My week as a working mom resulted in a filthy house, mountains of laundry, a ridiculous amount of fast food, and my son walking around in public with a self-imposed haircut
in his pyjama top.
He looked kinda freakish. A cute freak,
but a freak.
(Mimi took him to the zoo in his PJs on Friday. This was after GG sent him to school in his PJs on Thursday.)
(This is not to be deride the most blessed most appreciated most beloved grandmas. GG and Mimi were my rocks last week. I am abundantly grateful.)
(I'm just pointing out that had I not been a working mom, my child would have not gone in public in his PJ's. That is all.)
(The Barber of SePill could have and would have completely happened on my watch, however.)
I could not hack it as a full time working mom. That much is clear.
I have things to blog about but am still recovering. Until then, I can only say that I seriously redeemed my vacation from domesticity tonight at dinner.
Walker loves ribs. According to him, there are a few things in the world that all men love, and ribs is on The List. I bet you can guess the other things on The List. There's only about two or three more. See there? You got an A.
Me, never gotten the affinity. For ribs, I mean, for ribs. They're okay, but I've never had any that were so good that they justified a) the calories or b) getting brown crud underneath my fingernails.
But ribs were on sale at Kroger and I decided to be all good-wife-like and cook my man some cow.
What I did not know but now do is that there are short ribs, for which recipes abound, and long ribs, which just about every google search says to grill.
I bought the things, y'all. That's huge. Asking me to fire up the grill would be seriously pushing the limits of my chromosomal capabilities.
It took me a long long time to find a recipe that utilized the oven. But being a Presbyterian I persevered, and lo, I beheld the only recipe on the dadblame internet for oven roasted long ribs.
I get it now.
They were a maz ing.
So worth the brown fingernail goop.
Next thing I'll be picking out my teams for fantasy football!
I've got much bigger problems to contend with.
Saturday, as I was walking out the door to my job selling smocked clothes for girls and boys, my husband suggested, "I'll just take Ike to get a flat top. Or a mohawk!"
Nine years of marriage, y'all, he says this to me. I just stared at him, asked him if he knew who he had married, and threatened to harm something on The List if he dared bring any clippers within a foot of my baby's head.
Momma's back home, praise the Lord, and just in time.