Julie has had to work a little later these last two nights, so in the early evening I've been attempting to make dinner and hang out with Lyla at the same time. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I'm incompetent at it, basically, so what I end up with is a fussy baby and burnt food. You'd think Lyla would sit in her highchair with some Kix and cheese and giggle happily as her Daddy flips bacon. (Yes, we had bacon for dinner tonight. Bacon and pancakes, with the emphasis on glorious, succulent bacon. Bacon bacon bacon bacon bacon bacon bacon.)
But Lyla is not happy with the sizzle of bacon. It pisses her off greatly. So I'm getting flustered with the bacon while the baby is speaking in tongues and getting louder by the second. Then Julie finally gets home, and Lyla runs off to tattle on me. I'll translate her words into conventional English.
"Mama! Mama! Mama! He loves the bacon more than he loves me. Are you certain this pea-brained man is my father?"
I just realized I'm Homer Simpson.
Lyla will love bacon someday and understand. Can you post pictures of your new kitchen please? :)
ReplyDeleteI thought that the love of bacon was a dominant gene? She'll understand soon enough. I can have Anja talk to her about the benefits of its artery clogging goodness if you want. They could discuss it over the ball popper and crumpets.
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