This Mother's Day, Say It With Pork

This was a very strange morning. Jack was up at 5:15, and didn't go back to sleep until 7 a.m. Charlie was pounding on the downstairs door at 6:20 a.m., as usual, so A. got up with him. I went back to sleep when Jack did at 7--in celebration of Mother's Day and my opportunity to lounge in bed--and when I got up at 8, Cubby was still asleep.

Cubby didn't wake up until almost 9 a.m., and I heard him thumping around upstairs before he appeared downstairs. He informed me I should go upstairs to look at his bed, because I would be very surprised.

He had made his bed, with no prompting or suggestion ever that he should be making his bed in the morning. Bed-making has never been a huge concern for me, so I haven't really been showing them how or insisting they do it. But I guess he just saw me making mine and decided to do it too.

So that was a nice Mother's Day present.

And then A. made crepes for breakfast, which is always appreciated.

But most exciting, we have a pig in the freezer.

The MiL decided--for what reason, I am not sure--that she wanted to start raising heritage Large Black Hogs with her brother the farmer. So she's been supplying the funds and the feed and so on, and he's been taking care of them on the farm. The first of the piglets were born this past winter and just got to slaughter weight. Our pig was butchered last week and was ready to pick up yesterday.

The slaughterhouse called at 9 a.m. yesterday to let us know we could come get our meat, and A. was in the car half an hour later to go pick it up.

I am really, really sick of buying meat a little at a time. I was definitely ready to have a whole freezer full again.

And now we do. A couple hundred pounds of literally the best pork I have ever eaten is now at hand. Hooray.

As for celebrating Mother's Day in any traditional way . . . well, no. Jack is too small for me to leave him for more than a couple of hours--due to the fact that I'm his sole source of sustenance--so I won't be going anywhere. I did mentally refuse to do laundry today, which means I dressed Charlie in dirty clothes from the basket in the downstairs bathroom.

Whatever. They just get dirty within the hour anyway. I should do this every day.

A. might take the older two fishing. I might go into the village to get some ice cream or something by myself later. But that's pretty much it for us.

And in closing, let me just wish the happiest Mother's Day to my own amazing mother, who I wish was close enough to come over for some pork chops today. Oh well. Arizona to New York is a little far to travel for pork, even if it is heritage. So I'll just raise my own pork chop in a salute to you, Mom.

And isn't that just a fitting Mother's Day salute from your weird countrified daughter? Yup. But heartfelt, nonetheless.

No More Centipedes in the Bed

Last night as I was putting the older two kids to bed, Cubby noticed a very small house centipede near the ceiling in their room. He asked me if centipedes bite. Well . . .

The actual answer is yes, they can, although they don't usually bite and most of them can't even pierce human skin. Especially not one as tiny as the one in their room. But I didn't want to go into all of that, so I told him he didn't need to worry about it and swept the baby centipede away.

Then this morning at 4:15, A. catapulted from our bed and started stomping on the floor around the bed. He informed me there had been a bug crawling up his leg in bed. I thought he had been dreaming, but I told him to turn on the light and check. And there, racing up his side of the bed, was an inch-long house centipede.

OH NO YOU DON'T, YOU LITTLE BASTARD.

A. killed it immediately.

I don't care how many ants they eat, they are not welcome in my bed. And we shall never, ever speak of this to Cubby.

GrossgrossgrossGROSS.

Too Tired for Tequila

It is an unfortunate reality that the times I feel most in need of the temporary relaxation afforded by an alcoholic drink are the times when I'm too tired to bother.

All three children have had a cold this past week. The older two have been their usual insane cyclone selves (how do children maintain that level of activity even when ill? I will never understand this) with the additional joy of the sick-whines, and Jack has been awake. All the time. Every two hours at night for a few nights now. I can't begrudge him the comfort of my presence at night, but it's making me into a zombie.

So I did not, as is my habit, celebrate Cinco de Mayo yesterday with a margarita. Bummer. All I managed were some taco meat and guacamole. And I managed to eat it without face-planting into my dinner. Party on.

And speaking of acting drunk . . .

I sent Cubby upstairs this morning at 7:10 to get dressed. Forty minutes later, he was standing in the living room in his socks and underwear, holding a pair of pants that were clearly too big for him. I told him to take them back upstairs and get a pair that fit.

So of course, he put the pants over his head and groped his way up the stairs in his underwear and socks. Because five-year-olds are perpetually drunk, even without alcohol.

He came back down a minute later holding properly sized pants, and with the overly large pants still on his head. Ten minutes after that, he was finally dressed. And the pants were off his head.

Who needs liquor? I have kids.

The Shirts Say It All

Baby Jack is currently wearing a shirt that reads, "I Love Mommy." It has a hole in it, because he is the third child, and hand-me-downs are his life.

Cerebral Cubby's t-shirt has an abstract drawing of a muskox on it, and reads, "Robert G. White Large Animal Research Station." (The MiL brought it back from a trip to Alaska last year.)

Rough-and-ready Charlie is wearing a t-shirt featuring a large tractor tearing through mud, and it reads, "Play In The Mud."

I couldn't have picked more representative shirts for them all if I had tried. Which I didn't.

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.