Breathless Miscellany

By the time I have a chance to start drafting a post, I need a device that will take the thoughts out of my drowsy, heavy head and put them onto the screen for me. A device other than my own typing hands. I'm so very tired, but there is always so much I'd planned to say. If I were Bryce telling you in quick, urgent breaths about my day's events or about my latest revelations, I'd be starting every sentence with, "And besides!" That's his favorite segue these days: And besides! Conversations with him can be pretty choppy.

And besides! I found out that I have osteoarthritis in my knees! That means absolutely nothing except that I get to tell my trainer he can't make me jump, squat, or lunge any more. The "treatment" for 29-year-olds with osteoarthritis in their knees is - you're going to love it - TYLENOL! (And besides! I think taking tylenol is my favorite thing ever!)

And besides! The people at work suddenly have this unreasonable expectation that I devote a full eight hours a day to them. It's really cutting into the time I can put into blog-related activities. It's amazing how "behind" I can feel about something I'd have to classify as a hobby.

And besides! We signed Bryce up for music lessons. Soccer is over, and we really felt that our evenings and weekends were mundane and empty; we aren't really racing the clock as often as we'd like. There simply isn't enough chaos or strife around here; we need more activity! The lessons are an hour long and include four of Bryce's classmates. The last two weeks when I've gone to pick him up and write down the insane amount of assignments the music teacher doles out, the kids are literally writhing on the floor around her, completely over-stimulated. Bryce is usually oscillating between telling one of his friends to punch him in the stomach and shouting out random and strange (but not untrue) insults, like, "This house is really spooky!"

And besides! On the way home from his music lesson last night, Bryce asked for dessert. I told him he could have some chocolate pudding. "With whipped cream?" he asked, because he doesn't really EAT chocolate pudding, but he does eat the whipped cream on top (I'm morally opposed to giving him a bowl of whipped cream, but if we both keep pretending he might eat the pudding underneath it, it's a compromise we can live with). This is our recurring chocolate pudding conversation. "Yes, with whipped cream." "And golden grahams? Can you put some golden grahams in it? Oh wait! I know! I want you to HIDE the golden grahams in the pudding. Will you HIDE the golden grahams all in the pudding? Just use your fingers and push them down there really far! Yeah!" Okay. Things have gone too far when I've been so accommodating to my kid that he actually thinks this is a reasonable request. "Bryce, I'm not putting my hands in your pudding to hide individual golden grahams at random intervals! Gross!" "Mom! Please? Come on! And besides! You can wash your hands when you're done."