Pizza Pizza

I have a pizza cooling on the stove. In fact, I think it's going to be as cold as this past winter by the time I get to it. Why am I blogging when I should be feeding my kids who according to themselves are starving to death? Is it because I'm such a dedicated writer that nothing can tear me away from the computer? Is it because I am certain there are mothers everywhere who are dying to hear more Bolly Mama advice? Or is it because I'm trapped in a chair nursing Theo while Sam runs around banging on a pot with a wooden spoon sans diaper, Deirdre is outside playing, Camille is trying to convince me that she broke her arm at school, and Claudia is enroute to in her word: "The Concert of the Year!" As if no one has ever performed live before Panic at the Disco!

Now, Sam has slipped on the sheets still decorating the floor from yesterday's Beltane Pageant and is skidding by me bare bottom in the air with a look of delirium on his face. Well, he is drooling and his already large eyes are a bit wider.

Deirdre has walked in and started screaming at Sam to not touch her food. Deirdre has the special ability of speaking in a high pitched nasal drawl that I can hear no matter where I am. I swear it. I'm convinced if I concentrated real hard during the day, I'd hear her voice travel from her classroom to my living room.

I can't hear Camille anymore. She's wandered into the kitchen to attempt to cut up the pizza into even triangles. Everything must be even for Camille. She was the middle child between her sisters for seven years and still holds on in the middle now that the boys are here. Kind of like how Deirdre still insists she's the baby because there are no girls after her. Camille likes everything to be fair.

"It's done!" Camille has a quiet voice, one that's hard to hear if I don't strive. She will sit beside me and talk for hours and sometimes I never know what was said. Most times that is. She's a writer too. She can put together a 70-80 page story no problem and read it to me. Every word. And ask questions. She always asks questions. I always try to make up exotic answers so I sound more like I'm joking and less like I didn't listen. When she was littler and learning to talk, she'd hold my face and make me repeat everything back so that I couldn't pretend I missed anything. Anything. Did I repeat myself?