Jack's First Day

Three lunch bags.

Three backpacks*.

Three schoolboys (one of whom is being a jackass, as you can see.)

One brand-new preschooler.

Go get 'em, Jack.

* This was not meant to be an advertisement for L.L. Bean, but I obviously deliberately choose their products for my sons. The backpack Jack is using was Cubby's when he started school, and Cubby has the same lunch bag that is now going into its fourth year of daily use, so I can vouch that L.L. Bean school things hold up to boy abuse.

The Sweet with the Bitter

This morning at 7:10, I dressed all three children and myself in our outdoor apparel so we could all go out together to wait for the bus. (It was a balmy 18 degrees above zero this morning. Tropical!)

At 7:20 a.m., the bus arrived, Cubby led Charlie onto it holding hands, and the bus driver got off to tell me that because Charlie is only four, the bus driver will buckle him in with a seat belt and he'll have a permanent seat with Cubby every day. Then the bus driver got back on the bus, buckled Charlie in, and drove away with two of my three boys.

That was the bitter part.

And then Jack insisted on taking a walk, because hey! We're outside! In the semi-dark! HOW FUN!

Jack also insisted on getting up at 4:58 this morning, so at 8:30 a.m. I declared both him and me done and put him down for a nap.

And then . . .

This is the sweet part.

Some of you may recall the great joy I experience from a solitary, quiet meal with a book. So when I was standing there in a quiet house trying to figure out what I should do next, and I remembered that I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, I made myself a real breakfast. An egg, leftover mashed potatoes with cheese, and greens*. Then I sat down with my book (that's a really good book, by the way, if you're looking for a non-dry but fact-filled non-fiction book) and read and ate.

I'm so tired today that I feel a little ill, but I have a hot cup of tea next to me and probably 45 more minutes of quiet before Jack wakes up.

Bitter and sweet. The essence of motherhood.

* Incidentally, those greens are actually lettuce. The reason that I cooked lettuce for the first time was that our refrigerator inexplicably went crazy yesterday and more or less froze the entire contents of the refrigerator, including an entire head of green leaf lettuce. I was reluctant to throw the whole thing out, so I chopped it up and cooked it with olive oil and garlic. It's good. Indistinguishable from bok choy, pretty much. Something to keep in mind the next time I have excess lettuce from the garden and get sick of salads.

Then There Was One

Charlie's first day of school today required me to go with him for an orientation/open house thing for the families for an hour or so before we left them to it.

A. had to leave this morning for Blackrock, so it was just me and Jack to take Charlie. It was 8 degrees below zero when we left for the school. So by the the time I got the van started to warm it up, everyone dressed, and the backpack on the school kid, I only had time for one very rushed photo. Which is totally blurry and useless because Charlie was mostly concerned that his cool new backpack be in it:

It is a pretty nice backpack.

We made it to the school right on time. His teacher is very sweet, and Charlie didn't seem to have any hesitation about racing to the front of the pack and leaving me behind with Jack when we went on a school tour with the whole group.

Jack was the only younger sibling present, which meant the other parents spent a lot of time watching me corral him in attempts to keep him with the group and not, say, stopping at all the fascinating water fountains or making an unscheduled visit to the computer lab.

Most of the other parents also took photos at some point. I forgot both my camera and phone, so I fail at that.

When it was time for Jack and me to leave, I gave a disinterested Charlie a high five, pulled a reluctant Jack away from the toys, and left.

There was remarkably little drama involved. I can only hope it stays that way. (Unlike his previous school experience.)

Tomorrow he gets to start riding the bus with Cubby. The good times just keep coming.

Oh, Just a Thursday

School for Cubby and Charlie today (hooray!); Mommy School for Jack*; dressing children, changing diapers, cooking, dusting, exercising, and all the other minutia that makes up a day for me.

We do get to bring a pretty impressive chiffon cake to Cubby's school today. It's the MiL's sister's birthday today. She happens to be the founder and still principal at Cubby's school, so the MiL made a chiffon cake last night and is sending it in for her sister via her grandson. Or rather, via her daughter-in-law, since I wouldn't trust Cubby to get a cake anywhere in one piece. That boy does love his desserts.

I can guarantee you that Charlie is going to be unhappy that Cubby is bringing a WHOLE, ENTIRE CAKE to school today and Charlie gets . . . stone soup. They make vegetable soup at his preschool every Thursday. Every kid brings in a vegetable and they all help cut them up and add them to the pot (like the story "Stone Soup", get it?). Charlie is not such a fan of soup to begin with, and to be honest, this soup is pretty bland, so I think the jealousy of cake vs. soup will be strong.

This is why I've been hoarding a couple of cookies, in anticipation of this very day. So Cubby gets cake, Charlie gets a cookie, and Jack gets . . . well, maybe if he's lucky he'll get some apple/pear sauce. Sucks being a baby sometimes.

Happy Thursday, my lovelies! What are you up to today?

* This is what I told Cubby and Charlie that Jack does while they're at their schools. In Mommy School, Jack learns how to eat from a spoon, walk, talk, and build with blocks. This is about the only school I feel I am equipped to teach. Beyond this, I leave it to the professionals.

The Bearer of Meat

Tonight is yet another St. Martin's Day celebration at what is now Charlie's preschool and, as always, there's a potluck beforehand. Also as always, when we were asked to tell the teacher what we would bring for the potluck, I replied, "A large quantity of meat."

The main reason I bring meat to every kind of potluck is because A. always attends with me. And pretty much all he eats is meat. But not a lot of people bring meat. You'll have your pick of pasta dishes or desserts, but not much meat. So I bring meat so A. has something to eat.

As I said to A., when it comes to potlucks, you should be the change you want to see. That is, bring what you want to eat yourself.

Also, braising a large hunk of animal flesh is a lot easier than, say, chopping all the stuff for a big salad.

Tonight's large hunk of flesh is even larger than usual, a truly impressively sized sirloin roast. It was so big I had trouble finding a pot big enough to cook it in. But there are going to be forty or so people in attendance at this event, so I bet it will all be gone by the end. I've never yet had any leftovers from a meat offering at a potluck, as a matter of fact. I don't expect this one will be any different.

Now I just have to remember to remove the string . . .

The Big Sigh of Relief

Last week when I went to pick Charlie up at preschool on Tuesday, the teacher informed me that they had found him crying in the bathroom, sobbing that he missed Mommy.

Huh. Kind of strange. He had so far not evidenced any separation anxiety with school (quite the opposite, actually). But the next day, same thing with the random tears in the middle of the morning.

Then Thursday morning came and he lost his mind when I started to leave. Sobbing, clutching, screaming after me when I tried to leave, the whole nine yards.

I stood upstairs (the school is in a church basement) for a full twenty minutes listening to him cry, waiting to see if the teachers thought I should take him home. One of them finally came up and told me it was my choice, that they could distract him eventually but if I wanted to, I could take him home with me.

I left him there. It was truly awful. Walking away from a desperately crying child is pretty much the cliche of a mother's heart breaking.

But I did it, because I really think he needs to be in school now and I knew if I caved, it would be even worse later.

The report when I picked him up was that he cried for quite awhile, but after one of the teachers read him many, many books, he finally calmed down.

His next school day was this past Tuesday. As soon as I announced it was time to go to school, the tears started. He went to the bathroom and put on his boots and got in the car, as I asked him to do, but he sobbed the whole time. He doesn't like school, he said. He misses me, he said. He doesn't like the Play Doh or the sandbox or the playground or the snacks.

He cried the whole way to drop off Cubby, the whole way into his school, the whole time I put on his slippers and made him wash his hands. And then I gave him a hug, unwrapped his clinging arms from my legs, and left.

Again with the heart breaking.

This time, though, the teacher said he got a hold of himself quickly and went right in to help make bread with everyone else.

Yesterday was a field trip to the apple orchard, which Jack and I attended, so there were no partings to worry about. But he still got teary whenever school was mentioned and repeated that he didn't like anything about school and missed me when he was there.

This morning he was a whole different kid. He was psyching himself up all morning, talking about how he's big now and can go to school. Talking about how he loves the Play Doh and the sandbox and the snacks. He put his shoes on and got in the car with nary a tear. When we got to Cubby's school to drop him off, Charlie announced, "Mommy, I'm used to school now."

And then we went right to his school, put on his slippers, washed his hands, and went into the snack room to cut up fruit for fruit salad. There was a small moment of hesitation when I quickly kissed him good-bye and bolted, but he was led to the table by a teacher and was fine.

As A. said when I called to tell him (I had to share my relief about it with someone), "Well, Charlie's kind of an all-or-nothing guy."

I can't tell you how relieved I am that this morning it was nothing. And I sincerely hope that nothing is what we get from here on out.

Mornings Get Fun

Cubby's school is Monday through Thursday. Charlie's preschool is Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings. Their schools are a half mile apart, and I drive them both to school in the mornings. So three days a week, I drop them both off--Cubby first, then Charlie. On Mondays, however, it's just Cubby. On this particular Monday, when I announced it was time to go to school, here's what went down:

Cubby: I hate school!*

Charlie: I love school!

Me: Cubby, get your boots on. Charlie, you don't have school today.

Cubby: No! I'm not going!

Charlie: Yes, I do! I'm going to school!

Me: Cubby, you're going. Charlie, you don't have school today.

Cubby: NO! I HATE SCHOOL! I'M NOT GOING!

Charlie: I'M GOING TO SCHOOL!

Me: EVERYONE GET YOUR BOOTS ON AND GET IN THE VAN.

And then I woke Jack from a sound sleep to put him in the van too.

Just about as fun as it sounds, yes.

Thankfully, when we got Cubby to school he didn't stage any protests. And Charlie forgot about school when I suggested we should come home and have some toast.

Still, let's hope we don't repeat this every Monday morning.

* Upon questioning, he stated that there are too many rules (never thought I'd hear rule-obsessed Cubby say that) and they don't play enough. It's a rough transition from playtime preschool to real school.

Ahhhh

Okay, now THIS is what I've been envisioning with school starting: Cubby and Charlie at school and Jack sleeping. Really sleeping this time, not just pretending for fifteen minutes before crushing my hopes of quiet with desperate wailing.

That was yesterday. The desperate wailing was because he has a cold. The wailing continued all day yesterday and last night, but he's better this morning. And napping.

Bliss.

So how was Charlie's first day? He used the rotary egg beater in the sand table and made pancakes out of Play-doh. When I picked him up, they were out on the playground and he was coloring with chalk.

All was cool.

Dinner last night was a single-adult affair, just me and the children. Not my favorite, as you may recall, but it turned out to be quite amusing, because conversation between Charlie and Cubby went like this:

"The rule at my school is that you can't pick up ANY sticks on the playground. Not even a TWIG."

That was Cubby.

"The rule at my school is NO THROWING."

That was Charlie.

"The rule at my school is you don't have to ask to go to the bathroom." Cubby again.

"The rule at my school is you can't leave the playroom." Charlie again.

And so on and on and on. We are all now fully briefed on every rule at every school.

Now let's just hope they follow them.

And He's Off

Was Charlie nervous about starting preschool today? Was he quiet, anxious, a little bit timid?

HAAAAA. I kill myself.

The force that is Charlie will not be stopped.

Jack and I ushered Charlie into the playroom at the preschool--where he immediately made a beeline for the sand table and barely acknowledged my good-bye--wished his teacher luck (I sincerely hope she won't need it), and left. 

And then when we got home, Jack seemed really tired again, so I put him down for a nap.

So. One kid at big-kid school, one kid at preschool, one kid sleeping. I shall celebrate by cleaning my bathroom.

Peace out.

Edited to add: Jack woke up ten minutes after I posted this. I only got the tub and the sink cleaned. Oh well. Better than nothing.

We're Cool. It's All Cool.

Other than the three days of thunderstorms we've had, which has made for some cooped-up hellions and a lot of wet clothes. We did have the bonus of a rainy period yesterday with no thunder, so of course Cubby and Charlie ran around like manic ducks, soaking themselves and ending by shivering uncontrollably (it was only about sixty degrees) but NO, they did NOT want to come inside. Who cares if our lips are blue, Mom, our water bugs* want to play in the rain. They LOVE the cold!

Right.

Jack has slept more or less through the night for the past two nights. This is in contrast to the past, oh, two weeks, during which he decided to destroy his mother by waking up like four times a night.

Okay, so maybe he didn't consciously set out to destroy me, but that was pretty much the result.

But now I feel almost human again! Hooray! So I made some rhubarb sauce.

We had way too much rhubarb sitting in the refrigerator for way too long and our first CSA box arriving today to claim all the refrigerator space, so I made the recipe for Victoria Sauce in the Ball Blue Book. It has sugar and raisins and spices and hey! That's pretty much chutney. It's good, but a little too sweet. I bet it'll be really good with our pork, though.

Let's see, what else?

Next week is Cubby's last day of preschool. That same day will be Jack's six-month birthday. My sister is arriving the day before with her family for a short visit. She's coming on her birthday, actually, so I promised to make her a chocolate cake. Jack doesn't get any, though. Sucks having no teeth sometimes.

And I think we'll end here. Happy random Wednesday, my lovelies.

* A strange plastic bug toy that came free in a Wendy's kid's meal, and Charlie's sunglasses. Those were the water bugs. No one could ever call my kids unimaginative. Weird, maybe, but definitely not unimaginative.

The 30-yard Dash

I took Jack to the doctor yesterday for his check-up. The doctor pronounced him "perfect,"* and then said, "Don't take him outside until spring." I thought he was joking and almost made a light-hearted remark in kind, when he added, "Except to bring him here, of course."

He was not joking. And obviously has no concept of the reality of the third child.

So this morning it was fifteen degrees with a stiff wind off the lake and intermittent snow. And was little Jack bundled up in his cozy house? No. He was at the preschool, because he has two older brothers who occasionally go places and I can't exactly leave the baby at home.

Jack was asleep when we pulled up in front of the church that houses the preschool. I had a blanket draped over his car seat, which of course promptly blew askew as I sprinted with the older two boys the thirty yards or so from the street to the door of the church. I heard one shocked cry from Jack as the cold air reached his exposed face, and then we were at the door and he was fine and back asleep.

I suppose I could get one of those covers that are made to go all the way over the car seat to prevent any cold air from reaching the baby, but then how would I toughen him for his admittedly chilly life ahead? Just don't tell my doctor. He's from India. I don't think he's reconciled himself to winter in upstate New York.

After we get into the church building, we have to go downstairs to the basement, which is where the preschool is actually located. So I hauled the car seat down, then back up, and Charlie and I repeated the race outside with the baby to get to the van. After I got the baby in the car, Charlie strapped in, and all the doors closed, I allowed myself a brief gasp of, "Holy shit, this sucks," before getting in myself and driving home.

Good thing I only have to do this three days a week.

* For those who care (hi, Mom!), he's now ten pounds and still 22 inches.

Notes from the First Day of Winter

What's that? The calendar says it's still fall? Yeah, well, tell the calendar to take a look out my window and shut up. Snow has been falling since about 9 a.m. It didn't start sticking until about an hour ago, though.

Before it started to stick, I loaded the children up in the van to go out to the local orchard to pick up A.'s buckets of apple cider. In the past, we've pressed our own cider that A. has subsequently turned into many gallons of hard cider. But there were no excess apples this year, so A. decided to just buy the sweet cider. He made me promise that I wouldn't lift the five-gallon buckets into the van myself*, lest I damage myself or the other human currently residing in my body. So I had the lady at the orchard carry the buckets to the van for me.

I also bought two ten-pound bags of apples. Cubby carried one. Charlie carried the other. I carried nothing.

Put 'em to work young, I say.

Tonight is the St. Martin's Day celebration at Cubby's preschool. I once again volunteered to bring meat--we eat a lot of meat, so I figured I might as well supply it--and once again, I happened to choose a roast that was all tied up with string. A beef roast this time, which I browned, stuck in a Dutch oven with onions, and left in the oven all day.

Way easier than baking something or peeling potatoes or whatever.

Around 4 p.m., I pulled the meat apart in lieu of slicing, since it had been in the oven so long it was falling apart anyway, doused it in storebought barbecue sauce and dumped it all back into the Dutch oven.

My name is Kristin, and I am a lazy potluck contributor.

But at least I managed to get the string off this time. I'm sure that will be appreciated.

* I didn't mention the fact that Charlie, who I must still lift and carry regularly, weighs a lot more than five gallons of cider. I'm okay with being weak if I can get away with it.

A.P.D.--The Literacy Edition

Last week, Cubby received many nice Valentine's Day cards from his preschool classmates. In fact, only Cubby and one other boy didn't make valentines for the whole class*. And without exception, every card was signed by the child.

Well. That's interesting, since not only is Cubby unable to write his name, he can't even recognize it. Or, more to the point, he won't.

It's kind of annoying how resistant he is to the whole idea of letters or numbers. If it's brought up, he announces with great certainty that he does not want to learn to read. Or tell time. Or write. No. No way.

I don't know why he's so stubborn about it. Probably because he recognizes this as an issue on which adults seem to fixate, and so he will deny their enthusiasm on the subject with flat rejection. He doesn't have much power over his life thus far, but he has this.

A power trip? From a four-year-old? Surely that's a little dramatic.

 Yeah, well, so is Cubby.

There's really no doubting Cubby's intelligence, so I'm not in the least concerned about this myself, except for what might happen when he starts kindergarten and may have to deal with certain age expectations. But since he's still a year and a half away from kindergarten, it's not really on my radar yet. I'm more concerned with trying to curb his incessant pretend shooting.

I don't remember when I learned to read myself, which leads me to suspect it might have been somewhat early.

So there's the question, my lovelies: When did you (or your children) learn how to read?

* Although, since we're talking three- and four-year-olds here, it's really their parents who didn't make any. Which would be, uh, me. Win!

The Other Side of Snow Days

Cubby was very excited to go back to preschool yesterday after his weeklong sick break. I was very excited too; I managed to get all the vacuuming done with only Charlie to keep track of*.

It was a brief reprieve, however, thanks to that little storm that made its way to us last night. Due to the forecasted 6-10 inches of snow, all the schools in the area are closed.

Dammit.

Snow days are not a thing I'm too familiar with from my own childhood, since most of my school days were spent in places where they weren't an issue.

First I went to school in Hawaii; obviously no weather-related school closings in paradise. Next to Alaska; the only time they closed school in the three years I lived there was when it was 68 degrees below zero and there was so much ice fog the bus drivers couldn't see. And then I was in Tucson, Arizona. Snow and cold is not a concern there, obviously.

So the only place I remember the thrill of school being closed unexpectedly was in college in Northern Arizona, where the classes would occasionally be canceled. And what a joy it was.

But now I'm a parent. Parents do not get joy out of school closings. Parents get dread, for obvious reasons of hyperactive children and no opportunity to vacuum.

Cubby won't be very pleased either. He's still young enough that going to school is like playing, and he wasn't too enthused about going home when I picked him up yesterday.

Oh well. Snowpants and boots for all because I can see this is going to be a day of forced outside family fun. And hot chocolate. That might be the only saving grace.

* Large two-story houses are a serious problem to vacuum with untrustworthy children about. They could be --and probably are--doing anything while you're deafened by the roar of the machine.

Ending as We Began

This week started with totally unconnected randomness; how's about we finish it the same way? Yes? Great. Onward.

Cubby's preschool teacher called this afternoon to make sure he was okay, since he did not grace the preschool with his presence once this week. He's fine now; I was just being responsible and keeping him home to make sure he didn't infect the other children. His teacher thanked me for my thoughtfulness on this point.

You are welcome, Ms. Teacher. Please brace yourself for the triumphant return of Cubby on Tuesday of next week, because he's ready to go back to school and I am, uh, ready to have him gone.

Insert standard "I love my child more than my life, but . . ." disclaimer here.

Charlie has a new trick: licking. Yeah. This is very disconcerting when I come upon him french-kissing the window, and even more disconcerting when I'm fending off his slurping tongue from my cheek.

I think it's clear that Charlie's humor is all of the gross-out variety. Hooray.

Dripping noses seem to persist long after they should when children are recovering from colds. My snot-covered clothes are starting to get me down, man. Maybe I should not be so lazy about getting up to get an actual tissue, but . . . I am. Lazy. And covered in dried snot.

And on that high note, I believe I'd better sign off here with my wishes for the best weekend ever! Free of snot and all. Amen.

The Cold that Killed the Weather Station

The SAD FACE weather station got so sad last night, it committed suicide.

At least, it got so cold last night that the weather station stopped functioning. When we got up at 5:30 this morning (thanks, Charlie!), A. went right to the weather station for a reading and found that there was no reading. The outside sensor--which runs on batteries--stopped working. A check of the old-fashioned mercury thermometer outside revealed that it was currently a toasty 10 degrees below zero.

A., our resident weather fanatic, was enthused about the low reading. I was not so enthused when I realized it meant the preschool would not be open today.

SAD FACE indeed. Especially since Cubby woke up this morning at 7 a.m. with both loud and hyperactive guns blazing. Figuratively speaking, of course.

But then, I remembered that it's Wednesday morning. And Wednesday morning means story hour at the village library! HOORAY! Almost as good as preschool.

Charlie and I have not been attending the story hour since Cubby started preschool, because frankly I enjoy my only-one-child time too much to willingly attend an event that features more like twenty children, but I sure was grateful for it today.

So we whooped it up at the library and then came home for lunch. As the kids were eating, I started wiping down various disgusting areas of the baseboards in the breakfast room we eat in, which is when I discovered that our bedroom isn't the only room with ice on the walls.

Yup, there was ice covering the bottom of the wall and the baseboards in the corner of the kitchen with an exposed exterior corner. In fact, the box of grapefruit that had been on the floor there--for obvious purposes of VERY cold storage--had actually frozen to the wall.

SUPER.

But hey, at least it wasn't my pillow.

The Story of the Hour

That would be the cold. Or maybe that should be The COLD.

Yeah. It's cold. Currently two degrees at Blackrock. It's hellishly windy (always a hit with me, you may recall). This means that not only would it be very uncomfortable to be outside for any period of time, it would also be dangerous.

I was kind of counting on preschool today for Cubby to get through the day. The day that started with Charlie waking up at 4:30 this morning and crying for a couple of hours before going back to sleep. My demoralization was complete when I checked my e-mail and found that preschool is canceled for the day.

But hey! It could be worse! We could be like Mr. Jason.

See, Mr. Jason was in Arizona at the same time we were. He goes every year to Phoenix to see his mom for Christmas. He and A. met up for an epic overnight fishing trip north of Phoenix while we were there. Once he got there, that is. He was involved in the massive travel delays the weekend before Christmas. It took him two days to get to Arizona. He was supposed to leave Phoenix on December 30.

He called yesterday to tell us he's still in Phoenix. Yeah. He's been stuck there for a full week. No seats are available on any airline that he can find. He can't get home. He's a lot more fortunate than most, in that he's waiting in a place in which he has a place to stay, and he has no emergencies waiting at home (like pets or a house with freezing pipes).

But still. A WEEK. The very thought makes me panicky.

So I may be stuck in my house with two fussy children, but at least I'm in my house. There's a silver lining if ever there was one.

The Season of Giving

The super-secret gift making has been in full swing at Cubby's preschool this month.

Except, since we're dealing with three- and four-year-olds here, the secret part goes by the wayside pretty quick. So every day when I asked Cubby what they did at school that morning, I would hear he made a necklace for me. Or a bracelet for me. Or whatever.

Presents! Hooray!

Yesterday was the last day of preschool before the holiday break, and we were all presented with a large box full of crafts created by our very own precious babies.

When I asked my own precious baby who all of these things were for, he informed me, "Those are for me, myself."

Right. I think you missed the point there, Cubby.

After we got home and he started pulling all the stuff out to display it to us, I suggested maybe it would be nice if that splendidly decorated soup can went with Daddy to his office, so he could put it on his desk to hold his pens and pencils and think of Cubby all day while he was working. Cubby said, "No. That's mine. It came to MY house, and it is MINE."

So much for the generous spirit of Christmas giving.

P.S. Cubby's teacher made ornaments for all the families with a photo of that family's kid on them. I cannot tell you how much I love her for this. My own parents' Christmas tree is adorned with no less than three photo ornaments of me from various preschools and kindergartens that I attended, so it's like a (narcissistic) family tradition.

Good Impressions

We attended an event at Cubby's preschool last night* that included a potluck dinner. I signed up to bring pork (and then ended up also bringing squash because I had cooked one of the enormous blue ones a few days earlier and figured I might as well share the bounty--and get rid of some squash). We had a pork loin roast in the freezer, all tied up nice and neat and ready for cooking.

So I made that. I sliced it all up, poured the sauce over the pieces, and put the whole deal in my Crockpot to keep it warm. Which is when I remembered that my Crockpot does not actually have a handle on the lid and was therefore not really useful for public purposes.

The plastic one it came with broke off long ago. A. carved a new knob for me a few years ago and attached it to the lid, but that eventually split from the heat and I just . . . never bothered to get anything else on there. So at the last minute yesterday I jerry-rigged a handle from aluminum foil so people could at least get the top off without just flipping it off with a fork.

A Crockpot with an aluminum foil handle. I bring the classy where ever I go.

Then, when we were all eating later, our friend Jodi, whose younger son also attends this preschool, told me the pork was really good. The string, not so much.

SHIIIT.

I forgot to take the string off when I was slicing the meat. It was a little hectic right before we left the house, with excited and hungry children racing around (and crying) and I was trying to pack up dishes and food and finish MAKING the food and I just totally forgot about the string.

I thought about making a general announcement of my ridiculous mistake to the room so no one would choke on twine, but I figured it would be noticeable enough that no one would actually eat it. Also, I didn't particularly want to publicly admit to my idiocy.

Not exactly my finest moment. I'll try to make sure the next time I provide food for a potluck, everything included is edible. Low standards: I am all about them.

* A celebration of St. Martin's Day, which is pretty cool and should be more widely celebrated in the U.S., in my opinion.

The Weird Mom

I think I'm getting a reputation at the preschool.

Every Thursday, each child brings in a piece of fruit and then they all help cut it up to make fruit salad for their snack. Last Thursday, Cubby brought Concord grapes from our vines and two of the MILLIONS HOLY LORD of pears from our pear trees. I explained to one of the teachers that the Concord grapes have seeds, so they might not be universally popular with the kids. And then I left a bag of pears for each of the teachers.

When I went back to pick Cubby up that day, I was presented with an ENORMOUS container of leftover fruit salad to take home. Seriously. It was at least a gallon. The teacher explained, "We tried to think of someone who would be able to use it all up."

Right. It's in my freezer now, awaiting blending for five thousand fruit shakes.

Today there was a sign requesting that anyone who could contribute bring in various needed items. One of the items was yogurt. Since I just made some two days ago, I currently have five quarts of yogurt in my refrigerator. I asked the teacher if homemade would be okay. " Yes!" she said. "And can you give me your recipe?"

So when I went to pick Cubby up this afternoon, I brought the yogurt along with the instructions on how to make it. On the wall was yet another sign, this one asking if anyone could bring compost home.

Well, hell. We have not one, but two huge compost piles in which we dump shit on a daily basis, so I figured a little more from the school wouldn't make any difference. I told the teacher I could take it home. And then she asked if I could take it every week.

So I am now the Official Compost Lady for the preschool. Along with That Mom who makes her own yogurt and forces fruit onto people.

Oh well. I suppose there are worse things to be known for.