Soul Mates

The following conversation occurred at the dinner table tonight . . .

A.: So Cubby, do you think we should set some traps next weekend?

Cubby: Yes! Or Daddy, we could set traps, and go hunting, AND go camping!

A.: You think we should have a whole outdoor weekend? Exactly what I was thinking, Cubby.

It's so nice they've found each other, isn't it?

Wild and Free

Cubby's newest favorite activity is looking at the stars and the moon--oh, and Venus, also a favorite--through Grandma's binoculars. Unfortunately, star-gazing requires him to be outside when it's dark. And more to the point, it requires ME to be outside when it's dark.

But only if I can't get A. to go instead.

That's why it is currently 6:20 a.m., pitch black outside, and both of my children are running wild outside under A.'s supervision. At least Cubby is dressed; Charlie is still in his footie pajamas.

Okay, so really they mostly stay in the circle of light cast by the patio light, with occassional forays into the near darkness by Cubby.

Charlie is climbing on a chair. Cubby is chewing on the green part of leek I left out there yesterday when I was prepping some leeks for dinner.

So, one toddler in pajamas climbing a chair and one three-year-old chewing on raw leek greens. In the semi-illuminated dark.

Good morning! It's another fine day at Blackrock!

A Tale of Two Turnips

I pulled a couple of turnips out of the garden the other day and used the greens for a stir-fry. The turnips themselves I left on the table outside to get some of the mud washed off the roots by the rain that day.

But Cubby got to them first.

I went inside to check on something in the oven, and when I came back out, he was gnawing on one of the raw turnips. With mud on his face.

Clean vegetables are for sissies.

Good thing there were two turnips, because of course Charlie had to have what his big brother had.

Though I did cut the muddy roots off of his, in the interests of saving myself some laundry.

I took a bite of one myself, just out of curiosity. Those are some peppery sumbitches raw. I didn't think they'd eat more than a couple of bites each.

They each ate about half of their turnips, and then Cubby tossed his to Mia. "Dogs don't eat turnips," I started to say.

You'd think after seven years, I would know that Mia eats ANYTHING.

Next time I might manage to actually cook the turnips before they get devoured by the hungry--and without doubt very weird--hordes. But I wouldn't bet on it.

Lemons

When life hands you lemons in the form of two sick children who are producing prodigious amounts of mucous and getting up at 4:30 a.m. (because of the mucous) . . .

Plus dog shit in the back hall to clean up first thing in the morning . . .

Plus incessant rain . . .

Plus a husband who starts feeling none too chipper . . .

Plus the telltale sore throat that means it's only a matter of time before you, too, will become a walking mucous factory . . .

Make coffee. And lots of it.

Be back soon. I hope.