Cell Block W

So my resolution to blog more frequently lasted......a whole day.  Call me a failure if you must, but I prefer to just think of myself as insanely busy - although doing what I'm not sure.It's been a combination of mom stuff and wife stuff and Amy stuff and eating pretzels reading crappy books stuff.  But I've been busy.  Trust me.  Just go with it.

My gut tells me that the right thing to do would be to sit here and type out a massive missive that details every little moment of life in the W house over the last several weeks, from the significance of Chunk's second birthday to the insignificance of the fulfilling fact that Skippy and I finally produced a functional playroom for our children over the weekend.  It has neat foam mats and storage bins galore and more crayons than you can shake a stick at and it smells like lemon scented wood floor polish....but I digress.  

It's late and tomorrow we have our first official softball game (after the unfortunate weather cancelled the "softball jamboree" over the weekend, much to our overwhelming dismay) so instead I'll just tell you about my new parenting foray, otherwise known as "Reason 674 that my children will someday tell their significant others how I scarred them for life at a young age."  The focus of this life lesson: My kitchen sink.

I'd be willing to bet that a vast number of my fellow mommies can sympathize.  Dishes accumulate in my kitchen sink the way rabbits pile up under a farmhouse porch.  Overnight they simply seem to multiply.  No one seems to know where they came from, and no one but me seems to know how to get rid of them, which in either situation usually involves a thorough soaking with a water hose of some sort, a copious amount of sweat, and some very unladylike cursing.

My children apparently need a cup for milk.  And then a new cup for water.  And then a cup for juice.  Quickly followed by a cup to use with dinner.  Almost always without exception, this wide variety of cups are happily married with their own separate cereal bowls, PB&J plates, and assorted dinnerware.  And naturally, my house is sadly lacking a dishwasher.    Or to be more specific, my house lacks a dishwasher that isn't a sucker for romance novels, dark chocolate, and isn't named Amy.  

So a few days ago while standing at my kitchen sink (yet again), looking out my window at the beautiful Friday afternoon (yet again), and searching for the last sippy cup while up to my elbows in soapy water (yet again) I was quietly lamenting this sorry state of affairs to myself.   And somewhere in between shaking my tush to the radio and cursing because yet another pair of sexy yellow rubber gloves had gotten yet another f*&%$ing hole in them, I decided I was done washing mini tableware for awhile.

A trip to the dollar store was in order, quickly followed by a stop at my favorite thrift store.  And when I returned, I was armed for battle.  With a sharpie marker, I drew a bold "B" and "K" on my newly acquired purchases, and then I stepped back to admire my handiwork.  My girls were now the proud new owners of ONE new plate, ONE new bowl, and ONE new cup, color coded to avoid any possible confusion.  This was followed by even more drastic action: after I set aside a few things that Chunk would need and I relocated the remainder of our kid friendly dishes to a top secret location, guarded by the three headed dog from Harry Potter and accessible only after a retina scan and a blood sample.  

Okay, actually I moved them down to the back of the bottom cabinet, but who's going to tell my kids that, right?

And thus began Operation Cut Down On Dishes.  

At first, the girls were thrilled with their new fancy dinner duds...until I dropped the bomb.

These were to be their ONLY dinner duds.  For that matter, they were also the only breakfast duds.  And lunch duds.  And sna....you get the idea.  And not only were dishes suddenly in short supply, but Mom was being relieved of her dish washing duties for anyone under the age of 30 and over the age of two.  So in other words, if you want to eat off of it, you'd better wash it your damn self.

One bowl.  One plate.  One cup.  And a step stool to make the sink more easily accessible.

My mother hooted in semi-amusement over the phone later that night.  She told me I was mean - what's worse, she compared the situation to PRISON.  Apparently it's next to criminal to expect an almost seven year old and a five year old to (at least temporarily) wash their own dishes and to be completely responsible for keeping track of them in between meals.  You'd think I was only issuing bread and water on such meager eating receptacles, she made me feel so mean.

But then I remembered how it feels to scrub at a forgotten bowl of oatmeal, or to track down some one's brand new softball water bottle under the desk....with milk in it....from two days ago.  And I decided that I could handle being mean.  Mistress of the sippy cups I would be no more.

Just call me Warden.

Stay tuned, now that the playroom/computer room is clean I hope to be in here a whole lot more - it's hard to relax and blog when a mess is staring you down!  With any luck, I'll be able to check in tomorrow after the girls' first softball game!