Attack of the Toddlers!!!

I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Literally.

I'm trying to put my shoes on, but because I can only put on one shoe at a time, after I grab the first shoe, the second shoe is vulnerable to attack. Almost without fail one of my toddlers will grab the second shoe. They will either a) run off with the shoe and hide it, or B) drop it on my bare foot in an effort to "help" me put my shoes on. You might think that a shoe falling 16 inches wouldn't hurt too much. You would be wrong.

If only that were the only time they beat me up. It isn't. My kids have become experts in the field of Mixed Martial Arts. They are Mixed Martial Toddler Artists. Within the last 24 hours I have been on the receiving end of:

*An elbow to the groin.
*A head-butt to my skull, just behind my ear. (It left me a little dizzy.)
*A head-butt to my groin. (She's just the right height that when she runs at me, that's where her skull hits.)
*An elbow to the chest. (Elbows are pointy!)
*A knee to the groin. (Why does it always have to be the groin? Please, leave my groin alone!!!)

"Ouch," says my groin.

That last knee to the groin inflicted a pain that lasted for several hours. So much so that I actually considered putting an ice pack on my groin. (Instead, I just walked around with my hand covering my groin for most of the rest of the evening to shield off further hits.) (See: Shields Up!) Now that I write this, as the pain has eased, I can see where it might sound a bit amusing. It was not amusing yesterday.

So, what can I do about it? Not much. Around the house I can keep a hand over my groin for protection, but I can't do that out in public. (No one wants to be known as "That Guy With His Hand On His Groin.")

About all I can do is try my best to avoid or deflect, then wait for them to outgrow the Mixed Martial Toddler Artist phase. Eventually their form of attack will change from the physical (frequent hits to the groin) to the verbal (asking 429 questions in a matter of three minutes.)

Because they're always on the attack.


Edited from a post originally published on 9/22/2017.

At the Junction of Cereal and Candy

Boxed cereal has gotten a bad rap. It's dismissed as unsubstantial fluff--useless, crunchy piffle that turns soggy when sitting too long in milk.

But in reality, it's quite a remarkable food. Consider:
*It's got a long shelf life--you never have to worry about your cereal going bad.
*It's very versatile--you can eat it with milk or you can eat it dry right out of the box.
*It's relatively inexpensive--if you keep your eyes open for the right sale, you can often get an entire box for under two dollars.
*It's marginally nutritious--it contains some good nutrients, and it will keep you from starving to death.

So, why does cold cereal have such a bad reputation? It's because of stuff like this:

Part of this healthy(???) breakfast.

Yes, that's right, it's Sour Patch Kids Cereal! When my wife and I first saw this in the store a few months ago, we thought it was a joke. In fact, my wife believed it was so funny that she had me pick up a box of it and pose for a picture. "You could probably right up a funny blog about this," she said.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I laughed and forgot about it. But then this week we loaded up the entire family and went grocery shopping again. (It's amazing how often you have to go shopping when you have four kids. They go through a lot of foodstuffs.) (And is it weird that all six of us frequently go grocery shopping together? Probably. But it's one of the few occasions when my wife and I actually get to spend time together, so it's like going on a date--with four kids and a shopping cart.)

Anyway, as we were shopping my wife noticed that Sour Patch Kids cereal was on sale, so she decided to buy some so we could determine if it was as bad as it looked like it might be. The kids were very excited. They were so excited, in fact, that when we got home they requested--no, demanded that they be allowed to try the cereal. And while we usually don't negotiate with terrorists or adhere to their demands, having them eat it was the reason we bought the cereal and brought it into our home.

We gave each kid a small bowl and a smattering of the cereal. They tried it without milk, and it was unanimous: the kids loved it! I tried it--I didn't love it. It was quite strange. As the box states, it was sour, then it was sweet. It was not what I want in a cereal. My wife tried one little bite and she was done. This was not a cereal for adults.

Then it was time to add some milk. It's one thing to have a sour dry cereal, but adding something sour to milk is like tempting fate. People who have tasted milk that has gone bad spend the rest of their lives looking at expiration dates and sniffing open milk containers in an effort to never have that experience again. No one likes sour milk. So, I had some trepidation about adding sour cereal to my milk.

The kids had no such fear. (By being "good" parents and never serving them milk that's gone bad, we may have done them a disservice.) They loved it. They ate the cereal, slurped up the milk, and asked for more. Even though the whole taste test was her idea, my wife would not try the cereal with milk. I did. It was not a pleasant experience. I felt the same way about eating Sour Patch Kids cereal as I did about riding Space Mountain at Disneyland--it didn't kill me, but I wouldn't do it again unless I was absolutely forced to by my children.

Of course, kids being kids one of them didn't finish the cereal in their bowl. About a half hour later I picked it up and went to dump it in the sink, and that's when I looked at it. In thirty minutes a white, filmy layer had settled in the bowl. I'm not sure if it was the frosting from the cereal dissolving, or if it was the milk separating. Either way, it made the cereal look even less edible than I had initially thought--which was quite an achievement.

It looks like an Oompa Loompa barfed.

So, the bottom line is: Would our kids eat it again? Yes. But, will we ever buy it again? No.

Cereal really is a remarkable food. But, as long as they keep making things like Sour Patch Kids cereal, it will never be thought of with the respect it deserves. (Nor should it. I'm not sure I'll ever get that taste out of my mouth again.)

You're From Idaho? Oh, You Must Be a Potato Farmer

Yes, I'm from Idaho. But, no, I'm not a potato farmer.

Did you know there a lot of people in Idaho (the vast majority, in fact) who don't grow potatoes for a living? It's true! There are school teachers, factory workers, nurses, truck drivers, hair stylists, college professors, politicians, garbage collectors, pawn shop owners, lawyers, fry cooks, and nuclear scientists living in Idaho who have never pulled a potato out of the ground.

Amazingly enough, there are also farmers in Idaho who are not potato farmers! I know this for a fact, because I grew up on a farm in Idaho, but the only time I ever saw a potato was on my dinner plate. We grew wheat, barley, and alfalfa, and we raised cattle. But no potatoes.

People make assumptions and generalizations based on limited information quite frequently. They hear the word "Idaho," and the first thing that comes to mind is potatoes. So they immediately jump to the conclusion that if you are from Idaho, you must be a potato farmer.

It happens all the time. You live in Los Angeles? Oh, you must want to be an actor. You're a Mormon? So, how many wives do you have? She's so pretty, she must have been a cheerleader. (And she's probably not very smart.) Look how tall you are. You must play basketball.

Just because I like posing in front of over-sized potatoes doesn't mean I'm a male model.

Sometimes generalizations are pretty harmless. Sometimes they're not. You accepted welfare? Oh, you must be a lazy freeloader. You're a Republican? Oh, you must be a racist. You voted for Trump? Oh, you must be stupid. You voted for Hillary? Oh, you must hate America.

It can be very easy for these things to get out of hand.

So, we must come to this conclusion: All generalizations are bad!

(Do you see what I did there? I made a generalization that said that all generalizations are bad. But if all generalizations are bad, wouldn't that mean that my generalization that all generalizations are bad is also bad? It's all pretty confusing, isn't it?)

Not all of the assumptions we make by generalizing are bad. (Is it true that all Canadians are really nice? Probably not, but it's not such a bad generalization to characterize a people by.) Not all of them are wrong. (If you assume everyone you meet in Utah is a Mormon, you would be correct quite often.)

I guess what I'm saying is that we can't always assume our generalizations are true. We need to look at each person and each case individually. Sometimes people don't always fit into the neat little stereotypes that we think should define them.

For instance, just because I'm extremely handsome, it doesn't mean that I'm not also very smart. (And I guess if someone assumes I'm a potato farmer because I'm from Idaho, that's not the worst thing in the world--I hear they're all really hard workers.)


Edited from a post originally published on 9.15.2017.

Where No One Needs to Know Your Name

My daughter met a boy at the McDonald's PlayPlace and announced to us that she was going to marry him. She is four years old. Meanwhile, I didn't announce that I was going to marry anyone until I was 40 years old. Just a bit of a difference.

I don't think she's actually going to marry him--she doesn't know his name, and my understanding is it's fairly important to know the name of your spouse before you get married. (Vegas wedding chapels excluded, of course.)

Making best friends.

Kids have this ability to make friends any time and anywhere. Whenever we go to a park, the kids end up becoming best buds with whoever else happens to be at the playground with them. They'll say, "Dad! Dad! I made a new best friend!"

I'll say, "Great! What is your best friend's name?"

"Umm...I don't know." Apparently, names aren't important for friendships.

A very frightening sign.

A while back I took the kids with me to get an oil change in the mini-van at the car dealership. Usually when I go there I plop the kids in front of the television and get some writing done, but on this occasion the television in the kids' waiting area wasn't working. Without the television, the kids quickly teamed up with another couple of kids and they played tag and danced and ran around the dealership to entertain themselves. When the mother of those others told her kids that it was time to leave, I thought all four kids were going to break down into tears. It was quite a scene, complete with hugs and sad waves goodbye.

Meanwhile, I don't make new friends very often. The vast majority of my friends are people I've known for most of my life--or at least for several years. In recent years I've made several acquaintances. These are people I could become good friends with, if I spend enough time with them. But, I usually end up spending my time with my family or the friends I already have.

The older we get, the more time it takes to actually become friends with someone. But we are less likely to take the time it takes to make those friendships. Things would be easier if we were like kids--able to lose ourselves immediately in friendships with people we've just met. (Who knows? You might even meet someone at the PlayPlace that you'll want to marry.)

Back To School: Day 1 (A Running Diary)

Ah, the first day of school! It's one of the most anticipated and dreaded days of the year. And, it's just around the corner. To commemorate the day, I thought I'd take a look at how things went when I wrote a running diary of the first day of school two years ago. Things haven't changed much.

But first, the players, as they were two years ago:
     Thing 1:  9 year-old daughter (entering 4th grade)
     Thing 2:  7 year-old son (entering 2nd grade)
     Thing 3:  Two and a half year-old daughter
     Thing 4:  One year-old son
     The Wife:  Junior High math teacher crazy enough to marry me
     Me:  Stay-at-home dad and writer

Here we go:

5:30 AM--The Wife's alarm goes off. She hits the snooze button. I think about getting up to exercise.
5:40 AM--The Wife's alarm goes off again. She hits the snooze button again. I don't think about getting up to exercise.
5:50 AM--The Wife's alarm goes off again. I actually get out of bed and go to the bathroom.
5:55 AM--The Wife takes a shower.
6:00 AM--I feel guilty for not exercising. Grab the laptop and attempt to write. (Surf Facebook instead.)
6:13 AM--The Wife gets out of the shower. She sees me and says, "Oh, I thought you were exercising." I feel even more guilty.
6:15 AM--I take a shower.
6:33 AM--Attempt to write. (Stare off into space.)
6:45 AM--Wake up Thing 1 and Thing 2. I have the following exchange with Thing 1:
     Thing 1: "I was having a hilarious dream, but I'm glad you woke me up!"
     Me: "A hilarious dream?"
     Thing 1: "The octopus was eating pizza! But I'm glad you woke me up because it's the first day of school!"
6:46 AM--Thing 2 wakes up and has a bloody nose.
6:48 AM--Thing 1 informs me that in her hilarious dream there was calamari on the pizza the octopus was eating.
6:50 AM--Thing 1 and Thing 2 get dressed in their brand new* school clothes. [*NOTE: Last night The Wife picked out all of their clothes for the first week of school. Prior to that she made sure they had new clothes for school. Because she cares. (Had it been left to me they might have worn "gasp!" clothes from last year.)]
6:56 AM--Thing 1 doesn't want breakfast if it might be messy.
7:01 AM--Notice that Thing 2 has all brand new clothes except for ill-fitting socks he has worn for at least three years because he really wants to wear Captain America socks.
7:12 AM--The bus arrives...for the high school and junior high kids. Thing 2 worries that he missed his bus. I explain to him that this was not his bus. (I'll have this same conversation with him 46 more times over the course of the school year.)
7:15 AM--Auntie K arrives to do "First Day of School" hair. (She's slightly better at doing hair than Daddy.)
7:34 AM--Hair is done.
7:35 AM--Time for the "First Day of School" photo shoot.
7:39 AM--Realize it is very difficult to get two children to pose together without one of them fake-smiling so hard that they look like a psycho.
7:46 AM--Her work finished, Auntie K goes home. (She's incredible! She's like Mary Poppins without the flying umbrella.)
7:48 AM--Load their lunches* into their backpacks. [*NOTE: Last night The Wife packed their lunches. Because she is amazing.]
7:51 AM--Thing 2 asks if he can go to the bus stop. (No. It's too early.)
8:00 AM--I let them leave for the bus stop. (Even though it's still too early.)

And they're off!

8:03 AM--They arrive at the bus stop, sit on the curb, and look bored.
8:11 AM--The first next kid arrives at the bus stop.
8:19 AM--The bus arrives!
8:20 AM--The bus leaves.
8:21 AM--With complete quiet and solitude, I attempt to write. (Actually open a file on the computer.)
8:23 AM--I hear that Thing 4 is awake. As I go to get him, I really hope Thing 3 is still asleep.
8:24 AM--She's not.
8:25 AM--Change Thing 4's diaper.
8:26 AM--Get Thing 4 a banana.
8:27 AM--Change Thing 3's diaper.
8:28 AM--Get Thing 3 a banana.
8:29 AM--Make toast.
8:30 AM--Get more banana for Thing 4.
8:35 AM--Attempt to write. (Distracted by Facebook again.)
9:10 AM--Smell something bad. Change Thing 4's poopy diaper.
9:12 AM--Attempt to write. (Stare blankly into space.)
9:54 AM--Smell something bad. (Again.) Change Thing 4's poopy diaper.
9:56 AM--Attempt to write. (Go over old e-mails.)
10:34 AM--Actually getting some writing done! The kids are playing quietly. All is well.
10:36 AM--Thing 3 walks up to me, hits me in the leg, and repeatedly shouts, "I'm Velma! I'm Velma!" while holding an action figure of Daphne. She throws the Daphne action figure in anger. I stop writing to look for Velma action figure.
10:37 AM--Find two Shaggy action figures, two Scooby-Doo action figures, and one Fred action figure. No Velma.
10:39 AM--Find Velma! (And the world rejoices!) Sit down to write again.
10:40 AM--Sniff. Sniff. Smell something bad. Change Thing 4's poopy diaper. (His third in an hour and a half.)
10:42 AM--Put Thing 4 down for a nap. (All that pooping has got to make him tired, right?)
10:46 AM--Attempt to write. (Review what I've already written.)
10:48 AM--Thing 3 interrupts by asking me to read her a book.
11:01 AM--Finish reading to Thing 3. (Amazingly, I was able to get away with reading the book only three straight times.)
11:02 AM--Attempt to write. (Distracted by looking at "First Day of School" photo shoot.)
12:05 PM--Post "First Day of School" pictures of Thing 1 and Thing 2 on Facebook.
12:40 PM--Get Thing 4 up from his nap. Shockingly, no poop in his diaper.
12:43 PM--Feed kids leftover spaghetti for lunch.
12:44 PM--Realize I should not be feeding Thing 4 spaghetti on a day that isn't his normal bath day.
1:03 PM--Use a washy-wash (washcloth) to clean spaghetti sauce out of Thing 4's face, ears, eyebrows, hair, nostrils, chin, in between his fingers, eyelashes, and anywhere else I can find it, knowing full well that despite my best efforts I won't get it all.
1:09 PM--Attempt to write. (Doze off a little.)
3:13 PM--Change Thing 4's diaper. There is no poop, but there are several spaghetti noodles. And some sauce.
3:37 PM--The school bus arrives!
3:40 PM--Thing 1 and Thing 2 arrive home from school.
3:41 PM--Talking at the same time, Thing 1 and Thing 2 give a quick, incoherent report of everything that happened at school on the first day.
3:49 PM--The Wife arrives home from school.
3:50 PM--The exact same report is given of everything that happened at school on the first day. It is still incoherent.
3:51 PM--The Wife, exhausted from a full day of work at school, collapses in her chair. We look at each other and realize we only have to do this 179 more times before school lets out next summer.


Edited from a post originally published on 8/25/2017.
(The "running diary" is a format I've borrowed from former ESPN/Grantland/The Ringer writer Bill Simmons. I've used it a couple of times before.)

In Defense of Olive Garden

I'm about to say something very controversial. There are people who will disagree and mock me for my opinion. Some will dismiss me as a crackpot; others will get downright angry with me. I don't care. I'm willing to face the consequences. Here it is:

I like to eat at Olive Garden.

There, I said it, and I don't care what the naysayers think.

It's like they took a little piece of Italy and moved it to the suburbs!

I'm being overdramatic, of course. A lot of people like to eat at Olive Garden--that's why they have over 800 restaurants worldwide. But, at the mention Olive Garden at least one person in every crowd will turn up their nose and scoff. "Olive Garden," they'll huff. "Ha! That's not real Italian food!" (They might even say "that's not real Italian cuisine," because these are the type of people who think they know the difference between "cuisine" and "food.")

To these folks I say: How do you know? Are you from Italy? Have you ever been to Italy? Can you even find Italy on a map? What makes you qualified to tell me what is and isn't authentic Italian food?

Having said that, I'm willing to concede the point: Olive Garden is not authentic Italian cuisine. How do I know this? Because the food is mass produced right here in America. It's not like every time they open a new Olive Garden they import a dozen chefs from Italy to come make the food. Olive Garden serves Italian-ish food made by Americans.

So, why do I like to go to Olive Garden?  Because I like the taste of the food! They have soup with sausage in it, and your server will shred as much cheese into it as you want. I like noodles. I like marinara sauce. I like alfredo sauce. I like breadsticks. Olive Garden serves unlimited breadsticks. Do you know what that means? It means there is no limit to the number of breadsticks you can eat! Sure, after your 47th breadstick they might start bringing them out a little more slowly. And yes, after your 73rd breadstick you might have to personally request each new breadstick one at a time. But, as long as it's not closing time, they'll keep bringing you breadsticks. Delicious, buttery breadsticks!

Have you been to Olive Garden? There is usually a line-up of people waiting to be seated. The restaurant is almost always full of patrons. Lots and lots of people go to Olive Garden every day, and most of them would happily return again another day. That's because most people find that Olive Garden serves satisfying food.

And yet, there are still those Olive Garden naysayers. They'll say things like, "My grandmother is Italian, and Olive Garden food is nothing like hers!" That's probably true. And I'm fine with that. It just means there'll be more breadsticks for me.

Star Wars/Car Wash

I was thinking about Star Wars the other day. You know, Star Wars, the first movie, even though they try to call it things like "Episode 4," or "A New Hope." It was Star Wars when it came out, and it will always be Star Wars to me. (Because I'm old and I don't like change.) I'm talking about the movie that ends (forty-something year-old SPOILER ALERT) with Luke Skywalker flying down a space trench and hitting a small target in order to destroy the Death Star.

Anyway, if the rebellion had been depending on me to fly my x-wing down that space trench and make the shot to destroy the Death Star, they would have been out of luck.

I have a hard enough time pulling in to a car wash.

Use the force, Luke!

It looks simple enough: just drive forward and put the front driver-side wheel into the little tire-holder. Easy! They even have little yellow markers to help guide you on your way, plus some angled metal to help push the tire into the correct spot if you are off by a few inches.

Follow the yellow brick road.

You'd have to be a completely incompetent driver to not be able to get that front tire where it's supposed to go, right?

Not so fast, my friend! It might not be as easy as it looks. Why? Because as soon as you enter the car wash, your windshield gets sprayed with water, greatly decreasing your ability to see anything in front of you. Plus, as you approach the target you can no longer see it because your own vehicle blocks the view. When driving, you can't actually see where your front tire is, so all those yellow dots quickly become useless. (And it's not like you can stick your head out of the window to look, unless you want your face to get rinsed, soaked, and/or waxed.)

To see or not to see? (That is the question.)

In fact, flying down that space trench to destroy the Death Star might be easier, because you'd have R2-D2 to help guide you. At the car wash there is no R2 unit, just some kids in the back seat yelling, fighting, and/or screaming.

Sure, having Darth Vader and a squadron of tie-fighters trying to shoot you down would be a distraction, but so is that guy in line behind you, honking his horn because you're moving too slow.

So, yes, I'm afraid that if the rebel forces were relying on my piloting skills to bring down the Death Star, they would have been in trouble. There would still be a giant, moon-sized thing flying through that galaxy far, far away, blowing up planets and rebel bases with ease.

And my x-wing would still need a good washing.



Edited from a post originally published on 8/11/2017.

What Jobs Are On Your Parental Resume?

We were at a toy store the other day when something caught my eye. It was a game called "Poop Checkers."

Yes, it's a game of checkers where the usual round playing pieces have been replaced by ones that are shaped like little piles of poop. That's right, poop--again. (I recently wrote about a food that promoted children getting a tongue tattoo of uni-poop.) (Uni-poop is a pile of poop with a unicorn horn in it.)

This is different. I didn't care so much about the game, (although I did wonder how exactly the poop pieces stack on top of each other when it comes time to get "kinged.") What caught my attention was the name of the game: Poop Checkers. My first thought was, "That could be a description of me. As a parent of a child who is in the process of being potty trained, I am a 'Poop Checker.'"

I check for poop. I am a poop checker.

I've recently been looking for a job and updating my resume, and I thought about the many different skills I've learned as a parent. Unfortunately, I can't put "Poop Checker" on my regular resume. But, if I were to make a separate resume just for my parental skills, it would certainly apply.

Here are a few of the jobs and skills many parents could add to their Parental Resume:

Poop Checker: Oh, sure, anybody can check for poop. But, it takes experience and a special skill set to check for poop without getting any poop on your finger.

Poop checked.
(Photo courtesy of Pixabay)

Tissue Box: Kids sneeze. Adults sneeze. Adults usually have enough warning that they can have a tissue or handkerchief in place before the sneeze occurs, and if not, they quickly grab one to clean up the after-sneeze. Kids, on the other hand, seem to always be caught by surprise by sneezes. And afterwards they seem to be paralyzed--so grossed out by the large amount of snot hanging from their noses that they are unable to move. As a parent, not only do you always have access to a large supply of facial tissues, you also must spring into quick action to clean up the aftermath.

Day Planner: Sometimes kids have things to do. But, kids have no idea when they are supposed to do those things. Dentist appointments? Doctor appointments? Birthday parties? Playdates? They would never get to any of these things without you.

Personal Chef: Yes, you know when they prefer box macaroni and cheese over homemade. Yes, you know which dipping sauces they want for their chicken nuggets. Yes, you know which vegetables they might actually eat.

Nurse: You are your child's personal health care companion. You apply the band-aids. The healing power of your kiss is phenomenal.

Laundry Service: The laundry is never truly finished.

Garbage Can: It is surprising how often your kids will hand you their garbage.

Detective (Finder of Lost Things): There is always one shoe missing. There is always one shoe missing!

Cheerleader: The skill of being a good cheerleader is knowing when to loudly cheer, when to be quietly supportive, and when to bust out a good cartwheel.

Maid Service: You can try to make them clean up after themselves--as long as you're aware you're going to have to clean up after they clean up.

Hair Stylist: If you let your child out in the wild without doing something with their hair, it doesn't reflect poorly on them as much as it reflects poorly on you.

Chauffeur: Piano lessons. Soccer games. Birthday parties. Until they're tall enough to reach the pedals, it's all on you.

Lifeguard: There is no lifeguard at the splash pad. Well, except for you.

No lifeguard on duty.
(Photo courtesy of Pixabay)

Assembler: Those bunk beds aren't delivered already set up. And that Hot Wheels track needs some work, too.

Politician (Law Maker): Without you, someone might be able to watch television before the kitchen has been swept.

Police (Law Enforcement): If that television is on before the kitchen has been swept, there will be consequences.

Jungle Gym: Kids can't always make it to the park. They need to climb something.

Ringmaster: Someone needs to run this circus. That someone is you.

Smooshing "Raisins" In the Rug

When I was a kid I didn't like raisins.

Really, what kid does like raisins? To most kids, raisins are just a disappointing impersonator of chocolate chips. You have a cookie, see a dark spot in it, and think, "Yay! Chocolate chips!" And then you take a bite and, "Oh, crap, that's a raisin!" So, no, most kids don't really like raisins.

(Having said that, I don't know how true it is, because my kids happen to love raisins. They'll eat raisins by the handful if given the chance. I'm not sure if this is because their mother has trained them to eat healthy, or if my kids are just really weird. It's probably a little of both.)

Anyway, as a kid I developed such a hatred of raisins that I didn't want to be around them. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. I would shun them with the shunniest of shunnings.

So, one day my Mom gave me a muffin, and it was chock full of dark spots, and those dark spots were not chocolate chips. "Drat! Raisins! They must be shunned!" (That may or may not have been how I spoke as a kid, which may or may not explain a few things.) So, what did I do? I picked those "raisins" out of my muffin and smooshed them into the rug in the middle of the living room floor. [I'm told by spellcheck that "smooshed" isn't a word. But, those "raisins" weren't "smushed" into the rug, and they weren't "smooched," either. They were smooshed. And the beauty of the English language is that if "smooshed" isn't a word, it can be if it gets used often enough. Just like "interwebs" or "hipster."]

Plump and juicy raisins blueberries.

Well, it turns out those "raisins" weren't raisins after all. They were blueberries. It was the first time I had ever had a blueberry muffin, and I picked all of the blueberries out and smooshed them into the rug. Was it good thing to do? No. Was it a smart thing to do? No. Did I get in serious trouble? Yes. Do my brother and sister still tease me about smooshing blueberries into the rug? Yes. If I had it to do over again, would I? Maybe. (I really didn't like raisins!)

The only place this muffin is getting smooshed is in my face!

Since then, I've matured a bit. (Though it may be hard to tell sometimes.) I'm actually okay with raisins now. I don't seek them out, but I will eat them on occasion, and I won't pick them out of things. (Although they do still get me angry when they deceive me into thinking they are chocolate chips.)

And as far as blueberries go, I have a love/hate relationship with them. I love them in muffins, pancakes, and waffles. However, I don't like eating them plain. A blueberry inside of some kind of bready food is delicious, but I don't want a blueberry by itself.

But, even though I don't like plain blueberries, I've learned my lesson: I won't smoosh them into the rug.


Edited from a post originally published on 7/25/2017.