Holy Cow

When I was little we had a neighbor called Chug.  Why was he called Chug? I have no idea.  Maybe he was a railroad man, maybe he was a party-er, maybe his full name was Chugford.  I just don't know.  What I do know is Chug had cows and occasionally those cows got out.

The memories I have of Chugs cows are laced with terror.  Once, along with my sister and the neighbor children I huddled at the center of a trampoline safely out of reach of the formidable beasts.  There we sat bawling as we awaited rescue.

Another time after fleeing to the safety of the neighbors back door and admitting myself with out bothering to knock I stood frozen against the screen door.  In the refuge of the door way, after the flight response had settled, I began feeling uneasy over my hasty decision to skip knocking.  I didn't dare venture any further into the house.  In truth, I was anxious to escape before I was discovered trespassing, but I knew that out there beyond the perimeter of the carport lurked gigantic and frightening cows.  I was stuck, too scared to proceed in either direction. 
I have no memory of how the situation resolved.


What I'm trying to relate here is the general temperature of the relationship between myself and members of the bovine family during my formative years. These terrifying experiences continued to flavor my interaction with bovinia for years to come.  


The truth is, my fear of cows has never really been an issue for me despite it's ongoing presence in psyche.  Like your average suburban woman I've only rarely come into contact with the animals and when the circumstances arose that I was near a cow or two they were easy to avoid.  Stay well back from the fence, leave all petting zoo responsibilities to the Mr and that's that.  Mission accomplished. No contact with cows.  


But guess what I did on Wednesday?

I milked one.

Actually I'm not sure you can truthfully call what I did "milking."  I tried to milk.  I succeeded in landing about an ounce of milk in the bucket.  Soon thereafter a fly drowned in that hard-won ounce and the whole of it had to be thrown out.

The good news is, I've grown as an individual.  I stood in the pasture with not only the cow but also a horse and a goat and felt only slight trepidation.  When my turn came to milk I worried more about how we're going to manage being fully responsible for the care and milking of this animal for an entire nine days than I was about anything else.

Getting the milk from the udder to the bucket, it turns out, is on the tricky side.  The cow didn't have a lot of patience with my futile attempts and kept walking away.  The good news is: The Mr had a very healthy relationship with cows in his childhood.  Armed with that and his previous milking experience he did much better than I.  Still we're both going to need to fit in some practice before we're  left to do the milking on our own.


   

Baby can eat

All of the best birthday photos of Duke involved birthday foods. We planned the dinner menu based on what we wanted to eat ourselves as Duke boy does not yet have a favorite dinner that I'm aware of.

He may not have a favorite dinner as of yet but he does have preferences for snack foods. Among these preferences are warm chewy pretzels so I whipped up a batch in his honor.

 

 

 

I was also at a loss as to the flavor of cake he favors and was forced to guess. Just so we're clear, when I say "guessed" what I mean is "chose my own current favorite," (chocolate cake with cookie dough frosting if you must know) I'm pretty sure he was happy with my decision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

decisions

For my birthday (it was yesterday) I'm getting pictures printed to fill the gaps in my collage wall. I need to pick a photo of baby Enzo but I can't decide. Please everyone tell me tell me your opinion of which photo I should pick and then I'll go ahead and do whatever I want regardless of your suggestions.

I suppose regardless isn't exactly the word I'm looking for. I'm hoping hearing other opinions will awaken a preference within myself. Like when you're choosing between nail polish or ice cream flavors and you do eenie meanie miney mo but then pick the losing thing because it's losing made you realize you were rooting for it. So I'll certainly regard all the advice I'm given I just don't promise to abide by it.

Are you a band-aid mom?

I am not. 90% of the time if my kid asks for a band-aid I answer "suck it up." Ok, my actual answer is more like "I don't think you need one," but I liked the dramatics of the first for the sake of the post.

 When I was a kid wanting band-aids I got the same response from my mama. Sometimes she threw in the story about when she was little and they didn't even have ban-aids. If they needed a bandage they tied a clean rag around the injured appendage.

 When I did get an injury that warranted bandaging I went to great lengths to protect the hard won plastic strip, carefully holding the bandaged knee, shin or elbow out of the bathwater to avoid soaking it off early. The chances of securing a replacement band-aid were so slim, great care had to be taken.

 By the time I was willing to part with the coveted bit of first aid it would be so cemented to my skin/leg hair that it took another soak in the tub to free it from my person. After being kept from the water during the previous bathing the skin around the band-aid would be gratuitously dirty. It was like magic watching my skin return to it's normal color as the layers of accumulated dirt lifted away.

 Even after all of that I grew up to be band-aid stingy just like my mother.

 The kids got band-aids in their Easter baskets this year. I thought I'd be able to let them enjoy their sticky prizes in peace but it wound up being too much for me. I put the Easter band-aids in the band-aid drawer. I got scared that the kids would get used to having band-aids in their own control and then, lousy with bandaging power, they'd never again submit to my control of first aid supplies.

 When Enzo swims he does a lot of clinging to the side of the pool and crawling around on the steps. As a result he always comes home from a pool encounter insisting that his fingers are bleeding. "Look. See? They're RED!" If I had a nickel for every time I've said the words "If it's not dripping it's not bleeding," during the past few weeks, well then, I'd have myself some twenties of cents.

 One day after swimming he sneaked into my bathroom and helped himself to the band-aids. I couldn't really be mad since, in all fairness, those band-aids are his. That he was able to bandage all five fingers on his right hand without assistance is pretty impressive. Sadly his bandaging extravaganza happened mere minutes before bath time. I found all seven (two on the other hand) band-aids water logged in the bottom of the tub when he was done.

This is why I lock them up.

In case you're the captain of a pirate ship

Moo did some investigating and found that there are certain risks involved when wearing chocolate covered pretzels as eye patches.

Just wanted to pass that along to any other would-be pirates out there.

Watermelon bowl

The bowl at the end of the melon is always a coveted summer time treat. I remember the first time my mama let me have one.  I asked if I could have it expecting to be refused,  and she said something along the lines of  "yeah, ok"

It was a very casual affirmative, as though what I was asking was in no way a big deal.  It was the kind of answer I'd expect to get if I'd asked for permission to read a book or play in the back yard: things I didn't generally need permission to do.

The real kicker was, when I asked for the watermelon bowl that time it was between meals.  

You heard me.

It was not lunch, breakfast or even dinner time.  Bold as brass I up and asked for a super cool treat right in the middle of the non-eating part of the day and my mother... agreed to it.
Just like that.
Without even batting an eye.
She didn't sigh and say "oh, I guess" signifying that she thought better of but would rather give in than deal with a tantrum. She just said yes.

That was a good day.

After that I figured out all I had to do if I wanted the bowl was keep my eyes open when the melon was being sliced.  Practice patience as the half and three-quarters marks were met, and wait.  Soon the end would get too tippy to cut anymore off  and it would most likely become available. If there was a melon-baller in the equation I would be out of luck, and of course the other kids wanted the bowl too so I wasn't without competition but just knowing the opportunity was available made a difference.  

You may have noted that I only speak of the bowl and the final end of a watermelon. Sure, there's a bowl and the beginning of the melon as well but with the whole massive fruit there to provide stability during the first cut, that one tends to be on the scrawny side. Mostly rind with only a bite or two of red juiciness.  The first bowl is for amateurs.

Of course it does have certain tactical merits.

You can do things like tell your little brother "Ok fine, you have the bowl. I'll just wait until the whole watermelon is gone and have the other side,"

Now, there are a couple different ways you can play this.  I'll outline two of them.  Both approaches have their merits.  You just have to decide which will serve best in the situation at hand. 

The first is to act very benevolent and possibly a little sad to be missing out.   Go with this if there's something you need from the brother in question. If he feels a little bit indebted things will be all the better going into future negotiations. The second is to act perturbed and impatient. This tactic works well because it leaves the boy feeling triumphant.  He'll be so blinded by his good fortune, he'll be less likely to notice when the time comes for you to claim your own true victory.  The little twerp  will think he's won and all you"ll have left to do is bide your time until the real prize becomes available. Mwahahahahahahahaaa!

Anyway...what was I saying?  Oh, right. watermelon is delicious.
Have a nice day.

One year ago today

My alarm went off this morning at 4:58 I got up, went straight to my camera and up the stairs to Duke's bed where I took his first birthday minute picture.

Then since I was up I thought I might as well make myself useful.
All morning I juxtaposed what I did against what I was doing a year earlier.

This year I was mixing a birthday cake. Last year I snuggled a warm, wet sugar lump of baby.
This year I licked a chocolatey whisk clean.  Last year, surrounded by support-women I made my way on wobbly legs from the birthing tub to my bedroom while waiting for a stubborn placenta.
This year I hopped in the shower, rushing to hop out again before the cake finished baking.  Last year I stepped in slow and careful.  My midwife waited on the opposite side of the curtain while I washed up in case I lacked the strength to hold myself upright long enough to get clean.
Last year Moo was the first to venture into my room wide eyed and curious to meet her baby brother.  This year she was first again, only this time she found me blow drying my hair rather than sitting in bed eating toast.
Last year Enzo crawled into my bed beside me for a snuggle and nearly sang with delight when I hugged him close "You don't have a puff!" This year he wandered in to my room after Moo and announced that he was up before she was he just came down an sat on the sofa rather than come in to find me.
This year my Duke spent the morning dragging his blanket around and demanding the attention of his father.  Last year he slept and snuggled delighted all with his soft fuzzy newborn-ness.

 A year is not long,

but then again, it is.