The witching hour, that whiny and unsettled time between 5 and 6 o'clock mothers of young children know so well, was in full force at Casa de Norwood this afternoon.
Honestly, I was a frazzled by about noon. And Adam, in his own 19-month old way, was too. He only napped for 45 minutes. I did not nap at all.
I thought an ice cream cone might be just the ticket. I added a handful of blue corn tortilla chips and toaster waffles, with a side of syrup, for good measure. When throwing nutrition to the wind, I go for the gusto.
Momma fixed herself a gin & tonic... tall, with salt on the rim and a splash of grapefruit juice. Thankyouverymuch.
We headed out to the deck, not because I wanted to bake in the 90+ degree heat. It just sounded more appealing than mopping sticky syrup and ice cream off the kitchen floor.
Adam proceeded to take a bite out of the bottom of the ice cream cone, which resulted in a slow drip down the front of his shirt and onto his shorts. Until the cone turned to mush, that is, and he squeezed it like a sponge.
A lick of ice cream here, a bite of waffle there, a spoonful of syrup for good measure....
It bought me 15 minutes of sipping and reading without anything attached to my hip or leg.
Never mind the sugar rush that came later.