The Mini Things in Life

Part of our toilet training efforts with Cubby have involved miniature marshmallows as a reward. I do not know why that child has such a great love of marshmallows, but he adores them more than anything else. So we now have mini marshmallows in the bread drawer.

I don't generally have much use for marshmallows, but there is no denying that there is something incredibly appealing about the miniature ones in hot chocolate. It's a (literal) small thing, but it always lifts my spirits to drop several of those small chunks of jelled sugar into my cocoa, where they will float and melt and get all gummy and yummy.

Just a random happy thought for you today.

P.S. Due to the 25 people we're expecting for Easter dinner tomorrow, it's entirely possible I will not be here tomorrow to wish you all a happy chocolate bunny day (not that I have one of those to look forward to tomorrow anymore . . .). So allow me to wish you a Happy Easter prematurely, poppets. May your day be merry and bright. And filled with the things that make you happy, large or small.

Eating Habits

Cubby really loves curry. Anything curry. Which is great, because I love curry too. What I do NOT love, however, is curry powder staining every article of clothing that it touches. And when a two-year-old is eating it, that's a lot of clothing.

I suppose I could just not give him anything with curry powder in it, but that seems mean, considering how much he likes it. Maybe I should start letting him eat curry sans clothing. That'd be one solution.

And on a somewhat unrelated note, Cubby also seems to love anything he can eat on the go in the garden. At the moment, that only means a volunteer arugula plant and the chives. Arugula I can understand; I nibble on it myself from time to time. But chives? Plain chives? Those are spicy, man. The kid eats them by the handful and then goes around stinking of onion for the rest of the day.

He's very excited to start eating the asparagus, which is just starting to poke out of the ground. And I'll be very happy to let him eat it as soon as it's ready. Especially if it keeps him away from those chives. Gross.

Getting Away

I don't spend a lot of time fantasizing about vacation destinations, mostly because I'm a realist and know that the next vacation I take--in the distant future--is likely going to involve two small boys and a tent.

A.'s a big proponent of family camping, you know. And I fear that our two sons will agree with him. I find the concept to be about as close to hell as I can imagine, but I suspect that there are many road trips with propane stoves and sleeping bags in my future.

But let's not think about that now. Let's indulge in some escapism instead, shall we?

I don't have a particular destination in mind, I guess, but I think I would like to take a trip in which everything is done for me. Like all the arrangements getting to and from airports and all the hotel bookings, maybe even food. And now that I think about it, for maximum laziness, I suppose it would be in an English-speaking country, because I find attempts to communicate in other languages stressful, but would hate to rely on an interpreter. I've never been anywhere in the British Isles, actually.

Ooo, I know! Here's what I want to do: I want to go on a home and garden tour in England in which every detail is arranged for me via some travel agency like Cook's. Remember Cook's in the Agatha Christie novels? They did everything.

Yeah. A home and garden tour, preferably with some edible gardens involved.

Just as soon as I come into a fabulous inheritance from a mythical relative. And, uh, am not pregnant and all.

So, duckies! When you lull yourself into a stupor in your cubicle dreaming about fantastic vacations*, where do you envision yourself?

* Not that I used to do this when I spent my days in a cubicle. Ahem.

Shhhh

I hate to say this aloud--or rather, type it for all the world to see--so let's all pretend it's being typed sotto voce, like a deep, dark secret: I think sleep is returning to normal.

The last couple of nights have been better, anyway. Good enough that I can get up a little while before Cubby does without feeling like a truck done runned me over. Which means I can make and drink coffee without the demands for a book or biscuit (who knew baking powder biscuits could be such a desired treat?) or a thousand other things showered upon me by my own small dictator first thing in the morning.

To say nothing of sitting in front of a little plastic potty at 6 a.m., watching and applauding what should be a private affair, before I'm even dressed and coherent.

That potty thing is getting better too, by the way, but I hate to push my luck by talking about it right now, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?

An Idyllic Childhood

A. is fond of remarking that his whole purpose in life is to make sure that Cubby (and his little brother to come) has an idyllic childhood. So what does an idyllic childhood look like?

Maybe like climbing down gully banks on Daddy's shoulders, with Mia along for the fun . . .

To dig ramps in the forest . . .

And demanding the trowel so he can dig himself . . .

And then insisting on climbing the excessively steep gully bank on his own.

Maybe it's not entirely idyllic, but close enough for Cubby.

Not Feeling Too Crazy This Year

Yeah, I think the Tomato Crazy this year is going to be approaching levels of sanity not seen since, oh, my pre-Blackrock days. When I didn't even grow anything.

I started my tomato seeds yesterday, in the most half-assed manner possible. That manner being that I was outside with Cubby when I remembered I always start my tomatoes by the first of April. Which was in two days. And here I was outside on a sunny day, so hey! Cubby! Let's go see if there's any seed-starting soil left in the barn!

There was. So I pulled it out, along with a few little leftover plastic seedling cell trays plus a weeding tool for Cubby to play with. Then he occupied himself using the weeder to gouge holes in a piece of plywood* while I dampened the soil, dropped two seeds in each cell, covered them up with more soil, labeled some previously-used plastic markers and chucked the whole thing in the heated downstairs bathroom to germinate. I hope.

The seeds I used included some Stupice seeds that are a few years old, plus some Stupice seeds that I saved from last year. I have no great hopes for terrific germination from either, but as long as just a few make it, that's all I need. Plus I started some seeds for a variety recommended and sent to me by the very generous Phoo-D that she had saved from her tomatoes last year. I have more confidence that those will germinate.

I think I planted about 24 seeds total. I only need six plants from those. To those six, I will add six of a paste variety I'll buy at the local nursery. So you can see that I will not be even approaching the levels of insanity achieved with last year's 100+ tomato seedlings.

Good thing, because God knows I have enough to make me crazy without adding to it with tomatoes.

* At least, I think that's what he was doing. He was kind of far away and I didn't investigate too closely because the activity filled all the requirements for acceptable Cubby entertainment. That is, he was within sight; happy; not doing any bodily harm to himself or any of the animals; and not destroying anything anyone cares about. Works for me.

Let's Change the Subject

Because God knows it's bad enough wallowing in my child's bathroom habits all day; I really shouldn't spend my non-bathroom moments talking about them, right? Right.

So the other day, like a week ago, an egg went missing from the flower pot in the house. This flower pot is in the windowsill just inside the dining room door. This is where I put eggs I want to get into the house so the dogs don't eat them, but I don't want to have to go all the way in to the kitchen to actually put them in the refrigerator. I just set the egg in the soil at the base of this plant and retrieve it when I come inside.

Except when I went to retrieve this particular egg from the pot, it was gone. A. and the MiL denied any knowledge of the egg's whereabouts. I figured Otty had been inside at some point and had eaten it, gave a mental shrug, and forgot about it.

Then a few days later it got really cold. When Cubby and I were preparing to go outside that frosty morning, I grabbed my winter boots that had been sitting unused for a couple of weeks. Sitting under the window just inside the dining room door.

Yeah. The very same window in which the missing egg had gone . . . missing. Except it hadn't gone missing. It had gone into the bottom of my boot, presumably after a nudge from the Devil Cat. Where it broke. And sat for three days.

I will not attempt to describe to you what a broken egg in the bottom of a boot smells like after three days. Instead I will just tell you that I threw those boots right out. No cleaning product in the world could have cleansed that footwear.

It's okay, though. I was kind of thinking of getting some new boots anyway, as the egg boots had lost their waterproofiness, and non-waterproof winter boots are a useless item at Blackrock. The egg gave me the excuse I needed to chuck 'em and find some new ones. So I guess I should thank the Devil Cat for her devilish ways.

Just as long as she doesn't drop an egg into my ladybug clogs. That would be unacceptable.