Flit, flit

Flit, goes my brain. Must do that, must mail her, must make that appointment, must send that present, must put that load in the dryer, must ignore the washing up if I want to write a post, must just read someone else's blog first...

I had some things to tell you from Monkey:

"Who invented spoons?"

"I like the flavour of my snot."

"Snotstril"

"Thank you very much for the party. Nathan's Mom, I just did a huuuge poo in the toilet." [bursting with pride]

[Sadly] "I have all this Spider-Man stuff, and yet I seem not to be Spider-Man."

Him: ... [stuff about stuff from the back seat... of course I hang on his every word]... Is that great?
Me: Yup, that's great.
Him: Is that amazing?
Me: Yup, that's amazing.
Him: Is it saxy?
Me: Pardon?
Him: Is it ... soxy?
Me: What's soxy, exactly?
Him: Floppy and wiggly, like a supersuit.
Me: Hmmm.

Isn't Tim Gunn great? Don't we all want a Tim Gunn to consult every now and then, and maybe to come shopping with us? Or even to babysit the damn kids and steer us to a shop that only stocks clothes in adult, female, sizes, so that we didn't spend all our precious, precious shopping time picking up cute things for the baby next summer and the kid next winter, and even the husband, whose threads are pretty much just that because in addition to never getting near the shops, he doesn't actually want to and doesn't care about what he's wearing and works in a profession where if you're not wearing socks with your sandals or a Christmas jumper in March, you're probably next in line for promotion. (He doesn't, and yet he isn't. Must be a glitch in my logic there.)

Coherence. I strive for coherence. Also to find out how other women with small children manage to wear jewellery for more than 5 minutes at a time.

I'm too scattered. I think I have to go and do the washing up now.