You know that law that says if your kids leave a toy on the floor, you will step on it? Well, it turns out toy cars are only just behind Legos on the pain scale. (I honestly think the government should forget waterboarding terrorists and instead place them in a room with Legos strewn from one end to the other and make them walk around in the dark without shoes on. They'll spill their guts in no time).
Other things I've stepped on this week: cooked ramen noodles, half a box of spilled cereal, a plastic horse, a pile of wet toilet paper, and a used pull-up. The ramen noodles were because I told Leah she couldn't have any chips until she finished her apples and noodles, so she "finished" them by dumping them on the floor. The other things are because my three-year-olds are actually Tasmanian devils.
Between that and the Easter grass I keep finding everywhere I'm ready to call it a day on the cleaning thing. (They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I think it's actually paved with Easter grass and pink toothpaste).
I feel like I've been sitting in a mess all week, starting with Monday, when I got home from running an errand in just enough time to whip up a chocolate cream pie for David's birthday before I was on babysitting duty for a neighbor's kids. Literally, just enough time, not a second to spare. So I was simmering half 'n half and chopping dark chocolate and slicing pats of butter while handling miscellaneous requests for buttoning pants, finding socks, and wiping bums (don't worry, I washed my hands in between tasks. This isn't "The Help"). By the time I got to separating egg yolks I was in an even bigger hurry. This caused me to fumble with the egg carton and dump several on the floor, at which point Matthew came sliding into the kitchen to ask me a question. "Get out of the kitchen!" I yelled. Not because I'm mean, but because this is what happened last time Matthew touched (that's touched, not even swallowed) cracked eggs:
For some reason, my yelling to "Get out!" summoned my other children from whatever corners of the house they were in (Apparently when I want them to appear for chore duty I just need to start yelling for them to go away) and suddenly all three of them were hovering over me as my brain frantically tried to decide which task needed my attention the most ("Clean up the eggs!" "No, the half 'n half will scorch!"). I settled on getting the kids out of the kitchen. Once they were gone, I went back to separating and tempering and stirring. Then I promptly dumped vanilla all over the counter.
It was a spectacular day for baking.
Luckily, the pie turned out fine. The only problem was that I didn't have time to clean up before my neighbor arrived. I consoled myself by pretending it was all a noble act on my part, intended to give her a self-esteem boost for having a cleaner kitchen than mine.
Plus, I had chocolate cream pie.
That's pretty much a cure for everything.