Woulda Coulda Shoulda

It’s Tuesday, and that means that today I’m over at Off Our Chests. Partially inspired by Otto’s birthday (and subsequent match-stuck-in-the-cake), I’m thinking about wishing, today. And wondering if I’m weird.

I once had a friend who tried to convince me that if I didn’t have an entire list of things I wanted (not necessarily THINGS, but experiences, goals, etc.) it meant I was somehow not as spiritually enlightened and forward-thinking as she and her actively-working-on-their-lists cohorts were. It was a sign of stagnation and thinking small, she said. (We’re not friends anymore. Surprise!)

Nevertheless, I know some might find my position odd. So naturally I’m going to lay it all out there and wait for someone to tell me I’m wrong and possibly also that I’m stupid and my dog is funny-looking. (People are like that, you know. Joke’s on them, though—I already KNOW Licorice is funny-looking!)

I hope you’ll come on over and tell me about your wishes, or lack thereof.

Oh, man. The way kids make you reflect on your own childhood and your own foibles and various experiences and thoughts was not something I was prepared for when I started this gig.

So much of what we’re working on with both kids, right now, has to do with being proactive rather than reactive. And I was being a Good Mom And Role Model about it all until I realized that my little apples didn’t fall far from the tree.

(I hate it when that happens….)

So I’m over at Off Our Chest today talking about my claws, both physical and metaphorical. I’m still working on it.

I just told Otto I feel like I landed in the middle of some sort of bizarro WWF match for Thanksgiving, today. I woke up with one—just one!—swollen knuckle on my right hand, like maybe I’d smashed someone with a right hook in my sleep and landed it wrong, and as it’s my middle finger, my dexterity is extremely compromised. Then while getting the stuffing ready I stupidly dropped a mess of onions into my butter-filled skillet and promptly burned my left wrist in three places where the butter leapt out to protest.

A minute ago I tried to swirl my hot-water-and-yeast mixture that will be rolls later, and managed to get it all over the counter and myself. That one didn’t hurt, at least, so all I could do was utter a couple of choice words about it.

Otto’s in charge of the turkey, thank goodness, because I can promise you I’d end up dropping it on the dog or something.

Nevertheless, we’re listening to “Alice’s Restaurant” on repeat, Chickadee is begging us to turn it off, Monkey is bouncing around calling out “Kill! Killlll! KIIIILLLL!” and I’m feeling thankful, war wounds and all. I hope you are with people you love, today. I sure am.

… the never-stops-being-funny routine of us asking the turkey in the fridge if he enjoyed a nice, pampered, fulfilling organic life before his head was chopped off.

… gluten-free cookies which can be turned into gluten-free pie crust, and the way Otto’s face looks when he gets that first whiff of his beloved pumpkin pie in the oven.

… being pounced on with muddy paws, even at inopportune moments, and rewarding that bad behavior with scraps of food.

… both children helping with the rallying cry of “ANOTHER STICK OF BUTTER!” ala Paula Deen (Chickadee’s devotion to artery-clogging mashed potatoes and Monkey’s earnest fake southern accent are both particularly hilarious).

… Thanksgiving reminders that perfection is overrated, and not necessary for gratitude, now or ever. (But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to hear about your memorable holiday disasters, so I hope you’ll come share.)