Confusion All Around

Hey, remember a month ago when I was all, "SNOW IN APRIL?  WHAT THE HELL, MAMA N."?  Or something similar, but minus the caps.

And then there was the month before that--you know, March--when it was 80 degrees and I was all, "What the hell, summer weather in late winter?  But okay."

And then last night it was 84 degrees in our bedroom and I had to stumble downstairs at 10 p.m. after emphatically NOT SLEEPING for an hour so I could retrieve the standing fan to add to the window fan and hopefully make it not-stifling enough that some actual sleep could occur.

It sort of worked.  But mostly not.

I don't usually have to resort to this until around late June.  And yet, here it is, late May and we have the full roaring wind tunnel effect to lull us to sleep (HA) already.

I do not appreciate this.  I would be more upset, however, if I thought this was really the beginning of miserable summer weather with no relief until September.  But the way this year is going, I wouldn't be at all surprised to get a frost in July.

And then I wouldn't have to worry about canning tomatoes, I guess.

Refreshments

It's really damn hot around here, y'all.  I think it's supposed to be 91 degrees on Monday.  For those of you just joining us, we do not have air conditioning in any part of our house, nor do we have enough electricity to have any.

And this year, I don't even have the dubious comfort of my beloved gin and tonics.  Downer.

However!  I have found something that while not at all like a G&T--in that it has no inebriating effect whatsoever nor the delightful tang of quinine--is still quite refreshing and at least a change from plain water.

Sparkling lemonade: Juice from one lemon, a little simple syrup, and seltzer from my unlimited supply.  Plus ice, of course.  Beer mug optional.  Cat totally unnecessary.

Cubby prefers to hydrate with watermelon.  And no nice, neat little cut-up cubes either; he wants the full-on, drip-down-your-face, coat-you-with-sticky-juice slice.

Which is why he eats it outside, immediately before bathtime.

The long holiday weekend starts tomorrow, duckies.  Load up on your refreshment of choice, and have a good one.

Preparing

Now that no one in the household is using the many cloth diapers we have on hand . . .

Including this dapper gentleman, who I swear to God was not preparing to attend a polo match or a garden party or whatever.  Unless you count planting seeds to be a garden party, which I suppose some people might.  Including me.

It was time to get them ready for their next soiler.  That is, the baby currently in residence in my torso.  So I stripped the diapers* and hung them out in the glaringly hot sun for some solar disinfectant.

I kind of love the sight of diapers on a clothesline, but I also kind of love that I am not required to wash and hang them out there every day.  Which I will be in, oh, a couple of months.  Downer.

I also received two enormous bags of baby clothes from my friend Alyssa today.  You may remember she has two little boys herself and I think has no plans for any more, so she was very happy to do some de-cluttering and send a bunch of stuff my way.  Plus, some of it is stuff that I gave her when her younger son was born.

It's all a big circle of tiny blue plaid shirts and footie p.j.'s, you see.

Now we just have to do some intensive furniture moving, get Cubby settled in his new bedroom, haul out our own enormous container of baby clothes, make sure I have nursing things, find the infant carseat . . .

Less than two months.  GOGOGO.

* This is something that needs to be done with cloth diapers occasionally, but I am not going into detail here because I am not one of those people who gets a charge out of the Great Diaper Discussions. If you have ever seen a parenting message board on which someone has asked a question about diapers and the FIVE MILLION VERY PASSIONATE responses generated by such a question, you will know what I mean. 

Sing It, Mr. T

Oh, this was too good not to share with you today.  Because today is Mr. T's 60th birthday.  You know Mr. T.  "The A Team"?  Mohawk?  Gold chains?  "I pity the fool"?  Yeah.  Him.

Turns out Mr. T has something to say about how to treat your mother.  And dammit, Cubby better listen up.  Because Mr. T said so.

Go here to watch the best music video I have seen in . . . maybe forever.

Bonus

At 9:25 on an average weekday morning, I would be outside with Cubby, hanging laundry while he does things with various tools.  But THIS splendid morning, A. has taken Cubby to see a barge with a pile driver at work in the lake, putting in footings for a new dock at the house from which our old dock was salvaged.

There's nothing like some unexpected time off due to heavy machinery.

Al Fresco

Nothing too exciting about a cheese quesadilla and grapes for lunch . . .

Unless you're eating them barefoot on the grass on a picnic blanket.  Or, in this case, a dirty, paint-stained sheet.

I think it was a good move to avoid the leftover beef curry for this particular picnic lunch, though.

Cultivating a Virtue

You know the one thing that I really wish could be given as a baby shower gift?  Patience.  Because there is nothing more essential when dealing with children.  And I most certainly do not have enough of it.

Late this afternoon I got A. to do some tilling for me in the garden in preparation for a planting marathon this weekend.  Cubby, of course, was out there with us, wandering around, digging with his big metal spoon and exploring the jungle that is the blackberry patch.  Immediately after the tilling I re-planted some volunteer broccoli plants that I had saved from tiller annihilation.  Then A. disappeared to continue work on his stone wall by the cellar door and, since Cubby was still happy in the garden, I decided to plant some beans.

Cubby loves to eat beans, so I thought he would like to help me plant them.  On my own, the job would have taken me approximately five minutes.  With Cubby's help it took . . . considerably longer than five minutes.  The following phrases were uttered at least 25 times each, in varying combinations, in the fifteen minutes or so we spent crouching down, with me poking holes at intervals for Cubby to drop his selected bean into.

"Just one bean in each hole.  Just one."

"Put it where my finger is, Cubby."

"No, we already put a bean in that hole."

"Don't step in the row we already planted."

Over and over and over and over, as I crouched there with beans in my hand (do you know how hard it is to crouch for any period of time when seven months pregnant?  yeah), burning in the surprisingly hot sun, and really, really wishing I could have just planted the damned things by myself and gotten it over with so I could go inside and make dinner.

And then, after we were done with the planting, there were the usual garden admonitions: "No, don't step there; we just planted that."  "Don't dig there; we just planted that."  "Don't run over the asparagus plants."  "Don't step there.  THERE.  DON'T STEP THERE."  "Go dig over by the tiller, okay?"  "Don't touch the tiller.  It might be hot."

I tried hard to not sound impatient, but I'm not sure I succeeded.  However, Cubby did help me plant both long rows of beans with apparent concentration and enjoyment, so I think it was worthwhile.

But seriously.  Someone send me another supply of patience for this next kid.  I could sure use some.

Current lamb count:  Eighteen--eleven girls, seven boys, and one ewe left to deliver.

Oh, and P.S.  Mia caught (and, presumably, ate) another woodchuck today that she found somewhere behind the forsythias.  I don't know where they're coming from, but they're not receiving much of a welcome around here.  My garden is very grateful to the dogs.