Organic (which is another word for random)

Last night I couldn't sleep because I'd been looking up flights and ferries and prices and timetables for our summer trip before I went to bed, so of course then I had to mentally pack for everyone and make the stroller/no-stroller decision and work out what new clothes the kids would need and so on, in between swallowing to see if my throat was getting more or less sore as the night went on, and being roused by Mabel here and there and now and then.

At some point I had written a great blog post in my head. Sadly, I can't remember a word of it now, except that there was something very amusing/clever about putting the weather in time-out, or possibly sending it to sit on the naughty step. I have a nasty suspicion that none of it actually made a jot of sense. That's always a risk of sleep-blogging, I suppose.

So now me and my big fat slime-filled nose, and my sinuses that are once again making their presence felt, and my throat which has actually backed down for the time being, have nothing to tell you. I'm out of my favourite white tea with mint, which I only drink when I'm sick: in fact, the way I can tell that I'm sick is that I start to pull the regular tea and the instant coffee and the honey bear out of their cupboard and look behind them for the fancy Stash box that sit mostly unmolested from one end of the year to the other.

Monkey wants me to make muffins out of chocolate chips, a big pile of sugar, and some peanut butter. I don't have the energy to get into the whole chemistry of baking with him just now (as if I actually know), but he won't believe me when I say that will just make a big mess, not muffins. Oh, and sprinkles on top. I forgot the sprinkles. Well, I suppose that changes everything.

I keep finding liquid soap smeared on the wall or the mirror in the bathroom. In a similar experimental vein, he's putting it there to see what will happen the next day, in case it turns into metal, or stone, or the much-sought-after secret formula for Spider-Man's webs (so far he's suggested water, snot, and peanut butter, all of which notions I have cruelly and unreasonably shot down). What usually happens, in actuality, is that I find it, mutter imprecations, wipe it off, and come back out to explain once again that soap will just turn into dried-up soap.

I am happy that I will not be his science teacher. I predict explosions.