My oh my, where has July gone? The first half of the month has flown by so quickly, I actually considered eating some meat that had an expiration date of June 30 yesterday! Good thing I checked the calendar; Tim is out of town and both my parents hurt their backs, so a trip to the emergency room would have been difficult to orchestrate.
Anyway, the reason why the days are blending together is we have started Operation No Pacifier. Emily's new school had a speech pathologist come over and do a quick run-down on the kids, and Emily failed with non-flying (crawling?) colors. I mean, the lady wrote a novel about all the problems she found. The most disturbing one was that Emily has an open bite, where her front teeth do not meet when her back teeth do, and that is due to extreme pacifier and sippy cup sucking. So we went cold-turkey that evening, and although Emily's fine most of the day, when it comes to sleep, she rebels, wailing and gnashing her teeth in the night, just total Apocalypse Child. It's actually quite horrifying. Showtimes are generally at 1PM (naptime), 9PM, 1AM, and 4:30 AM.
But every morning she wakes up with the sun kissing her peach-fuzzed cheeks, chirpy and smiley and cuddly, as if nothing in the world was wrong. This sadistic punchline from God has been overwhelming me psychologically, and I've felt like I'm about to crack for a few days now, and today, I did.
The morning started out normally. Isaac wanted eggs and nectarines for breakfast, and I obliged him while Emily munched on her cheese toast. Isaac gobbled everything down and asked for another nectarine, and after I cut it up he decided he wasn't hungry anymore. Annoying, but whatever, both kids were in a good mood so I didn't care. We left to go to school, and when I came back, the leftover nectarines were COVERED with fruit flies. I'm talking a hundred of them, crawling in the sticky sweetness, FUCKING EACH OTHER like there was no tomorrow, just one big drunken hedonistic orgy on the plate. And I don't know why, but this offended me so much I grabbed the spatula I used to cook Isaac's eggs with and just started whacking away at the plate, crushing fruit flies into what quickly became nectarine jelly over and over again, then swinging the spatula around in the air trying to smack the ones that flew away, chasing them around the house.
Was it my most dignified moment? No, but it felt good. And I chuckled at the notion that if I was driven to murderous rage over the sex lives of Drosophila melanogaster (I totally pulled that out of my ass from high school biology, w00t), I pity the fools who will try to date my kids one day. They better watch where they keep their spatulas, baby.