Assisted Procrastination

It’s that time of the evening again. Dinner is over, the table is cleared, and everyone has gone about their evening activities leaving me in peace. (Don’t start calling me names out of jealousy – peace around here doesn’t last long). It’s Sunday evening so The Kid is upstairs taking a shower while DH is in his office clinging to the last moments of the weekend.

I, however, have been searching through recipes and stumbled onto a delectable little dessert for which I conveniently have all the ingredients. What pantry is complete without graham crackers, chocolate chips, and mini marshmallows? What? No mini marshmallows? Just the Grand-Daddy Ginormous Jet-Puffed Monster-Mallows. No worries, I’ll just cut them into smaller pieces. I’m not Martha, but I’m sure she’d approve of my ingenuity.

So here I stand at the kitchen counter. The gentle hum and swish of the dishwasher running behind me while I snip in half the giant marshmallows. THIS is peace.

Well, all except The Kid at the top of the stairs shouting “Mommy!” Repeatedly. I can hear her, but I know damn well that if I respond, she’s just going to shout something back at me from just far enough away that I can’t quite make out what she’s saying. I also happen to know it’s probably some obscure question related to the basics of showering without adult assistance. (At 7, flying solo in the shower is a new skill and we often have to provide reminders of the “Things to Remember” such as: make sure you have a towel BEFORE getting in the shower, shampoo twice, and most often STOP RUNNING THE WATER WHEN YOU’RE NOT READY TO GET IN!)

I can only assume her question is going to be something along these lines, but I’m lost in my marshmallow mangling and not interested in a shouting match through 2 rooms, down a hall, and up the stairs. Nope. I’m gonna stand here making my magnificent dessert with all the ingredients I had on hand while she continues to shout at me from almost too far away to hear. Almost.

The Kid:  MOMMY!

The Kid:  MOMMY

The Kid:  MOMMY! . . . MOM! . . . MOMMY! . . . MOMMY? . . . MOM?

Me:  (Oh for crying out loud!) WHAT?!

The Kid:  HAR DE FROP NE DA NOONA MUF REAR?

Me:  (So help me, I am NOT going through this!) I CAN NOT HEAR YOU WITH THE DISHWASHER RUNNING!”

The Kid:  FRO NE DAF NA NANOO FRY EAR?

Me:  (Grateful I have marshmallows to bear the wrath of my frustration) I TOLD YOU! I CAN NOT HEAR YOU! MY HANDS ARE FULL. YOU HAVE TO COME DOWN HERE AND TALK TO ME IF YOU WANT ME TO ANSWER!

The Kid:  (Stumbles down the steps and into the kitchen, wrapped in a towel, looking like a drown rat) How do I know if I got all the shampoo out of my hair?

Me:  Does your hair make the squishy shampoo sound when you touch it?

The Kid:  (Touches her head) I don’t know. I can’t hear it over the dishwasher.

Me:  .

In 30 minutes, The Kid goes to bed and I’m indulging in some serious dessert. If you’d like some too, just give me a shout. I’m sure I can hear you, but no guarantees I’ll answer.

This entry was posted on September 21, 2008 at 8:31 pm and is filed under Wanderings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.