A Trail of Water

I drink my water out of quart mason jars and litter them in my wake.

I fill them and lose them only to find them on counters and desks, on stools and the floor near the couch or the window by the bed.

This trail of water means that I occasionally have to deal with a kicked over quart of water (a thing that is only helpful if you were hoping to mop the floor anyway, which I never am). But this also means I never have to go searching for a watering can (a thing that my plants would appreciate, but I never think to do).

So in the end my water jars keep me hydrated, spot clean the floor and water the plants. Not bad for a forgetful habit enacted by a messy woman.

My Water

I had a glass of water until a cat took it.

Unlike a dog there were no liquid eyes begging for a drink.

The cat just claimed my water glass and dared me to oppose her.

Brazenly, sitting on the table, repeatedly dunking her paw and licking it off. 

As if there weren’t multiple bowls of water for the cats and dogs scattered around the house.

I had a glass of water. 

And then a cat took it.


I was very good at drinking water.

I drank out of a quart mason jar. All day my jar would follow me around the house. Sometimes it would sit in the kitchen, sometimes by the computer or at the table and sometimes I would end up with more than one floating around, but I always had water at hand.water glass and computer


Jane came bursting through the front door. “MOM! A woolly bear peed on my finger!!!” She was half excited and half horrified. I inspected her finger, (having never been peed on by a caterpillar myself) and sure enough there was a tiny drop of liquid on her finger. I wasn’t sure if it was bonafied caterpillar pee but I told her to go wash it off anyway.

Jane walked into the kitchen, looked on the counter and said, “I’ll just dunk it in here” and then, in a motion so smooth it could only have been born of habit, she reached up to dunk her hand into my water glass.

I’ve been slightly dehydrated ever since.

“It’s Raining…”

One of the major problems I have staying home with three kids is that while I’m nursing the baby the other two are doing stuff. Some days they are doing nice stuff and some days are like today. Today I came into the kitchen and found that Clara discovered not only how to change the kitchen faucet from a stream to a spray but that you can also pull out the head of the faucet. I pull out the head of the faucet to wash large pans and clean the sink. Clara pulled it out, must have thought it was actually intended to be the worlds best water gun and got right to work spraying Ivy.

We’ve got good water pressure, Ivy got wet on the far side of the kitchen table.

This is sort of impressive if you don’t think about the fact that most of the water is landing on the floor, the counter, the paper, the microwave, the radio, the cell phone, the eggs, the vitamins on the shelves, the ceiling, the windows, the blinds, the leftover food waiting to go back into the fridge, the tin full of change, the chairs, the table, under the sink, under the fridge and in the cupboard.

But I’m the Mom, so I thought about all those things and was, shall we say, less impressed with Clara’s feat than Clara was, much less.

As Clara was doing her best to be a poster child for the terrible two’s and unapologetically running through the puddles instead of helping clean up Ivy chimed with, “It’s raining in here Mom.”  I looked up, saw all the water on the ceiling dripping down, took a deep breath, squashed my urge to strangle the kids, decided that while making them clean up their own mess was a good lesson it really wouldn’t do them any good if they were dead and sent them out of the room before I changed my mind.

Shortly afterwards while I was still fuming and sopping up water Clara danced through the kitchen with her underwear on her head on her way to brush her teeth. I took a picture.  As I continued cleaning I fantasized that in about ten years I could blow it up really large and hang it on my kitchen wall. Then Clara would be embarrassed and ask me to take it off the wall and I would laugh manically and say “NO! You were a rotten two year old who flooded the kitchen, the picture stays!” Unfortunately after looking at the picture I took I’m afraid I’ll hang it on my wall and everyone will tell her how cute she was even with underwear on her head. So much for that fantasy.  Next time I’ll work on something involving beaches. You know, if I closed my eyes and concentrated I’m pretty sure I could turn that big puddle on a gritty floor into the oceans edge on a sandy beach…. now where’s my drink with the umbrella in it?