The other morning after breakfast, I heard the sliding door open and a loud, excited voice announcing, "Himey! Himey!" (Owenspeak for Kitty) Owen somehow managed to grab the kitty, and then, misunderstanding? my instructions, brought it inside and sat in his booster seat to hold it more adequately and securely. My, what big arms you have, Owen.
And yesterday afternoon, I gave Helen a drink. She's now weaned to formula, and we're experimenting with a sippy cup specially designed for transitioning from bottle to cup (sippy cups are NOT created equal). After her afternoon nap, she usually gets juice in her cup, but I tried good old cow's milk, vitamin D, homogenized, pasteurized. On a side note, one brand here now is selling for a whopping $6/gallon. We need a cow. Helen guzzled her milk happily, albeit a tad messily.
And then I nearly stepped into a suspicious liquid and realized why her level of milk went down so fast. Not only was she drinking the milk, but she was also spilling it, in all manners-- spurting down her front, dripping down her neck, pooling under her head and back. Nasty. She was delighted. A genuine milk bath. What's next, honey and lavender? (It's good for the complexion, Mom!)
So while supper was in the oven, I abandoned kitchen clean up for kiddie clean up.
Along came big brother and stated that, in his opinion, Helen should not be alone in the tub, and he was the exact person needed to bring her companionship, and shame on Mommy for almost allowing Helen to be so abandoned by her big brother. How generous of him. He really just saw her playing with HIS bath toys, and jealousy took over. This was Owen's second bath of the day.
Before bedtime, he needed yet another bath, because we slaved in the flower beds after supper, removing white rocks to replace with pine straw. We got a small section done. And only encountered one ant bed. Blast those stupid things. At least I got away with only about 5 bites this time. These are not the sweet little sugar ants I knew as a girl in Indiana--the ones I loved to watch industriously building their homes. These are fire ants, the kind that bite, make you jump up and down, think bad words, create instant fury. The bites itch for days. Blast them! They so ruin a picnic.
I think that my garden has an invisible sign that welcomes all wildlife to come and taste thereof. My one lone canteloupe that withstood my bad gardening habits met an untimely end and became a gourmet meal for something with a small mouth. It was nibbled perfectly in half. I suppose I could play CSI and take a bite mold. Ha. CSI:Garden of Desolation. I had such high hopes for my garden. Unfortunately, earlier this year when I planted 3 rows of beans and 3 rows of zipper peas, I planted them too deep, and only a quarter-row of beans came up and 3 pea plants raised timid heads. Our tomato plant is doing all right, but everything else is merely half-hearted. 
I spent some therapeutic time in the kitchen yesterday, baking whole wheat bread, banana bread and veggie pie. I even snipped fresh herbs into my pie dough--thyme, to be exact. I diced all my vegetables, cut up some more fresh herbs--thyme, rosemary, sage--and cooked it all up with a Parmesan sauce. It's a surefire way to get Owen to eat his vegetables. (In a pie, go figure. With a cup of sweet tea, too.) Is this like adding applesauce to cookie dough and calling it a serving of fruit?
The "GVP" on the crust stands for what else but Garden Vegetable Pie. Yummy. After sharing it with the in-laws for lunch today, it is gonzo.
