A Pancake Doth Not A Bonnet Make

Some parents run a tight ship: kids in bed at the same time each evening, no back-talking (or sassing, as it's known 'round here), immaculate housekeeping and so on.

Well, I am not them. I don't even know them.

I run what would be more accurately described as a sinking ship. It's not fearful respect that I get, it's plain mutiny.

Every day there is some epic food mess that occurs in this house. Some have been documented in this blog already. I am becoming less demonstrative with each one. Perhaps because I realized that hey, it's just a mess- no harm done. More likely, however, is the fact that after a year straight of this madness my will has been broken as far as constant cleaning goes.

I can now walk across the floor with uncooked rice pasta shells crunching underfoot the entire way, each one sounding like a tiny light bulb exploding, and not even flinch. This is how I know I've reached that zen-like state of complete acceptance and passivity. I'm not going to yell, or sweep. I'm going to finish my damn tea.

Little Shirley Temple-Blackbeard

See? Flapjack as hat. Lunacy, I say! The moral of this story is certainly this:

When you're going to Crazy Town, be sure to wear appropriate headgear.

Have a nice evening, everyone!