The Next Bottom You Wipe Might Be Your Own

Today, I asked Jonah to go around the house, find the dirty dishes, and bring them to me so that I could wash them.  He just looked at me, confused.

"What?  Why are you looking at me like that?  There are two glasses sitting on the table next to you."

"But...I'm not a woman."  His tone was not disrespectful, just really confused.

My mouth dropped open, and gaped there for a good while.

"Well, I'm not," he said.  "Do I have a pony tail?  Do I have an apron?"  Now he was sassing me.

We had a little chat.  After which he went and gathered up the dirty dishes.  Well, most of them.

"Jonah, you brought me one glass from the end table, but not the other one."

"Oh, that one's not mine."

This is when I lost it.

Not yours?  I don't care if it is not yours.  I asked you to bring it to me.  Do you see all of the dishes in this sink?  Do you know how many of them are "mine"?  I do ALL the dishes.  Even the ones I don't use.  I wash all the clothes.  Even the ones I don't wear.  I brush the teeth in four-out-of-five mouths in this house.  Even though I don't have four mouths.  I wipe three-out-of-five bottoms in this house.  Even though I don't have three bottoms.  So, I don't want to hear about how that one glass, sitting right next to your glass, is NOT your glass.  I want you to pick it up and bring it to me, like a boy with a generous heart.  Or, failing that, like a boy with some sense, and some respect for his mother, and some interest in living in MY house until his seventh birthday.  Because I don't have to do this.  I am a lawyer.  Do you know that?  I went to school for a very long time and I took a very hard test so that I would not have to be the hired help.  I am not the hired help.  I am way overqualified to wipe butts and be disrespected by you.

Then it occurred to me...who isn't overqualified for this?  You usually have to pay someone to do what I do.  And, if you disrespect them, they will quit.  Why would anyone put up with this?  Maybe, as their mother, I am the only one who is qualified.  Well, if that is the case, then a few things need to be set straight.

So, listen here, little man.  Listen closely, and tell your brother and sister.  Tell them that The Woman, the one with the pony tail and the apron, has lost her mind and she has something to say.  This is OUR house, and OUR dishes, and OUR laundry, and yes, even OUR butts.  I am not doing all of this for you, and I am certainly not doing it all for me.  WE are doing this for US.  Just because you are too young to do most of it, does not mean you are off the hook.  So, I would appreciate it if, in the future, you would do what you are told, all the way, right away, and with a happy face.  And if you ever tell me that what I do is "woman's work" again, well...God help you, because even Daddy won't be able to.

XOXO ~ Mommy

She Is Not Practicing to be a Drunk Sorority Girl

Yes, this is a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet.  How, you ask, did I come to have a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet?

I blame the size of the house.

Our house is the smallest one in our neighborhood.  Twelve hundred square feet, three bedrooms, two bathrooms.  Don't misunderstand, I am not complaining.  I love this house.  Its is a sufficient blessing, and we are happy to have it.  I also know, that by world-wide standards, I live in a mansion.  With clean running water and electricity.  Refrigerator, gas stove, central heat and air, flushing toilets (like the one my daughter is hugging).  In several countries, I am a queen.  I appreciate this bounty.

My guests, however, may not share my world view.  And, they must use the children's bathroom.  I do my best to keep it visitor-friendly.  No urine on the toilet, no toothpaste in the sink.  It may be a low standard, but it is higher than it could be.

To this end, I have worked with the children, to use a paper towel to wipe their face, and then the sink, after they brush their teeth.  "Make sure all the blue is gone," I tell them.  Then go throw the paper towel in the garbage.

Cate has become very good at this.  But, when she started, she was inclined to toss the paper towel in the toilet.  "No, no,"  I told her.  "We don't throw paper towels in the toilet.  They make the toilet sick."  She was upset at this.  She did not want to make the toilet sick.  She's very sweet that way.

So now, after she throws the paper towel in the trash can, she leans over and hugs the toilet.  "I yuv my potty," she says.  Everyday.

That is how I came to have a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet.

Pyrex Love

Happiness is a glass Pyrex measuring cup in every size.

I know this is mockable.  My own mother has mocked me.  "Good grief!" she said.  "Do you really need all of these?"  Ouch.  How can someone who loves me so much, know me so little?

Yes, I really need all of them.  This isn't even all of them.  There is another four-cupper, which did not make it to the photo shoot.  It was in the dishwasher, because I needed it to make breakfast.

I think I might get my love of Pyrex from my Grandma Bunny.  She had elaborate towers built of the stuff.  In the kitchen, in the garage, in the second oven.  (*sigh* a second oven.)  She had a piece for everything, and lost lids were mourned.

Quite a few of my pieces used to be hers.  That beautiful eight-cupper among them.  I didn't even know they made them that big.  Now, it is my most prized.  Mix the pancakes, pour the pancakes, all in one.  Genius! When Grandma died, I asked if I could have it.  I had to flip my aunt for it, but I think she only wanted it for canning, not out of any true affection for the Pyrex.  I lost the toss for the casserole dish with lid and insulated bag.  I still remember.  Surely, this is true love.

Also not in the picture is the bastard step-child of my measuring cups.  An Anchor Hocking two-cupper, which is sort of like Cinderella before the ball.  I don't really love it, but I keep it around for it's utility.  I would feel bad about this, if measuring cups had feelings, which they don't.

If they did, mine would love me back.

Three Alarm Dinner

It's 4:30.  Do you know what your family is having for dinner?  Roast chicken?  No, still frozen solid in the back of the freezer.  Carnitas?  No, that should have gone in the crock pot six hours ago.  Frozen lasagna?  That takes two hours to cook and you only have one.  Tortilla soup?  Don't have all the ingredients.

This happens to me all the time.  I have served peanut butter and jelly, cereal, and frozen waffles for dinner.  (Not all at once.  I'm not that crazy.)  This is unacceptable, really.  I have three growing kids, and a husband who works hard all day to put food on the table.  Well, he works for the food, and the table.  Putting one on top of the other is supposed to be my job.

So, I invented the three alarm dinner.  I set an alarm to keep me on track.  Three of them actually.  I use my iPod Touch, but any phone or alarm clock will do.

10:00am     Lovely church bells ring, usually from my back pocket.  When I pull out my iPod, it gently asks me, "What's for Dinner?"  This may be a little late in the day for some of you, but any earlier and I would be too busy to hear it ring.  I stop, and make myself answer.  I look in a few cupboards.  I take something out of the freezer.  If I can fit in a quick trip to the market, I do.  Even if I have all the meals for the week scheduled (which I do about every fifth week) I need to be reminded, in case some early prep work needs to be done.  Like loading up the crock pot.

2:00pm     More lovely church bells, just checking in.  "Do you need to prep dinner?"  This comes in handy if I am baking, or roasting, something that is going to take awhile.  I chose two o'clock, because it takes three hours to make bread in my bread machine and dinner is between 5:30 and 6.

4:30pm     Chimes again.  "Make dinner."  Okay, it may say, "Make dinner, Stupid!" but the love hate, perhaps abusive, relationship I have with my iPod is a topic for another post.  This alarm has a snooze button.  Sometimes I don't need to start cooking that early, but I need to be kept aware of the time.

This  might sound nuts.  But it works!  Only once since implementation of the Three Alarm Dinner plan have my children eaten frozen burritos for dinner.  And that was just because I was making steak and there wasn't enough to go around.

There is a fourth alarm.  This is more of a WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH alarm, like you hear if there is a nuclear meltdown or you don't push the button every 108 minutes.  It rings at 5:30, and gives me the number to the nearest pizza place.

So, what is for dinner?

Tiny Victories

Hubband is sick.  Jonah is sick.  It turns out I was sick, last week, but I was told, "It's just allergies.  Suck it up, Princess."  So, I did.  But once I knew I was really sick, I could barely function for the fatigue.  And the coughing fits.  Or maybe it is the triple digit heat.  That's right.  A plague, and a heat wave, all in the same week.

Today, I am feeling a bit better.  It might be the extra sleep.  Yesterday when I got home from errands, I told Hubband I needed to lay  lie lay down, just for a few minutes, to cool off, and got up three hours later.  Whatever the reason, I felt it was time to conquer the house work.

Unfortunately, the house, as a whole, presented an insurmountable challenge.  It was so tempting to recline on the fainting couch, and put it all off another day.  Or three.

All the dishes were dirty.  All the laundry needed doing.  Every room looked like it had been lived in, by raccoons.  I was daunted.

But, I know me.  I thrive on victory.  If I can get one small victory, I can move on to the next battle.  So, I started small.  The kids' bathroom.  It looked bad, but really wasn't.  I had just scrubbed in on Sunday.  It only needed a little attention.  And, it is self contained, with no view of any other room.  Once it was clean, I could, conceivably, hang out in there, and pretend the house was clean.  So, I swished, and swiped, and closed the curtain on the tub, and voila!  A tiny victory!

Yay, me!

Next up, Catherine's room.  I picked up, put away, vacuumed, and dusted.  Voila!  Another victory!

Yay, me, again!

Then onto the boys' room.  More laundry to be put away, two beds to make.  Well, okay, I only made one bed, and put away all the stuff underneath it.  I left Jonah's side for Jonah, as that is actually one of his responsibilities.  Nevertheless, another tiny victory!

I was so proud of myself, that I took the opportunity of the baby's nap to get on the computer, as a little reward.  So, here I sit, writing to you all, my back to the kitchen and its looming pile of dirty dishes.

I am not worried.  I know I will get to them.  If there is one thing I have learned about dishes, it is that there are ALWAYS dirty dishes.  There is no victory over dishes.  I could stand in that kitchen all day doing dishes, but since folks keep using them, there will never be any victory.  So, I do dishes at certain times.  In between those times, or if I am sick, they can wait.

Until then, I will revel in my tiny victories.  In fact, I may even ride the momentum of those victories into the living room, where I can see from here, an apple core, wedged between the sofa cushion.

CHARGE!!!

My New Office

I have wanted an office for a long time.  I want an office like this one.

This is Betsy's office.  Have you met Betsy?  She writes over at My Five Men.  One of those men is her husband.  The other four are her sons.  That's right, four sons.  All teenagers.  Wait, it gets better.  Three of them are sixteen-year-old triplets.  Did I mention that the triplets are autistic?  Crazy right?

If I were Betsy, I think I would skip the office and get a padded room.  She may have one of those, too.  I have no idea.  She has never written about it.  In fact, I have never heard her complain at all, which I find amazing.  Not so much because of her situation, but because I can complain about anything, and regularly do.  Like the fact that it takes three weeks (not the alleged twenty four hours) to defrost a whole four pound chicken in the refrigerator, the way they say you are supposed to.  They can eat my shorts.  Or, my undercooked chicken.  They can choose.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Betsy's office.  Isn't it lovely.  It is at one end of her kitchen, so she can multi-task and keep an eye on her men.  She runs a business from there, too.  Catering and gift baskets, I think.  Oh, the baked goods she has written about.  And, she uses a coffee maker as an alarm clock.  Anyway, go visit her if you get the chance, but not on an empty stomach.  And, not now.  You're busy reading this.  Focus, would you!

I do a lot of stuff, too.  I parent and write and keep a home.  I want a place to go, where it will be clean, and orderly, and out of reach of children, where I can think and function, and find everything.  I want an office.

I want an office, but I don't have an office.  What I have is a corner of the kitchen.  The counter is too high for the littlest hands to reach, and, as I keep the room cordoned off most of the time, it is fairly safe from the peanut butter and jelly crowd.  Unfortunately, until last week, my corner "office" looked like this.

Truly unacceptable, I know.  It was just stacks of this, and piles of that.  I couldn't find anything.  Nothing was in it's place, because nothing really had a place.  So sad.  I hate clutter, and not only was I living with it, I was trying to work with it too.  I had had enough!

I declared war on that corner.  And, now.  It looks like this.

Thanks to the Staples Desk Apprentice Turbo.  Okay, I added the "turbo," but I felt that such an awesome cube of organization deserved a superlative.  Did I mention that it rotates?  I wish it weren't black.  If I find the time, I might try to girly it up a little.  Until then, I am organized!!!!!!  Which, considering the "before" picture, is no small task.  (I swear to you, everything in the first picture, is in the second picture, except the butter dish and the iPod.)

[I have not been compensated by the Staples corporation in any way for this endorsement, so I feel free to tell you that the on-line price of $39.99, is a total rip off.  I got mine at the good old brick and mortar place for only $25.99]

The Saga of the Uppity Bath Towel

This is the tag on my bath towel.  My basic, run-of-the-mill, dry-myself-off-with-it-everyday bath towel.  I had never really read it until today.  Do you see what this tag says?  "Machine wash blah-blah, delicate cycle..."  Delicate cycle?  Seriously?  Who does this towel think it is fooling?  Delicate cycle, indeed.  Self important piece of terry cloth.  Or, so I thought.

Then I kept reading, to the bottom of the tag where it says, "do not iron."  Hahahahahahahahaha.  Do not iron! As if there was ever a chance aytch-ee-double-ell I was going to iron my bath towel.  Now, I know the towel is just a joker.

~~~~~~~~~

 Hubband's parents are coming to visit this week, so I may not be around much.  Or, I may be around a lot more than usual.  It could go either way.

Surprised by the Mundane

These are the breakfast dishes for a family of five.  Only two of whom are adults.  And this is not Christmas morning, or even Sunday  morning.  This is Tuesday.

Okay, okay, so we all do dishes.  I know.  And to those of you who have raised your kids up to adult size, this comes as no shock.  It is, in fact, barely worth note.  Please indulge me.

A mere six years ago, I was single and childless, and I would not have used this many dishes in a week (and even if I had, I certainly would not have washed them in a timely manner).  In the intervening years, I have been so busy gestating, birthing, nursing, loving, cuddling, and rearing my children, (not to mention all my wifely and housewifely duties) that I have not looked up to notice -- WE ARE A FAMILY OF FIVE!!

How did I miss that?

Note to self:  Look up more often, before you're back to washing dishes just for two.

Bubble and Squeak

One day last week, Hubband called from work during his lunch hour.  We chatted a bit, about this and that.  It was pleasant.  Then he did it.  He hit me with the three words every housewife dreads.

"What's for dinner?"

My voice, if I had one, was letting out nothing more than a sustained, "Uhhhhhh."  But my brain was working overtime.  In my head, it sounded something like this.

What?  Dinner?  Aw, c'mon.  Whydya have to go and do that?  We were having such a nice conversation.  It's like noon, right?  Six hours to go.  I don't even know what is in the fridge.  When was the last time we picked up a pizza?  "What do you want for dinner?" is a better question.  Why must I always be the one to think of these things...and on it went.  Until my mouth got ahead of my brain.  (I'd like to pretend this never happens, but I would be...well...pretending)

Having no answer, I blurted out, "Bubble and squeak."

Hubband chuckled, but called my bluff.  "What's in that?" 

"I don't know," I had to admit.  "Cabbage, I think.  Or maybe sausage."

"Well, it's English," said Hubband "It probably has one of those things." 

After that conversation, and still with no plans for dinner, I did some investigating.  Bubble and squeak is basically a potato and cabbage pancake.  I had left over mashed potatoes.  I had cabbage, though it was the red kind.  And, I had red kale, I didn't know what to do with.  So, Bubble and Squeak it was.  I served it with breaded cod.  It neither bubbled, nor squeaked, but it was good and my kids ate every bite.

Bubble and Squeak ~ 

Desperate (for dinner ideas) American Housewife Style

3 cups mashed potatoes

5-6 leaves red cabbage, chopped small

6 leaves red kale, de-ribbed

fresh chives, chopped

butter and olive oil for frying

1. Boil cabbage and kale for about 10 minutes until soft. Drain.
2. Mix with mashed potatoes and chives.  The stiffer the potatoes the better I think.  Mine were a bit soft.
3. Take a handful of mixture and form it into a round patty.  
4. Combine butter and olive oil in pan over medium high heat. 
5. Add patties to pan, cooking 3-5 minutes on each side.  I would add a little extra olive oil between sides.

Next up, TOAD IN THE HOLE!

Too Many Cooks?

With all this help in the kitchen I should be able to retire.  Or at least stick to laundry.

Is Everyone Else Just Faking It?

Raising children is hard for me. Very, very hard. There, I said it. The ugly truth no one ever wants to admit.

Hubband and I have always said that we are not actually raising children. We are raising adults, they just happen to be children right now. This is true, and a good child rearing philosophy, where a philosophy is required. But, let’s face it, if they don’t make it to adulthood, their good problem solving skills and willingness to accept the consequences of their actions will do them very little good.

My children are young. Most of their needs are immediate. Food, sippy cup, diaper, don’t stick that sharp knife into that electrical outlet. And it is meeting those needs that exhausts me. That and keeping the house just clean enough to be sanitary. I have very little energy left for the discipline, correction, and training that goes into making a decent person.

I know so many women who make mothering look effortless. Especially women at church. And these women homeschool too, so I know they have their hands full. Are they really as together as they seem? And if not, what do they have to gain from faking it?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to listen to a bunch of women do nothing but complain. It’s not good for them, it’s not good for me, and too much grumbling is decidedly un-Biblical. But, just once, I would like to hear someone say, “Being a stay-at-home mom is the hardest thing I have ever done and most of the time I feel like I am failing.” Then I would know that I am not alone.

How to Tame Your Wild Oatmeal

Have you ever made oatmeal for a hungry three year old?

He’s eager, because he’s hungry. You’re eager, because you want him to eat healthy foods and (be honest) quit whining about being hungry.

So you whip up a batch on the stove or in the microwave. Either way is pretty quick. But you cannot serve it right away because it is hot enough to melt steel. Seriously! It is a bowl of molten beige goo. Even in the freezer it does not cool very quickly.

I have taken to using a little less water and then tossing ice cubes or frozen blueberries in the finished product. This actually works pretty well, if you are in a similar situation. But, the blueberries stain if flung around the room, so pick your audience.

How is such a mundane grain, when boiled in water, able to hold heat like that? It would take a degree in thermal engineering to invent a material with similar properties. And the opposite is true too. Have you ever tried to re-heat cold oatmeal? It takes so long you might as well make a fresh batch.

Does NASA know about this stuff?

The caveat to this is the cookie. I have found that making cookies out of oatmeal, i.e. oatmeal cookies, renders the thermal dynamic power of the substance inert.  So, less porridge, more pudge.

The Most Modern of Conveniences

Did you you know that they make dishwashers with garbage disposals now?  You don't even need to rinse the dishes.  Just pop them in the machine and it does it for you, with the detritus from dinner going into the disposal.  I thought this was insane when I first heard it.  I mean, how hard is it to rinse dishes?  I find it rather soothing myself.  But, then again, this is America, where we are so lazy we have battery powered tooth brushes.

I have not really changed my mind on the dishwasher thing, but I am hoping that, at least for mothers with small children, they will soon invent the washing machine/garbage disposal combo.  I won't burden you with the colorful details, but let's just say there are times when some of the edible bits of a little boys life make it to the laundry room, carried there in pockets I presume.  At these times, a disposal would be good.  I'm just saying.

A Green Bucket, a Pink Cow, and My Laundry Room's Dirty Little Secret

Okay, I have been blogging a little over two and a half months now, and I keep telling myself that I am not writing a "mom blog".  I am not.  I.  am.  not.

Well, lets face it.  I am a full-time mother and a full-time housewife.  If you are counting, that is two full-time jobs.  I spend a lot of time thinking about those things.

So, today, I decided not to fight it.  I am going to share a few of the things that make my life a little simpler.

The Green Bucket That Saved Five Thousand Steps

I have a small green bucket that cost a dollar at Target.  My mom left it here.  I kept it.  It sat on my kitchen counter for a few days until I realized it was the best invention EVER.  I call it the green bucket that saved five thousand steps.

It used to be, that any time I found something in my kitchen that didn't belong there, I would pick it up, carry it to where it belonged, and put it away.  This happened five-thousand seven-hundred and eighty-two times a day.

The situation was the same each time I needed to sweep.  I would pick up one or two toys, books, articles of clothing at a time and return them to their proper place, several times, before the floor was clear enough to clean.  Well.  No more!

I have my magic bucket.  It still sits on my kitchen counter, and now, when I find things in my kitchen that don't belong in my kitchen, into the bucket they go.  Size permitting of course.  Even the greatest invention ever has its limitations.

Then, about twice a day, thrice if necessary, I take the green bucket and make a sweep of the house.  I start at one end, and anything on the floor, or in the wrong room, goes in the bucket.  When I get to the other end of the house, I turn around and go back, putting every thing away where it belongs.

The empty bucket, goes back on the kitchen counter.

Why did I not think of this before?

Holy Cow, It's Pink

Holy Cow is a non-toxic, and PINK, multi-purpose cleaner developed by a mom who did not want to poison her kids, her pets, or her planet, but still wanted a clean house.

I swear by it.  And it is dirt cheap.  I pay under two dollars.  It is available at Wal-mart and other locations nationwide.  There is also blue cow for windows and green cow for your barn or boat, or in my case, bathtubs.

The Holy Cow company is nearby, but I don't know the people and they are not paying me.  (Though I am beginning to think maybe they should.)

My Laundry Room's Dirty Little Secret

It doubles as a diaper changing station.  Actually, the only one in the house.  

Once we had more than one child in diapers, and they were sharing rooms, having a changing table in the bedroom did not make sense.  We could not afford two changing tables, and didn't have room for a second one anyway.  And, one child would invariably need a diaper while one of the other ones was sleeping in the room.

Our solution was the centrally located laundry room.  I change diapers on the washer and dryer.  I have a front loader now, but I did not always.  I just moved the pad off to do laundry.  The diapers and paraphernalia are in the cabinets about the machine.  And best of all, I am right next to the door to the garage, so that is where we dump the dirties.  No diaper pail in the house!

So, there you are.  My housewife blog.  If any of you found any of this useful, I am glad.  I hope I have it out of my system for awhile.

What Rhymes With Babylon?

After all of the holiday excitement, today has been blessedly boring.

I have yet to find a home for the new toys, but I did get them sorted into three laundry baskets; one for each child.  (What am I doing about the laundry while my baskets are thus employed?  Don't ask.)

We played three games of Chutes and Ladders, which Jonah got for Christmas.  Jonah describes it as, "very chute-y and ladder-y."  That's good, right?

We started eating the ginger bread house.  It was a bit tough.  I had to dunk my piece in my tea.  Luckily I have a big, new mug.

We built three new train tracks on the train table we got last year for Christmas.

We are learning all the words to the Veggie Tales sing-a-long video, which we got two Christmases ago.  And I have to admit, any children's song with the lyric, "We could use him as a footstool or a table to play Scrabble on, Then tie him up and beat him up and throw him out of Babylon!" is okay by me.  (It makes sense in context.)

I'm sure there is something in the back of the house which needs tending (like the pile of laundry taller than my second child) but I'm okay with that.

I hope your ordinary life is getting back to normal.

Busy Mom, Defined -- Part 2

A woman who must mop her floor more often that she gets to wash her hair.

 

Maybe I should try this approach.

(Photo by LIFE)

Stick and Crumb

I sweep.

I mop.

I dust and polish.

Wipe. Wash.
Shine. Scour. Scrub.

No matter.

A world with three small children
maintains a fine patina of stick.

And, crumbs.