I like to move it move it

So, I signed up for a six-week session at the local dance studio for and adult beginner "Afro-Fusion" class.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Okay, stop laughing now. It should be fun. True, I haven't done any actual "dancing" since our school musical in grade twelve (and that barely counts as dancing.) I tried to convince a friend to join with me, but clearly her common sense is more developed than mine and she declined.

My mom is always taking interesting classes. Jazz dance, belly dance, Flamenco, French. I often wish we lived in the same town so that I could take some fun things with her. But we don't, so I will go, for the next 6 Monday evenings, to a dance studio where I will likely know no one, and try to keep up with "a combination of Hip Hop and African...with style and funky choreography...cutting edge choreography that will bring their heart rates up!...fun and energizing dance class workout!"

Wish me luck...

Don't scare me like that

The scene: This evening at bedtime, in Monkey's room.

Monkey (who had just been watching a National Geographic video about dogs, and was thus not Monkey, but a puppy) was ready to "jump into bed." He took his pillow and put it on the wrong end of the bed, and hung his blanket on the wrong side of the bed. He turned off the light (with daddy's help) and jumped into bed. No story, no nursing. With backwards pillow and blanket. It appeared that this bedtime was going to be completely different than any other.

"Are you going straight to bed? No story?"

Oh. No, he decides he actually does want a story.
The story is finished. He jumps back in bed. He doesn't want to be covered with his blanket.

"Daddy, sing me a song."
Song sung. We are ready to leave him to sleep. We figure if he doesn't want to nurse, we won't bring it up.

Kisses.

Pause.


"Mommy. I want some nuk-in'"

Ah.

So it turns out he is not ready to completely change his bedtime routine. The blanket and pillow went back to their rightful places as well. It's not that I would mind if he started to cut back on nursing. Let's just not start with the bedtime nursing; the calming, cuddling, drifting off to sleep nursing.

Don't scare me like that.

Thumbs down.

I was going to write a nice little post about the first day of Spring, but instead I will write about how we spent FRIDAY EVENING IN THE ER.

Yep. Because I was careless in the kitchen, and somehow managed to slice up my finger with my hand blender. (taking the words "hand blender" too literally, I guess. groan.)

If you are very squeamish you may want to stop reading at this point.

I was making pesto for supper with my hand blender (something I wouldn't have been doing in the first place if the food processor attachment was still working. This is all your fault, Cuisinart!) and I somehow managed to cut my finger. Don't ask me how because I honestly don't know. Without looking at the wound I wrapped it up in toilet paper and held it tightly with my other hand and raised it over my head. I tried to get Monkey to sing me a song to help me feel better, but he just spent the whole time deciding which song to sing. I called the Music Man and caused him to rush home in a panic thinking I was very injured.

When he got home he unwrapped my finger to look at it and decide if we needed to go to the hospital. Let's just say I had to finish re-wrapping it myself because he felt like he was going to throw up. He assured me it wasn't that bad, but he thought it probably needed stitches. I had it very well wrapped with gauze and a big band-aid, and we all got dressed to go to the hospital. We arrived at the hospital at 6:15, we hadn't eaten supper yet and just had a water bottle and a bag of trail mix along. It was well over an hour before we saw the doctor. It took me a long time to unwrap the finger because I had done it so well. The doctor froze my finger (the most painful thing up to this point) so that he could clean out the wound and decide what to do. So it turned out he couldn't even give me stitches because, *deep breath*, there wasn't enough skin to stitch together. So, now I have a humongous gauze bandage around my finger (so that it won't bleed through.) We got home around 8:30, got Monkey something proper to eat and got him to bed. Then we baked the pizza (sans pesto) and ate it at around 10pm before going to bed ourselves.

The thing that sucks is that we planned an overnight getaway to The City tonight to stay in a hotel and do some shopping and swimming. We will still go, but I guess I won't swim, since I can't get my dressing wet. And I have to go back on Sunday to get the dressing changed and then I have an appointment with the same doctor on Tues. to check and make sure everything is progressing okay.

The worst part of the whole thing, though, is that we didn't get to eat the pesto. (it might have had finger in it!) I grew that basil on my window sill and it took nearly half the leaves to make up the 1/2 cup I needed for the recipe. It will be a while before I can pick more leaves of the basil without killing it. *sigh*

I guess I should go pack our bag for tonight! Wish me luck.

Well, golly.

Here I am. I've been thinking for a while now about blogging again, and now I'm doing it. Don't go thinking this means I actually have something to say, because I don't. Not really. But sometimes saying nothing is better than, well, saying nothing.

Here is a quick update from the months I've been away.

October: Monkey turned 2! I became a La Leche League Leader.
November: Um, I don't remember. It probably snowed.
December: I turned 29. The Music Man turned 30. Christmas happened.
January: It was cold. My parents went to Niagra Falls.
February: Still cold. I made ginger snaps.
March: Hey, it's still cold. (well, that's not quite true. Today it is finally not frigid) I made bread for the first time without a bread machine.

There you go. All caught up.

Now, a funny Monkey story before I hit "publish" (do I even remember how to do this?)

Monkey was pretending to be Uncle Mike (my brother). You could tell he was Uncle Mike because he was wearing a hat. Duh. He made some pretend sandwiches to bring to work. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the real Uncle Mike doesn't like sandwiches.

Me: Where are you going to work, Uncle Mike?
Monkey: In my truck. Does Uncle Mike have a truck?
Me: No, but he has a car.
Monkey: I'm a different Uncle Mike. This Uncle Mike has a truck.

Of course he does.