One down....
Wednesday, June 7th, 2006 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
auntbijouIs today over yet? Just... how many hours until today is over, because... the caffeine is wearing off, and while one kid is out, the other is bouncing around like a hyperactive version of the Happy Fun Ball. This, of course, after he made this amazing recovery of energy and insisted on dancing me wildly around the kitchen to the "Numa Numa" song. By the way, we found a recording of the "Numa Numa" song (my kids' name for it, I think its actually "Dragonstea... blah blah, something Hungarian... whatever...")in English, and you know what? I like it better in Hungarian. Believe me, folks... it makes more sense in Hungarian. Especially if you don't speak Hungarian. Because it's just so... so... SAPPY!
Anyhow, dancing with a five year old is exhausting. Especially since this requires picking up your partner and swinging him around like a monkey. A giggling, wriggling, squirmy monkey with a left hook that'll send you straight to the moon. Unintentionally, of course. (Feeling a bit ticklish, hon?) So, between the swinging, the flopping, the dodging the left hooks and the flying feet, not to mention avoiding stepping on the 14 pound cat, or the kitten that barely weighs a pound soaking wet, there's also the Impertinent Daughter making a request for more drawing paper. This with a two inch thick sheaf of drawing paper in her hands. "Just how much paper do you think you're going to need? I mean... are you drawing a graphic novel or something?"
No, it just seems that I sparked an idea during an earlier conversation where we were talking about an old pet chicken we had that I had named "Kung Foo Chicken." Why? Because she would stalk us while making sounds disturbingly reminescent of a Bruce Lee movie. "Bwaaaaaaaa--eeee--yaaaaaaaaa-BOK!" And she'd leap up at the "BOK!" flapping her wings madly. Miss Priss got a funny look on her face, and you could just hear the cogs whirling madly in her head. "What?"
She said dreamily, "Kung Foo Chicken..."
"Yeah," I said, lifting Mr. Manzie over my head and wishing I hadn't. "Sounds like a really bizarre comic strip in the paper with a chicken superhero."
Bing! The little light bulb above her head went off, and she disappeared into her room, cackling madly as she rubbed her hands together. Then reappeared with the big sheaf of paper. When I refused to contribute to the deforestation of the Pacific Northwest, she retreated to her room, mumbling about pens (boy, isn't that familiar. It's exactly what I do before I retreat to my cave for a writing frenzy), and returned thirty minutes later with about a dozen strips she had done about "Kung Foo Chicken." By that time, the Impossible Son was panting with exhaustion, and I was once again thinking, "Who needs aerobics with kids like these?" Heck, I don't even need a weight set. Kid-pressing, that's what I do!
Is today over yet?
Well, I'm wired for sound, and I think I'm beginning to make less sense than usual. Think I'll go shoot some hoops in the backyard. If I can lift my arms, that is. ...sigh...
Anyhow, dancing with a five year old is exhausting. Especially since this requires picking up your partner and swinging him around like a monkey. A giggling, wriggling, squirmy monkey with a left hook that'll send you straight to the moon. Unintentionally, of course. (Feeling a bit ticklish, hon?) So, between the swinging, the flopping, the dodging the left hooks and the flying feet, not to mention avoiding stepping on the 14 pound cat, or the kitten that barely weighs a pound soaking wet, there's also the Impertinent Daughter making a request for more drawing paper. This with a two inch thick sheaf of drawing paper in her hands. "Just how much paper do you think you're going to need? I mean... are you drawing a graphic novel or something?"
No, it just seems that I sparked an idea during an earlier conversation where we were talking about an old pet chicken we had that I had named "Kung Foo Chicken." Why? Because she would stalk us while making sounds disturbingly reminescent of a Bruce Lee movie. "Bwaaaaaaaa--eeee--yaaaaaaaaa-BOK!" And she'd leap up at the "BOK!" flapping her wings madly. Miss Priss got a funny look on her face, and you could just hear the cogs whirling madly in her head. "What?"
She said dreamily, "Kung Foo Chicken..."
"Yeah," I said, lifting Mr. Manzie over my head and wishing I hadn't. "Sounds like a really bizarre comic strip in the paper with a chicken superhero."
Bing! The little light bulb above her head went off, and she disappeared into her room, cackling madly as she rubbed her hands together. Then reappeared with the big sheaf of paper. When I refused to contribute to the deforestation of the Pacific Northwest, she retreated to her room, mumbling about pens (boy, isn't that familiar. It's exactly what I do before I retreat to my cave for a writing frenzy), and returned thirty minutes later with about a dozen strips she had done about "Kung Foo Chicken." By that time, the Impossible Son was panting with exhaustion, and I was once again thinking, "Who needs aerobics with kids like these?" Heck, I don't even need a weight set. Kid-pressing, that's what I do!
Is today over yet?
Well, I'm wired for sound, and I think I'm beginning to make less sense than usual. Think I'll go shoot some hoops in the backyard. If I can lift my arms, that is. ...sigh...
