Mozzarella

I mentioned that a friend taught me to make cheese recently. Somehow I neglected to order the supplies for some time. Every time I saw milk on sale I’d think—darnit, why didn’t I order the rennet? Well, I finally did and now I’m ready. Bring on the discount milk, we’re having fresh mozz!

This One Goes to Eleven

Elliot has begun counting—and annoying his big brother with all kinds of other mimicry. He can count all the way to eleven, but he especially likes the sequence 8-9-10-11.

The Secret Lives of Wasps

My ultra-strong-willed child decided to head out on a rebellious jag the other day. Threatening to run off by himself to an activity I forbade, he found himself lingering outside the house, waiting for me to intervene.

I did intervene, but not until I heard a blood-curdling scream. He ran to the front door, his hand cupping his ear, screaming. I moved his hand and discovered a wasp. When all was calm again, we found only one sting. I bit my tongue and managed not to say anything like “serves you right you rebellious little almost kindergartener!”

Instead, my mother-bear instincts kicked in. As I have been religiously murdering insects as they slept in little holes in our walkway, I somehow managed to miss the three (or possibly more) nests of yellow jackets having taken up residence in our siding.

Since this discovery, I have begun a nightly ritual of massacring them all with a ridiculous amount of deadly chemicals. This ritual is not a simple as it may seem. You see, last week, I too was a victim of a vicious yellow jacket’s sting. Never having been stung before, I whimpered and whined and cowered in my house. Now terrified of more attacks, I figured I’d arm myself to the hilt. I borrowed the local bee-lady’s bee hat and gloves, tucked my shirt in my pants, my pants in my shoes. Duct-taped the bee hat to my hoodie zipped to my chin, strapped on a head-lamp, grabbed my cans of deadly foam and headed outside.

It was a terrible scene—foam spraying, insects dying. But before dying, some of them managed to swarm the crazy lady in the ridiculous get-up just so they could watch her scream and run for the house trailing a stream of wasp-killer.

“WHAT DO I DOOOOO?!!??!!”

It would have been hilarious to watch, had I not been said crazy lady.

"I waznot elekted to watch my people zuffer and die while you dizcuss this invasion in a komittee." --QA

Can You Say Sphincter?

I am so glad I got a college degree. Granted, my degree was in theatre and some days I wish I'd studied psychology, medicine, or a myriad of other subjects. Nonetheless, my college education comes in handy oh so very often (you know, all those classes on bum sniffing, cleaning up puke, child restraint and such).

In my tenure as a mother, I have had some terribly fascinating conversations. Just yesterday
I had the following exchange with my two-year-old:

"You stink. Lay down and let me change your diaper."

"Mom, look poop!"

"I don't know why you like to look at your poop so much, but sure, whatever floats your boat. Look."

"Mom! Cut poop?"

"What?"

"Cut poop?"

"No, we don't cut poop, that's gross."

"Mom, what cut poop?"

"Oh, well, your bottom cuts your poop."

"Where?"

"In your bottom is your rectal sphincter, which cuts off your poop."

"Oh! Wekaoo Finker!"

"Yes, exactly."

Some day I'd like to teach motherhood 101. Maybe I'll just write a book instead.

Waxing Sentimental

A couple of weeks ago we said goodbye to a dear friend (and her fantastic husband and baby Hoover too of course). This is one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met. She knows how to make just about anything, and will learn anything you throw at her. Before she left, she gave me a few of her first (beautiful) pottery attempts. She taught me how to make cheese (really—fresh mozzarella and ricotta!). She walked with me in the early morning when she was 8 months pregnant, and I could barely keep up. She was there when I saw my first bear. She’s hiked the AT and most of the Carolinas now. Oh, and since she had baby Hoover, she’s hiked it all again with a baby on her back. She lives without many modern “conveniences” and does not find it inconvenient in the least. She always smiles in a way that is overwhelmingly contagious. And she plays silly games and giggles with my boys.

I was sad to learn she was leaving, but happy to know of the great opportunity and adventure she was embarking upon. Ethan expressed it well when he said “I’m sad because I am going to miss her.” Me too.

Sometimes in this life, we cross paths with people that touch our lives and hearts for good and leave us just a little better than we were before we knew them. These are people I admire, and these are the times I cherish. I feel that wherever I’ve been in life and wherever I will go, there are a handful of people here and there that will always carry a piece of my heart . . . y’all know who you are.

Southern Living

We've been here a good 18 months now. I still have not quite adjusted to many of the peculiarities of the South. I cannot yet bring myself to greet a friend with a big droopy "Hey!" (or should I say "Ha-ee"--it really has two syllables around here). I'd just feel like I were trying to flag them down in slow motion or something, not say hello.

I'm a little concerned that Ethan may pick up on the dialect in school next year, though right now I still frequently have to translate for him--he gets that blank stare on his face when spoken to in a thick drawl.

I don't think I'll ever quite adjust to the heat and humidity. A dear friend once described humidity as a warm all-over hug . . . yeah, if I'm being hugged by a creepy old man with a penchant for inappropriately long embraces that rub you in all the wrong places.

Yesterday, just after I noticed the outside temp gauge on my car read 87 degrees, we passed a gentleman out jogging along the narrow, winding mountain road in jeans, a long-sleeved button down shirt and NO SHOES! At first I wondered if he was running away from a crime scene. I looked closer, expecting to see blood down the front of his buttons and a knife in his hand. I was sorely disappointed to see it was just his ipod. Odd.

Bilingual

I’ve been learning another language. I call it “Twoos”. Here are some translations:

“Eyot do it!”

Translation:

“Elliot would really like to do this himself thanks.”

“Ayper ON!!”

Translation:

“No thank you Mom, I’m really not prepared to have my diaper changed right now.”

“EEET! INNER! AYNEEN ALL!”

Translation:

"I'm terribly hungry. Could we please head to the dining hall for dinner?"

“Ass Opper!”

Translation:

"Grasshopper!"

My personal favorite—this must be said very quickly and with great earnestness in order to have the proper effect:

“Eyot ihm oot on OOO!”

Translation:

“Could you please help me put my swim suit on mom? I’d like to go to the lake too.”