Why Not?

"Mom, can we ride the go-kart in the grass?"

"Why not? We live in the country." Who needs a perfect yard out in the country anyway?

"Mom, can I raise chickens and sell their eggs?" 

"Why not? We live in the country." Fresh, homegrown food is one of the most obvious reasons for living in the county.

"Mom, can we explode cans of deodorant in our bonfire?" 

"Why not? We live in the country." Nothing is close enough to be damaged.

"Mom, can my friends park their cars in our front yard?"

"Why not? We live in the country." The neighbors won't complain, like they did at our last house.

"Why not? We live in the country?"

It has become my motto.

So, when I adopted two tiny kitties it was no big deal because we live in the country. There was a black boy and a gray girl, and I thought they would make adorable black and gray kittens when they grew up. Part of life in the country is things like litters of kittens, and I was excited for my kids to experience that. But then the black one died, and it was tragic for us all. We had fallen in love with him. The tears were flowing freely, and parents do crazy things when that happens. 

"My sister's cat had kittens that are about 7 weeks old," Mike told me, holding the phone away from his face.

"Ask her if she has any we could have," I told him, anxious to stop the flow of tears in our house.

"She says she has two left that aren't spoken for. Do you want two?"

"Why not? We live in the country."

So the tears stopped and two orange kittens joined Koda, the gray kitten. But I worried that orange and and gray cats would make ugly kittens. I want my kids to experience a litter of kittens, but then I want to give them all away. So they have to be cute.

"I found a black male kitten for free," Lori, my sister-in-law told me. "Should we go get it?"

"Why not? We live in the country."

So we brought home an adorable black boy kitten to make beautiful kittens with Koda. We loved him instantly.

"Remind me again why we have four kittens?" Mike said.

"The two orange ones are because we were sad when the black kitten died. And the new black one is to have cute kittens with Koda."

"But he won't have kittens with Koda," Mike argued.

"Why not? They are from different litters so they're not related."

"That's not the problem. The problem is mostly that Koda is a boy."

"WHAT????"

Now we need a gray female.

Father's Day?

My husband is the world's most  excellent gift giver. For Mother's Day he transferred all of our old home videos to DVD and made a new video of the kids reminiscing about some of their favorite memories and inserted the corresponding video footage. It was thoughtful and time-consuming. It was sweet and meaningful. Oh, and he also gave me a trip to California with Mumford and Sons concert tickets. How can I compete with that?

Not brilliantly.

I searched the recesses of my brain for a great Father's Day gift idea for him, and, after hours of agonizing and fretting, I came up with an idea. I decided to do his to-do list. I decided to do one thing each day of the week prior to Father's Day.

On day one I cleaned the garage, which he always does because I do not want to.

On day two I returned the recycling, which he always does because it is gross.

Day three. Let's talk about day three.

Mowing is a big job around our house. We have seven acres of green, healthy grass. It grows
constantly. Mike always mows because it is sweaty. I decided to mow for him. I had to call Josiah twice just to figure out how to get the riding lawn mower to turn on. Josiah was very helpful, but he neglected to mention that our lawn mower was not a simple riding machine, but, instead, a tractor of fury.

The power of the tractor took me by surprise. Instead of easing into relaxing chore, I tore out of the shed like a tornado. I realized in a split second that, due to my lack of knowing what was going on, I would most certainly crash. Such knowledge is terrifying, and it sent me into a non-responsive panic. I'm not sure how, but I ended up going in reverse at a terrifying speed. I barreled into a couple trees, luckily avoided the garden, and was finally stopped with a loud crashing and screeching noise, which ended up being the go-kart.

Happy Father's Day...?

I wonder how soon Mike can get around to fixing that go-kart. 

The Flap

I am deathly afraid of our chickens.

I know. They can't hurt you. They aren't dangerous. They are nice. I know. But they terrify me.

It's the flap. They flap their wings suddenly and unexpectedly. And their wings are huge and likely to flap in my face. Therefore, I never go near them. Emery takes care of all their needs, and I avoid them.

"You're not going to like this," Mike said over the phone one glorious afternoon a few weeks ago.
"What's up?"
"The guy is coming to spray for dandelions, and the chickens have to be put into the coop. The chemicals can kill them."
"So are we getting Emery out of school so she can come home and do that?"
"He is on his way right now."

I looked around the empty house and wondered why in the world we didn't homeschool our kids just so one of them would be home at all times for emergencies like this one. With great trepidation, I climbed into the chicken pen and began telling twenty-seven hens to please hurry into their coop. That was ineffective. Then I began to shoo them. But they gave me the crazy eye and easily side-stepped me to pursue their freedom. I yelled at them. I commanded them. I ran at them. I roared at them. It was terrifying. For me.

Finally, with a groan and some tears, I accepted that I would have to catch them.

Catching them, though, is nearly impossible. They can't fly, but it seems as if they can. My strategy was to pick one and chase it into a corner. Then I would grab it, but it pulled out it's secret weapon - the flap. It would flap, and I was undone. Wings in my face, feathers in the air, but no chicken in my hands. I ran a marathon in that pen, and still only managed to catch a few. I roared at the sky and pulled on my hair. I was a tear-streaked, mud-covered mess.

The weed guy had probably never encountered a more distraught homeowner.

Stupid school.