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!
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