The ever circling germs encompassed our house yet again in recent days. We have the care down to a science at this point. At least we do when it’s the little one that has the germs. What happens when mommy has them? Who takes care of mommy? The answer is of course mommy.

When I was little, my mom had the care down to a science as well. 7up, cartoons on the tv, cool cloths on the forehead, toast with just a hint of butter, and the coup de gras: homemade chicken soup. The feeling of being taken care of was unparalleled.  That someone was taking on your burden for a little while so you could concentrate on getting better.

Mmm, Mmmm, good.

Germs, Germs, go away, come again another day.

These days I’m navigating these germy waters on my own. There is still 7up, tv, cool cloths, toast with a just a hint of butter, and chicken soup. So why do those pesky buggers hang on for dear life so long? Evolution of the germs? I think not.   I’m starting to think that a big ol’ piece of the puzzle is missing. The single reason that the germs just keep circling around our roof like a venue of vultures waiting to feast.

There is no homemade chicken soup.




The Man That Doesn’t Read

He says my name at least five times before I come out of the world between the pages.
My husband. The man who doesn’t read.

He rolls his eyes heavenward when another box adorned with a smile arrives on the doorstep.
My husband. The man who doesn’t read.

He sighs as he moves stack after stack around the office bursting with spines.
My husband. The man who doesn’t read.

Or so he likes to say. Through the years he has remained steadfast in his refusal to sit and enjoy a good read. To get lost in the words of another. Unless those words are of the sports or financial variety, his eyes do not lay upon them. I have since given up gifting him with the perfect book. I pride myself on finding books for reluctant readers, but apparently they must be under the age of 12 for me to have any effect.

I think he is starting to crack though. I come home at the perfect time to catch it.

“See what this says? What are the letters? Let’s read them together.”
Her daddy. The man who reads.

“Here comes Pete…” (in a lovely Ms. Shy voice via youtube videos)
Her daddy. The man who reads.

“Which one should we read? Oh, you want two? You got it.”
Her daddy. The man who reads.

“This book is awesome. Let’s read it.”
Her daddy. The man who reads.”

He might just be the best kind of reader I can think of…
a reader that is helping to cultivate another.


Food Holes

I suffer from a severe affliction. You might have heard of it. It’s called food holes. And we aren’t talking about
bagel holes
donut holes
or any other food with holes.

On the contrary, food holes are something slightly akin to black holes. A vortex of lost memories regarding food.  You see, I eat something and if it is delicious, UN nutritious, sugar filled, loveliness, then it is an automatic victim to the food hole. I cannot seem to help it, it really is beyond my control. I swear.

The sweeter, the gooier, the sugaryer, the more likely it is to fall into a deep, deep food hole. Forgotten and abandoned. It’s as if there is a little ear worm, with sticky sweet lips, whispering in my ear, “Oh, that cupcake was delicious. But have no fear. You didn’t eat a cupcake. Carry on.” And the little bugger just gets plumper and plumper. Not my problem.

And so, carry on I do. With sweet abandon. It’s as if that cupcake has disappeared from my recollection.  It’s really a serious problem that I must get help for. For food holes might help food disappear from my memory but my subconscious must help it creep up on me. That ear worm as good as he is, cannot keep the food holes from spitting out some extra padding here and there.

It is an endlessly annoying problem.

That’s My Guy!

I have a bunch of guys. Many in fact. They follow my husband around and by proxy I am expected to care for them as well. No matter where we go or who we are with, the guys are along for the ride.

“Sweet! Honey, honey, honey, that’s my guy!”

Oh boy, here we go. “That’s nice dear.”

This exchange happens at least three thousand times a day in my house, I swear. There are many guys. They come and go. Some are awesome and some just tread the wrong way. And they keep coming. All year-long they come. They are dependable in their achievements and failings.

“Yes! Did you see my guy?”
“No! What is wrong with my guy?”

During the fall it’s “That’s my guy!” every Thursday, Sunday, and Monday.

During the winter and spring its “That’s my guy!” a few times a week thanks to Direct TV and its lack of coverage (thank you Direct TV).

But starting this past Sunday, oh my goodness,  “That’s my guy!” is every. single. day. With no relief until the fall. No reprieve. No breath.


I do not like this season one bit.

I have a lot of guys it seems but not a one of them does me any good.