Archive for March, 2007

Hello, spring



So, who wants to go outside with Dad and ride bikes in the driveway?…anyone?…anyone at all?

When you upload photos from our camera, they appear in the order they were originally taken. Yesterday, after uploading a smallish batch, I found another folder my husband uploaded that contained the hundred or so photos we’d taken since moving east. It covered everything from leaving our old house, to the temporary apartment we lived in for a month to moving into this little rental house. Naturally, I started flipping through them…in order…and pretty soon I came to the following sequence:


Here, my husband had managed to catch my 3-year-old in the act of falling off her bike. And when your little child takes a fall, you naturally

a) call out to her “ooops, you’re okay” and hope she’ll just brush it off,
b) rush to her, pick her up, check for bleeding, consider a trip to urgent care, or
c) take a picture of her pain.


Here, my husband has clearly chosen OPTION C. 


Here, my daughter, realizing that her father has chosen OPTION C, is running into the house where her mother, who is eternally doing dishes and folding laundry (and wishing for the upteenth time that the girls would STOP taking all the clean matching socks from their drawers to use as pretend diapers for all the beanie babies), will drop whatever it is she’s doing and immediately administer OPTION B.

While OPTION B is occuring inside, here’s what happens next outside, according to the evidence on the digital camera:


Here my 6-year-old, who has witnessed the whole thing, is giving my husband THAT LOOK. You know the look I mean. The look that (if I raise her right) she will someday give her own husband when he does something like this. The look that says: “nice” (and says it in the same tone that the pelican sitting on the open sea said to the other pelican when it looked like he passed some gas in Finding Nemo.)

So, while one daughter is inside receiving OPTION B and the other daughter is giving him THE LOOK, my husband’s next thought clearly must have been:

“Oh, look. A tree.”


because that’s what he took a picture of next. And immediately on the heels of that, he must have thought we needed YET ANOTHER picture of our cars, because let’s face it, you can’t ever have enough pictures of the minivan and the old Honda:


I’m gonna print this one out in high resolution and get it framed and hang it up with the other dozen or so pictures of our old Dodge truck. Oh, look, there’s our old cat hiding underneath the minivan. She’s kind of a wimp, but we’ve had her for 14 years, so we put up with it.

And for those of you who think my husband has been roasted enough, here’s the next picture in the sequence:


Here, with OPTION B duly administered, my 3-year-old has returned to the outdoors and gotten back on her bike and is ready to ride again.

The camera doesn’t lie, my friends. Keep it in mind.

Note to self: serve breakfast earlier

Overheard on my way to pour myself the first cup of coffee of the day:

 My husband to my 3-year-old: “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t pick your nose and then eat it. Get yourself a tissue.”

My 6-year-old, watching avidly as my 3-year-old follows me to the kitchen to get said tissue: “Wow, she must be really hungry.”

Fielding those difficult questions

Yesterday afternoon, while outside playing, my 3-year-old was hopscotching without a rock while my 6-year-old rode her bike up and down the driveway. I strategically placed a lawn chair in front of the barn/garage in the hopes of sitting down and being able to see both girls at the same time (which was hopeless, by the way, but that’s not what this post is about) and sat down (briefly) near the hopscotch grid. My 3-year-old finished a hopscotch run with a dramatic flourish and then wandered over to me in my chair and asked:

“Mom, what’s a servant?”

“A servant?” I said. “A servant is someone who cleans up after you and does whatever you tell them to do.”

“Oh,” she said and then mulled it over a few moments. Then she smiled and said: “Oh…right. Like you. You’re our servant.”

I tried to explain the difference between a mother and a servant, but I’m sure it was lost on her. I’d love to get into it here, really delve into the feminist-political ramifications of it all, but I’ve got a shitload of dishes to wash.

By hand.



Ah…country living…

So, last week, we had a really nice unexpected spring-like day. The temperature rose into the 70s. The sun was warm. The mud dried up. The kids played outside. I went for a nice walk all alone. Beautiful. Really beautiful.

We opened all the windows and aired out our little house. Later on in the afternoon, I set the girls up in the living room with a story tape (Voyage of the Dawn Treader on CD) and went into my bedroom to sit in my rocker near the open window and read (Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood, which I highly recommend, by the way.) I had been sitting for about five minutes or so when I heard a strange clucking noise outside the window. I set my book aside and looked out the window and this is what I saw:


Want me to zoom in on that a little bit? Here ya go:


A turkey! A wild fuckin’ turkey, just cluckin’ along through my yard on a Wednesday afternoon. At least, I’m pretty sure it was wild. No one showed up that evening asking if I’d seen their missing pet turkey or anything like that.

And what did I do? Like any good homeschoolin’ mom, I grabbed a camera, took pictures of it until the shutter-click sound drove it off to someone else’s yard, and then grabbed my field guide and looked it up.

I used to live in a nice big house in a Colorado suburb. I used to have a laundry room larger than my little not-modern country kitchen is today. But now, I live in a little rented farm house on 16 acres with deer moving through in the evenings, blue jays nesting in the spruce trees, a pair of cardinals starting a family in an old pine tree, chickadees all over the place, at least one fox, a country cat that likes to come to the porch at night and torment my cat, something that sounds Rather Large scuttering around in my attic late at night…

And one wild turkey.

This place is all right.

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