August 29, 2006

My Boys Take Pity On Their One-Armed Mom And Learn A Little In The Process

I’m getting used to the cast, but I still can’t perform many activities around the house that I normally take for granted. I’ve enlisted the boys to perform all kinds of extra duties, which they’ve done with varying degrees of cheer according to age and personality type.

My left hand is all but useless. My fingers are still sore, so although they stick out from the cast, I can’t use them to grasp anything. But again, my boys have come to my rescue, even when I ask them to help me get dressed.

Me: Hold the dryer like a gun and point it down at the brush.

Porter: Why is your hair really dark by your skull? Do all
ladies have to do this? What if I point the dryer up? I’m getting
tired. Why does the air have to be hot? Can I have some ice cream
after I finish? Do you need me to put some squirty stuff into the
dishwasher?

Finn: Shouldn’t Daddy be buttoning your shirt, since y’all are married and all?

Me: Well, yes, I’d prefer that, but he’s at work and you have
football practice in twenty minutes and I’d rather not drive you and
your friends there naked. Just be glad I didn’t ask you for help with my bra.

Finn: That would be WAY embarrassing.

It was time for the boys to start assuming more responsibility in the kitchen anyway. Now they’re masters of scouring pans, loading and unloading the dishwasher, and wiping the counters and table.

Drew: If I can get this minuscule piece of onion off this pan, this will be the most perfect cleaning job in the history of the world and I will go to bed a happy boy.

Finn: We really should not have to clean this table after every meal. It just gets dirty again. Especially Porter’s seat. It’s a huge waste of energy, and energy is something our nation is trying to conserve.

Porter: I love it when I get to squirt the squirty stuff into the squirty hole.

Finn: Dang, I’ve broken all the wineglasses but one, and Mom is still making us load the freaking dishwasher.
Hey Drew, I bet if you fell off the counter and busted your head open and had to get stitches while you were doing this, we wouldn’t have to do these stupid chores anymore.

Drew: I think I’ll just scrub and then finish my homework.

Porter: Cool! This Palmolive stuff softens my hands while I do the dishes.

Finn: If I have to clean this pot one more time this week I’m gonna puke.

While no one has become enamored of helping me get dressed, as a result of my injury the twins have developed a new interest in cooking. Every afternoon Drew comes into the kitchen and asks, “Mom, is there anything I can help you chop for dinner?” He’s gotten so adept at it that we’ve discussed slicing versus dicing, and I’ve taken him out to the garden and shown him my herbs so he can cut them himself. Meanwhile, Porter has started cooking himself meals instead of getting snacks whenever he’s hungry, which is approximately every hour.

Drew: I don’t think Mom’s knives are as sharp as Emeril’s, but with proper technique I ought to be able to achieve just as good a result.

Drew: Porter, come watch. I am going to turn this basil into an exquisite chiffonade. I
already chopped the prosciutto for our Bowties with Peas and Prosciutto.

Porter: Yum. Bowties is one of my top fifty dinners! Mom says dinner won’t be ready for at least another hour, though, so I’m going to scramble the rest of the eggs. I don’t think I’m going to make it without more fuel, dude.