We have one of those open style kitchens which means when I do bother to cook, I can watch Vivian and William body slam each other into couches and walls in the adjacent living room.
Sometimes, however, my kids are not so violent. They like to do yoga. With their Gumby spines, they make up poses, from Dead Frog to One-Leg-in-the-Sky.
A few days ago, while I was concentrating on not adding the tip of my index finger to the salad, they brought their transient yoga practice into the kitchen. They were doing Turtle and Hare Pose near the fridge. Inches away, I had just opened the oven, which had steamed my glasses, and I was trying to place the mystery-meat-from-a-box in to cook without burning my fingers, all of which were remarkably intact.
Worried that Vivian and William might push me or themselves into the oven, I said this:
Thing One and Thing Two froze for a moment, no doubt trying to process what I just said.
I too was doing some of my own processing. “I meant to say kitchen. You can’t do yoga in the kitchen.”
By this point, William and Vivian were giggling. And my mix-up had given them an idea for a reenactment. They opened the fridge door and were attempting Standing Up Corpse Pose amidst bottles of ketchup and soy sauce.
The Christmas Crazies have begun.
Namaste, my friends.