Yesterday, in my attempt to be the perfect housewife who is nothing but organized and on the ball and all June Cleaver, I made an enormous pot of homemade chili. Except Hubs claims that what I made certainly ISN’T chili, because it had BEANS! BEANS! AND MORE BEANS! in it. Hubs swears to the jury that REAL chili is a pot of bean-free goodness, with nothing but chunks of meat the size of tennis balls and jalapenos.
He told me that I made goulash yesterday. Oh, he said it was FANTASTIC goulash… and he LIKED my goulash… but that it was goulash, nonetheless, what with his spoon holding forty-nine beans in every bite.
I was so proud of myself for finally thinking ahead, because the boy had soccer tonight, and I knew we could eat the leftovers for dinner, what with soccer falling at 5:45.
And then, in my HURRY THE SNOT UP quest to get to bed so that I could SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP! last night, I left the entire pot of chili cooling in the kitchen.
All. Night. Long.
Sadly, my very first thought when I noticed that pot of chili still sitting there, all congealed, this morning was not, “What a horrible waste of food!” No, ma’am. I would LIKE to have thought that first, but I didn’t. I couldn’t help myself. The thought was inside of my brain before I could stop it. My first thought was, “Crud. Now I have to cook again tonight!”
The moral of this story is that y’all should just hire chefs. Because personal chefs get paychecks, they are more diligent about making sure that the chili / goulash is put away for the evening, ensuring that there will be leftovers for the following dinner. Paid chefs who cook in your home are usually not knocking things over after the baby gets to sleep in their excitement to just GO TO SLEEP ALREADY.
Bless their hearts.
I’d just like to go on record and say that I grew up with one sister. Sister and I didn’t have brothers, whether plural or singular, so I really had no firsthand experience on living with young boys.
Until I married Hubs.
And then my eyes were opened.
And then we gave birth to the boy.
(And I use the term we loosely there, because it was only one of us who had a C-section when the epidural didn’t work and nearly fainted from pain when all the cutting began. The other one of us was just standing there, watching like he was at a bad horror show.)
Having the boy has opened my eyes to some things that boys do… differently… than girls.
Yesterday, what with me working around the house in my pearls and cardigan sweater like Mrs. Cleaver herself, and making chili in the crockpot ahead of time, and being all organized and efficient, I decided to wash the boy’s bedding. I won’t even tell you when the last time I washed his sheets and blankets was.
(Maybe because I can’t even remember when myself.)
(I’ll hang my head right here in shame.)
(And then I’ll play the Baby Card and say, “I would have loved to have given the boy fresh sheets that are more in line with the Department of Health’s standards, but I have a baby.”)
The boy makes his own bed, every single morning. I can tolerate many things. I can tolerate dirty floors for a few days. I can tolerate dirty bathrooms for a few days. What I cannot tolerate are unmade beds and dirty dishes in our house. No, sir. I try… and my OCD causes me to flat-out fail. So, our beds are made every day, every day, every day, and the dishes are done ALWAYS. The rest of the house falls apart from utter hoarders’ chaos, but dang it all! We have no dishes in our kitchen sink and our beds are made!
When I pulled the quilt off of the boy’s bed yesterday, I found a Geronimo Stilton book. Oh, yes. There was a book, beneath the quilt, at the foot of the bed. This didn’t alarm me too much, because all I could think was, “Thank goodness! There was obviously AT LEAST ONE NIGHT when our boy READ A BOOK in bed!” And I am all about the reading!
And then I pulled the first blanket off.
And I found a short section of Lego fence, of the simulated IRON FENCE AROUND A CASTLE variety, and a grape stem that had once held approximately twenty green grapes.
And then off came the sheets, and inside of the sheets at the foot of the bed, I found two Lego minifigures, MY TWEEZERS THAT HAVE BEEN MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH, a pair of fingernail clippers, a section of black electrical wire that was four inches long, a rock the size of a dime, a Pop Tart wrapper, a twisty tie from a loaf of bread, one double-A battery, AND a woven bracelet.
I wish that I was making this stuff up.
All I could think was…
So, the boy’s bed is clutter free now. I washed everything in EXCEPTIONALLY HOT water, with Tide… and then some EXTRA Tide… because really? Do you think BUGS weren’t having a hay day at the foot of the boy’s bed?… and I remade the bed without the contents of his rat’s nest.
And all of that June Cleaver business of making chili / goulash and digging out the boy’s sleeping area yesterday, made me long for simpler times…
…when all you had to do was plow the earth by hand and plant your squash and harvest it and cook it over an open fire and sweep your dirt floor and pray to Jesus every night that a rattlesnake wouldn’t find his way into your sod house.
Y’all have a happy Tuesday.