On Fridays, we usually head down to our Mr. Ryan’s workshop for two hours of wood carving, visiting, and enjoying the smells of a well-kept work shop. Smells of leather, wood, a little grease, and a hot fire burning in an old-fashioned cook stove.
After we arrived and the little kiddos climbed up on mounted saddles (where they play), LBG (Little Big Guy) began cutting some wood on a jigsaw, and Scout started painting, I took my boots off, and propped my feet up on the handle of the wood stove. Mr. Ryan brought me a coffee, and I began to relax. MMMmmmmm. I love this place.
I began to relax and thought about our morning at My Whit’s end.
My Morning: I began by making the rounds to the two kiddo’s rooms to wake them. I always hate to wake up the warm, sleeping, bodies “nestled all snug in their beds.” I was dressed, but hadn’t yet addressed the issue of my hair when there was a knock on the door. “8:30 is an unusual time for Jehovah Witnesses or siding salesmen,” I thought. I opened the door to a very cold lady who introduced herself as my new neighbor. She asked to borrow my phone. “Of course,” I said.
Introductions and explanations followed. She had got into her car and started it, intending to go to work; then realized that it was Trash Day. She quickly ran back in and took the trash out, locking the door behind her. When she tried to open her car door, she realized that it had automatically locked. Her truck was running, and her keys and cell phone were inside the car. We were the fifth door on which she had knocked. Thankfully, she was a Michigan native, and dressed in a warm coat, but her hat and gloves were safely locked in her car. I checked the thermometer, and it was 13 degrees Fahrenheit.
Oh I can SO relate. We have a spare key hidden outside just for that reason. We keep the new hiding location a secret as the previous location was neighborhood knowledge. A summer ago, when I was running late to baseball, I locked myself out. I went for the ceramic chicken that if shaken laid our spare keys. I shook and shook, but the ceramic hen refused to lay any keys. I checked inside, and the keys were missing. So I went to the car loaded with late-to-baseball-kiddos and asked, in a very Mommi voice, “What happened to the spare house keys?” It turned out that they had had a treasure hunt the day before, and my spare keys were the hidden treasure. “But why didn’t you put them back?” I demanded. “Well. . . ,” they said, “because we never found the buried treasure.”
After some questioning, I discovered that our next door neighbor had been the pirate who had hidden the treasured keys. Thankfully, she was home and said that the treasure had been buried somewhere in the sandbox. Fortunately, the garage was unlocked, so we were able to each get a shovel and start shoveling the sand/mud box for the buried treasure. I hit metal, and pulled out some very sandy keys. I tried to brush them off a bit, but in my hurry just jammed them into the backdoor lock. I entered the house and grabbed my keys and headed back out. I couldn’t get my spare keys out of the backdoor lock. Finally, with one angry Mommi pull, the spare keys did come out, but our back door has never been easy to open since that crazy-late-for-baseball-buried-pirate-treasure-day.
Our neighbor couldn’t get anyone on the phone. Finally she reached her partner who didn’t want or couldn’t leave work to rescue her. Our neighbor called her insurance and they sent a tow truck out to open her car door. Apparently, as long as the engine is running, they will open the car door–otherwise you have to call the expensive-not-covered-by-insurance locksmith. Our car was also running in our driveway as we were scheduled to have left for Mr. Ryan’s 10 minutes earlier. I crept upstairs and surreptitiously called Mr. Ryan to inform him that once again, we would be running late, but this time I had a good excuse.
Back downstairs, I fixed our neighbor and myself a cup of coffee and invited her to sit down until the tow truck arrived. I still hadn’t addressed the issue of my harum-scarum hair, so I made a quick stop by the bathroom to at least brush it. Once in there, I remembered that Little Man had either dumped his bottle all over himself or peed all over himself in the middle of the night. I had been too sleepy to figure out why he was so wet, so I had just added a waterproof pad on top of the wet sheets, then added some clean blankets. I had changed his jammies, given him another bottle, and had then gone back to bed.
With an extra 20 minutes, I thought that I would throw him in the tub and get him clean. He is old enough to just leave in the tub and play, so I thought that I could finish my cup of coffee with our neighbor while he soaked. Back in our livingroom/classroom I visited with our neighbor a bit. I asked Scout to wash Little Man’s hair and get him out of the tub.
Scout came into the living room with a look on her face and said, “Mommi I think you’re going to have to. . . .” Before she even finished I knew what had happened. Yep. Little Man had pooped in the tub. So with harum-scarum hair, I donned purple rubber gloves, armed myself with bleach, and tried to slip past the living room/classroom without looking like I had completely lost my wits.
That was how we introduced ourselves to our new neighbor.
A typical morning at My Whit’s End.
Gulp. I swallowed some more of my coffee, and took my feet off the wood-stove. Little Man had Mr. Ryan’s golf cart keys. Keys are important. It is important for keys not to get lost. I needed to put my feet back down on the floor and become a parent again. The coffee by the fire had been wonderful–even if it hadn’t lasted more than 4 minutes. Being a Mommi is also wonderful–in a harum-scarum sort of way.