What does lazing about consist of for the Bagels?
Well, we don't get dressed for one; it's jammies all the way, all day, baby! Poor Jehovah's Witnesses, UPS guy, and random summer pest control salesman. They never saw it (me) coming in my bright yellow sweat-shorts and mud run tee, covered in drool from a perpetually teething babe, wielding a Harry Potter wand in one hand, an Imaginext dragon in the other, with a backwards binky shoved haphazardly in my mouth. It's my new anti-solicitor campaign and I gotta tell ya, it really works! :)
Let's see, we also don't plan meals or meal times when we're being deliberately lazy. The kitchen's a free for all. You want a hot dog for breakfast? Go for it. Cereal for lunch? Done. Clif Bar for a snack? Healthy choice, young Padawan. Daddy especially *loves* this part of his family's definition of lazing about, let me tell you! Coming home to watermelon for dinner? SCORE! Okay, just kidding. Moment of honesty here . . . it was really pizza . . . of the not-homemade sort. Pizza-a-la-Papa-Juan! Because when you're going to be lazy, you may as well excel at it!
So, that's the alimentary aspect of a lazy day. How else do we do lazy?
Well, we read a lot. Scriptures, read-alouds (Fablehaven Book 5 - pure awesomeness, don't want to put it down), magazines, how-to books, blogs, board books and picture books, bath books, science books, craft books etc. You name it, we read it. Soren stayed up in his bed last night reading until midnight! Thank you, Roald Dahl, for unleashing the true I-can't-put-this-book-down reader in Soren. Now could you please come find the I'm-totally-fine-and-won't-overreact-to-everything-the-next-day-because-I-stayed-up-way-too-late kid in Soren? Really. Because apparently those two peeps don't walk hand-in-hand. In fact, I'd challenge any human to find them in the same hemisphere even. Sleep is sort of important . . . at any age . . . which is why I am so wisely typing away at 11:08pm. Apparently I crave crankiness.
On a lazy day we DON'T:
~ open the blinds
~ impede toddler shenanigans
~ wear swim trunks (or anything, really) in the kiddie pool
~ fight, bicker, complain, thieve, punch, kick, bite (okay, yeah right, totally wishful thinking)
~ clean, tidy, or otherwise treat our home with any measure of responsibility (true story)
~ respond to emails, texts, or voicemail messages (sorry, Pops!)
~ follow proper grooming recommendations (fuzzy teeth, anyone?)
~ put water in the bedtime bath (fish out of water!)
~ say no to messes or homemade (and even made up) superhero costumes (Ever heard of Goggle Guru? Don't forget, you heard it here first!)
~ worry one bit about the AMA, APA, or AAP warnings about screen time limits (Pixar marathon? Check. Poptropica marathon? Yup.)
So there you have the lazy Bagels in a nutshell.
Unfortunately, no more lazy days this week as the responsibilities resurface. But that's okay because my house and my teeth can only take so many lazy days before they crumble apart.
Oh, want to hear about those birdies now? A couple months ago we got to watch as a mama bird began to build her nest on our flood light above our garage. Heaven only knows why she'd EVER want to build a nest there as we use the garage as our main entry and exit and it is lifted and lowered multiple times a day. But, I digress. She worked hard, that mama bird, and we were all in awe of her natural ability to scavenge materials and form her nest. Then she laid eggs, or so we assumed. We couldn't actually see inside her nest because the clearance from the top of the flood light to the eave was so small. But, out popped some little chickies one day, birdie babies chirping away for their mama as she fled each time we exited the garage. I got some pictures of the babies on my phone. They looked fuzzy and cozy and oh so cute. Fast forward a week or so and my friend, Heather, comes over. As she's coming in the house I proudly point out our baby birds and she gravely takes a step back and begins to tell me a horrible tale of bird mites and fumigation and home tenting, etc. Truly the type of story nightmares are made of. So, thanks to Heather, I start to circumvent the area directly below the nest each time I enter/exit the garage, feeling itchy regardless of the wide berth I give those babies. Then one day we notice black spots on our driveway. It looked like throw up. Then we notice more black spots and some white stuff mixed it. We look up and notice the nest appears to be "leaking" fluid that's dripping down all over the flood light. Fuzzy baby birdie poopy. Everywhere. Now our fuzzy little baby birds aren't so cute and cuddly anymore and Dan is struggling against a strong inclination to eliminate them. I am not so callous (just kidding, Pops), but I am also none too fond of those darn birdies anymore. I believe they must be like teenagers now in bird years. Shouldn't their mama be booting them from the nest soon?! All I know is as soon as they go, I'm hosing everything down with the strongest pressure nozzle I can find. I am so over the cute little fuzzy baby birdies that pooped everywhere and gave me buggy nightmares. Also, I think they might be dying. Today they stopped chirping so much and seemed to be just panting away, languidly sprawled about in their too tiny nest. What if they are diseased?! Although, maybe they are just hot. I wouldn't blame them. I'm hot. It's hot.
Okay, bed time. Hasta la pasta, people.
Oh, one more story. Tonight when I got home from my Primary presidency meeting and took Oskar in to the boys' room to nurse him and put him down, Karsten popped up, waved, and said, "Hi Mom! I missed you. We were pretecting Daddy." And then he flopped himself back down into his new Ikea big boy bed, all cute and fluffy like a little baby birdie. And then he followed me out of the room and begged for more food and refused to go to sleep . . . like an annoying adolescent birdie chirping incessantly. :D
He eventually fell asleep in our bed. He likes our bed. I like our bed. Mmmm. Beeeeed.
'Night 'night, bloggy journal and two readers.