I'm posting these photos of the beets I dug from the garden. Right along with the rest of us, they endured our frosty spell and still had some use left in them. Tasty use. Though, I'm the only one here at the Cottage that eats them. Beets are the only thing Dr. Gooch would rather not eat. And though my lovely sister-in-law will make hilarious comparisons of me and Dwight Shrute, I still think beets are really yummy, versatile, and so pretty.
But, it isn't beets about which I find myself writing here this Monday morning. It's about the vomiting.
We're getting good at it now. We even have a "vomit routine". After the initial ejection of the evenings dinner in ones bed, the sheets are removed, larger chunks scraped from soiled linens to sink under hot water. Then while they wash we set up a makeshift bed next to the bathroom in our room. Because this decreases the distance for all nighttime travelers to the toilet. Because, dear reader, it is not just once, but 10 times at least, over the course of the night. Per child. Per night. We have four children. The third took her turn last night. They are trained at the first gurgle to head to the loo.
And don't be fooled, this is not a 24-hour "bug". Avery's debut was three days ago. She joined us at the kitchen table this morning, and one Cheerio sent her guts reeling. Poor rascals.
But my hopes and the temperatures are rising. The sun is out today after a dark stormy sabbath. We're ready to start tomato and flower seeds inside. The promise of Spring propels me forward. But I don't think there'll be beets. A girl can only eat so many red-root vegetables. And, can you imagine the mess, if I joined the vomit brigade?