Garden-Variety

I would say that with the exception of Peter Rabbit and A Tale of Two Bad Mice I can't stand reading Beatrix Potter books to my kids. They are too verbose! However, the illustrations are quaint beyond measure and connect to the innermost cravings of my cottage-loving soul. Calico aprons, fresh vegetables, snipped herbs, Tudor homes with beams and thatched roofs, timeworn pastels formerly bright, stone walls, hedges, wooden cupboards and 3-legged stools, teacups, meandering country lanes fenced with droopy blossoms. I wish I were British! I need a country holiday complete with a cold ham and wild strawberry picnic.

I see so much of my day-to-day in her pictures. My book of life is ordinary, mundane, garden-variety. Its common pages are as simple as butter lettuce but as filling as mincemeat pie.

I spend most of my time and money on efforts relating to the pantry. I'd like to think that mouse is hiding her stash of quality chocolate up high where the rugrats can't sniff it out. Speaking of cooking all the live long day, I saw this online and really did laugh outloud (which is rare). I plan my meals two weeks at a time and this is accurate. By the last Saturday I'm like, "What do you mean a Sunbelt bar and some weird spreadable cheese we got in a gift basket two years ago isn't filling you up? Have some rancid nuts from the back of the pantry or some almond milk that's been open for more than seven days! Dad and I are going out!"

 

 

I iron Greg's wrinkle-free shirts that aren't crisp enough. I iron all my drip-dry items (40% of my wardrobe). I iron Sunday's cloth napkins. I iron Archer's and Everett's shirt collars; the tiniest collars in town. I love me some ironing. Equally therapeutic to vacuuming and mowing. I don't mind laundry, probably because RE does her own and I don't have to work too hard to stay on top of ours. Plus, folding the little boy batch gives me joy. Archer has underwear now and I'm not sure the cute-o-meter can go any higher than it does for superhero boxer briefs. Even baby hedgehogs can't get the score mini briefs get.

 

I remind the boys to share. We need two of everything. The biggest problem is there's only one Dad, and Everett is a tad jealous if Archer is on his lap. Sharing Dad's lap doesn't cut it. Not with the baby of the house.

  

I clean dirty faces and sticky hands. My top three least favorite things to wipe off are oatmeal, syrup, and Easy Mac a.k.a. Yellow Death. Easy Mac somehow manages to stain my white kitchen table. I have to scrub the stains off with wet baking soda and elbow grease. I'm talking about the Easy Mac that says "no artificial colors". It's unsettling.

Baths around here are hit or miss. RE drains a tank for herself, what is left goes to the boys. Boy baths are either double giggles or aquatic apocalpyse. Archer still can't get his hair wet and Everett prefers to stand. We are phasing Everett into morning showers with Dad. That is why this picture strikes a chord with me. All three kittens have eyes that are saying, "Don't mess with mom. She's unleashed the crazy. She hasn't started dinner, she's pms-ing, and Dad is in traffic. Best to let her wipe us off without any resistance."

 

I get super tired at 5 pm and then rue the day I married someone in retail. For the next two hours I watch the clock, counting down the minutes until Greg is home. He winds me up; I scuttle about with fresh energy for four more hours. Or six. Depends on my list. I never love Greg more than when he walks in from work.

 

Last, but certainly not least, I fantasize about summer, when Greg will take all three kids to fish at the cabin while I stay home in a silent stupor of splendor.

All illustrations by Beatrix Potter.