Excuse Me, But That Wasn't In My Contract

Don't be fooled by those sweet puppies to your left. If you're a little squeamish about bodily fluids, I want to give you fair warning to click now, and get the heck out of this blog. It's gonna get gross in here.

Ok, this one's for the die hards.

When I married the man, we were very clear about what was and wasn't in the contract. He really wanted me to manage the food - cooking, reservations, whatever - but he didn't want to have to be in charge. Ok, it's a little retro, but I can handle that. I'm a control freak, I love to cook, this works. I can't stand poop - more specifically, dog poop - so I stipulated that I would never be required to pick up after the 4 dogs and 3 puppies he brought into the marriage, or any subsequent animals. Fine, says he, no biggie, he's got the poop under contol.

So this morning when I went down to our basement to take out the dogs, three, yes three, of them had pooped in their crates. Now I want you to imagine the disgust of this. There is a slight telltale scent when I start down the basement steps. It gets stronger as I walk through the nice big room to the unfinished crate room. But then, when I open the door, the stench of that bad boy slaps me in the face and nearly knocks me out with its evil power. It was clinging and noxious.

There, standing up in their new crates, are three of our four puppies. Each is covered in wet diarrhea. So what's my job? I have to reach in and encourage each puppy individually out of the crate, pray that he/she doesn't jump on me in greeting (fruitless) and then help said puppy up the stairs and out of the basement door to the backyard. So without actually cleaning up any of poop, I am already deep into it.

I'm sorry, I know this is really gross, but can you feel the complete and total yuck I'm having here? I'm not going to give you any more details because I hope you are feeling my pain by now. Suffice it to say that when I was done, I needed new clothes and a shower.

So what did I do after taking these remarkably dirty dogs out? I cleaned out their crates and then mopped the floor. Got on my knees and reached into the grossness to make sure it was really clean in each crate. Got dog poop under my fingernails because I forgot my rubber gloves. Dude, this is so not in my contract.

But this morning I didn't have it in me to hold the man to our quaint little contract. The mess was making me retch, and it was relatively fresh. It would be so mean to make him clean it up later, when he gets home from work.

And to me, the events of the morning are like a tiny window into the work of my marriage. This time it was me who had to do what I was never supposed to do, what I never agreed to, but that was just chance. Could have been him. Next time probably will be.

Save My Toast!

Oldest child tells me that writing about gardening is incredibly dull when I could have shared the toast incident. "Now that was funny," she says. "You have to stop writing about things that are so boring."

So here it is.

We were having our usual morning on a Wednesday. Oldest child caught the middle school bus at 7:15. Once she was out the door, I had 45 minutes until the next bus, which we spent on cartoons, cereal, lunches and getting dressed.

I got the usual request for cinnamon toast from my younger girl. Picky picky picky about her toast, it has to be just the right color pale brown, have just the right ratio of butter to cinnamon sugar and, most importantly, the crusts must be cut off. We had a misfire, that is to say that I burned the first batch of toast, requiring me to make more. Finally the toast was perfect, but a ticking clock forced the child to eat it on the road. We raced down to the bus stop, where we meet up with our neighbor and his kids. Being the slow poke that she is, she had only taken a bite or two out of her first slice (she had two) when the bus pulled up. She stopped to press the toast into my hand (no eating on the bus!) before running like heck, crying "Save my toast!" over her shoulder.

Once she couldn't hear us, my neighbor and I howled at the thought of it - right - I'm going to save the toast until she gets home. Then, when we turned around to walk back home, I lobbed the toast over the bushes and into the woods. We kept laughing about it as we walked all the way up the street.

Now it's 3:35 and my neighbor and I are again down at the bus stop, this time waiting for our children to get home from school. His dog has followed him down, because their electric fence keeps getting run over by the lawnmower, so the collar no does anything. Lucky comes and goes as he pleases, and this time he was pleased to come with us to the end of the street. Then he runs into the woods just as the bus pulls up.

Four kids come flying off the bus and the dog comes prancing out of the bushes to meet them with, you guessed it, the unbitten piece of cinnamon toast carried in his mouth like a serving tray.

"My toast!" my sweet girl cries in dismay. "You promised to save it!" and the sad thing is that there were actual tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. However, my neighbor cannot contain himself and has fallen down on the ground laughing. I have to say that I needed the laugh preventer to help myself maintain my composure and sympathy. Then the dog opened his mouth and swallowed the toast whole, making the kid laugh too.

Better?

My Hundred Dollar Tomatoes

I live in the land of apple orchards and farm stands. My neighbors all compost. There are gorgeous flower gardens and huge plots of tomatoes, cucumber and squash. There are even people who sell their backyard tomatoes and flowers at little stands in their front yards. We have a town garden, where you can rent a plot for the summer, and it is always sold out.

Can you feel the garden pressure yet?

I have lived in the country for 14 years. Fourteen falls of pathetic vegetable output. You'd think that 14 years would be long enough to figure out that I stink when it comes to growing things to eat.

I used to think my problem was water. I lived in a house that had only one inconveniently located tap in the front of the house and a big yard that was sunny for twelve hours a day. I made too big a plot that was too far away from the house. I would drag hoses from one side to the other and it was a big pain. It was so much work.

Gals I know would tell me about how much money they saved in the summer, eating produce they grew. I thought, Gee, I could save money if I would just be willing to carry some hoses.

And then I moved to a yard that was easier to water and I started over again, very hopeful. This time I put the garden in a much better spot. But my plants didn't get very big. I got like one cucumber and two zucchini. I must have planted too late.

So the next year I got plants sooner and I made an above ground bed, thinking, Now I'll get great vegetables. And I got one bigger green pumpkin and a couple of orange ones, too small to carve.

Are you starting to see a pattern here?

Last year I planted heirloom tomatoes and they all died of blight. I bought special dirt - not your typical in a plastic bag dirt that you get at the hardware store. No, this is really special, in a black heap at the nursery, delivered to you in a truck load kind of dirt. I put it everywhere and I got incredible weeds. Not just crab grass, but remarkable, foot high crab grass. That and the incredibly dead tomatoes.

I bought a composter myself - and threw in various kinds of food garbage, not to mention grass clippings, old leaves and other recommended stuff. Then, to take it up a notch, I bought compost accelerator - this organic stuff (it's all organic - has to be organic) that I poured on the stuff to make it compost more quickly. Plus this year more heirloom tomato plants, because last year was so wet - you can't go by one wet year, can you? - and here is my embarrassing output for the year:

Tomatoes: Maybe 10 pounds - probably more like 5. Plant cost: $25

Leeks: They are the size of small green onions and there are 10 of them. Plant cost: $12

Potatoes: Maybe 5 pounds of harvest. Plant and pot cost: $36

We're not talking about the cost of the special dirt, the composter, the compost accelerator, the tomato fertilizer (organic is always more expensive), the cone things to give them water when you leave town, etc. etc. etc.

Will one of my devoted readers please help me remember to just shop at the farmstand next year? I don't think my bank account can take another Petter harvest.

Life on the Chain Gang

My family has a little first day of school tradition. We all go down to the bus stop together, the kids strap on their new backpacks, and we pose for pictures. I know, this sounds pretty much like every other family's tradition. Who cares! And what makes it especially fun is the annual neighborhood first day of school shot, where we line all the kids up and check out how much they've grown since last year.

This year the drill changed just a little bit - we all got up a little earlier because the oldest two, mine and my neighbor's, started middle school. So early Tuesday morning, we all run down to the bus stop, six kids and three adults, laughing and taking our annual pictures. There are lots of hugs, kisses on tops of heads and last minute adjustments. And then the bus arrives.

Now I'm used to the perky, cute, elementary school bus. The tiny kindergartners sit up front and everybody blows kisses to their mom as the bus pulls away. So the bus starts to pull in and my hand goes up to wave, just like it always does. And then I see them – a long line of enormous stony faces with their deadpan stares in every window. My new middle schooler quickly pulls away from me. I drop the camera just as fast. I don't think I've ever been so uncool in my life.

"Wow," my honey says, "She's joining the chain gang!" And we laugh, he, my neighbor and I, because it is so damn true. Clueless before, we get it now. But once the bus goes hiding behind the trees, my neighbor and I quickly blow our babies one last kiss.

3 More Business Days Till I Get My Life Back!!!

It's 5:45 in the morning, I'm sitting up in bed chatting with my sweetie, who is busy getting dressed for work. I start telling him about our visit to the vet yesterday, a subject I think he'll find interesting, seeing as he's the reason we have all these dogs. He turns to me and says, with a huge grin, "Oh my god your life is boring! I'm really sorry!" and we both crack up because it is so damn true.

Ok, I'm sorry all you fabulous home-schooling mothers, who I have tremendous respect for. So before we go any further, let me just say that what you are doing is magnificent work, a wonderful use of your time and energy, and your children will be better for it.

Whew. Not that there's anything wrong with home schooling, but I WOULD LOSE MY MIND if I had to have these kids around me 24/7 for 52 weeks a year. I am totally the Staples ad, singing "It's the best time of the year," to myself each time I pick up another new folder or box of pencils. I CAN'T WAIT to shove their little behinds on to that bus and get back to my real life.

Ok, the puppies and bunnies have created a nice diversion. (Did I mention that said sweetie brought home ANOTHER PUPPY on Sunday? This one all the way from New Jersey?) Loved spending time with my whole family on vacation, especially the part where I got to read on the beach. But I am SO READY to move on to fall. Can't you see it in the ALL CAPS that I keep writing in?

Oh, and since I'm offending people with this post, I might as well fess up to another sin. It suddenly occurred to me the other day, while putting out cat food, that the cat might be pregnant. I know - I should know how these things work by now - but our focus was always on trying to get animals (including humans) pregnant, not trying to avoid it. Come to find out, via a quick visit to the vet, that I kind of blew it with the cat. Vet offered a solution, which I jumped at. Am I a horrible person? Which brings us back to where we started. You probably would be bored by the vet conversation too. But thanks for making the effort.

Mama, Can I Keep Them?

While attempting to sell one more puppy (move them out!) the nature aspect of our home got totally out of control. There were two puppies racing around the back and a couple more running up and down the stairs to the deck. Suddenly we hear this very strange noise.

"Go and check that out," my sweetie says to the 11-year old. She doesn't move. We hear the noise again, and it appears to be coming from the racing puppies. "No really, go and see what is going on," and he gives her a little push.

"Daddy?!" she cries and he goes rushing over.

"Get me some towels!" he says. I run into the basement and grab a bunch of dog towels, wondering what the heck I'm getting into. I run back out and discover that our sweet puppies have pulled some newborn rabbits out of their burrow and are carrying them around the yard.

I gently picked one up and cradled it in the towel. I've never seen such tiny things. There are two of them, eyes still shut, about 3 inches long each, with tiny little ears that are just starting to sprout. The kids come flying over to see them and ask the inevitable: "Mama, can I keep them? Please?!"

We searched around the yard and found a few more in the nest, which is across from the bulkhead door for our basement. We tucked the tiny sweeties back into their grassy beds and set up a portable dog pen around it to keep the puppies away. I've been taking little sneaky peaks into the nest each day. Today their eyes are open and a tiny foot kicked at me when I lifted the grass.

Down Time

I'm in a frenzy of unwashed laundry, trying to push it through the system before we leave on vacation tomorrow. I am finding that there are few things that I treasure more than those quiet moments on vacation with my family. Like the quiet when my honey and I have our reading lights on, going blind trying to read because we couldn't possibly sleep because it's so early, while the kids toss and turn and slowly go to sleep. Or the quiet hug that happens because one kid is cold with blue lips and the other two aren't ready to get out yet.

I'm trying to take it all in, because I know that when I blink it will be over. They'll be jumping in cars with their friends, moving into apartments and going to the beach with their own families. In the meantime, better wash me some more swimsuits.

And You Think You Have Pet Hair Issues!

It's at least 90 degrees out. Russell's brushing dogs this afternoon and this is what my porch looks like at the moment. The collies are dropping their winter coats. Pretty awesome, isn't it? And this is just from the first two. There are seven more to go!

Don't have much to say about this - I think in this case the picture is worth at least 10,000 words. Just looking at it makes me hot. I'm going to get a glass of ice water now.

The Freedom of the Big Fail

I made an incredibly ugly shed this week. I didn't mean to – it was supposed to be fabulous. In fact, I secretly pride myself on having an incredible color sense. On my mom's side there were generations of Scottish weavers, and I imagine myself to be the beneficiary of their collective artistic magic. I don't announce this to people, but I think it, when I'm all alone.

So we have this shed in our backyard. A standard wooden shed, which doesn't have to be painted, but had weathered to kind of an ugly blackish brown. I followed Martha's advice and picked out colors after lots of deliberation. I painted swatches to see them in all kinds of light. I looked at it for days, soliciting opinions and only listening to the ones I liked. (Isn't that always the way?) Then I painted and I got help from a variety of inexperienced young painters.

Check out my ugly shed! Everyone's been really quiet about it - a sure sign that it's ugly. Finally today I got a comment that I think kind of sums it up. My friend had called me artistic a few minutes before. Then I showed him the shed.

"Wow! What are you going to paint it?" he said.

"I just painted it. I think I don't like it," I replied – to give him room to say he liked it.

"It's awful – someone else picked the colors?"

"Nope – all me - and you just called me artistic, remember?"

"Yeah...well your artistry is really with words, you know?"

I don't always give myself permission to have the big ugly failure. I'm worried about what people will think of me and hate to draw attention to myself. I make the small quiet tidy choice, instead of the bold, potentially horrific one. And I'd like to thank my sweet husband for being pretty nice about the ugly shed. I am trying to fix it, it just might take me a while to figure out how. Now that I'm properly humbled, I'd love your suggestions.

I Love the Name Stephen Hawking, Don't You?

You never know what you're going to hear when you're driving kids in the car. As you turn the key, you become magically invisible and they talk as if they are alone. And it starts young – even toddlers are not immune.

This was the conversation that I got to overhear as we went to school recently:

"I love the name Stephen Hawking, don't you?" says one first grade twin to his sister.

"Is that what you're going to name your baby?"

"Maybe. Especially if it's a boy. He has ALS, so he is in a wheelchair. He talks with a machine."

"I'm not going to name my baby Stephen Hawking."

"That's ok."

Life Off the A-List

Someone tracked dog doo on the carpet and up the stairs yesterday. I scrubbed up that mess, and followed it up with a few more minutes cleaning up cat yorp. This is my life. All the while I mused about something my friend told me at lunchtime – my town has an A-list.

My life has been spent pretty much off the A-list. I was the kid everyone fought to have on the other team in kick ball. Never a cheerleader, didn't make homecoming queen, passed over for a sorority. Don't get me wrong - I've had my share of friends - good ones. I'm quite happy and I think pretty well-adjusted. But I find myself being envious of the people who are invited to all the right everything, and yet I'm a little uncomfortable once I'm actually in the room.

In my imagination, A-listers never have to deal with mundane matters like bodily fluids. They have people calling them for intimate dinners, cocktail parties and weekends away. Their children get invited to all the nice birthday parties and their houses are always clean, with fabulous furniture.

I have a lot of ambition too, but the social kind, or maybe it's just social savvy, got left out of my DNA. I'm left with my own day dreams about becoming a back-up singer, what I'd make to win a Project Runway challenge, and my Nobel Prize acceptance speech. Like my bathrobe?

The Reign of Terror Is Ended

I have located the talking toy. It is a tiny veterinary establishment, complete with x-ray machine and examining table. When you touch the x-ray viewing module, it says in a British accent, "There, aren't you feeling better now?"

I think the cat was getting an x-ray. It was either that or some kind of haunting.

I have disabled the toy by removing its power source. Be silent, cheerful British woman!

Lessons From the Field

It's baseball season. In the Junior Farm League, we play at least twice a week, usually in back of the school, but sometimes behind the rod and gun club. I know they're safe, but those gun club games just seem wrong. You've got guys shooting guns on the other side of a hedge behind the outfield. Other guys ride ATV's on a road that goes off into the woods. Some of us parents are collectively freaking, but the boys don't seem to notice.

Corralling first grade boys on to the field is a lot like herding cats. They can't figure out their positions and often end up a few on one side, none on the other. Some kid hit a beautiful pop fly last night and five kids ran into each other trying to make the catch at third base. Right after that, the first baseman, who likes catching balls, tried to run to third because there were more hits there. Makes sense to me.

My sweet boy is the team goofball. He smiles and laughs through almost the entire game. When he gets tired, he sits. When he squats in "baseball position," he often falls down. And yesterday he had three hits.

And So We Begin

I came home last night to find the puppies eating dinner out of my newest ceramic roasting pan and my child eating cereal out of a dog dish. That pretty much sums up life in the Petter household. This is a place where the dog, in fact, will eat your homework, the cat sleeps in an American Girl doll bed and laundry goes on and on for days.

I have to stop here for a moment. A toy just started talking to me - for no reason, no reason at all! What does it want from me? Ok, all is quiet again.

So as I was saying, there is a lot of laundry that goes undone in my house. Go do your own, and we'll chat on the morrow. But wait, have you seen my puppies? They are very cute. Enjoy!