It is Monday morning and we are emerging from QUITE the weekend. Margaret is recovering from the flu. I am recovering from Margaret having the flu. Our lovely little house is just under 900 square feet. At one point or another every inch of it was covered in vomit. Apparently throwing up in a bowl or toilet is just a little too bourgeois for the little girl. My bed? Perfect. The kitchen table? Sure. The green chair from Pottery Barn...the one worth almost as much as her little life? It became the canvas of choice for her postmodern puke masterpiece. It was a long 24 hours.
Threat of joy killing flu aside, this week should be a marked improvement on the last two days. Family, Thanksgiving, Christmas shopping, Riley home for a five day weekend. Bliss.
Bliss, especially when accompanied by a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty-five, can be a lot of work. And this morning I am just feeling a little less than motivated. There are many cures for this condition. Some women go running, others listen to cheesy girl power music, even more still sit down with a bowl of ice cream and simply wait the feeling out (Chocolate Peanut Butter Haagan-Dazs is especially effective). Lately, Riley and I have found another way to get pumped for the things that fill our days.
The Drew Brees Pre-Game Chant.
We shout this back and forth to each other while making breakfast, changing diapers, and driving to work. Margaret is so embarrassed of us.
Let me break it down for you....
ONE, TWO! WIN! FOR YOU!
THREE, FOUR! WIN! SOME MORE!
FIVE, SIX! WIN! FOR KICKS!
SEVEN, EIGHT! WIN! IT'S GREAT!
NINE, TEN! WIN! AGAIN! WIN! AGAIN! WIN! AGAIN!
Ridiculous. Elementary. Derivative.
I don't care. It totally makes me feel like I can take on the world.
Bring on the holidays. I smell greatness.