Okay, this is way too easy to do. I sense an impending addiction. It's like being able to blurt out anything to anyone (or, as the case may be, no one) at virtually any time, with (almost) impunity.
To set the current scene: baby is lying on a blanket on the floor, "talking" (shouting, more like it; he's got a big voice), surrounded by bits of Playmobil, while the other kids play something I can't quite make out. I love their imaginary games, though truth be told, they're too obscure to follow, and seem to rely on repetition: "I'm putting this bed in here, because they have to sleep in here." "But then there is no door." "This is a door." "I have to pack up all your jewels." "Okay." Enhanced by incredible engine noises from A, age 7, and always but always the loudest child anywhere. Not because he's shouting but because of his sound effects, which he's been performing since infancy. Airplanes roars, explosions of all kinds, motors, engines, robots. He seemed to come by his repetoire instinctively, before he could have known what noise a car would make.
I wasn't going to write about the kids. Much.
Anyway, that's the scene, and I'm on the computer in the kitchen (bad placement for someone prone to check more often than she should), and there are dirty dishes on the counter, pots unwashed, leftover supper food just put away (pasta, with almost entirely local homemade sauce and salad; cherry tomatoes from our driveway garden!), and Kevin's off to play his weekly soccer match. Let's hope he comes home uninjured. (Black eye a couple of a weeks ago. Ouch). The Olympics are on in the background, too. And I'm about to floss the kids' teeth, one by one, with them lying on the couch with their heads in my lap. All of the ones who have teeth.
Labels: kids, local food, Olympics, soccer