We kicked off the start of the summer season, as we usually do, with a bonfire with the boys cooking hotdogs and marshmallows over the fire. I think this was the first year that Dylan actually cooked his own. According to Jacob, this was his best lunch he ever ate. How am I supposed to take that? Come to think of it, we may have missed the flaming hotdog and marshmallow thingy last year when Zoe was just one year old.
Her Supreme Royal Majesty Princess Zoe was tired and grumpy. She whined the entire time from behind a fence where she was sequestered AWAY from the fire and, more importantly, the turkey, who stalked back and forth in impotent fury that he could not terrorize her, er, protect me from her. While I was trying to take two minutes to actually roast her hot dog, I heard “MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing….” Well, I think you get the idea. She just repeated it over and over until I said “FINE! You can eat your hotdog and THEN we’ll swing. But of course, when we got inside, it was “MeeMaw, I not hungy, I want swing, I want swing, MeeMaw, I want swing”; no hotdog eating occurred except for when I realized that HER semi-roasted hotdog was the only lunch I was likely to get. Then we rushed outside to make sure that Dylan hadn’t succeeded in immolating himself while roasting marshmallows.
As soon as I got her on the swing, gave her a push, and went over to direct Dylan to keep back further from the fire and no setting ancillary fires, it was “MeeMaw, I want peepee potty. MeeMaw, I want peepee potty. MeeMaw, I want peepee potty.” I had managed to take ten actual seconds to stick a marshmallow on a stick and set it aflame over Dylan’s ancillary fire. I hurriedly ate crispy marshmallow while escorting Zoe in the house with strict instructions regarding the fire to Dylan which were promptly ignored.
Back outside, it was “MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing. MeeMaw, I want swing.” As soon as I placed her in the swing and turned around to check the boys, she was out behind me saying “MeeMaw, I want high. MeeMaw, I want high.” But if I pushed her higher, she started crying “Too high! Too high!” Arrrrrgh! Maybe Zoe wasn’t the only tired and grumpy female.
Meanwhile, in addition to hotdogs and marshmallows, the boys were fortifying themselves on Yoohoos, root beer, potato chips, and
Slim Jims. Vegetables? Fruit? Not interested. MeeMaw messed up by having too many snack materials on hand. I bought for the entire month, you see. They ate them all in one DAY.
By dinnertime, I was fairly exhausted. I popped some chicken in the oven with my fingers crossed that it would bake before the oven crapped out and ran outside to do the feeding. I got back inside hoping the chicken was done. Nope. Hope never works. The top oven had crapped out with an F7 code leaving the chicken raw inside. I put the chicken in the oven that I didn’t use because the temperature control is all wonky (something else SwampMan is going to fix this summer if he gets around to it) and cooked the chicken by alternately turning the oven on and off. By the time dinner was done, both Zoe and Dylan were crashed on the floor.
So, Jacob had dinner, SwampMan had dinner, we couldn’t wake Dylan for dinner, and Zoe sat in her chair and cried the entire time and refused to eat. *sigh* Only MeeMaw is qualified to care for boo boos. NOT Papa. After I bandaged all her “booboos”, both real and imaginery, and healed them with a kiss each, I put her down to sleep. And Papa went to sleep. Dylan was still sleeping. And Jacob was wide awake. So, we watched Daddy Day Care and My Name is Nobody until he fell asleep.
We just finished breakfast. The boys have already gathered wood for the weenie and marshmallow roast at high noon. Zoe hit Dylan in the stomach and declared “I MEAN!” Papa fled to his workshop.
Pray for me.