Scary Stuff

Caed recently woke up terrified from a nightmare about a giraffe that ate all of his teeth except for one. It's strange that his subconscious chose a gentle leaf-eating creature to render him nearly toothless, but not so strange when I consider the fact he is my son. As a child I had a recurring dream that a deadly bird (a mix between a peacock and Big Bird of Sesame Street) was following me everywhere. And if he touched me with his feathers, I would die. And of course, whenever the bird showed up, I couldn't move. See what I mean? Strange. And scary.

Then at dinner last night, Dani turned her pasta into imaginary babies. She talked sweetly to them, saying things like, "why you c'ying baby?" and "oh poor baby is tired", and then....

She ate them. Which wasn't so bad in and of itself. What bothered me was when she shouted with a sinister giggle,"I ate my baby!" No, it wasn't the Dingo. It was my daughter. Just lovely. Now I fear I'm raising a cereal killer. (Ooh, that was wincing bad. Scary bad).

No matter how you look at it (the bad dreams, the bad eating, the bad jokes), this is scary stuff, folks.

But nothing is quite as jarring as the real and raw version of motherhood and apple pie. The only possible reason you take a picture like this is because you have a blog. And maybe because you have issues.
See, I made an apple pie yesterday. And as I was finishing it up just in time to rush out the door to get Caed, leaving a sink full of dishes and apple remnants and flour EVERYWHERE, I thought, "This is what motherhood and apple pie really looks like."

Am I right, ladies? Or am I right?

Disclaimer: No actual babies or teeth or Sesame Street characters were harmed in the making of this post. Wish I could say the same for the pasta and the apples and the kitchen sink.