The following is a post sponsored by Mantis. But you would be correct in guessing I only write a sponsored post for a product I’m crazy about.
It is finally warm enough to jig-a-jig up the ComposTumbler again. Now, some dear friends are obsessed with baseball and look forward to the season with great anticipation. Not me. I look forward to this season: composting season. And yesterday was opening day. Let me explain…
The boots. They slay me.
There’s a little known bonus to owning a composter I like to lovingly call “mommy take a breath time.” I’ve referred to this before on the blog. {Here, to be precise.} And let’s be real: I think it’s time for Mantis’ advertising department to step it up and embrace this marketing opportunity.
May I set the stage for you:
It’s 5:15 p.m. David is still working. David will still be working for some time. We are solidly into what mothers refer to as “the witching hour” where, yes, I do wonder if my children are indeed possessed. They are both crying. They have both requested something else for dinner. Something different from the homemade chicken pot pie I have made from the kind of scratch that makes poison ivy look like only a slight brush. Something different from the homemade chicken pot pie I have gingerly placed on the Dora plate and the Tinkerbell plate and set in front of them.
What, might you ask, are they requesting for dinner?
Pringles and leftover Easter candy.
We have considered re-naming bitty G “Chips.” Because it fits.
I consider succumbing to the alternate dinner request just to get. some. mental. quiet. David continues to work on. I glance over at the scrap bowl I have lovingly filled throughout the day with apple peel, egg shell, grape stem, and yes, all the vegetal remnant of the from-scratch chicken pot pie. The light bulb goes off.
“Bitties, I’ll be right back,” I say, practically darting out the back door.
The sun is waning.
The day is cooling.
The crickets are cricketing.
And my children are being protected from their own mother by, you guessed it, a ComposTumbler.
I breathe deep. I remember that I do actually love my life. I linger maybe just a minute longer than I should after dumping the contents of the scrap bowl into the composter, and then I return to the bitties, refreshed and rejuvenated, and ready to battle it out over some chicken pot pie.
Sister loves a good sticker.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaand: SCENE.
{In case you’re wondering: yes, it is impossibly difficult to be such a marketing genius.}
THAT’S your angle, Mantis! The end of her wits mama! She’s your market! She’s your gal! She’s your PEOPLE.
Don’t go with the cute newlywed couple or the adorable lady with perfect hair–go for the frazzled mama with spit up running down the back of her yoga pants and the t-shirt that says Bid Day 1995. {Team Building Exercise ’99, anyone?}
See, mama’s just can’t ditch their children…they have to have a reason. An excuse. A bowl of rotting vegetable peeling. “Sorry kiddos, I’ve got to get this outside lickety-split before it stinks up the whole house.”
No, I do not care to finish your half-eaten apple.
See, I knew this whole composting thing was a good move for our family. Welcome back, composting season. You are far funner than baseball. Now…how to spin my need for my own mini tiller…
