After returning home from kindergarten a little bit ago, Blessing #3 began working on his homework. Apparently, in addition to being a left-handed, he is also upside-down-eyeballed.

Please note the orientation of his "practice writing these words" sheet.

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The Hunky Monkey (my B.H.) was at Costco last night, picking up a couple things after filling up his tank with gas. I call him, “While you’re there, pick me up some whipping cream, and I’ll make a chocolate roll-up for my birthday cake.”

Apparently, Costco has up-sized dairy quantities. They are no longer selling the quart size. Oh no. Now I am the proud owner of a half-gallon of heavy whipping cream. Granted, it was a very good price for a half-gallon of heavy whipping cream. 5-something dollars. Definitely a good deal, but even so, I’ve got lots of whipping cream. I’ll be whipping and whipping and whipping… lots of whipped cream and freezing up like three-hundred and two double-dollops.

I digress.

So, as I now have a half-gallon of whipping cream, I thought to my self, “Hmmm, Self…. I’ll just make two chocolate roll-ups. Eight people, including a dessert-loving moma, and a lot of whipping cream mean that I need, not one cake, but two.”

So cake-bakin’ I did. As I unrolled my two beautiful cakes, whipped of a bunch of cream, and began to spread it out on the first of the cakes, I thought to myself, “Self, you really shouldn’t do this right here! Now you will have to move a cream-filled, rolled-up chocolate cake from the counter to the dish!” Then I paused and thought again to myself, “Ah, Self! You can do it! After all you’re a big girl now!”

So I spread.

And I rolled.

Apparently jinxed by the phone call conversation with my brother not 17 seconds beforehand—about none other than about baking dumping catastrophies...

And I dumped.

And then I stomped my foot and let out a frustrated growl.

Happy birthday, huh.

At least I made two.:)

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I always wear my hair up.
Hunky Monkey (a.k.a. the Monkey Daddy, a.k.a. my Beloved Husband) prefers it down.
I want a haircut.
Hunky Monkey prefers it long.

He doesn't understand why I want it in my sloppy bun all the time.
Or why I want to cut it shorter.

I've explained. But I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm just making excuses.

I put Blessing #6 in front of the webcam earlier so she could watch herself on the computer...
I took a series of pictures while we were sitting there.

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Comic Relief...

...by a just-turned 3-year-old.

Last week on our Awana “date night”:

Mid-dinner, B#5 stands on the booth bench, arches his back, thrusts his bottom out…

...and then starts shaking it side-to-side, along with some shoulder shrugs, to the Latin beat accompanying our meal.

It was hilarious, but as it seemed of poor restaurant etiquette and because he has a highly sophisticated mother, he was told to sit down.

From the backseat of the car, the sweet sing-song of B#5 is overheard:

“Mary , did you know? That your baby boy would one day walk on water?..."

"Mary, did you know? That your baby boy would one day walk on a trash can?
*hee,hee*snort,snort*hee,hee*”

After pulling into a parking lot, B#4 spots an old pickup with a field-fencing “cage” around the bed.

“Is that a catnapper? Moma, mom. Maaaaaahhhhm. Is that a catnapper? Oh, wait, I forgot. I thought it was a catnapper, but now I see the shovel.” (She has evidently mistaken it for an animal control vehicle.)

B#5 clears the confusion:
“I think it is a monkey.” The man opens the door and gets out of his truck. “Yep, it’s a monkey.”

Yesterday morning, B#3 is undressing to get into the shower with his little brother who is waiting in the tub.

Gasps of excitement from B#5:
“Bellybuttons! Two bellybuttons!”

Pointing to his own, “One bellybutton!”

Pointing to his brother’s, “And two bellybuttons! Two bellybuttons in the bathroom!”

The VeggieTales’ Bellybutton song mysteriously begins to fill the bathroom… or at least fill my head. (Heard it? It’s a hoot.)

Shaking his head, “Moma’s got no bellybutton. Only me and [B#3].”

Bellybutton is apparently code for… well, for something other than bellybutton. If you, ahem, know what I mean.

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