Where oh Where Have my Little Spoons Gone?

I came into marriage with a respectable amount of dishes, linens, and small appliances. Of all the housewares that graced my new kitchen, one of my favorites was my set of everyday silverware. The pieces were light and delicate with a tiny bow at the end of each one. I would admire them every time I set the table, and each time, the charming little bows delighted me anew. With no dishwasher at the time, I washed each spoon and fork fastidiously, carefully drying them on my pristine red and white checked dishtowels. I then lovingly returned each utensil to its compartment in my kitchen drawer.

A couple years and four kids later, and my once cherished set of flatware has slowly dwindled from a service for twelve to a service for seven (minus a couple of small forks). Particularly perplexing is the mysterious disappearance of all but ONE teaspoon. I noticed that they had gradually begun to vanish, but taking a recent inventory of my kitchen drawer, I was dismayed to discover that we were now down to one lone little spoon.

Determined to restore my flatware to its former glory, one rainy Sunday I rallied my husband and children to embark on the hunt for the missing spoons and forks. I even bribed my kids with the promise of a financial reward, should any utensils be found. Spoons were worth a dollar, and forks would earn the fortunate finder a dollar fifty.

Together we tore apart the house hoping to unearth the missing pieces. We discovered countless game pieces, hundreds of tiny beads from a broken dollar store necklace, and sole socks whose mates I had long discarded. Shouts of excitement resonated through the house as my children were reunited with many of their forgotten treasures. Although our puzzles now had their missing pieces, and the formerly defunct game of marble race could once again be played, not a single spoon or fork turned up.

Resignedly, I bade farewell to my silverware and made the decision to replace the set. In the house cleaning frenzy that we had started that day, I zealously attacked my mammoth extra freezer in the basement. With frigid fingers, I pulled out meat and chicken, ice cream and frozen pizza, and some unidentifiable blocks of frozen matter.

As I heaved out a frozen turkey, something fell to the floor with a resounding metal clink. A half eaten plastic container of Luigi’s Italian Ices lay there complete with a stainless steel spoon decorated with a pretty bow on the end! Sticking my head deep into the glacial shelf, I discovered three more identical cups, all with frosty spoons frozen into their centers! Joyfully, I washed and dried them, on my now faded dishtowels, and returned them to their rightful home in the kitchen drawer.

Now that we have four teaspoons, all my kids can eat ice cream at the same time without having to resort to the flimsy plastic spoons that break more often than not. I have decided not to replace the set, as I am still holding out in the hope of discovering more pieces in the most unlikely places. I have come to terms with the likelihood that most of my teaspoons have ended up in the garbage along with the yogurt cups with which they were eaten. The forks, however, still remain an unsolved mystery to me, one which I intend to figure out.

And so I persevere, wielding my dust rag and broom, ever hopeful that I will come across something of value. My previously mundane existence has become infused with excitement, as housecleaning takes on an adventurous twist, with the possibility of unearthing a long lost treasure. Sweeping obscure corners and dusting behind heavy furniture are now an exhilarating task, as I eagerly anticipate the missing objects I may find each day. Just the other day, my efforts paid off as I celebrated the discovery of a fork wedged between the radiator and the kitchen wall.

I’d better get back to my hallowed mission. Who knows what valuables are waiting for me underneath the oven?

Have you seen me?

Cupcakes

My daughter came home one day, bearing a small box of gray,

It held cupcakes; I was so very impressed.

They were adorned with flowers, she must have spent hours,

How she made them, I was unable to guess.

When her secret she did reveal, I let out a squeal,

It was so simple, I couldn’t help but laugh.

What appeared complicated to me, was simple as can be,

The flowers were marshmallows, just cut in half!

One afternoon in May, on a dreary, rainy day,

We made these cupcakes at home for a treat,

They were fun to create, the end result was great,

They were certainly too pretty to eat!

So they sat on a tray, day after day,

To eat them would be to destroy them,

Finally, I thought, I’m afraid they will rot,

I said, “Let’s just dig in and enjoy them!”

Eating them was fun, we consumed every one,

Crumbs were all that did remain.

Snapshots had been taken, so their memory wasn’t forsaken,

And we can show them off all over again!

Farewell Dear Couch

I sit on the grass alongside the curb shivering in the midnight chill. I have not been outside since the day I arrived at my home twelve years ago. The brisk night air feels unfamiliar on my faded, cracked leather upholstery. I listen to the foreign outdoor sounds, so vastly different than the comfortable nocturnal sounds of my old house. A sigh escapes my seams as I reflect on the past twelve years that have been my life.

The year was 1999. I sat there immaculate and pristine in the living room section of Furniture World, waiting to find a home. Numerous potential buyers admired me as they stroked my soft leather or sank into my overstuffed pillows. For me, however, none of these families seemed to be the right fit. It is told in ancient couch folklore that when a couch is presented with his mate family, he can feel it in his stuffing that they are the ONES. And so I waited expectantly while the days and weeks heralded dashed hopes and disappointment. But my youthful optimism prevailed and I believed that the right family for me would soon come along.

On a crisp day in October, when I was beginning to despair of ever finding my match, I spied them gliding through the automatic doors. As the young couple pushed their double Maclaren toward me, my excitement mounted. I could feel it in my stuffing, in my springs, and even in my wood; I had found my family. I hardly dared to breathe as the young woman unstrapped her newborn from the stroller and sank into my softness. She sighed contentedly, cuddling the baby and smiling up at her husband.

“It’s perfect. Have a seat.”

Her husband made himself comfortable, bouncing the curly haired toddler on his lap.

“We’ll take it,” he told the hovering salesman, who was anxious to make a sale. I felt like my seams would burst with excitement. At long last, I would be part of a family! I had found my match!

Following a harrowing journey in a mammoth truck stuffed with mattresses and dressers and some fellow couches, I arrived at my destination. I was hauled up to the second floor walkup apartment that smelled of fresh paint. As I was placed against the far wall, I exhaled with relief. With satisfaction I noted the comfortable, homey living room with toys and books stacked neatly on the shelves. I knew I would be happy here. I had finally come home.

The years raced by and I remained an integral part of the family, a silent witness to both momentous occasions as well the daily grind of what humans call life. My family moved to a new house where I received a place of honor in the airy living room, under the bay window. I hosted guests and enveloped them in my comfort as they celebrated birthday parties. New babies were nursed at unearthly hours of the night on my cozy seat while I whispered soft lullabies to mother and baby, trying to lull them back to sleep. Hundreds of bedtime stories were read to sleepy, pajama clad children in my sturdy arms. I tolerantly smiled through birthday parties and play dates when I was utilized as a trampoline.

As time marched on I morphed into a cozy homework nook. New readers stumbled over the unfamiliar letters sitting comfortably on my lap. Children and adults curled up on me on long winter nights with books and magazines. Relatives would doze on me after eating the savory, Thanksgiving turkey that filled the house with an intoxicating smell that seeped into the grain of my beige leather.

Gaggles of neighborhood children gathered on rainy afternoons to build castles, forts, and slides out of my removable cushions. With a little bit of imagination, the possibilities were infinite, and I could hold the kids’ attention better than any blocks or Lego building toys.

There was no better place for a child who was under the weather to observe the family goings on than from the warmth of my pillows snuggled under a blanket. Elderly grandparents who are no longer in this world sat on me cradling the great grandchildren whom they never dreamed they would live to see. Through joyful times and through adversity, I remained stalwart and sturdy, a constant comforting presence in the living room.

Every spring, I was disassembled, vacuumed and scrubbed until my leather shone. Squeals of delight reverberated through the house as long lost puzzle pieces, books, toys, candy and plenty of missing spoons were unearthed from the recesses of my crevices. One year was particularly memorable when a pair of valuable earrings was uncovered from deep inside my seams.

It was a good life and I was happy. As the family expanded and the kids grew, I began to exhibit signs of wear and tear. My soft leather became worn, and my stuffing poked out of the holes on my arms. I was patched up and repaired, but just as beloved as always. My cushions no longer adhered to the Velcro, and the rainy afternoon post castle clean up became laborious, as the cushions would slide right off of me.

After about 12 years, I began to overhear murmurings of my being replaced. Thankfully, the children were horrified at the prospect of giving up their beloved couch, and I was able to joyously partake in the upcoming holidays. I attempted to put my best arm forward and held in my breath so my sagging would be less discernible. After accommodating the weight of all the holiday guests, I grew weary, and there was no more hiding my sagging middle and drooping arms. I knew that I could no longer postpone the inevitable. My time had come. A search began for a replacement while I silently made peace with my impending demise.

As I sit near the curb on damp grass, watching the sun rise, I can hear the distant rumble of the garbage truck. I am tired and worn, but blessedly content in the knowledge that I have been loved and well utilized. I am grateful for the happiness I have witnessed and the warmth and joy to which I am a testimony. I have served my family well and my mission in their house is complete.

Perfect for Fort Building

Research Reports

In our family, a school project is a joint effort which includes parents, older siblings, sometimes grandparents, and on rare occasions, the student himself. We are currently involved in a research report on the Ringling brothers. According to my findings, there were seven of them. August, Otto, John….They led a fascinating life and I am grateful to my son, that from a list of  boring illustrious historical figures like George Washington  and Thomas Edison, he selected the more obscure, but way cooler Ringling brothers.

With a bit of a research, and some creativity, we were able to put together a fairly presentable work of art. Unfortunately, for me, what I deemed as presentable, the teacher did not, and my son came home relaying the message that the project “needed more information”. As a mother, I naturally interpreted the teacher’s benign comment as a personal affront to my intelligence. I had done hours of research online, simplified my findings to a second grade level, and then together with my son, created an eye catching display board. But being the aspiring supermom that I am, I dutifully went back to my computer, googled “Ringling” once again and printed out reams of information on all thing circus related.

At this point I was just wanted this project over and done with. I was so fed up with the Ringlings, and the plethora of circus photos spread out on our dining room table was making me dizzy. Ignoring my son’s plaintive cries of “Mommy, it feels like you’re doing the whole project for me,” I sat there gluing and cutting furiously. Occasionally, I graciously allowed him to help, and within a relatively short time, the project was ready to be turned in once again, hopefully this time to the teacher’s satisfaction.

In addition to this second grade research project, my seventh grader had a science fair project she was working on. My refrigerator contained various plastic cups of beverages and teeth. Sunday had me shuttling my daughter and her partner from Michael’s to AC Moore in search of red and white gingham paper, and spray paint to match their color scheme. I had planned to just leave them at the store, run a quick errand, and then pick them up. Well, apparently, it is illegal in the state of New Jersey to sell spray paint to anyone under the age of eighteen.

As the due date of the science fair project drew near, tensions in our home mounted. I had to guard the refrigerator vigilantly, so that no curious little hands would touch the cups that contained the decomposing teeth, or even worse drink the Powerade, orange juice or milk that were rotting in the cups along with the teeth. Every morning had me sweeping up scraps of cut paper from the kitchen floor, and scraping glue off the table.

I was confident in my independent daughter and her partner’s abilities, and I was certain that they could do the bulk of this project on their own. Although my assumption was basically correct, I had failed to take into account their lack of time management skills. While my daughter consistently reassured me that the project was under control, the night before the science fair had all of us up until after midnight.

First, they managed to lose all of their information on the computer, and at ten pm, they began retyping everything. There was a fair amount of drama involved, as well as plenty of tears, but they managed to retype it all in record time. Once that catastrophe had been resolved, they couldn’t transfer the pictures from the ipod to the computer. My kindhearted husband worked with them until midnight, while I looked on, breathing into a paper bag.

While I was suffering from the anxiety of it all, my daughter and her friend remained unruffled, and eventually sent me off to bed, while they put the finishing touches on their display board. I dozed fitfully, dreaming repeatedly of the girls showing up at the science fair with their project half done.

I’m proud to relay that the project turned out beautifully, and the evening of the science fair had everyone flocking to their project to check out the rotten teeth. My daughter and her friend stood there deliriously exhausted, accepting accolades for a job well done. When the teacher related to me how impressed she was with their work, I was able to smile broadly and say in all honesty that they had done it completely on their own.