Moses has decided that he now likes Peppa Pig more than he likes Play School, so we’ve started recording away in order to build up a stockpile of episodes so that he can watch them when we want him to, rather than when they’re on. Peppa Pig is a cute and funny show, but not only is it impossible to watch more than one episode without starting to speak in a British accent, it only goes for 5 minutes – FIVE!! I can’t eat breakfast and shower in 5 minutes (it turns out). I barely even make it back to my cereal before I hear the “Mooooooooore piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig!” call and have to launch into what’s become an almost-hourly lecture on the benefits of using the word “please.” Dear makers of Peppa Pig: Can you make your shows at least 3 times longer? Pleeeeease?
I’ve never really trusted my skills in the kitchen, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe, when it comes to cooking and baking, it’s not so much that I can’t as that I can’t be bothered. If practice really does make perfect, my experiments in the kitchen should yield inedible and awful-looking blobs, where they’re mostly quite tasty and impressive. Mind you, I’m not talking about recipes like four tier chocolate layer cake here; just shortbread and Anzac biscuits and stir fry. And popcorn – turns out I’m a pro at popping corn. I made yet another perfect batch this week, so I’m thinking of trying out for the next Masterchef.
Now that Moses is understanding promises and then holding us to them, we have to be very careful about how we speak around him. It’s no longer possible to casually mention the possibility of a ride in Mamachi’s car later in the day; casual mentions equal promises, and broken promises equal meltdowns. So as not to raise Mo’s hopes unnecessarily, my husband and I have taken to word-spelling and obtuse descriptions when in his company, saying things to each other like, “Do you think this afternoon we’ll have a chance to go on an excursion to the nearby body of water upon which creatures of the feathered and winged variety float?” (My husband: “What are you talking about?!” Me: “The D-U-C-K-S!”). We’re soon going to have to work out a code system or start having our deep and meaningful conversations only when our son’s not around; I’m not sure how far he is from saying “passive-aggressive” or “complementarianism,” but I don’t want to take the risk.
A couple of weeks ago I handed in my first essay of the semester. It was on Hebrews, and started thus: “In the past critics have offered many and various ideas relating to the authorship, dating, location, recipients and structure of the letter ‘to the Hebrews.’” I thought this was the cleverest thing I’d ever come up with until my husband told me he didn’t get it, but the marker totally got it. I received my essay back this week and found a comment next to this line saying, “A nice allusion to Hebrews 1:1!” which made my
day week month.
I started reading The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides a little while ago, and then, this week, I stopped. I realised that I was halfway through the book yet still could not care less what happened to any of the characters, and that even if it ended in the best possible way I’d still have to actually read my way there. I don’t remember ever not finishing a book before, and I’m still feeling a strange combination of guilt (Have I given it enough of a chance? Can I judge it without finishing it?) mixed with empowerment (I don’t have time for mediocre writing, Mr Eugenides! You’ll have to do better than that to keep a reader like me interested!). Mostly the guilt one, though.
It’s Friday (how could you, Rebecca Black?), and I plan to strictly enforce my no-internet-on-the weekend rule over the next couple of days. My brain’s feeling soggy after a fortnight of absorbing information (I gave in last weekend in order to cross a few to-dos off my list), so I’m looking forward to letting my mind wander freely rather than being pulled in whichever direction my inbox/Facebook newsfeed/the newspaper/other blogs happen to be moving, and hoping it will feel drier and lighter on the other side.