Just when I think I’ve lost it, blogging-wise, my dear children come along to provide me with new material. It shouldn’t surprise me. I mean, this blog was started because of my children in the first place. First to share our adoption journey with friends and family that lived out-of-state. Then to share my stories from Motherhood.
Lately, I’m so tired I don’t feel like I have a brain cell left to be clever or witty. I’m fueled by too much coffee and not enough sleep. Then along comes my child.
A certain child, who shall remain nameless to prevent future therapy bills, recently had a wart treated at the doctor’s office. No biggie. It was not painful. It’s only one wart. Warts happen.
Said Child approached me this morning informing me that the wart in question had now fallen off.
“I went to put my hand in my pocket and it came right off!”
“Cool” I said.
Then my parenting wisdom, gleaned over the last seventeen plus years kicked in. I knew I had to ask.
“Where did you put your wart?”
“In a bag, so I can look at it under the microscope later”.
We homeschool, so this didn’t sound too terribly unusual.
“Okay, but where is your wart right now?” I pressed.
“I put in a bag. To save for later”.
“Where is the bag? Where is your wart right now?”
“In the drawer under the juicer”.
Yes. A child of mine, a child who came out of my very womb, thought it a good plan to put a recently shed wart in a drawer in the kitchen. The kitchen where I cook meals. Meals we eat. Meals that nourish body and soul.
Meals that now make me want to vomit.
And if you still have any appetite left, for food or blog, you may want to read the story about Enoch and his goldfish. Go on, I dare you.