Boys and their toys

After a couple years of going without, David has his landscaping tractor back.



So how does he use it?

At his sons' request, he digs a crater in front of the swing set.

For them to jump over. Or rather, for them to attempt to jump over as they launch themselves off their swings.


Emergency room, anyone?

Maybe I should rename this blog ...

Sometimes, my favorite thing to do is to drink a Heineken and surf the web. It's all very voyeuristic - googling people I know, blog surfing.

I'm repeatedly bothered by the number of people who have blogs about their children who put the damn blog in the first person - as if the child was writing the thing. God that irritates me. That and all the blogs of happy families who've found Christ.

But I digress.

The problem with this Heineken surfing is that I do it at the least opportune times. Like right now, when David is slaving away painting the basement, the boys are doing their homework and my sole purpose in the universe is to be making dinner for this family.

I drink my beer. I surf. I occasionally run out and flip the stuff on the grill.

In moments, dinner will be ready, and it will all be a mad dash. Why? Because instead of clearing and setting the table and getting things ready for a relaxing evening, I'm about to get another Heineken and see if there's a blog out there named "Bitches who don't buy bullshit."

Makes me happy. The resulting chaos is worth it.

Really?

Is it possible I've got nothing to say if I don't have those damn chickens?

Wilbur

Just got a call on a pig.



Half a pig, actually.

No, we're not keeping it here. But we are investing in 1/2 pig's worth of fresh meat.

At the local watering hole a few months ago, I ran into an old high school buddy of mine who has a farm and raises the occasional pig for slaughter. I expressed interest in 1/2 a pig.

I've kept his number around, waiting for May to make the call. He called me instead and we're now in the pig business.

I see you out there, just shaking your head, wondering what the hell goes on in my brain and whether I'll actually see this livestock experiment through.

Hey, as long as I don't have to take care of the pig every day and as long as I don't have to slaughter the thing, I think I'm good.

I'll keep you posted.

Addendum: Just remembered that David was going to start reading Charlotte's Web to Otto tonight. I think we're going to have to find a different book...

Vacation, again?!

These kids are on vacation, again. It's just ridiculous. Didn't I just complain blog about them being on vacation?

At the moment, Gunther is in his room with two of his friends playing with his Star Wars Mighty Muggs. Wolfgang is in his room plotting my untimely demise because I told him he owes Otto a squirt gun.

Wolfgang: Really, Mom, I didn't throw Otto's squirt gun down on the ground and break it. I gently tossed it to him and it landed on the soft grass.

Me: I don't believe you.

And Otto is in his room crying because he feels left out.

(Parenting interlude)

Otto just came downstairs crying about not being allowed to participate in the Mighty Muggs extravaganza. Irony upon ironies. A few minutes ago, Otto's best buddy from across the street left because Otto was ignoring him in favor of Gunther's friends.

Yeah, well I know a "teachable moment" when I see one. So, I did the obvious. I pointed out that payback is a bitch.

Only I did it nicely, I think. And with a hug.

Alright, lunch hour is over. Back to telecommuting.

An easy out

So I'm getting some flack about my quick turn around on the chicken subject.

Yes, I was excited. Yes, I was passionate. Yes, I loved the idea of having chickens.

And yes, I changed my mind.

A few people, when faced with the great depths of emotion and changes of mind that are Carolyn, are trying to rationalize my change of heart.

The best one I've heard has to do with David. My darling husband has been busting his ass installing radiant heat for our first floor. He's spent weeks in the basement, sawing off nails, drilling holes, installing aluminum plates, fighting with plastic tubing and drilling screws.

The poor guy just finished the installation. To expect him to turn around and build a chicken coop just to satisfy my whim would be inhumane.

So, me letting the chickens go was all about not working my husband into an early grave. That's the rationalization being handed to me.

Who am I to turn down such a logical, generous rationalization?

Look at me. I'm not fickle. I'm thoughtful and considerate.

Dolly Parton has Jesus. I've got CHEEZ-ITs.

I wonder what my 40s will look like if I continue to spend my evenings watching reality tv and eating junk food.

I'm developing random opinions about shows I've never watched before. For instance, I think Micheal Johns kicks David Archuleta's butt, and I think Chef Ramsay was right to shut down the kitchen.

I'm also becoming increasingly possessive.

Get your own damn box.

Clearly, I don't have time for those chickens.