Good Monday morning!
Does that qualify as an oxymoron?
Either way, this moron is headed out to shovel six inches of heavy, wet snow off our walk and deck. And I mean wet snow. I’m not sure if I should go at it with a shovel or a ShamWow.
Yesterday was the epitomy of springtime in the Rockies. The pics in today’s post were taken around two in the afternoon; the kids were outside playing in shirtsleeves for most of the day. It was borderline balmy.
By 6 o’clock, you couldn’t see past 15 feet. Flakes as big as P Motion’s head (okay, that’s a little excessive; maybe Slim’s head) were dropping down like crystallized water balloons, literally splashing when they hit the ground.
The weather forecast changes from minute-to-minute this time of year.
What doesn’t change is the funny stuff that comes out of little kids’ mouths from minute-to-minute. Here are a couple of sloppy-wet snowballs of kid humor from the weekend coming right at your head. Duck!
Much more severe than a soft-attack.
We’ve pretty well established on this blog that when P Motion gets an idea in his head, it’s hard to get it out (SEE: Oprah is a man). Thus was the conversation between him from the backseat of the suburban and me driving this weekend.
PM: “Dad, what’s a heart attack?”
Number one: where do kids come up with questions like this? I mean, right before this we’d been talking about McDonald’s, for Ronald’s sake.
Okay, in hindsight I can sort of see the connection between heart attacks and the Golden Arches, but still.
And number two: how do you answer questions like these? I did my best.
Me: “A heart attack is an occlusion or blockage of arteries supplying the muscles of the heart, resulting in injury or necrosis of the heart muscle.”
Obviously I didn’t say that.
Me: “A heart attack is when a person’s heart stops working correctly.”
PM: “No, not a heart attack, a hard-attack.”
Me: “A heart attack?”
Me: “It’s when a person’s heart isn’t beating the right–”
PM: “No, a hard-attack!”
At this point I’m squeezing blood out of the steering wheel and wondering where a good dropoff point for a 5 year old might be. Clearly, there was only one way to respond: sarcasm.
Me: “I don’t know! I guess it’s an attack that is more forceful and assertive than a normal attack!” (An alterantive response would have been, “It’s when the Cialis kicks in,” but I didn’t think of that at the time.)
PM: “Oh. I guess I did mean heart attack.”
And if I don’t have one before 40, it will be nothing short of a miracle.
The Hellcat teams up with the Big Guy to crush Dad’s soul.
After getting home from church yesterday, the Hellcat went searching through the cupboards as she is wont to do and found some sort of little potpurri warmer that I had accidentally broken a few weeks ago.
Alright, enough with the accusatory eyes already! In the interest of full disclosure, this item may have broken after I smacked the kitchen countertop in frustration. Unfortunate collateral damage. It was a weekend. You know, peaceful and relaxing.
Apparently, the Hellcat, fresh from Sunday school, thought that she would reopen the wound.
Hellcat: “Daddy, did you break this?”
Me: “You know I did. You were standing there when it happened.”
Me: “I didn’t make a very smart decision.”
Hellcat: “That makes Jesus sad.”
Wow. Playing the J-card. Not only did she reopen the wound, then she threw Holy Salt on it.
And if that wasn’t enough, I heard her singing this little ditty to herself as she wandered around the house looking for other items to shame me with (sing in a tiny, offkey voice and repeat the chorus again and again):
“Jesus loves me but he doesn’t love my daddy. Jesus loves me but he doesn’t love my daddy.”
And on that note, I hope that your Monday forecast is calling for clear skies and sunshine.
But I wouldn’t bet on it. There’s only a 20 percent chance of that.