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Friday, September 7, 2012

The Blues or Jimi Hendrix As Therapy

These kids are killing us.

One doesn't nap well, one doesn't nap at all.  When they do trip and accidentally fall asleep with the sun up, they're absolutely set on being up till 11 o'clock.  At night, one sleeps solidly, the other does not.  The one wakes early, the other no, but is awakened by the madrugador.

One is generally insane, most times comically so, possessed by forces beyond our control and description.  The other will placidly sit there like it's time to pose for a Rockwell painting.

One might be a slightly-picky, apparently? texture-sensitive eater.  One has never met a substance that he will not ingest.  Except chickpeas.  HATES chickpeas.  Hates 'em.

I tell him, "These aren't chickpeas, dude.  They're garbanzo beans."  "GAWHBAHNZO beans?" he asks.  Garbanzo beans aren't bad, and he eats those just fine.  Also loves hummus.  It's complicated.

Y'know, I did always wonder why the things had two names.  Now I know:  Hoodwinking fouryearolds.  I digress.

We - I really mean she - incessantly tends to the little one.  It makes sense.  That one is after all much louder.  The big one then takes that golden opportunity to douse our kitchen with a gallon jug of white vinegar.  The place smells like the most low-rent, wilted garden salad in the galaxy.  The fumes were so overpowering this morning that I got coffee + shockingly unhealthy breakfast elsewhere.

These kids are killing us.

They say when you got the blues, you need The Blues.  Okay, nobody says that.  Made it up just now.  Feel free to use it.

Let this one wash you clean, babies.  I give you... and me... Jimi.


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