Move over Sunday drivers; I just want soup!

I've been thinking about what to write next for a few days now.  I had this entire blog post laid out in my mind as I was grocery shopping a few days ago.  So apparently, it's come to that.

I was going to write about how I had to have been the only 30-40-something female in that entire store with no children.  I was going to write about how there were easily more men there of the same approximate age than women.  I was going to write about how the "Sunday driver" concept extends to the cereal isle.  But, good gracious, I'm not going to write about that.  Or something.

Suffice it to say that I can mentally multi-task while pondering pineapples and kiwis.  But it's not always (ever?) fabulous. 

But here is something that is fabulous: that warm pan of apple crisp sitting on my stove right now.  And today will forever more be known as the-day-I-ate-too-much-warm-apple-crisp-and-then-realized-that-there's-at-least-1/3-of-the-pan-gone.  Of course that has often happened with a pan of warm brownies but never with apple crisp before.  I'd say that the Younger helped, but really, she mostly picked off the crispiness and ate a token chunk of apple here and there to satisfy my watchful eye. 

It's a task sometime to hold one's food neuroses in check when watching one's child eat.  If my daughters grow up to resemble anything close to "normal" eaters, it won't be for lack of my own nail biting and teeth grinding.

Both girls have a stuffed up nose right now, and there has been some amount of groaning about woe and the unfairness of it all.  Trying to create a bit of a teachable moment in our conversation, I replied to the Elder that "Chicken soup has been proven to be as effective for colds than actual medicine.  So it's pretty crazy that chicken soup is like medicine!"  Not to be hoodwinked, the Elder promptly replied "Yeah, that's like medicine I don't like." 

Neither of my daughters have the soup gene.  I weep salty tears for them and all that they don't understand.

And then I make soup whenever I want.  They grumble and moan even though they actually do enjoy a soup here and there.  I ignore them because SOUP IS IN MY BOWL.  They survive on crusty bread.  And then I finish their bowls.  Repeat.

I have enchiladas on the docket for tonight, but now I want soup.

Thanks, blog.

(No, enchilada soup would not fly with these two sprouts.)

I've been grading too much lately, obviously, if all I can blather on about is soup.  And olders taking up the whole dadgum aisle while moving as fast as my children do when I tell them that "Dinner's ready...we're having soup!" 

I think that the entire point of opening up a fresh post today was to tell everyone maybe someone who reads this that the Younger prays for her bellybutton EVERY NIGHT when I put her to bed.  She doesn't do this with the boy, though, because some things are better left between just the girls and God.

Me:  What do you want to pray for tonight?
Younger:  Beds.  Fans.  Windows.  Hugs and kisses.  And my bellybutton.  Dear God, thank you for beds, fans, windows, hugs and kisses, and my bellybutton.  Because I love them.  A-men."

Let's add soup to that list and AMEN, indeed.