Death by a Thousand Carrots

For the past several years, my family has employed the most awful maid. She never goes above and beyond; indeed, she rarely even meets the minimum. Countless crumbs and dust bunnies attest to her inattentiveness. It’s a good thing she works for free, because she could never get paid for such terrible work. 

Oh, and also, the maid is me, so there’s that. 

Anyway, Maid Holly recently left me a huge pile of clean, unfolded laundry. It filled its laundry basket and overflowed onto the changing table, which is now used only for that purpose. (It’s easier to change Australis on the floor.) 

So, as Taylor began to cook dinner, I brought the mound of clothes into the kitchen and began to fold… and fold, and fold. But no matter how fast I folded, the pile became no smaller. It was like one of those dreams where the faster you run, the slower you go — except this time, my lack of progress was due to one particular reason: my daughter. 

Within a minute of my starting, Australis spied — and immediately made a bee-line for — my stack of freshly-folded Bo pajamas… and then she undid my efforts in five seconds flat. 

“Aza!” I shouted uselessly. My daughter flashed me a mischievous grin, then grabbed a pair of her brother’s briefs. I slumped back against a cabinet as she ran off with the undies. 

Surveying the laundry pile, I found that I was back to square one. Actually, I was even further back than that, because “square one” hadn’t entailed mobile undergarments. So, I did what I always do when I’m in a pickle: I complained to my husband. 

“Taylorrrrrrrrr! She’s taking my laundry!” 

Taylor looked up from dinner prep, into which he had apparently recruited Bo. Both boys were peeling carrots into a bowl — mostly. (Bo’s aim leaves something to be desired.) Taylor looked up and cooed at Australis. “Aw, you’re helping Mommy with the laundry!” 

“She’s not!” I wailed as Aza dropped the underwear at Taylor’s feet. 

“Oh, thank you, baby,” Taylor intoned seriously. “But I think Mommy wants Bo’s undies back.” 

“I don’t want them back,” I groused. “I don’t even like laundry.” 

Taylor snorted, then noticed Bo’s peeling form. “Bo! You have to peel away from your hand!” He adjusted Bo’s grip, then observed, “Well, it’s a good thing we’re doing a blended soup, because you’re leaving a lot of peel on these carrots.”

Bo looked up. “You haff to pee-yuh uh-way fruh yuh han!” {“You have to peel away from your hand!”}

Meanwhile, Aza had come back for another pass. This time, however, I had learned my lesson, and a new stack of folded laundry sat safely in my lap. My daughter scowled at me, then grabbed another pair of Bo undies and a lone Taylor sock. 

I sighed. “These won’t actually be ‘clean’, now that they’re all over the floor.” 

I looked up to see that Taylor had gotten out his phone and was, presumably, recording my distress. 

Surprised, I laughed, “Oh my gosh!” … and then pretended to cry. 

Taylor ignored my antics. “Aza, are you helping Mommy?” 

Aza started for Taylor, who kept the camera trained on her. 

“Where do those go?” Taylor asked sweetly. 

Australis responded by handing him the underwear and dropping the sock at his feet. 

“Thank you,” Taylor acknowledged. 

After a second, Taylor prompted, “What about the sock?” 

Aza dutifully picked up the sock and placed it in Taylor’s waiting hand. 

“Thank you, sweetie,” Taylor enthused. Then, as our little toddler marched back toward my island of laundry, he asked, “Oh, are you gonna get some more?” 

Aza squawked something that sounded suspiciously like, “Yeah!” — and then she picked up a pair of Bo’s pajamas and threw them into my lap. 

Bo gasped, then shouted, “Das Bo’s puh-gam-uhs!” {“That’s Bo’s pajamas!”}

I laughed, then repeated. “That’s Bo’s pajamas. Ok, wait, I’m going to go put these away before she gets them.” 

I dashed off to stow what little I had managed to fold thus far. When I returned, I was surprised and dismayed to find that Bo had joined in on the fun. He stood atop his “helping chair” with a pair of underwear clutched in each hand. As I entered the kitchen, he threw the undies and cried, “You fwoh duh un-duh-wah on duh gwound!” {“You throw the underwear on the ground!”} 

I sighed and knelt to retrieve the garments. “No, buddy, you would say, ‘I throw the underwear on the ground.’” (Pronouns are hard.)

Bo tried again. “I fwoh duh un-duh-wah on duh gwound.” 

“Good job. Although, I don’t actually want you throwing the underwear on the ground. Mommy is trying to fold the laundry right now.”

“Mommy makin’ keen kwohs.” {“Mommy making clean clothes.”}

I stifled a laugh and thought, Hardly. Out loud, though, I affirmed, “Yes. Mommy is making clean clothes.”

As Taylor once again adjusted Bo’s peeling form, I returned to folding laundry — an activity that became increasingly difficult the farther Australis scattered clothes. Finally, I gave up and started to cry — for real, this time. 

Taylor heard my sniffles and turned around. “What’s going on, babe?” 

I swiped at my tears. “I’m just… I feel like I can’t get there from here. I let this laundry pile up because I was writing that article for Horace the past few days, and it’s just like, how am I ever going to be a writer if my house falls apart every time I open my laptop?” 

Taylor: <grunts sympathetically> “Well… maybe it’s time that we actually hire someone to help you with some of the chores. Haven’t you already brought that up with Dahlia?” 

Indeed, I had discussed the topic with Dahlia, our backup babysitter — but then I had gotten embarrassingly overwhelmed at the task of onboarding. It would require writing out specific instructions detailing the various cleaning processes and locations for toys/books/clothes/etc, and that writing would, of course, be my responsibility. So I was dissuaded by that, and then the holidays came up, so I just told Dahlia that we would reconvene our negotiations in January. 

Reluctant to rehash the situation, I pointed out, “Yeah, but, like, even if we do end up doing that, it won’t help me tonight.”

Taylor: <grunts in agreement> 

The subsequent lull in conversation was filled by Aza’s excited squawks as she continued dispersing the laundry. 

Eventually, Taylor asked, “Do you just want to switch? You can do dinner, and I’ll fold the laundry.”

I looked up at the mountain of unpeeled carrots, then down at the flattened mountain of unfolded laundry. Only bad options. I sighed and gestured to the carrots. “I guess that?”

We switched places and I took over the twin jobs of peeling the carrots and keeping Bo from slicing off his hand. After a while, I remarked, “You know, I don’t remember liking this meal.”

Taylor looked up from the laundry, with which he was having moderate success. “You didn’t like it?”

I shrugged. “I mean, maybe I did like it. I just don’t *remember* liking it.” 

Taylor: <grunts in resignation>

I went back to peeling in silence while Bo hummed under his breath. 

A few minutes later, Australis came racing back into the kitchen and, like the little princess she is, imperiously handed Taylor a bracelet. He held the tiny toddler bracelet between his enormous fingers and attempted to slide the jewelry onto Aza’s left wrist — until she burst into dramatic tears and collapsed to the ground. She yanked her left hand out of Taylor’s reach and thrust her right hand through the bracelet, at which point her tears magically dried up. 

“Oh no,” Taylor said, wide-eyed. “It’s happening! She has… opinions!” 

Truer words have rarely been spoken.

---

Eventually, all the carrots were peeled, and all the laundry was folded, and all the ingredients were blended, and it was time to eat.

Taylor doled out the soups into bowls (for the adults) and sippy cups (for the kids). Meanwhile, Bo realized he was now bored, which rarely results in high-quality choices. Indeed, this time, he decided to sprint at our dog, headfirst. 

“Borealis!” I reprimanded. “Are you being kind to the puppy?” 

Bo smirked at me and made to smack Mache. 

“BOREALIS!” I bellowed. “DO NOT HIT THE PUPPY.” 

Bo’s eyes widened, and he gritted his teeth — kind of like that one emoji. 😬 He skittered off, and Mache shot me a long-suffering look. 

As Taylor brought our soup to the table, I wrestled Aza into her highchair and was relieved to see Bo climb unprompted into his own seat. Taylor said grace, and then I took my first bite of soup. 

After swallowing, I announced, “I think I know why I don’t remember liking it.”

Taylor grimaced in agreement. “It’s, like, just carrot.” 

And indeed, it was. The soup’s chicken stock, ginger, and onions were totally drowned out by carrot. 

“I feel like I’m eating baby food,” I concluded. 

Ironically, though, both kids flatly rejected the soup — even served as it was in child-appropriate dishes. Bo pushed his cup to the edge of the table and started singing softly. After a few bars, I recognized the tune — and Bo’s unconventional lyrics. 

“Bo, are you singing ‘don’t hit puppy’ to the tune of ‘Jesus Loves Me’?” 

Bo nodded, then sang the standard lyrics. “Ghee-sus yuvs me, dis I know.”

Taylor squeezed my hand. “I love that he sings Christian songs.”

I nodded. “Me too, but not always with the right lyrics. He must get that from my side.” (All four members of my family have long been known for our bad parodies.) 

Taylor and I made good progress on our soups, but Bo’s patience evaporated long before we finished. “You ah done!” {“You’re all done!”}

I sighed. “Bo, that’s not how we say it.” 

Bo thought for a second, then tried, “I’m ah done.”

I nodded. “Good job. And how do you ask to leave the table?”

“May! I! Be! Eh-foosed!” {“May I be excused?”} 

Ignoring his attitude, I allowed, “Yes, you may.”

Bo climbed down from his seat, puffed out his chest, and said, “Yes, I am.” 

Which is, of course, the proper way to denigrate the household maid.

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[Author’s Note: We realized later that “yes, I am” was Bo’s attempt at first-personalizing “yes, you may”. It was a fairly solid attempt and an understandable mistake. However, the conclusion Bo is still working on pronoun usage doesn’t read quite as hilariously as does Bo regally dismisses his need for the maid’s permission.]