No Worms On The BBQ!

We were gardening this morning, trying to get all the various veggies planted into the ground before they grow legs and walk away. Since we've only been living in this house for a few weeks, there was some maintenance to be done on the garden beds, mostly weeding and turning the soil. The beds were rather overgrown, so there was much weeding to be done. I've always thought of weeding as a chore, yet one more box to check on my list of gardening tasks. Today though, the Smalls were helping (in a loose interpretation of the word, that is...). To them, weeding was not a chore, it was a treasure hunt. The most coveted treasure of all? That would be the mighty.........earthworm.

Yup, they squealed with excitement at the appearance of each wriggling pink treasure, loudly proclaiming each one to be more wonderful than the last. Small 1 and Small 2 quickly decided that their calling in life was to run a worm farm. After much discussion about the proper home for said farm (the watering can was ruled out, as was Mommy's gumboot...a good thing, since Mommy was still wearing her boots...) they settled on a discarded plan pot. Once the worms were safely tucked away in their new home, a debate arose regarding what the most appropriate food for the little darlings would be (the worms, not the Smalls). Small 2 pitched a rather persuasive argument for pizza and ice-cream, but Small 1 held her position and firmly decreed that they had to be fed...................poo.

By this point, the weeding was finished, and I was pretending to be very busy planting the squash, so the Smalls wouldn't notice the tears of laughter (or were they tears of fear regarding where this would lead?) running down my cheeks. Small 1 went on to inform Small 2, in that perfect "Big Sister" tone, that her teacher had told her that worms eat poo. (For the record, I'm pretty sure she just misinterpretted that particular science lesson, and that the Grade One teacher isn't actually going around telling kids that worms eat poo) The conversation carried on, turning to the type of poo they'd need for the worms. Since their thought process was pretty neat, and because I'd just finished poop scooping the yard (and therefor niavely thought that they'd realize there was no poo to be had) I let them ramble on. Correction. I was going to let them ramble on, until I heard Small 2 whisper to Small 1, "let's check the diaper pail".

Mean Mommy Award #5638469 was unanimously bestowed upon me when I cut them off at the back door, and informed them that, sadly, worms do not eat poo, and would be much happier with some apple peels and carrot ends. Crisis averted, I finished planting the veggies, and was chatting on the phone when I noticed the BBQ lid opening and closing (this is never a good sign, unless it's dinner time). It got very quiet on the other end of the phone (and across the street where a party was just getting started) when I suddenly yelled out "NO worms on the BBQ!". (The phone silence lasted all of .25 of a second before it erupted into uncontrolled laughter...thanks, Mom)

Why exactly were they going to BBQ the worms? With angelic little faces, they calmly informed me that their pot was actually a worm ranch and that's what ranchers do: they BBQ stuff. For the sake of the worms (and my soil, who am I kidding...) I took one for the team and earned yet another Mean Mommy Award (you should see my trophy case!) by mandating that all worms were to remain in their pot.

Now I just need to clean the dirt out of the BBQ....

Feel free to come by for dinner any time...I hear the Worm-Kebabs are pretty darn good!

Welcome to Chaos....

Like many other parents, my goal is fairly simple...I try to stumble through the day without letting anyone know that I'm not sure what I'm doing. I'd say that about 90% of the time, I don't have a clue if I'm doing this whole parenting thing right. (The other 10% of the time, I'm sure I've irrevocably scarred my children and ruined any chance they ever had to lead a normal life.)

You see, I'm doing this on my own. No one to bounce ideas off of, no one to tag team with when the little darlings (there are three of them, by the way) wage a full on frontal assault on my parental authority (which happens far too often for a 3,5, and 6 year old, I think...do they take “Parental Weakening 101” in the womb or something?). No one to pat my shoulder and hand me a stiff drink when they reduce me to sobbing quietly in the corner, rhythmically thumping my head on the wall (I'm kidding. Sort of. I do have a very good friend who provides me with wine). It's hard. To be Mom and Dad, to try and guide their little spirits without crushing their little hearts, to sew Halloween costumes and chop firewood, to bake muffins and repair the leaky drain under the sink, to constantly be trying to do so many things at once, yet be forced to accept the fact that I am unable to do everything that needs doing, no matter how thinly I stretch myself. At the end of the day, one person cannot be two people, no matter how hard they try. My children have a hole in their lives, where their father should be, which breaks my heart. (They do see him, but geography makes those visits few and far between). We struggle with that, but we work around it, and get through our days. They are healthy, happy children, who light up my world like no ray of sunshine ever could.

Which is not to say that I get it right all the time...just last night I took myself out of the running (for about the 15 thousandth time) for “Mommy of the Year”. Small 1 and Small 2 were fighting. Over what, I can't remember, but they were NOT impressed with each other, and were showing it by screaming at the top of their lungs. Since I couldn't begin to understand what the problem was, and because they were both out of control, I sent them to their room. This prompted Small 1 (she's 6, in case you're wondering) to scream at me “I'M GOING TO SELL YOU TO THE GYPSIES!!”. The funniest part of that threat is that she has no idea how tempting her offer really was...

(Yes, I've threatened to sell my children to the Gypsies before. Actually, my personal standby is the “Kid Store”. Naughty children go to the “Kid Store” and Mommy gets to pick out a new one. Works every time. Before you run away in a horrified dash to Child Protective Services, I'd like to challenge you to find a mother who hasn't threatened to sell/trade/give away her child(ren) at least once in their lives. If you do happen to find one, rest assured that she's either a) lying; or b) still pregnant.)

But I do okay, and we're making it. I'll let you in on a little secret I stumbled upon a few months ago: my kids don't need me to be perfect. They need me to make them a healthy breakfast in the morning, but they don't really care if it doesn't get cleaned up until lunch time (or dinner time, since we're being honest here). They need me to wash their clothes, but really, they can wear them just as easily from the (clean) pile on the couch as from their dresser drawers. They need me to help them brush their teeth and wash behind their ears (although they'd tell you differently), but they don't think worse of me if the towels in the bathroom don't match. They need me to read them a story and tuck them in at night, but they rarely notice when the middle third of the book gets skimmed over.

Most of all, they need to know that they are loved, that my heart beats so much stronger and more vibrantly for being their mother, that nothing in this world comes before them. When they lay their little heads down, and close their tired eyes, they only need two things...to know that they are safe, and that they are loved more than they could ever fathom. If they know nothing but this every night, then I figure I'm doing just fine. Until the Gypsies knock on the door, that is.

*In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that in the 15 minutes it took me to write this blog post, Small 2 and Small 3 toilet papered the living room, abruptly ending any idealistic fantasies I had been harboring about a nice relaxing evening. Anyone need a few hundred feet of ready-to-use TP?*