Caught napping, not napping

This morning, after an interminable night of La Serpiente tossing and turning, culminating in her sleeping on my lap on the living room couch for three hours, we went out to the Ballard Farmers Market and I bought chocolate, doughnuts, coffee and an enormous oversized sweater for La Serpiente. Then we all went home and the kids went back to bed, until we woke them in the afternoon to go to the pub.

Naked City is a great bar with lots of food and pretty child friendly, or rather nobody minds if our bundles of trouble run up and down gibbering while the Seahawks slump to a disappointing loss against Tampa Bay on the television. They also do Sriracha aioli, which is a many-splendoured thing. So we ate and talked with my ex-colleague Dangerous Dave and his wife and daughter for almost three hours, then drove home and had three hours more of the goggle-eyed mania that has come to be my life.

Destroyer did some painting though, and quite delicately (La Serpiente’s attitude to painting is closer to a interior decorator than an Old Master: get as much pigment onto every surface as fast as possible). It’s almost as if my two children have distinct personalities.
Then time came for bed, but before that we had to rinse the kids’ noses out with saline. The best way (or the fastest) turns out to be sitting on the child so their shoulders are pinned down, jamming their head into the mattress with judicious application of forearm, then a swift squirt up each nostril. The stuff of which memories are made. If either is a successful MMA fighter in years to come, they’ll only have their parents to blame.

Oh, and La Serpiente kicked me in the eye, which was nice.

My eldest’s bedtime routine is two stories, then she puts on her sleep sack, then one more story, then lights out. Her roommate for the week, Ryan, gets two stories, then lights out, then some song like ABC or Twinkle Twinkle or whatever the kids are down with today. The difference between these routines turns out to be catastrophic, inspiring half an hour’s wail from my daughter about how she misses her bed, wants all her toys from Singapore, wants her mother, is very very sad, needs a hug, how she doesn’t want her sleep sack because she wants to look at her new pyjamas, and so on and so on, ad infinitum, worlds without end, etc etc, while Ryan leaps up and down in his bed and heckles her.

At least when I finally got her down she sacked out in under fivminutes and I could go downstairs to lose at cards several times. That was, until a terrible thud heralded her jumping out of bed and I found myself consoling a weeping child for the second, and third times tonight. I write this lying on the floor adjacent to her bed, wondering if I’ll get any sleep tonight, and contenting myself that the Sriracha aioli was so very, very good today.

But what is aioli, anyway?

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