I Waited So Many Years . . .

Years of disgusting, smelly, bacteria-laden dishcloths. Years. Every summer morning, I'd pick up the dishcloth to wipe down the counter or whatever, only to take a precautionary sniff to find it once again never really dried from the night before's dishes and therefore smelled like . . . I don't know. Like a moldering dishcloth.

GROSS.

I knew this could be avoided by scalding the dishcloth with boiling water after finishing with it at night, but who wants to boil a kettle of water to scald the thing when it's 90 degrees in the kitchen? Not me.

And then I was flipping through some annoying book all about how YOU TOO CAN KEEP AN IMMACULATE HOUSE WITH JUST TEN MINUTES A DAY! (it was one of those books that sounded much too excited and way too irritating) that the MiL got at the library when I found it: Nuke the dishcloth in the microwave on high for a minute to scald it.

OHHHHH.

So simple, yet so life-changing.

So if you, too, have been plagued by foul-smelling dishcloths, this one is for you. Pass it on. We can change more lives today.

The Truth About Parenting

Thanks to that over-achieving butternut squash plant, I decided to make butternut squash soup for dinner tonight. I made this recipe. It was a masterpiece of local sourcing: Butternut squash, onions, garlic, carrots, celery, and sage from the garden. Chicken broth from our chickens. Cream from the local dairy. Nothing but the best for this soup. It was good, if a little thinner than I prefer my soup to be.

It was not, however, particularly kid-friendly.

Charlie took about three swallows from his mug before deciding a better use for the soup would be to form a lake on his tray. Cubby was persuaded to drink about half of his mug, mostly because I kept up a running commentary about how fun it was to drink our dinner instead of eat it. Ha ha! Isn't that funny!

I anticipated this reaction, though, which is why I also made an apple and pear crisp for dessert, to fill things out a little.

So in the end, my kids essentially ate apple/pear crisp and vanilla ice cream for dinner. Which reminded me of the time when Cubby had peach pie and ice cream for dinner.

And that, my lovelies, is the reality of parenting: Sometimes kids eat dessert for dinner. And any parent who claims otherwise is probably lying. Truth.

The Forgotten Cucumber

Against my better judgment, I planted some cucumber plants next to the fence in the garden. I really dislike doing this because the grass inevitably creeps back in and I lose whatever is planted by the fence in a tangle of weeds and grass.

This is especially problematic with cucumbers, because you know what happens when you don't see a cucumber for awhile? Yeah, one day you finally excavate under the weeds, only to find . . . THE CUCUMBER THAT ATE THE GARDEN.

But you know who's not scared of cucumbers bigger than his arm?

That's right: the digger man.

He gnawed it like an ear of corn until he got tired of it and tossed it to the ground. And then Mia found it and chewed on it as if it were a bone until it was gone.

Nothing goes to waste around here, at least.

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.

The Arachnid Convention

'Tis the season for every spider in the tri-state area to convene at Blackrock. Come on in! Spin your webs in my house so I can walk into them all unsuspecting and then get that creepy sticky feeling a million times a day!

I'm not joking about the number of spiders in our house. It's a really big, really old house near a lake. We have THOUSANDS of spiders. They're in residence all year long, but this is the time of year they really start appearing everydamnwhere in the house. I reach in to get a bowl in the kitchen cabinet and . . . gah! Wispy creepy spider web feel on my hand! I go in the corner to retrieve a ball for Charlie and . . . GAH! SPIDER WEB IN THE FACE!

Or I go to take a shower and end up sharing my ablutions with no less than four spiders hanging out on the ceiling. No joke; I counted last time.

I suppose I could be more vigilant with the broom, but they'll just come back the next day. And it's not like we have black widows around here. So come on in, spiders! Make yourself at home! It's spider season at Blackrock and they're here to stay.

Advocating for a Liquid Diet

Do humans really need solid foods? Can't we just exist on milkshakes or something? If we don't need solid foods, then we don't need teeth. And with no teeth, there would be no teething babies. And with no teething babies, there would be no screaming in the middle of the night. And no screaming far too early in the morning. And no screaming during naptime. And . . . well, no screaming.

So with no solid foods there would be unlimited milkshakes, uninterrupted sleep, and quiet. Sounds like utopia to me. Sign me up. And sign Charlie up too while you're at it.

Stupid teeth.

A Helping Hand

The relationship between Cubby and Charlie is . . . uneven. Sometimes Cubby loves Charlie and croons about how cute he is and gives him kisses. And sometimes he, uh, doesn't.

Okay, MOST of the time he doesn't. Most of the time, if we're to be honest here, there's an ongoing "very bad baby" chant (sometimes he also puts these three words to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"--a musical prodigy without doubt), run-by head squeezings, and purposefully knocking Charlie off his wobbly feet.

I think this is pretty normal for brothers, but what do I know? I only had one.

Anyway. The point is that any interaction between the two is apt to become a one-sided brawl within seconds. So I'm always apprehensive when Cubby gets within striking range.

Today when we were playing in the library, I looked over to see this:

Just chillin'. And stuck.

Charlie did not seem unduly concerned about his wedged position in the box. When Cubby noticed our overstuffed box, he ran over, yelling, "I'll help you, baby!"

And miraculously, he did.

HEAVE . . .

Success.

There may have been a tumble against the toy box there immediately following the rescue that resulted in a head-bonk for Charlie, but since he didn't cry and it was an accident, I ignored it.

It almost makes me forget the time yesterday when Cubby poured a rubber boot full of muddy rain water over Charlie's head and then chucked the boot at him.

Almost.