THAT Mom

Adelay goes to a dance class on Wednesday nights at five thirty. This normally wouldn't interfere too much with dinner, since we usually eat kind of late for families with small kids- probably between six and seven most nights. But Wednesdays are kind of rough, because the kids also like going to our church's kids' activities that night, which start at six thirty. I also have a women's group I like to make it to on Wednesdays, which starts as soon as we get our kids situated in their respective classes at church.(Using "group" pretty loosely here, btw- usually it's three or four people eating chocolate and discussing recently read books, sweet/annoying things our kids have done, rehashing birth/pregnancy woes, etc. But occasionally there's serious talk, or an actual study we go through, so I still think it counts as a church group!) So for about an hour or so, Wednesday nights always feel a little rushed and frantic.

Last night was particularly rough, as I had decided to try a new recipe for dinner that I THOUGHT would make the routine simpler, but in fact took about twice as long as I thought it would to prepare. I was frazzled, rushing Adelay to please eat her dinner, get out of her leotard and tights and into her jeans, and out the door in time to make it to her class at a still acceptable although definitely late time. As I hustled her slowpoke self into the car, I clapped my hands together in exasperation and said, "Addy! Let's move it- chop chop!"

She turned around with deep annoyance on her face and exclaimed, "Mom! You are always chop chopping me! Stop chopping me!"

Sigh. Maybe I need to make another New Year's Resolution: erase "chop chop" from my vocabulary.