I'm going to break two of my cardinal rules, so prepare to be shocked and appalled: Rule #1 - never admit to having anything less than total aversion to snow; Rule #2 - never admit to playing
with my
children.
The reason for these rules is obvious, of course. If I admit even the
teensiest bit of fondness for snow, than my favorite source of complaint is gone. Then I have to find something else innocuous to complain about. Nope, snow is the most convenient thing about which to whinge. Secondly, a mother of little kids must
never admit to playing with her children, lest this cause guilt and self-loathing in other mothers. Playing with one's own children must be kept a deep, dark, dirty secret. Blogging such criminal
behaviour probably merits expulsion from the "Mom's-are -Over-worked-and-Underpaid-so-Pity-Us" clique. Alas.
Since we've gotten such a
supreme dumping of snow, I figured I might as well make use of this stuff to entertain the kids. Peter is incapable of playing by himself, so that requires Mommy to exclaim, "Oh, how wonderful" and "Isn't that amazing!".
(There really isn't any difference between little men and big men. I have found Handyman to preen like a turkey under similar sentiments. . .)
Sometimes I wonder if Peter can really be my child. How can he possibly look so happy while lying in the snow? As we had a home birth, there's no chance of a switched-baby mistake.
Banna-Boo definitely has my genes.
While Peter can find endless ways to entertain himself with the snow, Banna-Boo has only one use for the white stuff - yup, she eats it. This isn't all that surprising, as she will eat anything that holds still long enough.
Now this I can applaud. This says, "I refuse to admit that fall is over and winter is here." (No, that isn't my pumpkin. Mine either blew away or were dumped by a dis-believing Handyman.)
I'm going to break two of my cardinal rules, so prepare to be shocked and appalled: Rule #1 - never admit to having anything less than total aversion to snow; Rule #2 - never admit to playing with my children.
The reason for these rules is obvious, of course. If I admit even the teensiest bit of fondness for snow, than my favorite source of complaint is gone. Then I have to find something else innocuous to complain about. Nope, snow is the most convenient thing about which to whinge. Secondly, a mother of little kids must never admit to playing with her children, lest this cause guilt and self-loathing in other mothers. Playing with one's own children must be kept a deep, dark, dirty secret. Blogging such criminal behaviour probably merits expulsion from the "Mom's-are -Over-worked-and-Underpaid-so-Pity-Us" clique. Alas.
Since we've gotten such a supreme dumping of snow, I figured I might as well make use of this stuff to entertain the kids. Peter is incapable of playing by himself, so that requires Mommy to exclaim, "Oh, how wonderful" and "Isn't that amazing!". (There really isn't any difference between little men and big men. I have found Handyman to preen like a turkey under similar sentiments. . .)
Sometimes I wonder if Peter can really be my child. How can he possibly look so happy while lying in the snow? As we had a home birth, there's no chance of a switched-baby mistake.
Banna-Boo definitely has my genes.
While Peter can find endless ways to entertain himself with the snow, Banna-Boo has only one use for the white stuff - yup, she eats it. This isn't all that surprising, as she will eat anything that holds still long enough.
Now this I can applaud. This says, "I refuse to admit that fall is over and winter is here." (No, that isn't my pumpkin. Mine either blew away or were dumped by a dis-believing Handyman.)
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