How I Melted the Mixing Bowl

It’s 10:15am in the Land of Milk and Honey, and I am ready for a nap!
My day so far:
05:30 – I wake up to hubby asking Lil Miss O to stop pinching him.
06:00 – O (insistantly): I wanna watch a wevee! (trans: movie)
             Hubby: nu. (he’s praying and is not supposed to be talking)
             me (from bed): O… come bring me books, I’ll read to you.
              Big Brother has awakened and joins O, Kooshkoosh, and me in my bed. I try to read through the foggy haze of sleepiness and lack of vision correction implements (i.e, glasses)
06:18 – Hubby comes upstairs and takes Kooshkoosh downstairs to make coffee, I continue to try to read.  
06:30 – the bed is all mine and I drift longingly into 15 minutes of sleep, but now a voice breaks through the fog:

Hubby: Ayelet, do we have oatmeal?
yes, we do, but not the puor-boiling-water-over instant kind. I try to convey this via calling from my bed but end up abandoning all hopes of sleep.
I get up and come downstairs. A mug of coffee has been poured for me, bless that man’s soul, little did I know it would need reheating before I’d get to drink it…

So I began to cook the oatmeal, I’m up already, let’s make it good. I add in cut up apple, pear and plum pieces and some honey (ala my wonderful friend, Chaviva!! Thank you!!)

And then I notice the smell… I live in a row house, so I often smell things wafting from other houses, and the odor of burning plastic couldn’t possibly be coming from my house….

It may have been 3 whole minutes of cooking before I realized that the noxious odor was in fact coming from my house, and not only that it was coming from two feet in front of my nose. My incrtedible, beloved, 32 cup Tupperware (TM) mixing bowl had become the first victim of my coffee-less morning.

The next was my husband, who had washed the dishes last night, bless that man’s soul. But had decided that the stove top was a good place to leave a large plastic bowl to dry. (He was still home when I started cooking.) He got a pretty abusive call from me, which ended in tears and appologies (from me!)

Then came the child sacrifice. Here is my beautiful oatmeal:

And here is what my son left in his bowl (he was the one who wanted the arduous oatmeal which I awakened to prepare):
            

No, I did not raise my voice and lay on the guilt and threaten to never feed him again (ok, I really didn’t do that last one!)

My morning: I ate a whole pot of oatmeal by myself, drank reheated coffee, sent Big Brother off to gan on his own (yes, Mom, he made it safe and sound!) , and started a new blog. At least some good has come of this! 

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