This morning, as I lolled around in a Benadryl stupor, I heard a wee little hesitant knock on the bedroom door. At least I thought I did. But it was so timid that I thought maybe I'd imagined it. I lay back down to slip back into my coma but then I remembered that the little guy is sick and maybe he needed me. I groaned, "Come in," which, naturally, woke Dan up from his deep, non-Benadryl-induced, sleep-of-the-dead thing that he does every night.
No one answered.
So I groaned again, louder, "Come in!"
I got up and stumbled to the door, grabbing one of Dan's shirts off the floor to cover my lower half with since I was only wearing a T-shirt. There, on the other side of the door, was my supremely intelligent, straight-A, gifted, oldest child. I croaked out, "What do you need, son?" in my allergy-dry, early morning frog voice.
His eyes immediately darted to my T-shirt covered lower half, which creeped me out. Then he looked back at my face and said, "Um, yeah, I was going to make "Daddy Pop-Tarts" but I didn't know if I was supposed to butter them before or after I put them in the toaster."
Yes, folks, that's my gifted child.
You see, "Daddy Pop-Tarts" are Frosted Brown-Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts the way Dan makes them. First he toasts them, and then he slices the non-frosted side into a checkerboard pattern and slathers them with butter. Because, you know, they just aren't quite fattening enough on their own without the butter.
By then I was awake and I remembered that I needed to get up because it was actually an hour later than I thought it was. So much for sleeping in. Stupid daylight savings time. Stupid Bradford Pears. That's right folks, it's that time again--time for my hatred of Bradford Pear trees to swell exponentially, as it does every spring.
But at least it's not snowing. I'll take it. Bring on the warm weather, even if it does make the trees stink even worse.