*Experience* Flamingo Cottage

Alice Waters on NPR last night. She prattled on about how food was an experience, and how every morning she wakes up, makes her cup of tea, toasts her bread, spreads avocado on her toast, and feels centered. Eating at a table, experiencing your food, tasting where it comes from... I love the idea, but my morning went a little more like this:

Awoken by Owen: "Mommy I'm ready to get out of bed Mommy I'm ready to get out of bed I'm ready to get out of bed Mommy". I stumble into his room hoping Bridget isn't awake yet (she is) to hear him sweetly say "Oh, hi Mommy. I peed on my sheets Mommy", which was not a news flash, as he was rolling in a puddle. I strip him down and herd him into the shower with me only to discover (after I dump warm water on his back and he screams) that he is COVERED in a rash, from the back of his neck, down his back, on his legs, on his arms... everywhere I put sunscreen/bug spray on his body yesterday afternoon, and didn't wash off when we skipped his bath last night. Which we skipped because he was so whiny. Which was probably because he was covered in chemicals, developing a rash. EFFFFFFFF.

Try to wash urine off of him without touching skin with warm water (not easy) I convince him to squeegee the shower for five minutes while I try to wake up enough to take the next step. Showered, we emerge and I have to pat dry a dripping rashy pre-schooler while hearing a baby holler from her crib. Owen runs off naked as I throw clothes on and enter Bridget's room, where she is jumping on her pillow with a blown out poopy diaper. (Is this the point at which Alice is making her tea or toasting her bread?) Wrestling a baby (covered in poop) while a naked un-housebroken almost three year old suddenly says "I am about to poop Mommy!" is not centering. More wipes, practically another shower for me, and a full load of soiled laundry later, I emerge (trailing two kids wearing nothing but diapers) into my kitchen to prepare my experience. Scooping Target generic formula into a baby bottle and popping into the microwave might not be enough to give Alice a heart attack, but plopping Nestle Quik into (admittedly) organic whole milk from Publix would definitely throw her over the edge. As each kid is sucking down chemicals, vegetable oil solids and sugar, I have just enough time to slosh some hours old coffee into my cup, dump half the sugar bowl in, throw some milk (not formula) in, and get the cup into the microwave. All of this is performed one handed, because I am giving Bridget a bottle while simultaneously calling the pediatrician's office to report the rash situation. Before the microwave has signaled that my humanizing coffee is finished, Owen is ready for MORE chocolate milk and Bridget has thrown her bottle on the ground, squirmed out of my arms, and is headed for the cat food. There is no thought of toast, much less avocado, because I forgot to get bread from the store last night, and have I mentioned that it has been AN HOUR since Owen first called from his bedroom? Another poopy diaper and two call backs from the pediatrician later, Bridget is demanding breakfast, and can not even wait for me to rip open a bag of freeze-dried fruit before she is shoveling it into her mouth by the fistful. I try to gulp my coffee, now less a beverage and more akin to gasoline sludge, which hits my stomach with cramping intensity. This side effect MIGHT be lessened by food, but I can not for the life of me figure out what to eat. I give up, and let the kids play on the floor until Bridget is ready for bed while I slump defeatedly on the couch. By 11:30 Owen deigns to eat a apple and some ham, but only if he is lying on the floor, covered in a quilt and surrounded by 3047 Lincoln Logs. Breakfast for me is a warmed up piece of Domino's pizza, almost a week old, which almost catches my microwave on fire. And an apple. As experiences go, I've had better.