Making Pie for Becky

This is one of those "blogs about raising my kids." So if this kind of thing makes you gag, gives you hives or causes an ebola outbreak, click on by.

Anyway, another friend just had a baby. Yes, I know I just posted about a friend having a baby. What can I say except that I live in a fertile area (or maybe its the nuclear plant near by). So I'm making dinner for this friend, and I thought "Hey, I'll just make a quick chocolate cream pie for her." A more practical thought would have been to say, "Hey, I'll just jet over to Paris for croissants." I start by measuring out the cocoa powder and the sugar. I stop what I'm doing to unlock the bathroom door so the Baby can get out. I don't know how he managed to lock himself in. Then I separate and whisk three egg whites and stop what I'm doing to get the Baby out of the cat food, which he has spilled all over the floor and in the water dish. I heat the milk with the cocoa mixture on the stove and stop what I'm doing to get the Baby off the step stool and away from the house alarm system. Then I knock the pre-made pie crust onto the floor. Baby starts eating the bits off the floor before I can salvage the pie crust and use it (hey, the floor was just cleaned a few days ago!). I get Baby to stop eating momentarily so I can try to sweep up. I don't do a very good job as Baby is still trying to get at the pie crust bits and its hard to sweep and keep him away.

I continue to heat the cocoa and milk mixture on the stove and stop what I'm doing to get Baby away from the alarm again. I process graham crackers to make a new pie crust and stop what I'm doing to stop Baby from throwing Polly Pockets into the toilet. I have too many crumbs for one pie so in a fit of environmentalism (not wanting to waste the extra crumbs) I make another pie crust. At this point, I have a mess by the cat's eating area, pie crumbs still on the floor, water on the floor in the bathroom, Pollys in the toilet and Baby's clothes are wet. As he tries for a third time to set off the house alarm, I toss him outside in the yard. He's wet, he has no shoes, no jacket and its December. The way I figure it, he's not complaining, the interior of my house is safe for a little while and dealing with Child Protective Services has got to be easier than keeping up with Baby. Now I finish making my pies and clean the house of the various and sundry messes Baby has made.

Now I could complain about the hardships of raising up an 18 month old but no one stuck a gun to my head and said "Reproduce! And be quick about it!" And when I sat down to think about it, keeping up with Baby landed me a clean house and two desserts. That's pretty good return for a day's work.