring out where the faucets are, just the males! I’ll go out there again shortly and check to see whether mom’s teats are totally engorged again because lamb hasn’t actually figured out where the milk comes from yet despite having drunk heavily at the milk bar earlier. In the meantime, I’ll be shakin’ my zombie booty to “Zombies Can’t Dance”.
Daughter answered a knock on the door. Some of the neighbors were standing there. They informed her that 3-year-old Dylan was in the front yard driveway sitting next to the car crying his eyes out. When they inquired as to what was the problem (did he fall down? Did he hurt himself?), he wailed that “Mommy has a new baby now and doesn’t need me anymore”!
What they DIDN’T know, as they were standing there staring at her like she was the most horrible woman in the neighborhood, was that 3-year-old Dylan had jumped on Mommy (and baby) while baby was sleeping, and Mommy had told him that he needed to be less rowdy. He stomped out of the house yelling “FINE! I don’t need a Mommy anyway.”
Getting displaced by a new sibling is a tough adjustment as children find out that the universe actually does NOT revolve around them. Yikes. It must be a lot easier being an only child that never gets kicked outta the nest to make room for the new egg.
I find myself musing about birth order and personality. Poor lil’ Dylan already has the weight of that middle kid chip on his shoulders. His older brother is an overachiever like a lot of first kids. Poor little Dylan is going to have a heck of a time meeting his academic, behavioral, and sports achievements and is frustrated because older brother is better at EVERYTHING. He takes out that frustration by being the loudest and roughest. Little Zoe, being the youngest AND a girl, is gonna be cuddled and coddled by Mommy and Daddy and tortured by her brothers. There need to be some downfalls to being the youngest, after all.
I read an article that seems to indicate that first children tend to marry first children. Youngest children tend to marry youngest children. I never really thought about it much beyond the observations that oldest kids tended to be more responsible, probably because they had no choice in the matter (grin). Daughter is a (very responsible, because she had to be!) youngest child married to a youngest child. Son was an oldest child married to (and now divorced from) an oldest child. My mother and father in law are middle kids married to each other. My mom was a youngest child married to a series of either youngest or one of the younger siblings from a large family.
I don’t remember doing anything mean to my lil’ brothers when they were born, but I tormented them plenty later! My coworkers were regaling with glee the horrid things they did to their younger siblings. One would pretend to be kissing the baby while in reality was digging her teeth into the baby’s scalp. Another would casually walk through and take the baby’s bottle or toy away, then claim to have no idea as to why he was crying. Younger siblings have to be tough. Only children don’t get to go through the boot camp of siblings, so I’m not sure how they face adversity in school and in life.
Link to above video: