Not A Boo Boo

What a mess!  

Down the hall there's a bathroom, and 2 spare rooms one of which has been lightly peppered with kid toys.  The walls have the grandkids handprints on them.  There's a few toys on a bottom bookshelf.  And tucked under the bed is a ball pit.

The ball pit is a cloth fold away container (construction much like a springy fold up kids tunnel).  The ball pit's about 3 feet across and is full of little plastic red, blue, green, yellow, orange, and pink balls.  Gobs of them!

This had been a favored toy EVERY time toddlers come over.  Clean up time includes retrieving every one of those little balls that has been pitched with glee out of the pit.  It's safe and it keeps them entertained for hours.  They think its funny to hide other toys amongst the balls.  And they try to slide into the pit from nearby furniture before getting quickly curtailed by an adult.

Sunday, the 4 y.o. boy, and the 3 and 1 y.o. girls were playing back there when the boy came scurrying into the living room stuttering, and a sharp squeal followed him from down the hall.  I went rushing to discover the reason.  Here's me side-stepping, high-stepping, navigating the balls in the hall, rounding the Cozy Coupe, and breathing sharply stopping in the doorway.  "Lilly!  Are you all right?"


The ball pit is totally empty, I know because it's now upside down, and there's a little moving knob of evidence of Lilly's head from underneath.  "Lilly!  Are you all right?  Are you crying?"

Very sweetly in a sing-song carefree voice, "I'm not crying.  I'm happy."

Shew, I swipe a brow.


The mess got worse!

I had gone upstairs to check on darling hubby who was sick.  The toddlers' mothers were busy chatting and crocheting as each is expecting in the fall.  Pregnancy makes them less quick on their feet.  Those statements explain how the toddler's "got away with murder".  The murder of my little cactus.

Who would touch a cactus anyway!?
A boy!  That's who!

Fisher Price Little People Barn contents - horses, sheep, tractor, farmer, trough, fences, and many more - were mixed with ball pit balls, and dirt.  Yep, dirt.  The boy had partially dumped my cactus on the bed.  The pot wasn't very big, less than 4 inches across, but nothing was interesting or eye catching about it, so why?  Maybe the farmer ran out of dirt.

Adult women bossing kids cleaned up the mess.  Under the beds went the broom handle, over the side table swiped a wet cloth, and throughout the room buzzed the vacuum.

After all was done, and I was getting a refreshing drink of tea in the kitchen, it dawned on me...we never did find that little sprig of a cactus!  Sigh.


Aftermath of a mess.

The 1 y.o. girl was fussing sitting on one of the orange blanketed beds.  "Ah, what's the matter?"  She points to two red marks on her ankle.  I'm thinking she's come into contact with that vanishing cactus somehow.  "My boo boo hurts."

I reach down to gently touch it.  Could there be an abrasion?  Is there a stuck nettle?

As I'm gently investigating, she says, "It not feel better."

Curiously, there's nothing.  I put a little spit on a fingertip and apply swiping action.  The red spots start disappearing, one final rub, and both spots are gone.

So are her whimpers.  With babyfied calm she says, "Oh.  It's not a boo boo."

Disaster averted.  Breath of relief!

Just like a snap of a finger, magically, she'd quit crying!

Of All Things Deviled - EGGS!

No names have been used to protect the non-innocent, and henceforth, we shall speak of eggs; and of all things eggy, only those that are deviled!

Let's begin with pitch-in dinners at church.  Deviled eggs can come from the little old lady who only makes a saucerful.  She's learned to cook for two, herself and dear hubby.  She's done her part.  Teenage boys can whimper with hunger!

Then there's the old-fashioned country farm cook, the one that says her recipes are handed down from her mother, from her mother's mother, and from the women on the ark!  Of course, they're sprinkled with paprika and sprout a sprig of mint!

Then there's the gourmet chef, the one that cut zig zags into the edges so they could lock like a finger puzzle, the one that squirts the filling in with a beauteous squeeze of her icing bag to make a perfect flower print on each waiting half.

Then there's me.  Boil, crack, cut, whip to mix, fill, display, devour.  Two dozen at a time.  Let's not be pretentious here -- a deviled egg is a deviled egg and it's a delicious one bite wonder!  "Two to go, please!"

Yep, I secretly dearly love deviled eggs and would eat the one that tore because it wasn't the least bit presentable, oh so tasty.  And it was a wonder to behold when I realized that maybe, just maybe, there was someone else out there that loved 'em as much as I.

He was tall, he was muscular, he was broad, he was dark haired, he was happy, he was my teenaged son's best friend, and when he went through line to fill his plate at the church dinner, his eye caught my eye as that FIRST deviled egg slid into his mouth and his lips closed over, and his eyes twinkled with merry devilment while his fingers reached to put two more on his plate.  Gulp!  Evidence gone!

But there was a moment of discord, dare I say tragedy, in the timeline of my life when my deviled eggs were doctored.

I had the yolks all smashed and the ingredients mixed in and had turned my back when a visiting old lady decided it needed something.  By her sons she was called "The Queen of Substitutions".  As I turned back around she quickly tried to hide the bottle of Ranch Dressing.  Insult!

Lately, though, I received the greatest compliment of all time.

We were preparing for a cookout for Memorial Day, a long three day weekend for most people, when my youngest son brought his girlfriend over, "Mom, would you show her how you make your deviled eggs?"

"They're the best."

Well, I'll be deviled!  My sons dearly love 'em, too!

Infiltration of Little People

Little People, a girl, a boy, and a baby, entered our sons lives first, then ours.

Immediately, they stole our hearts, and we capitulated, "Awwwww."

Then they toddled on 2 feet and said "Nana" not as endearment but as in "We want your bananas!"

After two of them reached doorknob height, they quietly forayed into the bathroom and discovered our toothbrushes, they returned to the living room to bare their pearly whites and declare, "Teef clean!"

But all was held in the balance when the youngest put together two awe inspiring words; breaths were held, women were askance, men mentally bowed to her intelligence when with a Vanna White grin the one year old patted her padded rear end and bragged, "I farted."

Finally, we knew without a drop of doubt that all was lost when we located their misplaced shoes -- the granddaughter's first, then days later the kinship care boy's --  sitting left beside right, purposely parked next to Grandpa's on the shoe shelf.

Little People!  They decided.  They planted their flags.  They're here to stay.

Planting Dandelions

"They were here!"

I knew it.  I knew they'd been in my house while I was gone.

Little cars here, milk messes there, dino findings under the couch, evidences of an ouchie, and from-home-toys left behind, all proclaim the truth about the toddlers previous presence, "They were here."

And I'm sure being little toddlers tied to their car seats,  it was a long destination for Jayden and Miss Lilly, to arrive at our house, after all, they can't see anything out those windows except passing telephone poles and a few billboards.

Remember those maps on the wall of the visitor centers where you stopped for a rest along the interstate during a long drive to your vacation's destination?  The buildings were usually of brick, and the wall map always had a pin to draw your eyes with "You are here!" written in big red letters.

Well, my eyes are drawn to last nights ravages; little evidences of little people, "They were here!"

***
In case you don't know how my house is laid out, I can stand in the kitchen, look over the pony wall, across the family room to see whoever is standing at the sliding glass doors on the deck outside.  Well, adults I can see.  Children and pets I can not see unless I reposition myself.

One day, "Knock, knock, knock" I hear, and it's a quick happy knock but not adult-loud.  At first I thought, "What is that?"  Brain kicks into gear,  "Sounds like knocking on glass."
So I step from behind the pony wall looking to all the doors to see if I can catch a glimpse of something or someone, when I spy little 3 y.o. Jayden.  He's grinning happily, clutching his jacket slung over his arm, face pressed against the glass trying to see in, and pecking at the glass with his other hand.

I opened the door and he says, "Hi.  It's me!"  I'm laughing now because I sure do know him.  He's still talking, "Pa-em?  I love you."

Ah, my heart gets all soggy sweet.

***

Just the other day when Jayden came to visit he brought nothing except his jacket.  So out came the toys.  First the red trike.  While I cleared a path, he took off.  "Pa-em", he called.  And, let me tell you I don't know how he says my name.  It starts out sounding like Pam, but it ends up sounding like pen as in ink pen, it seems like 2 syllables but he says 'em snappy together as one, really fast, something like "Pa-em."

"I found white ball.  I need a hole."
So I get the bulb planter and make a hole.  Jayden gets pouty, points to the cement pad under his feet, and insists, "Right here."  I had to laugh at his thinking I could dig a hole in concrete.  He's so innocent.

While I put the bulb planter back in the garage, he spies a red handled tool and scuttles out of the garage into the fenced yard, plops on the ground and starts digging.   WITH A SCREWDRIVER he digs!!!!  Many holes!  I tell you, he dug a bunch of holes.  I just kept my eye on that screwdriver.  If I didn't, hard telling when and where I'd find it next.  I know this.  Six boys later it's something I know.

This Jayden works hard.  After triking, playing with the kitties, swinging a golf club at the white ball 20 times, swinging in the tree, building towers out of buckets, and digging holes, I knew he worked hard.  In the end, he plucked two gossamer dandelions and planted them both into one hole.  "Look, Pa-em, look!"

The world needs more dandelions, right?
Well, it does need more innocent dandelion planters.

If for no other reason than to say "I was here."

"Can't walk" with The Pirate

“I can’t walk,” said Jay.

“Come on, Jay.”  I said as we got out of the truck.  I trudged through a ridge of snow formed on Mary’s sidewalk. 

He replied, “I can’t walk.”

I looked back and he was doing okay, carrying his hat and gloves, wearing snowsuit and snow boots. He was following happily like a trailing puppy.

“You’re doing fine, just follow my foot prints.”

It was noon, time to take Jay to Mary Ann’s house.  We’d babysat this 3 y.o. foster child of Rusty’s all morning, so at noon we’d planned to take him next door.   Here in Indiana we’d just suffered negative degree weather with power outages, and there was lots of snow piled around.  Jay was struggling but managing all right.

Next thing I knew, Jay called, “Mar-ry.”

I said, “She can’t hear you, honey.  She’s inside her house.”

I just had to laugh ‘cause this little tyke was funny, he informed me with a nodding head,   “I vwery woud.” then raised his voice, A LOT, and YELLED, at the top of his lungs,  “MAR-REEEEE!”  

I chuckled.  Earlier he had me laughing, too.

“Pirates!” I heard Jay’s upset voice. 

“There’s a pirate,” he said adamantly to me.

“He has a sword.”  And he nodded his head for emphasize.

“I don’t like sword.”  It took me a minute to figure out what on earth he was talking about, when I did figure it out, I reassured him that yes, it was a pirate, but it was just a figurine, like some of his toys.

He had pointed to the top of the 6 foot tall cabinet in the bathroom where John’s 10-inch ceramic pirate stands proudly on a wooden peg leg, with a hand on his hip, a sword stabbed into the ground, and a black tricorn hat set crookedly to show his black patched eye.

“I don’t like pirates.”

I said soothingly, “But he’s a good pirate.”

Evidently  he didn’t think I was taking him seriously enough. He just wasn’t getting through to me. He left and went to the kitchen and told John all about it, “He’s a BAD pirate!”   “He a monster!  BAD!”

Well, really, you can’t dispute that.  I made him walk and Pirates make ya walk, too.  “Walk the plank, m’heartie!”  Someone’s always making you walk when you can’t.  “Monster! Bad!”

SASSY SPRING

It's raining!  Since it's still March (can I yell that to Mother Nature?  IT'S STILL MARCH!), and I repeat, since it's still March does that mean April Showers Bring May Flowers has started early?  Seems that way.  But then again we live in Indiana where any-weather goes!

On St. Patrick's Day we had sneaky snow.  I saw one flake but it didn't seem the weather for snow so I thought "ash from the chimney" or maybe "white silk from the dogwood tree" or even an aphid or whitefly, but never did I think snow.  That is, I didn't think snow until I looked at my silver truck which was covered in the white fluffy stuff!

SPRING!  I'm ready for SPRING!  Bring on SPRING!  SPRING, come to me!

Mary called last evening.  She said,  "I've bought tiger Lillies.  It's time for us to plant some bulbs."  Actually, we do this in remembrance of Mitch who passed away on St. Patty's Day.  So, today, I need to buy bulbs.  I was putting it off because of the rain...I mean snow, LOL.

What do you look forward to in the Spring?  The smell of hyacinths, so sweet, earthy, and pungent?  The sound of newborns, kids bleating on the farm, or mother birds chirping to the call of their young?  The feel of pussy willows or roses, soft and rough at the same time?  The taste of sassafras, much like a strong root beer or some root beer barrel candy?  

Ah, the sights and sounds of Spring, almost makes me bounce out of my seat to do a cartwheel!  NOT!  Never have I been able to do a cartwheel.  At this age, I'm lucky to bend at the hips without saying, "Ouch!"  

But, I can take a walk.  My foot is almost completely healed, thank the Good Lord.  And yesterday Calvin and I took a walk for a few blocks near his house while watching the neighbors white dog bounce and pounce behind his master who was heading to his little beige shed.  We saw true green daffodils poking their first buds out of the ground; they were stuck amongst the un-raked leaves left to decompose from autumn's fall.  And we heard the joyous voices of kids playing in the school's east playground. 

Then once we got to the town of Pendleton, we walked again -- all along Main Street. We checked out Three Monkeys, a child's clothes consignment shop.  Isn't that a fun name, Three Monkeys?  Makes ya think of rambunctiousness and shenanigans.  We passed Quack Daddy's Donut Shop (boo-hoo, sadness that we passed, I love donuts) to visit B'Dazzeled Boutique where we were on the hunt for a garment for daughter-in-law who's expecting again, our second grand baby, yay!  And finally reaching our walking destination Treasures Old and New, a large meandering shop full of antiques, artwork, old fashioned candy, and nostalgia.

Calvin had never seen candy cigarettes before, so he purchased some with which to tease his coworkers.  The store had rock candy on a stick, Buns in maple flavor, cow tales, and many vintage sweets.  

The sight of old candies takes me back to root beer, back to sassafras, back to spring.  Dad used to go into the woods in the spring then come back with pieces of sassafras root and then he'd boil it, offering up sassafras tea to all who came around.  After he passed, we found he had a great big piece of root, as big as a step stool, in the barn.  It's my own treasure of old.  I'm sure to break off some each year to boil for tea.  

Some year I'll share my old treasure with my new treasure, the future grand baby.  

We'll clip some redbuds for our hair and have a sassy tea party in the Spring!  After the rain, of course! 

"Slow, Nothing To Report!"

"I'm going back upstairs.  I can't take it," I'm laughing with tears in my eyes.

Let's back up.  I'll set the scene.

3:17 in the morning and I can't sleep.  Lights are off.  DH, darling hubby, is whirring.  He doesn't quite snore yet, and the night is silent, but he's quietly whirring.  So, I go downstairs, make a mug o' hot tea and turn on the computer to mindlessly play Candy Crush until the sweet black drink is gone.

Sitting in the veritable dark, it's not long until DH comes moseying down the stairs I'd just traversed.  Time for him to rustle around and get ready for work.

He's in that "morning fog".  Some people have it  (he, and several of my sons, and a good friend up north do, too) and some people don't.  I don't.  I don't understand it 'cause I don't experience it.  I just believe.  I've seen it in action.  Well, in non-action, chuckle.

Anyway. he turns on the news on channel 59 FoxTV.  I know this because the tv is now loudly telling me so.  I don't tolerate noise first thing of a morning and he doesn't tolerate light first thing of a morning.  Sadly, we don't mesh that way.  So, the announcer, to me, is yelling at me, commanding.

DH shuffles to the kitchen and makes a cup o' joe.  Excuse me here a minute while I take a last sip of my tea.

Anyway, the nice gentleman anchor on the screen says, (and friends, I don't quote verbatim, I do the best I can but don't expect perfection), he says, "We have a shooting on the East Side to report but we have little, if anything, to report at this time.  We are taking you to (beautiful attractive woman) a reporter who is right now on the scene."

Beautiful attractive woman reporter puts her lips to the microphone, the background is the dark of night, very appropriate for gloom and doom, and she says, "We are here on the East Side to bring you the latest development on a shooting here.  We don't know who has been shot.  They are taking the victim to the hospital at this time, we don't know to which hospital he was taken.  We don't know how many times he was shot.  And we don't know who did the shooting.  The police have bagged up his clothes and are investigating."

Okay, I'm thinking, so the police are doing their job, that's good, but she didn't really tell us much of anything.

And then ... (Lord, help me) she recaps!

"As I said, we are here on the East Side, don't know who was shot, or who did the shooting.  We don't know where the victim was shot, or where on his body he was shot.  But we do know there has definitely been a shooting."

What?????

Did she go outside, pull out a pistol, shoot into the air, then tell Mr. Anchorman, "We have a shooting on the East Side, but we don't know who was shot!"

Oh, my lands!  I'm busting a gut laughing.  And I'm laughing.  I'm not laughing at the poor man who was shot, I'm laughing at the silliness of reporting for 3 minutes of  "nothing."  NOTHING!  Cut it short, or wait until you know something.

I'm laughing at the inaneness of it all!  My night was pointless in the first place being up at 3 a.m. -- this just adds to the pointlessness of it all.  Chortle, the reporters just takes the cake!

Did you get that "nothing" was reported 3 times???????

So, I'm now upstairs, because I realize I forgot my reading glasses, and I go back downstairs to get them.

DH is still in a fog, TV is still blaring, it's still dark out, it's still quiet outside with no traffic on the highway to hear, yet I hear.  I hear Mr Anchorman say, "I just like the plain kind.  Ripples are my favorite."

Oh good golly Miss Molly, I'm laughing so hard I have to hold my stomach, they have so little to report they're now discussing potato chips!

Wait for it.

You have to hear what DH says, it's priceless, a piece of cake, the fitting end to my little interlude.

Like Eeyore of Winnie the Pooh, with a slow negative shake of his head, coming out of his fog a bit, DH murmurs,

"It's a slow news day they have nothing to report."