A.'s Big Ditch

A. is re-creating the Erie Canal in our front lawn.

And here he is, working on the first lock.*

Okay, so really he's just digging a trench to try to restore the old gravity drain to working order, so that we don't have to rely on the sump pump to drain the cellar, which it's not doing too well with at the moment and A. is starting to worry about undermining the foundation and blahblahblah.

The most boring adult talk ever, yes. Let's skip all that and go straight to the important part: how this ditch affects me.

OH MY GOD, THE LAUNDRY.

Not just A.'s laundry, either. Although that's bad enough, as I'm sure you can imagine the state of a man's clothes when he's been digging in a six-foot-deep muddy trench for eight hours. My first stage of rinsing involves a bucket and the hose outside.

No, I must also contend with the laundry produced by A.'s little helpers, who are not so careful to confine their filth to just one set of clothing.

You think you're keeping this kid out of this hole? You think wrong.

Both Cubby and Charlie are drawn to this trench as a moth to a flame. They get in it multiple times a day, almost ensuring the need for a complete change of clothing every time. Last night, after a suspiciously quiet ten minutes, I found them both in the trench, where Cubby had been carefully applying a very thick layer of mud to Charlie's front, much like a plasterer would plaster a wall. Charlie was watching with great interest, not upset at all.

I, however, was not so enthused about this episode. Getting those clothes in a fit state to even go in the washing machine--where they have to be soaked and pre-washed twice before even starting the actual wash cycle--required scraping with a stick in addition to the usual swilling multiple times with hose water in a bucket.

I can't even speak of the horror that is their footwear after trench time. It's appalling.

I have no idea how much longer this project is going to go on. I'm sure Charlie and Cubby hope it takes all summer. I, for one, will be very relieved to see the end of it. For purely selfish reasons, of course.

* This photo actually doesn't come close to conveying the enormous length and depth of the trench, because I took it last week. Since then, A. has continued digging way out into the grass behind him there, and also dug down deeper into two big test holes on the sides to try to find the elusive ancient drain. But I'm too lazy to bring the camera out again and take an updated picture, so this is the best I got. Believe me when I tell you that this is a serious feat of hand digging that no one but A. would attempt.

You Can All Thank Leah

I was all set to do a riveting post today all about the joys of chive blossoms*, but Leah saved you. She tagged me for a meme. A meme that I read her answers to and thought, "I might just steal this and do it myself." Then I got to the end of her post and there I was, tagged for it.

Not that that necessarily means I'll do it. There are plenty of things I've passed on despite being specifically singled out. I can be a real pisser like that sometimes. If I don't feel like it, I won't do it.

But I felt like it. And I really like Leah--she is, among other things, a really wonderful writer who still writes just about herself and her life, which is all I'm really looking for in a blog--so here we go.

1) What is your favorite type of cheese? On a daily basis, it's sharp cheddar or cream cheese. But if it smells or has purposeful mold on it? No. Never.

2) What are you excited about? My sister and niece are coming to visit in a couple of weeks, and it's always exciting when my family makes the long and arduous trek to Blackrock for a visit. Also, the real watermelons--that is, the monster ones with seeds--have started to appear at the grocery store. Righteous.

3) How did you celebrate your last birthday? In Tucson with my children and husband, plus my parents and my brother, sister-in-law, and two nieces. It was the best birthday I've had in a long time. As I recall, A. took Cubby to the Desert Museum for the morning and Charlie took something like a three-hour nap at the same time, so I essentially had a child-free morning far from the chores of home. My mother's wise choice of a Cold Stone Creamery peanut butter ice cream cake also contributed significantly to the joy.

4) What is on your bedside table? Nothing. Literally. Not even a clock. I can't stand how they glare in the dark, so I just look at the one on A.'s bedside table. It's a Thing I have.

5) What do you order from the movie theater concession stand? I never go to the movie theater, so this is a hypothetical question for me. But when I used to go, I never got anything, both because of the outrageous cost and because if I eat anything, I want to drink something, and then I have to get up to go to the bathroom and I can't take the stress of missing part of the movie while I race to the bathroom. That sounds really weird, doesn't it? But true.

6) Do you have a garden? Do we have a garden? HAAAAA. Yes. A very large one. What's growing? So glad you asked, since I've been meaning to do a garden update for the spring and haven't gotten around to it yet. The asparagus has been growing for awhile, but not well and I've given up on it in favor of heavy mulching to quash the weeds. We're also eating a lot of lettuce and radishes right now. The enormous Red Russian Kale plant that I left in self-seeded prolifically. I do love volunteers. The garlic is looking very nice, as are the onions the MiL put it. The snow peas came up nicely, as did the chard. The long row of Dragon Tongue beans--a new variety for me--came up perfectly. Most of the tomato plants are in. So are potatoes, basil, broccoli, turnips, kohlrabi, carrots, beets, and corn, all thanks to the MiL's labors. That leaves cucumbers, zucchini, and squash to go in, probably this week. Oh, and the blackberries have lots of nice flowers on them. And the mulberry tree has a lot of tiny green mulberries.

7) Any summer plans? We always have a lot of visitors in the summer, which is inevitable if you live on a lake, so we rarely go anywhere. Not that we could--who would take care of the garden?

8) What TV couples are you rooting for? I don't watch TV, so pass.

9) What's the last thing you bought? Groceries. The last non-grocery thing was a pair of sandals for Cubby.

10) What's one thing you are passionate about? Food. Eating it, growing it, people's attitudes about it . . . food fascinates me like nothing else. But never call me a foodie, please. Because that, I am not.

11) What are you grateful for this week? Finally not being sick, after more than a month of feeling like shit. Also the spectacular weather that has made it so easy to be outside with the kids, which makes my whole life easier as a consequence. Children's winter apparel is not my friend.

Okay! Done! Anyone still reading? Anyone want to do this, too? I'm not into tagging, so if you want to, go for it and let me know.

* Seriously. They're better than the actual chives. I might still wax rhapsodic about them later, so there's that to look forward to.

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.