literary thumb twiddling

Daniel is on a Draw On Everything rampage, so it's a good thing I worked out (for I yam smaht) that white board markers wipe off almost everything, including his FACE. Downside? Only four colours. BUT, as three of the four (red, blue, green) are the same colours as Thomas, Gordon, Percy and James, Daniel is happy. Guess who's doing all the drawing? Then some freaky thought pops into his head and he wants me to draw a damn seagull or something equally as abstract.

I'm also doing a lot of Wiping Whiteboard Marker Off the faces of various tank engines. Life. Man, it's JAM PACKED.

which is a very odd expression. I mean, packed full of JAM? For reals?

(this break in transmission is brought to you by Daniel carrying Hollie, dragging them both over to me while saying "too heavy too heavy" then backing up so I could pick them BOTH of up and have us all lap snuggle for a few minutes. The Cute, is KILLING me)

More semi naked men on my massage table also kills me. Dead.

GODAMMIT, when are people (ie MEN) going to get that when I say "wear loose, comfortable clothes", I'm not talking jeans you could patch the space shuttle with teamed with a corduroy shirt??

The story:

My bowen client stripped down to his jocks, which were NOT boxers, if you get what I'm sayin', and I was all Where the EFF do I look now?! Also, manboobs. I mean, I like the guy but I do NOT what to look at his package NOR do I wish to gaze at his hairy nipples. So I threw a blanket over him, much like one does a CORPSE, saying some shit like, "to take the chill off". Now, the heater was BLARING and it was like HADES in there, but there was NO WAY I was going to spend the next 45 minutes starting at his goolies, so when he said "Nah, I'm fine", I said "the bowen lowers your body temperature", which it does, but not to hypothermic levels so white lie bla BLA, and then I practically staple gunned that fucker to the table around him.

And for that delightful visual, you are most welcome.

Let me replace it with another one.

bounce

I worked on Saturday morning so Daniel went to the Fake Grandparents for, like, a WHOLE DAY. Okay, not really, but factor in the half hour drive from there back to work, the two and a half hours there, the half hour drive back to the FG's, the ten minute drive to find them at the play cafe, and the multitude of hours spent AT the play cafe where Daniel spent HOURS defying gravity and fending off rogue babies from Fake Grandma's right arm strong hold.

showdown

(now he's carrying Hollie like a sack of potatoes and heading toward me grunting "ooya ooya ooya", which is code for "TOO HEAVY". Meanwhile, I sit here and write about it instead of a) rescuing the cat or b) helping the kid)

We've been waiting for the contractors to arrive and in the meantime, they did, so the cat has fled and now there are men in my ceiling and Daniel is sitting next to me on his little blue chair, absolutely fascinated by the whole Pink Batts Disappearing Through The Manhole routine.

Dudes, we're getting insulation!

And we just came back in from inside (this is an Installment Edition) and now the batts are all in the roof space, the men are wandering around up there patting them down or rolling around on them or installing spy cameras or WHATEVER. Point being, there's some noise going on up there and we can hear footsteps and voices and Daniel is wandering around trying to figure out where they are. Wait.....and SCORE! He just went for the manhole, pointed and said "Where's da man? Up in there!"

Back again after dodging another rainfall (or, in the spirit of Truth In Reporting, escaping a fucking DELUGE), and Daniel took my hand and walked me through the house "reassuring" me, all "that noise? what is it? Is okay.". Just so I wasn't worried.

And because I AM the kind of mother who talks about ehr child's poop, Daniel's been regularly making deposits into the molded plastic bank for quite some time now. It all began after he walked toward me, cowboy style, in MacDonald's the other week and balefully informed me he'd "poopah da pants". Quick clean up and, woe, LEAVING the playground in favor of clean underpants. Outcome? Dude bought the clue. Since then, it's been all potty, all day. ANYWAY, today's (or more correctly, this hour's) poop happened to form a shape as it Mr Whippied its way into the pot, so Daniel looked at it, looked at me (aside: pooping is a VERY private business for Daniel [and yet, REPORTAGE!] and he before he sits down, he'll clear the area by waving his hand and saying "MUMMY GO WAY!") and yelled "TRIANGLE!".

I probably should have taken a photo of THAT too.