I will preface this story by informing you that though I was raised Catholic and was very active in the Catholic church through college, I am not now. At best, I could be considered a dispassionate agnostic. The MiL sometimes takes Cubby and Charlie to her Presbyterian church, but that's the extent of their religious exposure.
Which is why the following conversation was a little surprising. It started when I wouldn't let Cubby put the couch pillows on the filthy floor to "camp" inside.
Cubby (in a very petulant tone): Daddy lets me.
Me: Well, Daddy isn't here. I'm in charge, and I say no.
Cubby (still petulant): Well the Lord says yes. Jesus Christ says yes.
Me: Jesus Christ has nothing to do with pillows.
Cubby: He has to do with everything. He made the world.
Me: Right. And He gave us free will to make choices, and I choose not to put the couch cushions on the floor.
Cubby: But He forgives us if we do something wrong.
Me: Yes. But it's best not to do anything wrong that requires forgiveness. So don't put the couch cushions on the floor.
Cubby: Hmmph.
And then he flounced off.
Jesus and I both love him, but I make the rules. So there.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
If You're Eating, Stop Reading Now
I know it's never going to be anything good when I catch The Smell. That particular Smell with a capital "S" that means one thing: a decomposing animal.
This time The Smell was located within smelling distance of the dining room door. I caught the scent a few times while I was going in and out, yet I found myself not-so-strangely reluctant to seek out its source. But knowing that nothing good ever comes of ignoring The Smell, I went on a search and destroy mission.
About ten feet from the door, behind the magnolia tree, I found it. It was the remains of some kind of rodent, a rat or a chipmunk maybe. So little remained of it that it was hard to tell its original shape, thanks to the fact that it was literally writhing with hundreds of maggots.
Oh yes. It was just as vomit-inducing as it sounds.
Charlie heard my exclamation of disgust and came over to investigate. I instructed him not to touch it and grabbed a handy shovel to scoop the whole mess up.
It broke in half.
I KNOW. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more foul, I end up with half a maggoty corpse on a shovel and the other half splatted on the ground with maggots wiggling away all over the place.
Do you want to throw up yet just reading about it? Yeah, me too.
I asked Charlie to grab a stick for me to push the rest of the filth onto the shovel, which he obligingly did. Then I asked him to take a nearby watering can, fill it with water, and wash all the maggots off the stone while I went to the gully to dispose of the horror on the shovel.
He got most of them washed away. I completed the flooding with a large bucket of water and then decided to share the whole happy episode with you.
Hey, at least I didn't take a picture. You're welcome.
Edited to add: Oh, BUT WAIT! There's more! About twenty minutes later, I was up on the front porch with Jack when Cubby wandered down to the front lawn by Otty and said, "Yuck. There's some gross meat here that Otty brought." It was a big piece of a deer lung or something. God knows where she found it. It was already covered in flies and starting to get The Smell. Back for the shovel and a stick for scooping, then flinging.
What a beautiful day this is turning out to be.
This time The Smell was located within smelling distance of the dining room door. I caught the scent a few times while I was going in and out, yet I found myself not-so-strangely reluctant to seek out its source. But knowing that nothing good ever comes of ignoring The Smell, I went on a search and destroy mission.
About ten feet from the door, behind the magnolia tree, I found it. It was the remains of some kind of rodent, a rat or a chipmunk maybe. So little remained of it that it was hard to tell its original shape, thanks to the fact that it was literally writhing with hundreds of maggots.
Oh yes. It was just as vomit-inducing as it sounds.
Charlie heard my exclamation of disgust and came over to investigate. I instructed him not to touch it and grabbed a handy shovel to scoop the whole mess up.
It broke in half.
I KNOW. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more foul, I end up with half a maggoty corpse on a shovel and the other half splatted on the ground with maggots wiggling away all over the place.
Do you want to throw up yet just reading about it? Yeah, me too.
I asked Charlie to grab a stick for me to push the rest of the filth onto the shovel, which he obligingly did. Then I asked him to take a nearby watering can, fill it with water, and wash all the maggots off the stone while I went to the gully to dispose of the horror on the shovel.
He got most of them washed away. I completed the flooding with a large bucket of water and then decided to share the whole happy episode with you.
Hey, at least I didn't take a picture. You're welcome.
Edited to add: Oh, BUT WAIT! There's more! About twenty minutes later, I was up on the front porch with Jack when Cubby wandered down to the front lawn by Otty and said, "Yuck. There's some gross meat here that Otty brought." It was a big piece of a deer lung or something. God knows where she found it. It was already covered in flies and starting to get The Smell. Back for the shovel and a stick for scooping, then flinging.
What a beautiful day this is turning out to be.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
The Disappointment Was Keen
Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but the thought of s'mores pretty much got me through yesterday. I helped coach Cubby's soccer practice. I shuttled children back and forth from the beach. I spent more time than I would have chosen on the blazing hot beach holding Jack and jumping him around and dangling his feet in the water.
It was really hot, and I felt like I was sweating from the time I woke up to the time I went to bed.
But! I was going to have s'mores after dinner! Anything can be endured with the promise of s'mores.
At 5:30 p.m., I gathered together all the supplies for our hot dog and s'mores cookout and we hauled everyone back down to the beach. Cubby and Charlie found sticks to carve with their knives to make the perfect marshmallow roasting implements. I bounced Jack around and found some smooth sticks for him to chew on. A. got the fire to the right state of embers for cooking. I held Jack up by the hands so he could practice standing. A. put the hot dogs on the cooking grate. I picked Jack up and walked around with him as he got increasingly irritable. S'mores were just around the corner . . .
And then Jack was done. Too fussy and tired to hang out on the beach anymore.
So I brought him up to the house to put him to bed, leaving A. in charge of the cookout. Jack went to sleep.
For thirty minutes. Curses.
When it was clear he was not going back to sleep anytime soon, I figured I might as well just bring him back to the beach. At least that way he'd have something to distract him from his unhappy, non-sleeping state and, most importantly, I could have my s'more.
But when I got down to the beach, I found that Cubby had eaten the entire chocolate bar. And there is no such thing as a s'more without the chocolate.
I was way more disappointed about this than I should have been. As evidenced by the fact that I just wrote a whole post about it.
Sorry.
But Cubby really, really loved his s'mores.
Edited to add: 10:45 this morning. Cubby and Charlie with A. on the beach. Jack asleep. I did this:
It was really hot, and I felt like I was sweating from the time I woke up to the time I went to bed.
But! I was going to have s'mores after dinner! Anything can be endured with the promise of s'mores.
At 5:30 p.m., I gathered together all the supplies for our hot dog and s'mores cookout and we hauled everyone back down to the beach. Cubby and Charlie found sticks to carve with their knives to make the perfect marshmallow roasting implements. I bounced Jack around and found some smooth sticks for him to chew on. A. got the fire to the right state of embers for cooking. I held Jack up by the hands so he could practice standing. A. put the hot dogs on the cooking grate. I picked Jack up and walked around with him as he got increasingly irritable. S'mores were just around the corner . . .
And then Jack was done. Too fussy and tired to hang out on the beach anymore.
So I brought him up to the house to put him to bed, leaving A. in charge of the cookout. Jack went to sleep.
For thirty minutes. Curses.
When it was clear he was not going back to sleep anytime soon, I figured I might as well just bring him back to the beach. At least that way he'd have something to distract him from his unhappy, non-sleeping state and, most importantly, I could have my s'more.
But when I got down to the beach, I found that Cubby had eaten the entire chocolate bar. And there is no such thing as a s'more without the chocolate.
I was way more disappointed about this than I should have been. As evidenced by the fact that I just wrote a whole post about it.
Sorry.
But Cubby really, really loved his s'mores.
Edited to add: 10:45 this morning. Cubby and Charlie with A. on the beach. Jack asleep. I did this:
A microwave s'more. Not the same as real campfire s'mores, but I felt a certain vindication nonetheless.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
Failure and Redemption
Yesterday afternoon, one of our visitors announced her intention of getting all the makings for s'mores and Cubby said, "What's a s'mores?"
WHAT? My child doesn't know what s'mores are? What kind of mother am I that he's more than five years old and has never had a s'more?
Needless to say, we are remedying this grievous oversight tonight. And I will be eating one myself, of course.
This morning, I took Cubby to soccer practice. It was still pretty early, but HOLY GOD was it HOT out there. The sun was blazing away and it was incredibly humid thanks to the earlier thunderstorm. All the kids were running around dripping sweat and . . . I forgot to bring the water bottle.
Yes. Mother of the Year.
I made up for it--I hope--by making Cubby a really big glass of peach lemonade when we got home.
Plus, he's having s'mores tonight, which is way better than water.
WHAT? My child doesn't know what s'mores are? What kind of mother am I that he's more than five years old and has never had a s'more?
Needless to say, we are remedying this grievous oversight tonight. And I will be eating one myself, of course.
This morning, I took Cubby to soccer practice. It was still pretty early, but HOLY GOD was it HOT out there. The sun was blazing away and it was incredibly humid thanks to the earlier thunderstorm. All the kids were running around dripping sweat and . . . I forgot to bring the water bottle.
Yes. Mother of the Year.
I made up for it--I hope--by making Cubby a really big glass of peach lemonade when we got home.
Plus, he's having s'mores tonight, which is way better than water.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Addams Family Housekeeping
Do you remember in The Secret Garden when Mary goes exploring in the enormous old house and goes through whole wings of rooms that are closed off? There are lots of cobwebs and dust and mice and so on.
That's how the back part of our house is upstairs, on a smaller scale.
The front part of the upstairs is where our bedrooms are. Then there's a short hallway with a bathroom at the end. And just beyond the bathroom, there's a door leading to the former servants' part of the house. The door between the two parts stays closed all the time. There is no heat in the back part of the house at all--it's not even connected to the furnace heating system in any way--so we just don't use that part of the house.
There are three bedrooms back there, with a long hall leading to a back staircase. There are beds in two of the bedrooms, but mostly, that part of the house is unused except for storage.
Until summer.
Summer is when visitors arrive. Summer is when I have to clean the back part of the house at least enough so that people can, like, walk without falling over things or running headlong into cobwebs.
It's ugly back there. I begin with a broom to sweep away the masses of cobwebs. I shift boxes, piling them on top of each other so the hallway is mostly unobstructed. I clear away multiple pairs of boots and random detritus from the back stairs (why is there a racquetball racquet on those stairs when I haven't even played racquetball in over a decade?).
The end result is very, very far from immaculate. In fact, it probably looks much like a normal house might look before a cleaning. But then, this isn't a normal house. This is Blackrock, with 150 years of history and accumulated dirt. If you get a room without spiders, that's about all that can be hoped for.
And at least the food's good. That's what I tell myself, anyway.
That's how the back part of our house is upstairs, on a smaller scale.
The front part of the upstairs is where our bedrooms are. Then there's a short hallway with a bathroom at the end. And just beyond the bathroom, there's a door leading to the former servants' part of the house. The door between the two parts stays closed all the time. There is no heat in the back part of the house at all--it's not even connected to the furnace heating system in any way--so we just don't use that part of the house.
There are three bedrooms back there, with a long hall leading to a back staircase. There are beds in two of the bedrooms, but mostly, that part of the house is unused except for storage.
Until summer.
Summer is when visitors arrive. Summer is when I have to clean the back part of the house at least enough so that people can, like, walk without falling over things or running headlong into cobwebs.
It's ugly back there. I begin with a broom to sweep away the masses of cobwebs. I shift boxes, piling them on top of each other so the hallway is mostly unobstructed. I clear away multiple pairs of boots and random detritus from the back stairs (why is there a racquetball racquet on those stairs when I haven't even played racquetball in over a decade?).
The end result is very, very far from immaculate. In fact, it probably looks much like a normal house might look before a cleaning. But then, this isn't a normal house. This is Blackrock, with 150 years of history and accumulated dirt. If you get a room without spiders, that's about all that can be hoped for.
And at least the food's good. That's what I tell myself, anyway.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Let Him Eat . . . Not Cake
Several months before any birthdays in this house, the MiL--our resident cake master--starts asking what kind of cake the birthday person might want. Conversations to that effect with Charlie went something like this:
MiL: What kind of cake do you want for your birthday, Charlie?
Charlie: No cake. Just ice cream.
MiL: An ice cream cake? Okay, I can make that!
Charlie: Just ice cream. No cake.
MiL: Oooo, I could make you a Neapolitan ice cream cake with chocolate cake and a layer of strawberry ice cream, and then a layer of vanilla ice cream, and then . . .
Charlie: Just ice cream. Vanilla ice cream.
Oh, did you want ice cream, Charlie? Thanks for making that clear.
So we made him some ice cream.
Notice I said "made," not "bought." Because the MiL bought a fancy electric ice cream maker a couple of years ago that we've used maybe four times, and if the birthday boy wants ice cream, it might as well be homemade, right?
Right. Serious hassle ahoy.
I woke up yesterday morning at 5:15 thanks to Jack. I briefly considered making the vanilla custard for the ice cream when I got up, but the idea of separating egg yolks and tempering eggs and straining and so on at 5:15 a.m. before I'd had any coffee was somehow not appealing.
Unfortunately, because the older children were up and raring to go at 6 a.m., this meant the custard then had to be made while they were around. Which meant they had to help me.
Have I mentioned I hate cooking with kids in attendance? I do. But I didn't let on that I was really impatient and just wanted to get this done without two little kids on chairs standing in my way demanding a mixing spoon. Instead I announced cheerfully, "Okay, guys! Let's make Charlie's birthday ice cream!"
And then I separated eggs and tempered eggs and strained things while dodging boys on chairs and finding separate things for them to mix.
Should've done it at 5:15 a.m.
Also, the recipe I was using was from The Yellow Farmhouse Cookbook, which is written by Christopher Kimball, the famously meticulous cook behind America's Test Kitchen. The recipe contains a rather major error in that it lists both milk and cream in the ingredients and tells how to make the milk mixture, but absolutely nowhere does it say when to add the cream.
Fail.
I had no time to be looking anything else up, so I just added the cream to the milk mixture and hoped for the best.
At 4:30 p.m., after much fiddling, I managed to get the ice cream maker together (this is the first time I've done the part with the machine) and got it churning away. Forty-five minutes later, the ice cream maker stopped automatically, and there was ice cream. It was almost time for dinner, but I gave A. a small taste. He closed his eyes and announced reverently, "That is verging on the best thing I have ever eaten."
Then I gave Charlie the paddle to lick and Cubby the spatula I had used to scrape the paddle clean.
MiL: What kind of cake do you want for your birthday, Charlie?
Charlie: No cake. Just ice cream.
MiL: An ice cream cake? Okay, I can make that!
Charlie: Just ice cream. No cake.
MiL: Oooo, I could make you a Neapolitan ice cream cake with chocolate cake and a layer of strawberry ice cream, and then a layer of vanilla ice cream, and then . . .
Charlie: Just ice cream. Vanilla ice cream.
Oh, did you want ice cream, Charlie? Thanks for making that clear.
So we made him some ice cream.
Notice I said "made," not "bought." Because the MiL bought a fancy electric ice cream maker a couple of years ago that we've used maybe four times, and if the birthday boy wants ice cream, it might as well be homemade, right?
Right. Serious hassle ahoy.
I woke up yesterday morning at 5:15 thanks to Jack. I briefly considered making the vanilla custard for the ice cream when I got up, but the idea of separating egg yolks and tempering eggs and straining and so on at 5:15 a.m. before I'd had any coffee was somehow not appealing.
Unfortunately, because the older children were up and raring to go at 6 a.m., this meant the custard then had to be made while they were around. Which meant they had to help me.
Have I mentioned I hate cooking with kids in attendance? I do. But I didn't let on that I was really impatient and just wanted to get this done without two little kids on chairs standing in my way demanding a mixing spoon. Instead I announced cheerfully, "Okay, guys! Let's make Charlie's birthday ice cream!"
And then I separated eggs and tempered eggs and strained things while dodging boys on chairs and finding separate things for them to mix.
Should've done it at 5:15 a.m.
Also, the recipe I was using was from The Yellow Farmhouse Cookbook, which is written by Christopher Kimball, the famously meticulous cook behind America's Test Kitchen. The recipe contains a rather major error in that it lists both milk and cream in the ingredients and tells how to make the milk mixture, but absolutely nowhere does it say when to add the cream.
Fail.
I had no time to be looking anything else up, so I just added the cream to the milk mixture and hoped for the best.
At 4:30 p.m., after much fiddling, I managed to get the ice cream maker together (this is the first time I've done the part with the machine) and got it churning away. Forty-five minutes later, the ice cream maker stopped automatically, and there was ice cream. It was almost time for dinner, but I gave A. a small taste. He closed his eyes and announced reverently, "That is verging on the best thing I have ever eaten."
Then I gave Charlie the paddle to lick and Cubby the spatula I had used to scrape the paddle clean.
And there was much happiness in the land.
When you've got ice cream on your nose, cheeks, and feet, you know it's a good birthday.
Success.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Three, Charlie-style
This morning at 6:06 when the older boys came pounding down the stairs, already screaming and fighting over something. . .
Me: Good morning! Happy birthday, Charlie!
Charlie: No! It's not my birthday!
Me: You don't want to be three? You want to stay two?
Charlie: Yes. Is there ice cream yet?
This morning at 6:15 . . .
Me: I'm going to take your three-year-old picture!
"No! I don't want a picture!"*
Happy birthday, Charlie. Let's work on the "happy" part, okay?
* And then he smacked the camera, which went flying. I don't think it's broken, even though the batteries came out.
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