Dutch Ovens Aren't Just For DinnerBeth Anne Ballance
I spent all Tuesday night/Wednesday morning puking my guts out.
No, I’m not pregnant. I just ate something funky, I guess, because I’m feeling fine now but WOW, less than 3 consecutive hours of sleep and then heading into work can really wear you down.
So last night I knew it had to be a low-key night. The kind where it’s chicken nuggets and sliced apple and mac n’ cheese for dinner because anything else is too much, and watching a Christmas Thomas the Train episode as a family.
Harry was in a playful mood, so he and I snuck upstairs to play on the bed (because isn’t playing on momma’s big bed the best to a toddler?). We jumped on the bed and wrestled and then played “hide and seek” with the blankets. “DADDY! DADDY!” Harry called. “COME FIND ME!” and we ducked back under the covers when we heard my husband’s feet on the stairs.
Hide n’ seek, man. It’s another bonus of having a three-year-old.
He giggled and I giggled and Doug pounced on us and the laughter was the best part of my day. Then Harrison said, “Try again!” and he and I flew back under the covers.
Then he farted.
MY TODDLER DUTCH OVENED ME.
It was awful.
Doug laughed until he was almost in tears, Harrison thought it was hilarious, and I now officially refuse to play hide-and-seek under the covers with my kid.
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