I've been memed by Katyboo and I must now come up with six frivolous things that make me happy. Given my mood today, this is going to be hard work. I could come up with a very long list of things that make me unhappy, grumpy, mardy, generally not very pleasant to be around, but that is not my challenge. I really should be doing this with a glass of wine. But that's a good starting point:
1) A glass of wine. Large, white, very chilled, Sancerre or similar if possible. This should ideally be drunk on a lovely terrace overlooking a gently lapping ocean with a beautiful sunset and a temperature still warm enough for a summer frock to feel just weighty enough. But I'll settle for having it on my sofa watching some trash on tv.
2) Knowing that I am two thirds of my way through my Christmas card list. There's light at the end of the tunnel man... (that last bit was actually said in a stoned hippy type impersonation. Not sure why really, it just was)
3) Having a son who actually joined in the Christmas carols service at his school last night. He sat still. He sang the words he knew. And when everyone applauded at the end of each song, his face lit up with pride as though it was entirely for him. Made me weep with joy.
4) Braised rice with peas and corn and gravy (ideally roast chicken gravy). This isn't ordinary food. This is comfort food.
5) Cupcakes. Making them. Icing them. Eating them. And very importantly, arranging them on a three tier cake stand. They need to be pink and girly.
6) An impromptu meet up with friends. So much better than something pre-arranged. It feels like a present you weren't expecting.
So those are my happy things. They've cheered me up a bit. Although I now want cupcakes and rice with peas, corn and gravy - none of which are readily available. But the wine is. So I'm off. Feel free to share your happy things with me. I need to hear them.
Showing posts with label cornflakes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cornflakes. Show all posts
Friday, 5 December 2008
Saturday, 18 October 2008
I am a giant box of cornflakes
I had a lightbulb moment this morning. Not bad given it was 6.30am. My husband had gotten up with the beasties at some even more ungodly hour. Before you wonder why I was up and not having a lie in, it's because I'd spent 5am to 5.45am trying to jam a duvet between me and son 2 who was determined to make pretty patterns on my back with his toenails.
Then son 1 arrived announcing that he couldn't find his one and only gogo and that he needed my help to find it. I asked whether he had looked under his pillow and blankets. He assured me he had. I sighed, hauled myself out of bed and went to his bed. There lying right in the middle of it was the missing gogo.
I pointed to it. He smiled sheepishly and said: 'I didn't see it'. Of course you didn't dear, because you are a boy. That means you are cursed with 'boy-looking', an evil affliction that will last a lifetime. It means that one day when you're married you can yell to your wife that you don't know where the can opener is and she can yell back and say 'It's in the drawer where it always is' and you can deny that emphatically until your long suffering wife arrives, opens the drawer and points to the can opener lying right in front of your very eyes before picking it up and smacking the back of your head with it.
And so despite my husband getting up, I was now awake. I attempted to read but I needed caffeine. I arrived downstairs scowling, my hair sticking on end and looking like a grumpy womble. As I stumbled over to the kettle my children who had been playing contently with their father, noticed that I was there. There was no 'Good morning mummy' or anything of that ilk. No. The minute they saw their mother, like Pavlov's dogs responding to a bell, my children's stomach juices started going and out came the plaintive cry: 'I'm hungry'.
And that's when my lightbulb moment happened. I looked incredulously at my husband and asked whether they'd mentioned being hungry until they saw me. 'Nope,' he said. At that instant I realised that to my children I am nothing more than a large box of cornflakes that wanders the house. I am the human embodiment of breakfast cereals. In fact, I am a life size representation of all food groups.
It all makes sense really. From their earliest days, their food literally came from my body in the form of breastmilk (not to mention the in utero feast they'd had for nine months). And since weaning them off me, I've still been the provider of food three times a day. So it's only natural that they associate me with food. I just hadn't realised quite how acute the programming was.
I might start viewing the loving smiles they bestow on me in a new light now. Whereas I used to think their affection was genuinely for me, it appears it might actually be because they're peckish and they're simply sizing me up as a large, juicy steak.
Then son 1 arrived announcing that he couldn't find his one and only gogo and that he needed my help to find it. I asked whether he had looked under his pillow and blankets. He assured me he had. I sighed, hauled myself out of bed and went to his bed. There lying right in the middle of it was the missing gogo.
I pointed to it. He smiled sheepishly and said: 'I didn't see it'. Of course you didn't dear, because you are a boy. That means you are cursed with 'boy-looking', an evil affliction that will last a lifetime. It means that one day when you're married you can yell to your wife that you don't know where the can opener is and she can yell back and say 'It's in the drawer where it always is' and you can deny that emphatically until your long suffering wife arrives, opens the drawer and points to the can opener lying right in front of your very eyes before picking it up and smacking the back of your head with it.
And so despite my husband getting up, I was now awake. I attempted to read but I needed caffeine. I arrived downstairs scowling, my hair sticking on end and looking like a grumpy womble. As I stumbled over to the kettle my children who had been playing contently with their father, noticed that I was there. There was no 'Good morning mummy' or anything of that ilk. No. The minute they saw their mother, like Pavlov's dogs responding to a bell, my children's stomach juices started going and out came the plaintive cry: 'I'm hungry'.
And that's when my lightbulb moment happened. I looked incredulously at my husband and asked whether they'd mentioned being hungry until they saw me. 'Nope,' he said. At that instant I realised that to my children I am nothing more than a large box of cornflakes that wanders the house. I am the human embodiment of breakfast cereals. In fact, I am a life size representation of all food groups.
It all makes sense really. From their earliest days, their food literally came from my body in the form of breastmilk (not to mention the in utero feast they'd had for nine months). And since weaning them off me, I've still been the provider of food three times a day. So it's only natural that they associate me with food. I just hadn't realised quite how acute the programming was.
I might start viewing the loving smiles they bestow on me in a new light now. Whereas I used to think their affection was genuinely for me, it appears it might actually be because they're peckish and they're simply sizing me up as a large, juicy steak.
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