Compost Back On

I found the compost bin!   We had it about four years ago and were doing a fine job of collecting compostable content and then throwing things down the hill when the bin got full.   Then there was the bacon grease incident.   I won’t go into details but to sum up: grease was poured outside in a similar spot to the composting spot and the dog was never able to fully get over the memory.

It was getting more and more restrictive deciding what we could throw out that wouldn’t attract the dog, especially after decomposition had begun.    So we gave it up and I put the compost bin away.    After our dog died at the end of the summer I thought about the compost bin a few times but was elsewhere and kept forgetting to look for the bin in the attic.

Then, when I did go look, I couldn’t find it.  That’s odd, I know where almost everything is.   I have an overly-organized attic and, well, let’s be honest, the rest of the house is pretty organized too.   That being said, I don’t lose things very often.   But this compost bin was nowhere to be found.    I looked again a second time but to no avail.  My husband and I talked about why we’d give it away and we were certain we hadn’t thrown it away but where could it have gone off to?

Then, yesterday when I was looking under the laundry room sink for the extra bleach to fill up the smaller container—I saw it.   I yelled.   I yelled a yell that probably sounded like I’d been speared by a whale harpoon.   It was that loud and surprised.   I immediately said, “I found it!!!!”   This helped not a bit because my husband, who was in the middle of making dinner, didn’t know I was looking for anything.

I brought it into the kitchen, looking triumphant, saying how I remember putting it under the sink now that I’d found it and wasn’t my husband excited and hooray we could get back to the business of composting.   My husband agreed it was marvelous news, but from his rather flat tone of voice I suspect he wasn’t as excited as I was about the whole thing.

The Big Boy Update:   My son got a birthday present in the mail from his Great Aunt Martha, my father’s sister.    She sent him a large stuffed hound dog.   It’s soft and squishy and huggable and the tag on it said, “Floppy Dog”.   My son upgraded the name and decided to call him, “Sloppy Dog” instead.  Sloppy dog, similar to a real dog, has followed my son around for the better part of the last two days.  My son has carried him like a back pack, rode on him on the hard wood, had him sit beside him while he ate and he even tried to take him to school.   The number one thing Sloppy Dog likes to do, apparently, is be a weapon.  My son swings him around, slams him into the sofa, swishes him around to ward off friend and foe alike and even jumps up and down on him.   None of these actions are done with any sort of malice towards Sloppy Dog—in fact (so I was given to understand from my son) Sloppy Dog loves being partners with an about-to-be six-year-old little boy.    My son loves Sloppy Dog.

The Tiny Girl Chronicles:  My daughter came into the kitchen tonight while we were unpacking the dinner my husband had just come home with.   I looked over to see her in her down winter jacket, socks, and, well that’s it.   She told us, “I took my pants off”.   We said, “fine, would you like some dinner?”   She agreed that would be good and dinner proceeded just like it does countless places all over the globe with parents who realize it’s not even worth asking sometimes why children do the things they do.