The Barnacle shall henceforth be known as the Tyrant. He is two and has worked hard to earn this new title. He recently decided that he did not care for the dishtowels that my mother keeps hanging from the front of her oven door. He relocated them to the kitchen floor. Not thinking much of it, Gramma hung them back up. The Tyrant narrowed his eyes at her, strode back to the oven door, and removed the towels to the floor again. This time, he stomped his little foot on them, and ground them down. He gave Gramma a LOOK and left the kitchen. I don't think she dared try to put them back after that. The Tyrant has made his point.
I drug out all of the boxes of Christmas decorations today. I have an insane amount of decorations and tablecloths and stockings and on and on. While I was busy giving myself an insulation halo, I discovered another box of 2T clothing for the Tyrant, score!
The Man worked 87 hours the week before Thanksgiving. Seriously.
My vacuum cleaner has died. There should be a law about these things breaking during the holidays. Who can afford a new vacuum when you just dropped 300 clams on DS Lites and games for the Princess and the Boy for Christmas? (YES, those are their only gifts this year, sheesh!)
Our catfish is eating the angelfish's eggs. Very rude.
We finally left our church. There's no real way to get into that without this turning into a giant emotional vomit. Knowing it's the right decision doesn't make it any easier. We'll be starting at the new church next week.
On Thanksgiving morning I went to a rehab center for a Gratitude Meeting. There were hundreds of people there, standing room only. There is something very gritty and humbling about seeing the detox patients sitting there among people who have from a few weeks or months, up to decades of sobriety. You want it for them, but know that some will not make it. We can only offer our experience, strength and hope, and show them what we have done. The rest is up to them.