Breakfast? Not so much with the Fast

I heard that steel-cut oatmeal was the new Big Thing (I dunno, I probably read it on the internet. Damn you, Internet, filling my head with all kinds of ideas) so I bought some and tried it.

It was a revelation. Steel-cut oatmeal is freaking awesome. It has a nutty texture and is completely unlike the mushy stuff I'm used to. It lived up to the hype.

But here's the thing, Internet. Who in the ever loving hell has 45 minutes to cook steel-cut oatmeal in the morning? Do you? Because if you do, come over to my house and make me some damn breakfast.

Wait, you know what? If you're going to spend 45 minutes on something, why don't you make me some grits and eggs. And biscuits. And bacon.

Because while steel-cut oatmeal is really good, even if you pile on the brown sugar and maple syrup it is still oatmeal. And yes, it is very good oatmeal, but if I'm going to spend 45 minutes stirring something it better taste like truffle-fucking-risotto when I'm done.

Seriously. Forty-five fricking minutes. Most of you can drive to my house, drop off an egg mcmuffin, and scurry back home within that time window.

Don't forget my hashbrowns.

Grandma Bell

Often Lumpyhead and Lula decide that they must call Gramma, immediatelythissecond.

Sometimes they preview this demand by calling her on one of the seven hundred fake phones that are lying around the playroom. Sometimes an event or item clearly reminds them of her, but sometimes it's just a random urge.

Occasionally we reach her, and the kids blather away about nothing, illustrating their nonsense themes by pointing at things and gesturing extravagantly. Lumpyhead and Lula inevitably hang up on her during the baton pass between them, so whoever was cruelly cheated out of the chance to dial the phone the first time receives restitution by dialing the second call.

Usually the kids get the answering machine, which they still haven't really figured out. They stare at the handset in a puzzled fashion and mutter a few half-silent phrases before being prompted to SAY SOMETHING TO THE MACHINE. My mother dials us immediately after hearing the message, always mildly distraught that she wasn't there to receive the call (because she was out getting her hair cut or buying groceries or living her life instead of waiting by the phone for the mood to strike a 2.5-year-old and a 4-year-old to call their grandmother).

I don't have the heart to tell her that, while they're confused by the answering machine, the kids aren't disappointed when they don't reach her. The excitement doesn't lie in talking to their grandmother, but rather with pushing buttons. Yes mother, they thought of you. But really? They just like to dial the phone.

Salute to a Fallen Hero

Let it never be said that you failed. The enemy's onslaught was overwhelming, but you distinguished yourself with courage and might.

Yes, Morning Diaper, there was a containment breach. You were outmatched. But you staunchly held back a monumental volume of opposition fire.

Many lesser diapers have come before you and faltered against much smaller foes.

Rest well, valiant warrior. May your days in the landfill be replete with stories of your greatness.

On behalf of a grateful laundry basket,
Lumpyhead's Mom

Da Boys

Lumpyhead got his much-needed haircut.

Nathan Jr: Yay!
Lumpyhead: Cheeeese.

Now the baby needs one.
Nathan Jr: Wait. Wut?
Lumpyhead: I don't think this is going to end well.