There’s a long standing “joke”* with my dad that everyone should eat bugs to get their protein. To which both my mom and I cringe and squeel, shiver, and tell him to shut up. So, it was no surprise that when the hubs and I brought up the idea of vermiculture (worm composting), my dad’s automatic response was, “OH! And you can EAT them if we run out of beef!” To which my similarly icky husband said, “Ooh! Yeah! We could eat them!” And I launched into a head shaking that was probably felt from a mile away. At that moment, my mom scurried in from the kitchen, looking slightly peaked, to ask, “What?! What about worms?” To which I only responded with a, “Nothing. They’re nuts.”

Later in the day, my mom pulled me aside for a Starbucks run, which is code for, “We have to talk about something that we must be sneaky about, for no apparent reason.” The moment we got into the car, she very worriedly said, “So, tell me about this worm thing.” I barely got the words, “worms” and “ordered” out of my mouth before she interrupted. “Are you going to eat the worms? Because I heard him say you were going to eat the worms. If you guys are having trouble with groceries…”

I’m not sure whether her thinking we were so poor we were going to eat worms is hilarious or really, really sad. Either way, it took me about 20 minutes of interruptions and reassurances before I could convince her that we were not going to eat the worms, that our house wouldn’t smell like poop, and that we weren’t going to be living in filth and flies up to our knees. Although, to be honest, I still think she’s going to be popping over with groceries every week from now on, just so that her grandson doesn’t have to have worm stew for dinner.

*This gets a star because the word “joke” implies that the object is funny. It’s not.

Growing up in the suburbs, I never once saw an ice cream truck come through. Never. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Once, the kids from our bus stop and I put together $12 to buy a box of ice cream bars from the Schwan’s truck that drove through our neighborhood. Does that count? Didn’t think so.

Since moving to “The City”, there are ice cream trucks everywhere. In fact, I am convinced there are more ice cream trucks that come through this neighborhood alone, than go through the entire city in the summer.

- There is the “big business” ice cream truck with the song that I know not the name of, but that my husband can “do do do” all the way through.

- Then there’s the “was once a big business ice cream truck but now says ‘Garcia Sales’ on it” in all it’s crudely hand-painted glory, that plays “Three Blind Mice”.

- Third on the list is the white ice cream van that had it’s writing entirely in Spanish and that my husband swears he doesn’t remember. I do. It played, “Pop Goes the Weasel”, and sounded as if it were seconds away from keeling over.

- Lastly, was the van that, to be honest, I probably would not purchase anything from, nevertheless go near. It was a converted, grey mini-van with ice cream stickers on it. It played, “Farmer in the Dell” with one note just off enough that it made my husband NUTS. It came by so often when I was pregnant, that I would go to sleep at night convinced I was still hearing it at 2 in the morning. I never saw any children stop this van and I don’t blame them one bit.

Besides the trucks, we also have the niverias that send over the Mexican summer treat carts. Men (and one or two women) come by ringing bells on their pushcarts filled with shaved ice, duritos, fruit popsicles, Mexican sodas, and ice cream. Not to mention the wonderful tamale lady from the neighborhood that walks through with her shopping cart full, hollering, “tamALEEEEEEEEEES!” For the first 6 months living here, I was convinced she was just a crazy lady with a shopping cart that came around on the weekends to holler “ALEH!” to herself. Finally, we had our windows open one evening when she came by and it clicked. I went shooting downstairs, hollering at my husband, “SHE’S SAYING TAMALES! SHE’S SELLING TAMALES! GET YOUR MONEY!” And they were good. Very, very good. Come rain or come shine, the tamale lady and her shopping cart will be seen on the weekends.

While I may not live in the most upscale neighborhood in the city, I doubt there’s any other place where you can get a full meal by just sitting on your porch in the summer afternoon. I may have my ups and downs with this neighborhood, as I’m sure everyone does with their own, but there’s enough here that makes me stay and keeps me infatuated. And it’s not just the ice cream and tamales delivered to my door. Although, those don’t hurt.

The food poisoning, that is. We won’t ever, ever discuss that I got God awful food poisoning and may or may not have spent a good part of the night asleep on my parents’ bathroom floor.

We won’t discuss how, now, I am uber paranoid about hand washing and may or may not be searching frantically for a step stool so the boy can wash his own hands whenever he chooses (which manages to be All.The.Time. - Is it too early for an OCD check?). Which may or may not is causing a slight problem, seeing as how he’s only 2, not quite able to get up steps without some hand holding, and a little small for his age.

This is the first stool that caught my eye, the Ecotots Surfin Kids First Wave Step Stool. It’s entirely adorable. However, it’s also not nearly tall enough for the kid to reach his intended destination. There are two types of stools in the child world. One steppers and two steppers. One steppers were not what we needed. On I went.

While I found the Safari Storage Step-Up Stool ridiculously adorable and that it had storage (!!!). it really didn’t solve my “can’t climb so well” problem. I needed a two stepper with a railing. I had no idea if anyone even made them.

Apparently, they do! The High Rise Step Up would raise the boy up just enough to not only reach the sink, but the kitchen counter when he wants to help make his snacks! It looked perfect!

While I would love to end this blog with a “and I got it and it was perfect and I never had to sleep on my parents’ bathroom floor again”, unfortunately, the husband is just not convinced it’ll do the job. And, for the price, if he’s not sure…well, you know.

So, here I sit, trying to figure out if I can build a railing for a double stepper out of plywood and craft glue.

Not so much, huh?

The Original: