Tuesday, March 8, 2011

When You Grow Hair, I'll Put Flowers In It

Hey Readers,

     I'm thinking of buying stock in laminate cleaner. The way that stuff cleans food off of floors, moves me to tears every time I haul out the bottle and start spraying like a mad woman. The only thing sadder than how excited I get, to play "Swiffer curling", is why I have to do it so much, in the first place. It's pretty simple; I feed my children like a dirty, little group of hippies. I teach "free squash" rather than "free love", but either or, it's starting to get out of hand, and the children are this close to seeing running through a field, naked, as a viable way of life. Ruh Roh Shaggy.

     For the past several months, I've been doing what every other, good commune mother would do, and feeding my babies, on the floor. Indian-style and barefoot, I've been carefully spooning sweet potatoes, to my pudgy friends. Pish posh, who needs highchairs? I thought......
We do, apparently, because once those kid's started moving, it was a free-for-all. Peas on the forehead, yogurt on the carpet, mixed vegetables in the ears. I managed to sound like a complete idiot at the same time.

"Honey, will you please sit down? Don't crawl away, we've got peaches for desert. Peaches? Anyone? You're probably crawling up the stairs because you didn't hear me. I said PEACHES."

Shear madness, I tell you.
 
     This backwards approach, to civilized dining, has resulted in husband finding us, evening after evening, in the same make-shift kitchen camp. Huddled on the floor, by the cabinets, the twins securely strapped into their respective seats, my significant other comes home to the sight of his bare-footed and crazy-haired wife trying desperately to A.) shovel food into tiny mouths, before they fling it back into her bangs, and B.) simultaneously trying to convince the same babies, that sitting in chairs, is what real people do, when they eat. "Eating on the floor again, honey?" "Eating on the floor again, my love. After you shower and dine, would you like to join us for some mud pie-making, by the watering hole?"
     Respectable families don't do this. Responsible mothers grow, harvest, cook and serve steaming, delectable dishes to their smiling babies, happily enjoying their highchairs. They don't sit on their kitchen floors, doing their best impression of Janis Joplin shoveling cold carrots, from plastic containers, into their offspring. It's eating, for crying out loud. It's not an exact science, but even cave women figured it out. "You sit in highchair. Me feed you." I'm now helping society digress. And, at this rate, I may just "digress" us to some sort of farm in Oregon.

Until Next Time Readers!