Nothing like a shot of commerce in the tender arm of a four-year old. Hamish spent a good part of the weekend shilling homemade soap on the front lawn. He made four bucks. What will he buy? Maybe more soap. I found a recipe for homemade soap online that called for shredding unscented soap with a cheese grater and mixing in bits of lavender. Did I mention we have a lavender bush in the backyard?
Maybe next time we'll attempt the lavender cloud cookies. Mmmm, egg whites. Oh yeah, the thing was, I only had Dove soap, the smelly pink kind. But it was either that or order lye online and that was not happening, not for this spontaneous-compulsive project mom. If I can't make it in five minutes from crap found lying around the house than it ain't getting made. Plus I was motivated by my old pal Guilt, feeling a little frayed around the edges after way too much time spent drooling in front of the TV. I needed to be able to say to Bryan, to you, the world, "Guess what Hamish and I did today? We made soap!" And then bask in your approval and mild impressed surprise and possible envy.
Hamish's pal was game to sell as well and everyone who stopped bought, which tells you a little about the pace of our nabe. S-L-O-W, folks. Some people waved charitably from their cars or lawn-tending trucks, which we moms cheerleaded, "That counts! You got a wave!" But more than a few marks were oblivious to the cherubic and hygiene-minded cuteness on the sidewalk, to which we would tell the kids, "They're too busy breaking the law talking on their cell phone," bristling with indignation.
The thing that really puffed me with pride though was Hamish's fearless spirit, the way he shouted to every car or passerby, "Soap for sale! Twenty-five cents!" and shook his cardboard sign at them. I could use a bit of that—the focused intention that doesn't give a shit what other people think, because I don't have time to care, I have soap to move.