The Nightmare Returns

I feel this particular revulsion regarding lamprey eels. I mean, EVERYONE feels revulsion at the sight of a lamprey eel--at least, anyone who has ever seen an image of their gaping, teeth-ringed sucking maw*--but I just can't seem to get away from the disgusting sumbitches.

First there was the original pickled lamprey in a canning jar--a particularly gross memento of A.'s childhood--that hangs out in the crawlspace in the back bedroom. At least that's out of sight.

Then there was the live lamprey that appeared on our beach and then in my living room before being pickled in its turn and put in place of pride on Cubby's dresser. That one is still there, sloshing around most disturbingly every time I open the drawer to get out a pair of socks for him.

And then there were the multitudes of live lampreys that Cubby got to play with yesterday.

Mr. Jason has been working this spring trapping lampreys for the state conservation department, for various purposes including studying and decreasing their numbers. Of course when A. found out about this, he just had to bring Cubby to see the traps.

I had zero interest in going, both because I'm so repelled by lampreys and because I really didn't want to deal with Charlie around a mess of sucking nightmare creatures. So I let A. take Cubby by himself. This meant that Cubby actually got to handle the lampreys (while wearing gloves). The photos were enough to make me shudder; I can't imagine actually being there and watching him hold one of these writhing monsters.

Yessir, that's my baby. Holding a terrifyingly repellent creature. 

There was a video too, but it made me too faint and I can't bear to post it.

Cubby, however, had a wonderful time and has told anyone who will listen how he got to hold a lamprey eel. 

And then I have to explain to a largely incredulous audience why he was holding them. Though really I have no real reason. Why anyone would voluntarily hold one of those things is so far beyond my comprehension that I'm just giving up on understanding my son right now and turning him over to his father for the really fun stuff.

At least they didn't bring any home and ask me to cook them. That probably would've finished me off for good.

* Which now includes everyone who just clicked on that link. You're welcome!

Freedom Flight

This morning at 4:45, Charlie woke up and started piteously repeating "Down, down, down," which I ignored, obviously, because, uh, because it was 4:45 IN THE MORNING YOU CRAZY CHILD, GO BACK TO SLEEP.

Instead, after thirty seconds of "down"ing, he decided to "down" on his own.

Yup, I got another jumper.

Although both my children seem to be the take-charge types when it comes to leaving the crib behind, I have a terrible feeling that Charlie is going to be a hell of a lot harder to keep in a non-cage bed. He's never been as good of a sleeper as Cubby was. He will never lie down with me to sleep, which it appears is how I first got Cubby used to sleeping in his own regular bed.

Charlie is also a few months younger than Cubby was when he got to this point, and a few months makes a LOT of difference at this age in terms of cognition and reasoning. In that there really is no reasoning with Charlie yet. Or rather, I can attempt to reason with him in the form of consequences, but he'll just listen carefully and then do what he wants anyway. Usually while grinning in a distinctly naughty way*.

Maybe he'll surprise me. Maybe he'll take to the bed with no trouble and start sleeping past 5:30 a.m. for a change. But I wouldn't bet on it.

Send some positive thoughts my way, okay? I'm gonna need 'em.

* Example from yesterday: "If you throw one more stick at Mia, who is trying to sleep peacefully in the sun, we will go inside. Do you understand?" "Ah," says Charlie in agreement. Then comes the naughty smile and there goes the stick at Mia (who doesn't even move, because she is the best dog ever). And then we go inside amid much screaming and outrage. Why hello, Terrible Twos! You're early!

I Hate It When They Do This

I was sitting in a chair on the lawn this morning watching Cubby and Charlie complete the ruination of their first set of clothing in the muddy garden when Otty came trotting up to me. She had the top quarter of a woodchuck in her mouth.

It was dead, obviously, and had been quite well-chewed. Pretty much all that was still intact was the head and a little of the pelt. It was, needless to say, incredibly disgusting.

So of course she dropped it right at my feet and then lay down next to it for a well-deserved rest. And so, also of course, I got up, put on one of A.'s work gloves, and carried the grisly remains of the woodchuck over to the fence, where I threw it into the gully.

Because the only thing worse than a dog carrying around a chewed-up woodchuck head is a child carrying around a chewed-up woodchuck head. And you just know that would have been the next scene in this little comedy.

Ah, the romance of country life.

Inconsistency, Thy Name Is Cubby

10:30 this morning

Cubby: I could eat meatballs anytime.

Me: You want meatballs for dinner tonight?

Cubby: Yes. I love meatballs.

Me: Okay.

4:30 this afternoon

Cubby: What's for dinner? Pasta?

Me: No. Meatballs.

Cubby: WHAT? NOOOOO!

Me: You said you wanted meatballs, so I made them.

Cubby: I did NOT say I wanted meatballs. I hate meatballs! Make something else!

Me: Too late. They're already cooking.

Cubby: Take them out of the oven!

(He went on in this vein for another minute or two, but it was very irritating at the time and will no doubt be just as irritating in the re-telling, so I'll spare you.)

5:30 this evening

Me: Cubby, it's time for dinner.

Cubby, upon viewing his plate: NOOOOO. Or . . . maybe not no.

5:32 this evening

Cubby: Can I have some more meatballs?

5:35 this evening

Cubby: Can I have another meatball?

Me: I'm glad you like the meatballs, Cubby.

Cubby: I LOVE meatballs.

Through great effort of will, I managed not to roll my eyes or say something sarcastic. But it was most certainly a very great effort.

A Silenced Songbird

I have this habit--no doubt excessively annoying to the members of my household--of singing bits of songs whenever I'm reminded of them. Since I have a more or less inexhaustible store of song lyrics in my head, this happens more often than you might think.

So, for example, I might be sniffing some meat to see if it's still good and start in with the refrain to "Tainted Love." Or maybe Charlie is wailing inconsolably during one of his many (MANY) unexplainable almost-two-year-old tantrums and I'll start singing in my best twang, "Gloooom, despaaair, and agony on me; deep dark depression, excessive misery.*"

Anyway. I sing with some frequency is the point. I didn't even realize how often I sing until yesterday when my stubborn and long-running cough transformed my pretty decent voice into something resembling a three-pack-a-day smoker's voice. It's ugly. I keep starting to sing something and then stopping myself, horrified at the sounds coming out of my mouth.

So I haven't been warbling about very much lately, except for the one mandatory song. And that is Cubby's lullaby. Every night before bed--and every day before his nap if he takes one--I have to sing Brahms' "Lullaby." I've been doing this now for two years, and you best believe Cubby will not tolerate any change in that routine. So I sing it, even though it kind of hurts my throat and most definitely hurts my ears.

Let's hope my voice returns soon; I'm pretty sure Brahms turns over in his grave to cover his ears every time I butcher his lovely melody.

* I had no idea until I looked this up just now that this song is from the show "Hee Haw." You should really check out this clip. Magnificent.

Fishy

Important news: The perch are in.

I can't convey to you how happy A. is about this. The amazingly cold spring has meant that the water temperature in the lake has been correspondingly cold, and that meant that the perch have been staying away from the shore. Usually in late April and May, the perch and other panfish come right in to the shallow water in swarms, and A. and Cubby can go out and catch a dozen in a half hour from the village dock.

No such luck this year. A. bought minnows for bait and went out over and over, with no results. They just weren't there.

But in the meantime, we have this cooler of minnows sitting next to the house. The children, as you might imagine, have been all into that cooler.

Cubby checks it regularly for the inevitable one or two dead minnows that have floated to the top. He helpfully removes these. At first he threw them into the lilac bush for the cat to find and eat. But soon he discovered the joys of dissection. With his fingers.

GROSS.

He stands there squishing the minnow in his fingers, showing me the swim bladder and whatever other innards he thinks he's identified while I avert my eyes and make non-committal comments. He informed me that he is a scientist, and so he needs to look at the insides of the fish.

Right. I am not a scientist. I do not want to see the insides of a fish.

Nor do I wish to have a dead minnow placed on my bare foot. Or arm. Or hand. Or wherever Charlie tries to place his dead minnow, because you know if Cubby has one, Charlie has to have one too.

It's hard to say what is more repellent to me: a whole dead minnow on my foot or a mutilated dead minnow waved in my face.

Anyway.

A. took Cubby fishing in the canoe on Wednesday and found perch. Lots of them. They were in. So the hated (by me) minnows finally produced a nice catch of four big perch (A. had to leave for court, so they didn't have time to catch more). They brought the perch up to the house in the minnow cooler. While A. filleted the perch, Cubby manhandled the remaining perch in the cooler, carefully explaining to Charlie about gills and fish slime and whatever other great wisdom Cubby possesses about perch.

He has a lot of wisdom to impart, obviously.

Four perch--even large ones--don't make for very substantial fillets, so there wasn't a lot of fish for dinner that night, but the children very much enjoyed what there was. And I have no doubt there will be a lot more perch in our future. Because the perch are in. Finally.

A.P.D.--The Housework and Public Shaming Edition

The MiL hosted her book group last night at our house, which of course meant that I spent yesterday cleaning up. In my case, that meant outside and inside because when the weather is warm we live almost equally both inside and out.

Outside: Random bits of boards used to make a road for Cubby's firetruck, the weight bar A. lifts with, some of A.'s traps that Cubby had "set" on the lawn to catch Charlie, various muddy boots and on and on and on.

Inside: Too many damn books and newspapers and magazines to be believed because we are too literate, an incredible array of toy pieces (blocks, puzzle pieces, a magnetic fishing pole, hammers, confiscated swords, etc.), sunscreen, receipts, Mia's broken dog collar, a magnifying glass, and on and on and on.

It took me over an hour just to get the downstairs in order, and that was before I did the actual sweeping and dusting and vacuuming.

I always think, while doing this, that it would be so much easier if I would just keep it neat all the time. Then all I would have to do is the actual cleaning, not the picking up. I'm not saying we live in squalor; it's mostly picked up and mostly clean at all times. We do toy pick-up every night before bed, but there are always bits and pieces that get under tables and chairs or are just so random I don't even know what to do with them (piece of ribbon that was a fishing line and MUST be saved? there is no place for that). Those things build up incrementally until company is coming.

Because the embarrassing truth is that without the threat of public shaming, I am not motivated to really clean my house.

There. I said it.

Now, how about you, my lovelies? Do you keep your house in company-worthy condition at all times? Do you frantically clean only when you know someone will be entering your home? Or do you not care and just let it all hang out for everyone to see?