Antique House Show

We have a lot of old stuff in our house. The house is old--built around 1864--and the furnishings are old. A.'s family has lived here continuously since the 1890s, so the furniture that came to the house over the past century and a half mostly stayed in the house.

Much of this old stuff would be considered "antique," which of course means valuable old stuff. But I try not to think about that, since I've added some new stuff in the form of three destructive boys.

Well, Jack isn't destructive yet, but his time will come, oh yes, it will.

Anyway.

The MiL recently had a couple of our old chairs re-upholstered, including a wing chair that was A.'s grandfather's favorite chair. So I knew it was old. I didn't realize how old, however, until the upholsterer brought it back and mentioned it had to be 200 years old at least.

Two hundred years? That's crazy.

Almost as crazy as these two goobers. That chair they're chilling in is approximately 197 years older than their combined age. 

History lives at Blackrock.

This Was a Satisfying Answer

"Mother*, what's for dinner?"

"Weeds."

Specifically, foraged dandelion greens and garlic mustard from the yard. Plus meat loaf and mashed potatoes, because man cannot live on weeds alone. Or something.

* Yes, my five-year-old and almost-three-year-old call me Mother. And no, I do not know why.

Just Doing the Boy Thing

If Charlie asks for "cowboy music," go ahead and put on Moe Bandy's "Don't Fence Me In." Basically Charlie's theme song. Jack's not so sure about it.

Three boys, a stuffed beaver, a tea mug, my knee . . . just another moment in time by the woodstove.

Oh, was that a too-blatant photo dump to act as a placeholder until I have something of substance to say? Why, yes; yes, it was. 

Stay tuned for substance. It might be awhile.

All Present and Accounted For

Yesterday at 2:15 in the afternoon, Jack was asleep and I was doing dishes while the other two children played in the living room. Cubby wandered in to the kitchen and announced he would help. Although my knee-jerk reaction when faced with dishes "help" from kids is "No, thanks,*" I was already almost done, with just the silverware left to do. And Charlie wasn't in there demanding to help too.

So I told Cubby he could wash all the silverware for me. I showed him how to pull the utensils from the bottom of the dish pan, scrub them all over with the dishcloth, and then rinse them with the hot water. He grabbed an apron, pulled over his chair, and got to work.

I could get used to this.

At this point, I realized I hadn't heard anything from Charlie for a worrisomely long time. So I went on a Charlie hunt, which led me upstairs to the stereo in the hall. He was trying to turn on "cowboy music" (Chris Ledoux). He had obviously been in the forbidden territory of Grandma's bedroom, because he was holding the MiL's childhood stuffed puppy, named Dream, and wearing a pair of the MiL's high-heeled shoes.

I do not have a picture of this, much to my disappointment. And yours, I'm sure.

So, one boy in an apron doing dishes, and one in high heels? Modern men in the making right here at woodchuck central.

* I know, I know. Learning moments and teaching responsibility and all that. But all that water all over, and both of them always want to do it so they fight and, ugh, dishes suck enough without all that.

On Becoming a Cliche

That woman you saw hauling around a toddler and a baby at the grocery store this morning while wearing a fleece, dirty jeans, and running shoes? That was me.

That woman using one hand to help the toddler pee in the grocery store bathroom while holding the baby in the other arm? That was me.

That woman picking up blueberries in the produce section because her toddler slam-dunked the package into the cart and the top burst open and sprayed blueberries up to two feet away? That was me.

That woman who realized just as she unloaded all her groceries onto the conveyor that her wallet wasn't in her purse because it was in the diaper bag, which was still in the car? That was me.

That woman racing a full cart* plus baby out to the parking lot with the dubious "help" of the toddler, chattering all the while about "It's a race car! Let's see how fast we can get to the finish line!" to hurry the toddler along? That was me.

Me and dozens of other women all across America, I suspect. It's the Sisterhood of the Stay-At-Home Moms. We may be a cliche, but at least there's strength in numbers, right?

* I just realized this reads as if I loaded everything back in the cart and took it to the car without paying. For clarification: I paid with a check so I wouldn't have to go get my wallet, but then they insisted on seeing my driver's license, which they didn't tell me until after everything was bagged and back in the cart, so then I had to go to the car anyway to get my driver's license. In case you were consumed with curiosity.

In Praise of the Third Child

Jack is four months old today. He doesn't get much airplay here, but that's only because he's so laid back that it's easy to just take him for granted. I really shouldn't do that, though, because really, this kid is just plain awesome.

Oh, you wanted to vacuum, Mom? That's cool. I'll just sit here on the couch and smile till you're done.

He goes hither and yon with nary a word of complaint. 

He rides in his carseat like a champ. 

He grins all the way through the grocery store. 

He patiently endures his older brothers' perpetual obsession with petting his head; I might even say he enjoys it.

He kicks it on the sheepskin while I make dinner, sucking his fingers and flailing about.

And he sleeps. Like a dream. Like a miracle. Like one of those babies I was sure were mythical, because it's just not possible for a four-month-old baby to go to bed at 8 p.m. and wake up at 7 a.m. (or later). But Jack does. Okay, sometimes he wakes up at 3 a.m. or 5 a.m. to nurse, but often he doesn't.

I can't tell you how life-changing it is to have an infant who actually sleeps. It's almost like not having a newborn at all.

I guess he's not really a newborn anymore, anyway.

But still awesome. Always.

Will She or Won't She?

There is obviously a burning curiosity among you--based on the, um, one of you who asked--about the garden this year.

The short answer: We got a CSA subscription for the summer.

Obviously, that means that I am not planning on growing the majority of our vegetables myself this year. In fact, I'm not planting anything.

I know. Sad.

I really had to do it. Because the long answer is that I have not enough time nor physical stamina to deal with our excessively large garden, which has been pretty much choked by weeds in the past few neglected years. A. set up electric fencing around half the garden and the ducklings are out there, for weed and pest control purposes. The MiL will plant potatoes in the rest of the garden, I think.

I thought about putting a few things like lettuce or pole beans in a random raised bed we have at the edge of the garden, but the deer have gotten so aggressive recently that I figured they would just eat anything I put out there. So I won't even do that.

Literally the only thing I'm planning on putting in dirt is a single tomato plant in a pot by the kitchen door. I am not particularly happy about this, and I so wish I had the time and the strength to work in the garden, but, well, I don't. I've finally accepted that I need a summer off, and hopefully next year I'll get back to it, with a less weedy and somewhat workable garden.

Oh, and someone else wanted an update about the washing machine. Truthfully, I've been having some issues with the soaking off and cleaning of mud, which I do a lot, obviously, and which was kind of the main reason I wanted a good washing machine. The water level on the soaking setting doesn't seem to get to the top of the machine, so I can't fill the machine with dirty clothes to soak. I've never actually read the manual for the machine, so it's possible it will tell me that it can only be filled partway or something.

I guess we're too dirty even for a Speed Queen.

And, um, that's it. Have a nice day.