Whenever my children are being buttheads—and trust me when I tell you this happens plenty often—the default tension-defuser is for said child to declare, “YOU MADE A THING!” Translation: “I’m a butthead, but you made me, so clearly this is your fault.” (Monkey also loves to follow it up with a gesture towards his sister and the addition of “You made TWO things!” Har har.) And it’s true, I made two things which are apparently now full-fledged individuals whom I cannot control. TERRIFYING.
I feel compelled to make LOTS of things. Some of them work out, some don’t. Some are successful, some not. Some are scary, like when I decided it would be a FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC idea to purchase this mushroom-growing kit because HOW FUN! Mind you, I am the only person in our immediate family who even LIKES mushrooms. But SCIENCE! We watered it and peered at it for about a week, wondering if our kit was a dud. But then… look, I’m just going to hide this under the fold in case fungus freaks you out. It’s freaky. But if you dare, click through and behold the FUNGIPOCALYPSE.
I MEAN. It’s freaky any way you slice it, really, but consider that we went from having NOTHING to the last picture there in THREE DAYS. That’s not right. Nothing should grow that fast. The kids are cracking jokes about the mushrooms eating them in their sleep and I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t occurred to me.
Don’t worry, though—I think I’ll harvest them tonight. We’re having burgers and mmmm, sautÃ©ed mushrooms on burgers. Yum. Also I hope to absorb the mushrooms’ freakish power and be a fraction of how mighty they are, after.
This story is also an awkward preamble to another tale of us making things. Over at Alpha Mom, you can read about our familyversary adventure in pottery class. We made things. I made two things, and then they made things. And they (the things I made, not the things they made, though I suppose by some transitive property here, those too) make me happy, along with that guy who puts up with all three of us.