So I never thought I would need a mortar and pestle

I am not much of a cook.  It's not that I'm lacking in skill.  I just don't want to put the time and effort into it.  That is pretty much the story of my life: the talent is there but I have no ambition.  Hmm, should I consider this further?  Nah, don't wanna.

The point is, kitchen gadgets are wasted on me.  I have a drawer full of little items that will only be used if I go insane.  Insane as in: I become convinced my neighbors are terrorists, kidnap one of them and use the kitchen gadgets as tiny instruments of torture.  I will probably never go insane enough to use something like a corn zipper for actually removing corn from the cob.  Note to people who use a corn zipper - The freezer section of your store provides giant bags of corn already removed from the cob!  I know, science and technology are wonderful. You can even get it in a can if you don't mind the weird canny taste.

Wow, this post has taken an odd turn.

Back to the titular mortar and pestle.  I have been wishing for one since last Wednesday when I began the Crushing of the Chewable Antibiotics torment.

I was all set to call the doctor on Thursday and tell them exactly what I thought about the hiding the chewables in pudding suggestion.  But then my guilt-o-meter hit level ten and I had to follow through with the crushing to diminish the guilt.  

Oh you don't have a built in guilt-o-meter?  Mine was obviously implanted by a sadistic OB/GYN during one of the early prenatal visits while I was pregnant with Huck.  Basically I can only endure so many hits of "feeling guilty" before I must perform some self-sacrificing act for my children.  After I have worked off my feelings of guilt and inadequacy, the meter resets to zero and I have a few more days of ignoring the nibbles of guilt.  I think the meter might keep me from imploding (or possibly it keeps my neighbors safe from the corn zipper - I'm not sure on this).

Here is how my guilt meter filled up to the point that I had to continue with the pain in the ass antibiotic crushing.

1. I failed to believe that my child was truly sick for the first 24 hours of his illness. Two points.
   
2. I sent sick child to his room for being whiny. One point.
3. I took my child to the doctor where he was diagnosed with a real illness.  This gets one point on the guilt-o-meter for Huck (Three if Worm is sick because he is home with me all day so the exposure to illness is more directly my fault.)
   
4. I allowed the child to play video games until he was exhausted and teary because it made him forget his sore throat. Two points.
   
5. I drug the sick child to Target although he was dead on his feet and quite nauseated. Two points.  In my defense, I had to get his medicine filled.
6. I bought the sick child junk food for lunch hoping to make up for my impatience with him before the illness was diagnosed. One point.
7. I did not diligently push liquids to keep sick child hydrated. One point.
   

WARNING! WARNING! MATERNAL GUILT OVERLOAD IMMINENT! BEGIN CORRECTION PROCEDURES IMMEDIATELY! 

So I had to suck it up and crush the damn pills into dust and carefully stir them into pudding and then monitor every bite of the pudding to ensure maximum medicinal consumption.  If I had called back for liquid antibiotics the police would currently be searching for my neighbor.

They never would have found him, my corn zipper is deadly.