The Carnage that Results from Cockiness

I was feeling a bit, I don't know, like I wanted to create a stinking memory, like I wanted to be the kind of mom that make crap out of twigs and berries and twine a-la-Magyver on the fly when Collin had that look of "wanna watch t.v." in his eye yesterday afternoon. So, we made crayons. Well, that's what I'm calling it, despite the fact that the crayons were already made if you will, and we just made them into different shapes: muffin shapes, since that's the only silicone mold I have.
We had fun. I even managed to keep Collin away from the sharp knife to get the wrappers off the broken, crappy crayons.

I did learn something from this project. They weren't kidding about selecting your colors carefully. You end up with some pretty ugly crayon molds if you don't. And, since we were using muffin molds, we pretty much had hockey pucks.

I was feeling a little emboldened by my craftiness, by my "look-at-me-I'm-one-of-those-women" when I tried to make dinner. You know that little, itty-bitty, (not so itty-bitty) etched line on the bottom of Pyrex that says, NO STOVE TOP? Well, they aren't kidding about that either.

I tried to save time (and a pan to wash) by melting the butter that I would need in the bottom of said dish in the actual dish over the stove top while I cut chicken. It did NOT save time, as you can imagine. I'm using this incident as another tick in my "reasons I don't want meat anymore column...it almost killed me today." Ha. Clearly, it was the butter, but it was the chicken's fault, right? Right?

After ten minutes of knee shaking and trying to hold down my vomit, I could start the cleanup. I mean, I almost killed us, and I maimed my child, sort of. Forty minutes of burned butter, scalding hot glass and itty bitty, shards of glass cleanup later, I remembered something: I still had to make dinner. Ahhh, the life. I thought to take pictures after I'd already been cleaning up for twenty minutes or so, so this is what it looks like to explode a Pyrex and then half clean it up; which, is what any rational person would do so they could avoid cooking. Kidding of course. Anyone who knows me, knows I love to cook and am pretty darn good at it. Pyrex explosion incident excluded.

The boom, the flame, the flying glass. It was carnage I tell you, carnage. The small little voice that shouted from ten feet away, "Mommy, I have a boo boo on my chin! What happened?" He was bewildered as to why, he was bleeding and didn't do anything to deserve it. Well son, your mother is an idiot, that's what you did. I am just thankful that I didn't let Collin help in the kitchen yesterday, like I normally do. Phew.

Poor kid though, he's attracted to shiny objects, kind of like his mother, (and her penchant for anything in a little blue box from Tiffany's) and he picked up the single, solitary piece of glass I missed from the cleanup, and sliced his fingers open. He's a band-aid company's dream at the moment.