At first, I just thought I was being careless-trying too hard to be successful at early-morning multi-tasking. But after three and a half years of breakfasts with kids and 12½ years of marriage, I’ve finally decided that only people with a degree in chemistry should be allowed to cook breakfast, and that, simply put, I am not qualified for the kitchen.
I thought at some point I might actually start to get the hang of fried eggs, over medium. Not so for this top chef. And my kitchen quandaries don’t stop there. I’ve found it is close to impossible to cook a sausage patty to well-done in the middle without completely charring the outside. And forget a strip of tasty bacon: mine turn into instant bacon bits…the kind you chip a tooth on.
So what is it really about that first meal of the day that sends such culinary-challenged people as myself right over the edge? I’m contemplating several theories.
I’ve often thought that maybe it falls into the nature vs. nurture debate. That timeless discussion of are we born with it or is it learned. Some days I lean toward this “simple” explanation, as it is in my nature to abhor early-morning kitchen detail, and I have nurtured that feeling for years.
Then there are days when I think my problem might stem from the ever-popular Creation vs. evolution dispute. After all, a good, hot breakfast doesn’t just happen; it starts with a vision in the mind of the master. But hey, lets’ face it. I’m trying to create an edible bowl of oatmeal, not a new form of life.
At other times still, I am forced to concede to the fact that my incompetence stems from a breakdown in the knowledge vs. application arena. I know that it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to keep an omelet from sticking to the pan, but I can’t seem to make that apply to my cast-iron skillet.
We were taught to follow instructions on the first day of Kindergarten, and for most of us, long before that. So why is it that following the recipe on the back of a box of Malto-meal doesn’t always produce the smooth and creamy cereal promised by the picture on the front?
Why can’t the most important meal of the day turn out like it does on TV? Hot and fluffy pancakes with Mrs. Butterworth smiling nearby. Or ooey-gooey cinnamon rolls with the Pillsbury dough boy giggling in delight.
Maybe I’m just expecting too much. After all, aside from special occasions and the cocoa and toast of my youth, I’ve always been a cereal kind of gal myself. And all a mom has to do to prepare for that is dump and pour. Even Mikey will eat it, and he hates everything.
So the great question that is left unanswered remains: Shouldn’t a person with enough time to contemplate the incompetencies of her culinary craft simply “take a class”? Probably. At least for the sake of the children.
I sat at the breakfast table with my kids one day last week. They both wanted “Alto-meal” that morning, so I did my best to prepare a hearty pan full, enough to feed every munchkin in Oz, in fact. As I sat there with the boys, trying to enjoy an energy-charged breakfast, I found my smooth and creamy bowl of malto was more like a chunky bowl of meatballs. I tried to dig around them with my spoon, but it was impossible to enjoy even one bite without the dry and clumpy grains sneaking into my mouth.
As the frustration of my incapability, and my waste of perfectly good food, started to settle in, I looked up to notice that at least one of my boys shared in my dissatisfaction. It seems Brisco had been bothered by the chunks the same as I, and had spit out every single one of them onto the table. He had more food out of his bowl than he did in it.
Ordinarily, this act would have elicited a strict word and a firm hand, but seeing as how I was in the same bumpy boat, I decided if you can’t eat them, join them.
I’m still not altogether sure why I struggle so with breakfast. I definitely think there must be some truth to this “science of breakfast” dilemma. Maybe we finally have the answer to the question, “Is it an art or a science?” After all, what good are Mickey Mouse pancakes if they taste like rubber?
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
When the team falls apart
We've been practicing all season. We've played over 30 games, including the long hours and late nights of three different tournaments. We've put in tons of extra time on our own, from the back yard to the batting cages to the middle of the living room. So what's a "coach" to do when the team falls apart? Should I scream and yell or give them the silent treatment? Will they respond to embarrassment? What about a bribe? Maybe I should just turn in my scorebook and look for another profession altogether? If only motherhood was that simple.
Going to the ballpark is usually high on the list of fun things to do at our house. Dad lives it. The boys love it, and I have learned that with just the right toys and a little bit of dirt, I can enjoy a game or two myself.
It used to be a workout, or more appropriately, a nightmare. But the boys are getting bigger and have learned the do’s and don’ts of game time, so things have really started to cruise right along, at least as far as baseball is concerned. So I guess it’s only appropriate that just when I think I have it all figured out, those crazy kids throw me a curve.
As the regular season came to a close last week, and we began to focus on the playoffs, I started to get that old feeling of excitement that always appears this time of year. This is the event for which we have all sacrificed and worked toward all season long. It’s what the game is all about, and we had put in our time, same as the rest. We couldn’t wait to get to the ball park to cheer Daddy on.
When the day finally arrived, the boys and I completed our pregame warm-ups. We went through all of the usual game-day preparations just as we would have during the regular season, so as not to disturb the baseball gods or upset the laws of superstition. Ball suit? Check. Clean diapers? Check. Suitcase full of snacks? Check. Each ritual and pregame procedure was performed without flaw. If something jinxed this day, it certainly wouldn’t be us.
From the start, I should have known that we were up for a challenge when the weather didn’t cooperate. But hey, I figured it is spring baseball, and sometimes it happens that the mother of nature and the gods of the game don’t see eye to eye. So I chalked this one up to “April showers” or “El Nino” or whatever other rainy day game-buster I could think up, and we threw in a blanket and a few extra jackets and were off.
As the rains came down and the winds picked up, it was clear this gray was not going away. What was also clear was that my boys had a case of the jitters that no deep breath, meditation, or tablespoon of Pepto was going to fix. Right from the start, we were running wild like we’d never seen baseball before in our lives. The etiquette in our game was gone.
From leaving the boundaries of the ballpark to running in front of the lawn-chair brigade singing “Take Me out to the Poop Game”, I thought that my children had surely been possessed and that the Curse of the Bambino must have turned on it’s most faithful followers and taken on a whole new form.
After enduring five innings of their pitiful play, I realized that today was just not going to be our day in the sun. My team had failed me, and I, as the coach, had failed my team.
Our months of practice could not have prepared us for an outing like the one we faced that day. No overpowering pitching or senior leadership could possibly have competed with our sleepy-eyed, ornery-tempered opponent. Two terrible toddlers had beaten themselves, and were headed straight for the house. Not, of course before the oldest dropped his pants in the middle of the crowd because he thought he would “just pee pee right here in the grass”. And not before the chorus of fake whining took over the ballpark and had the attention of every umpire, player and fan in the county pleading for our departure.
As I packed up the useless bags of gear, I explained to the boys that we were going home. This is when the real show-stopping began: two kids wailing, snotty-noses running, jelly-legs going into effect. As I attempted to drag them home, I got a half a laugh from one of the dads and a “Man, you must have really been an ornery little kid” from another, and before I could get out of sight, I had given four arm jerks, 10 “just you wait’s” under my teeth-clenched breath, and finally a full out, turn-em-over-my-knee whipping. And that was all before reaching the third base coach’s box where Dad looked questioningly at us through the fence as I mouthed, “I’m sorry!” with a weak and defeated smile.
We finally reached the house, and the boys the safety of their beds, before the disappointment of missing the actual game set in. I had been so disgusted with my kids’ behavior that I had been forced to forfeit sharing in the real victory of the day.
But as in baseball, so it is in life. Some days when my team takes the field, we follow the game plan to the letter. Sometimes we play way over our heads, and some days…we fall apart. My softball coach used to tell us, “Every time you go out, you have the chance to be the hero or the goat,” and the same is true in parenting. At least I know we’ll get another shot.
So on day’s like this game day…when the wind is whipping and the team falls apart…I guess there’s nothing for a coach to do but stick to the game plan…and pray for rain.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Going to the ballpark is usually high on the list of fun things to do at our house. Dad lives it. The boys love it, and I have learned that with just the right toys and a little bit of dirt, I can enjoy a game or two myself.
It used to be a workout, or more appropriately, a nightmare. But the boys are getting bigger and have learned the do’s and don’ts of game time, so things have really started to cruise right along, at least as far as baseball is concerned. So I guess it’s only appropriate that just when I think I have it all figured out, those crazy kids throw me a curve.
As the regular season came to a close last week, and we began to focus on the playoffs, I started to get that old feeling of excitement that always appears this time of year. This is the event for which we have all sacrificed and worked toward all season long. It’s what the game is all about, and we had put in our time, same as the rest. We couldn’t wait to get to the ball park to cheer Daddy on.
When the day finally arrived, the boys and I completed our pregame warm-ups. We went through all of the usual game-day preparations just as we would have during the regular season, so as not to disturb the baseball gods or upset the laws of superstition. Ball suit? Check. Clean diapers? Check. Suitcase full of snacks? Check. Each ritual and pregame procedure was performed without flaw. If something jinxed this day, it certainly wouldn’t be us.
From the start, I should have known that we were up for a challenge when the weather didn’t cooperate. But hey, I figured it is spring baseball, and sometimes it happens that the mother of nature and the gods of the game don’t see eye to eye. So I chalked this one up to “April showers” or “El Nino” or whatever other rainy day game-buster I could think up, and we threw in a blanket and a few extra jackets and were off.
As the rains came down and the winds picked up, it was clear this gray was not going away. What was also clear was that my boys had a case of the jitters that no deep breath, meditation, or tablespoon of Pepto was going to fix. Right from the start, we were running wild like we’d never seen baseball before in our lives. The etiquette in our game was gone.
From leaving the boundaries of the ballpark to running in front of the lawn-chair brigade singing “Take Me out to the Poop Game”, I thought that my children had surely been possessed and that the Curse of the Bambino must have turned on it’s most faithful followers and taken on a whole new form.
After enduring five innings of their pitiful play, I realized that today was just not going to be our day in the sun. My team had failed me, and I, as the coach, had failed my team.
Our months of practice could not have prepared us for an outing like the one we faced that day. No overpowering pitching or senior leadership could possibly have competed with our sleepy-eyed, ornery-tempered opponent. Two terrible toddlers had beaten themselves, and were headed straight for the house. Not, of course before the oldest dropped his pants in the middle of the crowd because he thought he would “just pee pee right here in the grass”. And not before the chorus of fake whining took over the ballpark and had the attention of every umpire, player and fan in the county pleading for our departure.
As I packed up the useless bags of gear, I explained to the boys that we were going home. This is when the real show-stopping began: two kids wailing, snotty-noses running, jelly-legs going into effect. As I attempted to drag them home, I got a half a laugh from one of the dads and a “Man, you must have really been an ornery little kid” from another, and before I could get out of sight, I had given four arm jerks, 10 “just you wait’s” under my teeth-clenched breath, and finally a full out, turn-em-over-my-knee whipping. And that was all before reaching the third base coach’s box where Dad looked questioningly at us through the fence as I mouthed, “I’m sorry!” with a weak and defeated smile.
We finally reached the house, and the boys the safety of their beds, before the disappointment of missing the actual game set in. I had been so disgusted with my kids’ behavior that I had been forced to forfeit sharing in the real victory of the day.
But as in baseball, so it is in life. Some days when my team takes the field, we follow the game plan to the letter. Sometimes we play way over our heads, and some days…we fall apart. My softball coach used to tell us, “Every time you go out, you have the chance to be the hero or the goat,” and the same is true in parenting. At least I know we’ll get another shot.
So on day’s like this game day…when the wind is whipping and the team falls apart…I guess there’s nothing for a coach to do but stick to the game plan…and pray for rain.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Mother's intuition
An animal relies on instinct. A detective relies on his gut. And a mother, no doubt, relies on the unexplained phenomenon we call mother’s intuition.
It is a feeling that all mothers know. We don’t know where it comes from. We don’t know why we have it and the men in our lives don’t. Sometimes it’s a gift; other times, it is just a troublesome curse. But it exists, nonetheless, and we have no choice but to heed those hunches of ours. There’s no telling what trouble or injury we may avert when we do.
It’s almost eerie how these encounters transpire. Many times Dad is right there with us, but he is clearly oblivious to the signs. Like the feeling we get in the middle of the night that there might possibly be someone in our room…hovering, waiting for the perfect moment to reach out and touch our arm.
Some nights I wake up from a sleep of death with the feeling that someone is simply staring at me. Sure enough, my little night-stalker is standing at the head of my bed, looking right into my face and waiting patiently for me to pull him over the edge.
And of course there are the times when the kids disappear to “play quietly” in another room. A mother always seems to know just when it has been too long. When we feel the hairs stand up on the back of our necks, or when we get the feeling like it’s midnight on Friday the 13th and the Boogie Man is about to jump out from behind the couch…yes, these are all signs that seem to tell us there might be a problem lurking, or a sticky situation on the horizon.
Accompanying this fascinating phenomenon called mother’s intuition is the heightened sense of hearing that we seem to acquire after giving birth. Maybe it’s a result of the pressure that builds up in our heads from all the pushing. I’m not sure the cause, but I know it exists, nonetheless.
Randy and I can both be fully engaged in the same program or activity, sitting in the same location in the living room, and I can hear those boys rustling in their beds, or sneaking down the hall to make sure we are still awake. Without fail, I will ask, “Did you hear that? I think someone’s up?” Dad’s standard answer? “I didn’t hear anything.”
Sometimes we even encounter mother’s intuition when our children are nowhere around. Like when we finally get an afternoon to ourselves and we sit down in a quiet house to read or work and we swear we can hear one of the boys calling us from the other room. (Well, this isn’t actually intuition. It is more what I’d call the brink of insanity, but it’s also just another example of how a mother’s mind is never off duty.)
Whether we’re saving them from trouble or catching them in the middle of it, intuition has been a mother’s means for rearing her children for centuries. I can recall dozens of times I tried to sneak a peak at David Letterman or attempted to wear my favorite shorts under my Sunday dress. It seems my mother’s intuition was always on high alert.
It’s like the old saying, “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.” I can’t think of anything that would be handier. But I guess the next best thing is this sixth sense we call intuition: this inborn, mothering-mechanism on which generations of mom’s have learned to rely.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It is a feeling that all mothers know. We don’t know where it comes from. We don’t know why we have it and the men in our lives don’t. Sometimes it’s a gift; other times, it is just a troublesome curse. But it exists, nonetheless, and we have no choice but to heed those hunches of ours. There’s no telling what trouble or injury we may avert when we do.
It’s almost eerie how these encounters transpire. Many times Dad is right there with us, but he is clearly oblivious to the signs. Like the feeling we get in the middle of the night that there might possibly be someone in our room…hovering, waiting for the perfect moment to reach out and touch our arm.
Some nights I wake up from a sleep of death with the feeling that someone is simply staring at me. Sure enough, my little night-stalker is standing at the head of my bed, looking right into my face and waiting patiently for me to pull him over the edge.
And of course there are the times when the kids disappear to “play quietly” in another room. A mother always seems to know just when it has been too long. When we feel the hairs stand up on the back of our necks, or when we get the feeling like it’s midnight on Friday the 13th and the Boogie Man is about to jump out from behind the couch…yes, these are all signs that seem to tell us there might be a problem lurking, or a sticky situation on the horizon.
Accompanying this fascinating phenomenon called mother’s intuition is the heightened sense of hearing that we seem to acquire after giving birth. Maybe it’s a result of the pressure that builds up in our heads from all the pushing. I’m not sure the cause, but I know it exists, nonetheless.
Randy and I can both be fully engaged in the same program or activity, sitting in the same location in the living room, and I can hear those boys rustling in their beds, or sneaking down the hall to make sure we are still awake. Without fail, I will ask, “Did you hear that? I think someone’s up?” Dad’s standard answer? “I didn’t hear anything.”
Sometimes we even encounter mother’s intuition when our children are nowhere around. Like when we finally get an afternoon to ourselves and we sit down in a quiet house to read or work and we swear we can hear one of the boys calling us from the other room. (Well, this isn’t actually intuition. It is more what I’d call the brink of insanity, but it’s also just another example of how a mother’s mind is never off duty.)
Whether we’re saving them from trouble or catching them in the middle of it, intuition has been a mother’s means for rearing her children for centuries. I can recall dozens of times I tried to sneak a peak at David Letterman or attempted to wear my favorite shorts under my Sunday dress. It seems my mother’s intuition was always on high alert.
It’s like the old saying, “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.” I can’t think of anything that would be handier. But I guess the next best thing is this sixth sense we call intuition: this inborn, mothering-mechanism on which generations of mom’s have learned to rely.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
A new generation with Jones
Growing up in our family, we were lucky to have four generations alive and well. From England to Ireland to Germany, we definitely had things covered. I always used to joke that I didn’t count because I wasn’t a “first born”, but it didn’t really bother me, and I still reaped the benefits of the love and influence of all of my parents, grands, and greats.
I remember as a child spending time at my great-grandmother Jones’ house. I can remember quite vividly, listening to her speech. She had such a unique way of talking. I don’t know if it was a reflection of her personality, of the times, or simply the language of the locale, but you can bet, especially as a small child, it was a party when she spoke.
Like all good things, the joy my great-grandmother brought to our lives usually involved a little food. She was a great cook, but even the best like to enjoy a simple bowl of “siral” from time to time. She’d say it like she was addressing some ancient Roman king, when all she was offering was a bowl of Shredded Wheat. Of course if a hot breakfast was our choice, we could always have a perfectly cooked pair of “aigs”. And so it is with our boys.
In addition to early morning “aigs” with cheese, my boys are partial to “awfuls”. This is a specialty of their grandmother.
Cooper’s first introduction to bacon was on a trip to see his grandma in Duncan. Something about that combination must have had him confused because from that moment on, for him at least, bacon was called “Duncan”.
He started out drinking lots of “mulk”, and for Brisco it was called “mik”. Somehow they’ve discovered that cows can also make it in “choc-ett”, which I think is really a cruel joke. Jelly is ”jewwy”, and shashage is a tasty addition to any breakfast time meal. Lately, however, our new all-time favorite is “Alto-meal”, and Cooper has no qualms about correcting us when we say it improperly. I’m sure good ole Jones would smile.
Her talents in the kitchen didn’t stop with breakfast. Jones was the queen of coconut cream, and she put a sugar icing on her chocolate cake that none of us can quite replicate. Pudding was also popular, mostly in the bread variety. Of course to her, it was called “puddn”. Maybe that’s where my sweet cousin, Jake, picked up the phrase.
When the weather would allow, we had afternoon parties in her garage, and peanut butter and graham crackers were the teatime snack. We’ve tried to carry on the same tradition at our house, but out on the picnic table or on the porch.
After our party, she would send us back inside for a trip to the “stool” in preparation for our afternoon “rest”. She was always concerned with the movement of my bells, and it wasn’t until I finally asked her one time that I realized a “bell movement” had nothing to do with music.
Some days, if we were lucky, we could talk her into clearing off the counter so we could climb on up, stretch out our “laigs” and get our hair “warshed” in the kitchen sink. Even the best beautician I know can’t scrub a head like ole Jones. My boys could care less about stretching their laigs or warshing their hair. Come to think of it, neither could my cousin, Derik. Maybe that part was strictly for the girls.
If we had been particularly wound up on any given day, Jones would prepare us a pallet: a thick blanket under a cool sheet and a couple of feather “pillers”. We’d settle in and try to get quiet just long enough for her to listen to her “stories” on the television. I think we must have been much better-behaved than my boys. That little scenario would never fly at our house. There would be pillers and sheets and feathers in the air, and the story would have been drowned out by the tickle monster…or screams from the tortured.
As we got older, we could sometimes talk Jones into letting us watch our own story on the tele. It usually involved Hulk Hogan or Rowdy Roddy Piper or some other truly authentic American athlete. Looking back now, I’m sure she must have wondered what this world had come to, that two of her own could be interested in such “trash”. Boy how we change when we have kids…I won’t let my boys watch Sponge Bob, but my cousin and I were totally engrossed in watching grown men get body slammed.
If, at the end of the day, we had made plans to stay the night, rest assured we’d be sleeping in the bed with Jones and flicking a little water on the sheets by an open window to stay cool. We’d beg for her to tell and retell the story of the owl, and we’d light up the dark with our smiles each time she got the end: “Who, who, who cooks for you?” I wish I could remember that story. My boys would love it.
Although they never met, I know my boys are still being touched and guided by the spirit and love of my great-grandmother Jones. They may not have known her face, but have felt her love and influence through their mother, their grandmother, and their great-grandmother. And they are sure to reap the benefits for generations to come.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I remember as a child spending time at my great-grandmother Jones’ house. I can remember quite vividly, listening to her speech. She had such a unique way of talking. I don’t know if it was a reflection of her personality, of the times, or simply the language of the locale, but you can bet, especially as a small child, it was a party when she spoke.
Like all good things, the joy my great-grandmother brought to our lives usually involved a little food. She was a great cook, but even the best like to enjoy a simple bowl of “siral” from time to time. She’d say it like she was addressing some ancient Roman king, when all she was offering was a bowl of Shredded Wheat. Of course if a hot breakfast was our choice, we could always have a perfectly cooked pair of “aigs”. And so it is with our boys.
In addition to early morning “aigs” with cheese, my boys are partial to “awfuls”. This is a specialty of their grandmother.
Cooper’s first introduction to bacon was on a trip to see his grandma in Duncan. Something about that combination must have had him confused because from that moment on, for him at least, bacon was called “Duncan”.
He started out drinking lots of “mulk”, and for Brisco it was called “mik”. Somehow they’ve discovered that cows can also make it in “choc-ett”, which I think is really a cruel joke. Jelly is ”jewwy”, and shashage is a tasty addition to any breakfast time meal. Lately, however, our new all-time favorite is “Alto-meal”, and Cooper has no qualms about correcting us when we say it improperly. I’m sure good ole Jones would smile.
Her talents in the kitchen didn’t stop with breakfast. Jones was the queen of coconut cream, and she put a sugar icing on her chocolate cake that none of us can quite replicate. Pudding was also popular, mostly in the bread variety. Of course to her, it was called “puddn”. Maybe that’s where my sweet cousin, Jake, picked up the phrase.
When the weather would allow, we had afternoon parties in her garage, and peanut butter and graham crackers were the teatime snack. We’ve tried to carry on the same tradition at our house, but out on the picnic table or on the porch.
After our party, she would send us back inside for a trip to the “stool” in preparation for our afternoon “rest”. She was always concerned with the movement of my bells, and it wasn’t until I finally asked her one time that I realized a “bell movement” had nothing to do with music.
Some days, if we were lucky, we could talk her into clearing off the counter so we could climb on up, stretch out our “laigs” and get our hair “warshed” in the kitchen sink. Even the best beautician I know can’t scrub a head like ole Jones. My boys could care less about stretching their laigs or warshing their hair. Come to think of it, neither could my cousin, Derik. Maybe that part was strictly for the girls.
If we had been particularly wound up on any given day, Jones would prepare us a pallet: a thick blanket under a cool sheet and a couple of feather “pillers”. We’d settle in and try to get quiet just long enough for her to listen to her “stories” on the television. I think we must have been much better-behaved than my boys. That little scenario would never fly at our house. There would be pillers and sheets and feathers in the air, and the story would have been drowned out by the tickle monster…or screams from the tortured.
As we got older, we could sometimes talk Jones into letting us watch our own story on the tele. It usually involved Hulk Hogan or Rowdy Roddy Piper or some other truly authentic American athlete. Looking back now, I’m sure she must have wondered what this world had come to, that two of her own could be interested in such “trash”. Boy how we change when we have kids…I won’t let my boys watch Sponge Bob, but my cousin and I were totally engrossed in watching grown men get body slammed.
If, at the end of the day, we had made plans to stay the night, rest assured we’d be sleeping in the bed with Jones and flicking a little water on the sheets by an open window to stay cool. We’d beg for her to tell and retell the story of the owl, and we’d light up the dark with our smiles each time she got the end: “Who, who, who cooks for you?” I wish I could remember that story. My boys would love it.
Although they never met, I know my boys are still being touched and guided by the spirit and love of my great-grandmother Jones. They may not have known her face, but have felt her love and influence through their mother, their grandmother, and their great-grandmother. And they are sure to reap the benefits for generations to come.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Keeping house
I received some good advice after having our first child about keeping house vs. building a home. As a new mom, then working outside the home, it was easy to stress myself out about keeping the house clean and having everything in its place. My mother-in-law told me that when our children are grown, they won’t remember the time spent keeping house or doing laundry. They will remember the time we spent together.
Since I’m not inherently a fussy housekeeper, I was certainly glad to hear this advice and more than willing to let all the pressing issues of maintaining a pristine and unsoiled living space go by the wayside. After all, who has time for spring cleaning when spring baseball is in full swing? I have, however, tried to instill a tiny bit of hygienically-necessary skills and “pick up after yourselves” attitudes in both of our boys. After all, they too will have wives someday.
I suppose at least some of my efforts are paying off, as both kids recognize a mess when they make one and will even shout for a rag if one is required.
They also love to use the broom and the mop. So much so, that it can be impossible to complete that chore unimpeded. Some days, I just have to give in and let them take control of the kitchen floor. It’s usually a mess to begin with, so it really can’t get much worse.
Cooper likes to wipe things with a rag and can actually be pretty helpful at times. However, he doesn’t understand that wet rags don’t have to be dripping to be effective and they aren’t really the preferred method for cleaning a leather couch. But what’s a mom to do?
He was playing outside last week when he came in and asked for a wet rag so he could clean-up his dump truck. Who knows where he got the idea that vehicles are supposed to be clean; it certainly wasn’t from living in this house.
Brisco is our trash man. He loves to throw things in the garbage. We just have to be careful that it is garbage when it goes in and not something we might need later. Both boys love the trash truck and stand at the front door every Wednesday morning and wave to the men as they haul away our weekly waste.
After our most recent move, we started a nightly tradition of vacuuming the carpet. It was a good way to get the boys to pick up their toys each evening, and a signal that bedtime was drawing near. We soon discovered, however, that the way the boys reacted when the vacuum was turned on did not lend itself to the relaxing atmosphere we needed before bedtime. It seems crashing monster trucks into the side of the sweeper, or darting wildly in the path of its light, all while screaming at the top of one’s lungs, does little to calm the soul.
While we have made progress in several areas, no matter how much time we allot to instructing and deciphering the fresh from the yucky, it seems some instincts are just impossible to over-ride. Brisco’s take on the “five second rule” is a prime example. Not only (in his mind) is it completely acceptable to eat the goldfish out of my trash pile when I sweep the floor, but he has also discovered that if he leaves pretzels in his bed, in his toy box, or under the edge of Daddy’s recliner, he can freely enjoy a snack anytime he has the urge.
With that crazy kid around, I’ve had to learn the hard way that if there is one chore that can’t go undone it is clearing the dishes from the kitchen table. After a rushed breakfast one morning before church, our cereal bowls remained in place well into the afternoon. Upon rising from his afternoon nap, Brisco wandered sleepy-eyed to his place at the table and proceeded to finish up the remains of his milk-soaked Rice Crispies. Even chunky and soggy, those puffs hit the spot.
So on the days when there are no clean socks, I can’t find my purse, and the match to all my shoes are sitting in the bottom of the garbage, I look for comfort in the fact that the memories my boys hold dear will not be of their mom blustering about with a can of Pledge and a feather duster. What I hope they will remember is driving racecars on the bar, reading books in “Mommy’s chair”, and hitting baseballs in the middle of the living room. I hope that they will have learned how to build a home of their own someday. After all, anybody can learn to keep house.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Since I’m not inherently a fussy housekeeper, I was certainly glad to hear this advice and more than willing to let all the pressing issues of maintaining a pristine and unsoiled living space go by the wayside. After all, who has time for spring cleaning when spring baseball is in full swing? I have, however, tried to instill a tiny bit of hygienically-necessary skills and “pick up after yourselves” attitudes in both of our boys. After all, they too will have wives someday.
I suppose at least some of my efforts are paying off, as both kids recognize a mess when they make one and will even shout for a rag if one is required.
They also love to use the broom and the mop. So much so, that it can be impossible to complete that chore unimpeded. Some days, I just have to give in and let them take control of the kitchen floor. It’s usually a mess to begin with, so it really can’t get much worse.
Cooper likes to wipe things with a rag and can actually be pretty helpful at times. However, he doesn’t understand that wet rags don’t have to be dripping to be effective and they aren’t really the preferred method for cleaning a leather couch. But what’s a mom to do?
He was playing outside last week when he came in and asked for a wet rag so he could clean-up his dump truck. Who knows where he got the idea that vehicles are supposed to be clean; it certainly wasn’t from living in this house.
Brisco is our trash man. He loves to throw things in the garbage. We just have to be careful that it is garbage when it goes in and not something we might need later. Both boys love the trash truck and stand at the front door every Wednesday morning and wave to the men as they haul away our weekly waste.
After our most recent move, we started a nightly tradition of vacuuming the carpet. It was a good way to get the boys to pick up their toys each evening, and a signal that bedtime was drawing near. We soon discovered, however, that the way the boys reacted when the vacuum was turned on did not lend itself to the relaxing atmosphere we needed before bedtime. It seems crashing monster trucks into the side of the sweeper, or darting wildly in the path of its light, all while screaming at the top of one’s lungs, does little to calm the soul.
While we have made progress in several areas, no matter how much time we allot to instructing and deciphering the fresh from the yucky, it seems some instincts are just impossible to over-ride. Brisco’s take on the “five second rule” is a prime example. Not only (in his mind) is it completely acceptable to eat the goldfish out of my trash pile when I sweep the floor, but he has also discovered that if he leaves pretzels in his bed, in his toy box, or under the edge of Daddy’s recliner, he can freely enjoy a snack anytime he has the urge.
With that crazy kid around, I’ve had to learn the hard way that if there is one chore that can’t go undone it is clearing the dishes from the kitchen table. After a rushed breakfast one morning before church, our cereal bowls remained in place well into the afternoon. Upon rising from his afternoon nap, Brisco wandered sleepy-eyed to his place at the table and proceeded to finish up the remains of his milk-soaked Rice Crispies. Even chunky and soggy, those puffs hit the spot.
So on the days when there are no clean socks, I can’t find my purse, and the match to all my shoes are sitting in the bottom of the garbage, I look for comfort in the fact that the memories my boys hold dear will not be of their mom blustering about with a can of Pledge and a feather duster. What I hope they will remember is driving racecars on the bar, reading books in “Mommy’s chair”, and hitting baseballs in the middle of the living room. I hope that they will have learned how to build a home of their own someday. After all, anybody can learn to keep house.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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