At The Carwash

One of R.J.'s favorite songs is Rose Royce's "Car Wash." Obvious reasons. It's catchy. It involves cars. And it invites hip shaking, finger pointing, foot shuffling fun. And, at this particular car wash "the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool."

We ask R.J. who's the boss frequently--an important reminder for a three-year old.

For months, every morning R.J. washes cars in the sink while the boss (me, of course) gets ready for work.  Trucks, sports cars, and even the occasional plane have been seen getting their bumpers and wheels scrubbed in my sink.

Lately, I've even allowed R.J. to play puddle duck with Cat Duck (a rubber duckie decked out for Halloween as a cat--in a bizarre twist on natural selection).  I should have known.  Last week, he played puddle duck for nearly 20 minutes while I enjoyed  20 minutes to drink a cup a tea at the kitchen table. It was quiet. Quiet is rarely good.

He decided Cat Duck needed a deeper pond. So, he blocked the drain with a hand towel. Then, the flood came, and the pond got too deep. So, he unblocked the drain. He was soaked. The floor was soaked--admittedly, a little warm water can't hurt my bathroom floors (I'm not a mopper, per se). But, they, "what goes around comes around." My time was getting close.

My grandma wasn't a particularly grandmotherly type. She smoked Kents and was an avid fisherwoman--including the cleaning, gutting and cooking part. But, she loved me. I know this because she let me and my cousin  play ooshie-gooshie in her old porcelain sink. "Let" being used in it's loosest sense. Given the opportunity, we would disappear into the bathroom with the sole purpose being to see if and whether we could use the entire bar of soap up before Grandma caught us. We could. And did.

When I was four, we moved into a new house in a new neighborhood.  I had a next door neighbor friend who was four too. One beautiful summer day, we decided to sunbathe--as four year olds would do. (It was 1981, and women were mixing baby oil with iodine to get that natural sunny glow). We took an entire bottle of baby oil and started to work. We coated our feet. And then we skated from one end of the porch to the other. Carefully, so as not to miss any spots, we worked the baby oil into the corners around the porch posts. I hope baby oil has a curative effect; I tell myself it is for this reason that my parents' house still looks so lovely.  It must be the protective coating of baby oil on the front porch.

What goes around comes around. At the car wash, apparently. This Saturday morning, I convinced R.J. to go play with Daddy.  Daddy was sleeping. R.J. wanted to play car wash. No harm. Yet. You'd think the overwhelming scent of "Country Apple" wafting through the house would have roused me. Or Daddy (who was sleeping 10 feet away from the sink). But, we work long hours; I am nine months pregnant. We relish sleeping past 8 on a Saturday.

And so, while the Boss (and Daddy) were happily dozing, R.J. was happily washing a sports car, a cement truck, and his "creepy van." (we should probably learn to be a little more politically correct, but it is a creepy van). He washed them with half a bottle of apple scented lotion. The bathroom smelled lovely, and as I slip-slided across the soaked floor, I had nothing to do but shake my head and smile. Ooshie-gooshie, baby oil-scented memories. I called my mom and laughed. And, I set about figuring how to clear a lotion haze from the windshield of a cement truck.  For one Saturday, the boss at this car wash didn't mind when R.J. acted a fool.

Kitten Posters and Newsprint

I was (am) a loved daughter. When I was in the first grade, I knew I was loved. I had a rainbow striped dress that made me feel especially pretty, and when I accidentally dumped an entire bottle of Elmer's glue in my lap during achievement tests, my dad came and picked me up. Without complaint. And he let me wear my rainbow striped dress back to class. Even though it was totally out of season.

I had new Crayons and an American flag pencil box. My mom read me stories every night (a habit we continued for years--a habit that, honestly, we still continue, reading bits and pieces of interesting articles back and forth across the kitchen table).

But there was nothing quite like book order day to make me feel truly special. Book orders! Those thin, flimsy little fliers filled with fun things: choose your adventure! Sweet Valley High! Kitten posters! Oh, how I loved book order day.

R.J. started school two weeks ago. And, to my childish delight, he brought home a book order! Flimsy. Smells like old newsprint. Order forms no longer required (we order online now). We're starting early--he's only three. But, when book order day comes, he too will know the insurmountable joy of a new story at bedtime. (no kitten posters this time).

And I hope that when the inevitable call comes telling me that the "Big Issue" has indeed occurred*, I will collect him from school, clean him up, and remember to let him wear his favorite Thunder t-shirt back to class. Even if it's snowing and totally out of season.

*the "Big Issue"--having been previously defined as "Mommy, I need to go poop! We gonna have a big issue!"

The Game

I have been cleaning. And scrubbing. And dusting. And busting. Some call it nesting; I call it necessity. I hate cleaning out the kitchen. It's like confession: "Bless me father. I have sinned. It has been 3 years since I last saw the bottom shelf of the pantry. And I have wasted food.  There are stale Cheez-Its behind the instant 'taters, and I meant to cook the StoveTop last Thanksgiving. (or was it Thanksgiving 2009?)."

This time, our freezer hit rock bottom. Rock bottom being a gravely "ger-thunk! grrrriiiiind! ger-thunk!" All of which took place at 10:45 p.m.  We scrambled: "Open the door! Unplug it! Hit it with a hammer!" Anything to make it stop ger-thunking and risk waking up the sleeping toddler.

Turns out the ice maker had a leak that froze on some reactor-piece angering the freezer goblin to the point of slamming a fan blade repeatedly against an ice boulder stuck to the back of the freezer.

But, I'm a glass full kind of gal. So I took the opportunity to clean out the freezer. It's fun if you find the spoonful of sugar and make it a game. My game is this: what's the oldest thing in the kitchen (not counting the Polly Perk)? For years it was a jar of peanuts that I had moved from college to master's degree to job to law school to house. Dated 1998. Winner, winner peanut dinner.

Then my mom had a peanut craving and discovered the jar. Peanut dinner wasn't such a winner.

This time, I confess (Father, I have sinned), I found two perfectly wrapped, carefully preserved chicken breasts. Labeled. Ready to be cooked. "Chicken, November, 2007." 2007! Pre-R.J.

To the curb they go. And I mentally add another $10 to my food bank donation this year--restitution.

Sometimes I wonder just what magnificence will top the peanut dinner and the pre-child chicken. And then, just like magic...

R.J. had a tick. A tiny one. The scary kind. I read how to remove it. The article said to  "place the tick in a plastic bag in the freezer for future reference."  The article didn't say how far in the future.  Now I don't have to question what the next game winner will be: "Tick, September 5, 2011."

That little spoonful of sugar just waiting to make the game more interesting the next time we anger the freezer goblin. The glass is half full, and pending a rogue box of Aunt Jemima's pancake mix in the pantry, I think I'll have a winner.