I didn’t sleep well last night, for a variety of reasons. First, we went to bed at 10 PM, but Grace never fell asleep and showed up at 11, asking for a foot massage. I took her to the bathroom, made her go pee, and then with one eye open, massaged her feet with a suspicious swirly brown lotion my mom gave me that is supposed to relieve muscular pain or help with frizz. Maybe both. I can’t remember now her specific instructions.
I put her back in in her crib and stumbled out of her room, my hands smelling like minty foot or hair cream, and I tried to remember the dream Grace had interrupted. It had been a good dream, like Aragorn’s. I was an orphan, but the beds at the orphanage were really cozy, and the evening light that came in through the white curtains was dim and blue and very soothing, and I may not have had parents, but the blankets were soft and warm and what else do you really need…
I fell asleep within a few seconds, with these nice thoughts in my mind, and then woke up again to use the bathroom in a hurry at 3 AM, grateful I only have to keep doing this once a month for about 25 more years.
Then, at 4 AM, Grace screamed and I was reminded why it’s better for the kids not to share a room. I got up, again, and found her in her crib, with her face on the pillow and her butt in the air, like the evil stepsisters when the evil stepmother goes in to wake them up at noon. Except, as you will remember, it was 4 AM.
“I not feeling good wigh nau,” says Grace, shaking her butt a little. “Wat?” says I, malfunctioning. “I not feeling good wigh nau!” But she had used up my nighttime goodwill with her first set of shenanigans and I knew it was a lie anyway. She loves to say she’s not feeling good wigh nau. She also loves to say “I haven’t had a cookie wooong time,” with convincing wide eyes and crumbs around her mouth, hoping I’ll let her have another, since it been such a long ten minutes…
I am not at my best at 4 in the morning. I didn’t rock her or sing her back to sleep. We did not bond at all like those ladies in paintings, lovingly holding a fat baby by a window. No, I was looking down into the crib with my hands on my hips, whispering kind threats in my mismatched pajamas.
She lay there looking at me, instantly cured from her previous ailments, and decided silence was a good plan. Just so you know, my conscience is as clear as a morning in June. I don’t put up with these shenanigans and everyone sleeps really well because of it. Most of the time.
Even though she was quiet after that, the damage was done. I was wide awake. She was silent but my brain was not. It played the same song over and over.
I wrote it for Graeme and sang it to him four days ago, sitting up in bed, sweaty and shaking a little because I’ve been hiding this from him for a month now. I was nervous to sing it, thinking he might pat my head a little and say “that’s nice,” in a Mr. Banks kind of way, or give a friendly grunt, which is the standard Shoebridge reaction to many things. Very versatile, this grunt. It’s delivered with half a smile and a head bob.
“Huh.”
Thankfully, it went as I had hoped it would go, and Graeme cried and cried by the time I got to the chorus. I don’t usually aim to make my husband cry, but it was definitely the goal this time, and it worked. My nerves were in such a state that I developed a headache as soon as I was finished singing. But I didn’t mind at all.
My brain is very versatile. It goes from albino squirrels to apologetics to the Greek island of Corfu, and oh my goodness I forgot to switch the laundry. Forest inherited this fascinating ability to think about ten things at once, and I constantly have to remind myself to remind him to do what I’m pretty sure I told him to do ten minutes ago.
Besides love songs, last night I also thought about food bloggers and how they are the worst.
Sometimes, when I’m looking at a recipe on my phone, I can only read ONE LINE because the rest of the screen is ENTIRELY covered with ADS. It’s a personal goal of ours to never ever, for any reason, have ads on our sites because they are a REAL PAIN IN THE ARSE. Phew. So much anger, look at all those big letters.
Did you know bloggers who post lengthy articles get more views that those who just get to the point? Google prefers posts with over 2,000 words (or something like that, I can’t remember), so for some bloggers, it’s not so much that they are trying to be annoying; they have to be annoying for their posts to be seen.
For example, they’ve recently added a new section to each of their posts, before the recipe, of course, where they explain what each ingredient is, and why you should use it. They always take it WAY TOO FAR.
I have a friend who wants to become a food blogger. So here are some tips for you, Isabel, on what to include in your posts to hit that goal of 34,500 words:
Wooden Spoon: A spoon made of wood. I recommend using a spoon made of wood (also known as a wooden spoon) for stirring this recipe, as the ingredients in the pot will get very hot, and it would hurt to do it with your arm. Plus, there’s the nuisance of having to lick it clean afterwards.
(These are the things I think about at four in the morning)
House: I recommend making this recipe in a house. A house is a place where people live and make food in. The word for house in Spanish is “casa” and if you add “ita” at the end, it means “little house.”
Bowls: You’ll want bowls to serve this in. Bowls are like plates, except the sides turn up and if they are big enough they are also good for giving haircuts. My mother in law used this method on my husband back in the nineties and it worked great. I recommend bowls for serving food and cutting hair. Bowls.
Napkins: Sometimes, when people make food in their houses, with a wooden spoon, and serve it in bowls, their faces can get messy. This is why I recommend napkins. Napkins are especially useful in the summertime, when it is customary to wear short-sleeved shirts. Napkins are very versatile and came in handy in various ways during the year 2020.
Sugar: It’s white and it’s sweet, and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man’s clooooothes, ooooh //la da da de de daa// (extensive piano playing)…SING US A SONG, YOU’RE THE PIANO MAN, SING US A SONG TONIGHT…WELL, WE’RE ALL IN THE MOOD FOR A MELODIEEEE AND THE MICROPHONE SMELLS LIKE A BEER!!
Gracie is not allowed to take late naps anymore.
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