Yesterday my lovely little monsters came back. I miss them a lot now
that they're gone a bit more, and they miss me. Not much we can do
about that, I guess.
Anyway, I set about making them dinner last
night as I discussed homework with Calvin. Slapped the pot on the stove
for boiled eggs, cranked it up, fought over the journal and what
constituted an acceptable entry (note: one partial sentence is not an
acceptable entry). I look up after a few minutes and notice the kitchen
is FULL of smoke. I had turned on the wrong hotplate and the wool pad that had been on that hotplate was transmogrified.
Mental note: don't leave shit on the stove. It is not a storage space.
Mental
note 2: it's true, wool doesn't burn. It just... carbonizes. It only
burned in the exact spot it was resting on the hotplate. So dress your
babies in wool and they won't be tragically disfigured in the event of
accidental burning.
It stunk to high heaven. I had instant flashbacks to the tragic
stew incident of my childhood, where we went to the mall leaving the
stew on the stove on high and came back to a house FULL of disgusting
smoke. I swear it took months to get the smell of burned flesh out of
our coats.
Also - my smoke detector didn't go off. OK, most of the smoke was
in the kitchen and the detector is down the hall at the bottom of the
stairs. I'm wondering if this is a bad thing or not. It doesn't go off
every time I burn the toast, which is good. If the house actually was
on fire, the smoke would have to go past the detector to get upstairs,
which would wake us up. But maybe it would be better if we got a bit of
advance warning before the whole bottom storey was filled with smoke?
Hmmm.... I think not having it go off with every cooking malfunction
might win out.
I know this won't come as a stunning revelation to anyone with an
ounce of sense, but my kids like it when I pay attention to them. We've
been drawing, playing games (Calvin is kick-ass at chess. He
castled!), playing Lego... and they are much much much happier, spend
less time fighting with each other and don't feel the need to bug me
every 20 second to play computer games (we're down to every 5 minutes,
but it's an improvement). Ah, parenting. Why can't you be easier?
Homework for two kids? Check
Calvin punching me in the arm? Check
Jack throwing a shoe at my ankle? Check.
25 Lego dudes unearthed from the bottom of the bin? Check.
Whinging bouts averted? Check.
Both kids are finally peacefully asleep in bed, the laundry is
finishing up it's cycle and the horrible sound of grinding, gnashing
metal bits erupts from the washer. Again. Once can be explained away,
twice needs attention. Stupid front loader - I don't have a clue.
On the plus side, I've managed not to to send emails that will get
me into trouble. Not like I haven't written a few but I have managed
not to send them. So far.
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