Clearing my conscience

My husband was in China a month ago, and I gave his side of our bed to a cat. It wasn't premeditated. I wasn't even certain the spur-of-the-moment kitty acquisition was actually happening until my dear friend put the kitten in my car and my confused kids said "What?". It might have been appropriate to wonder what my husband would say, since we already had a herd of one indoor and three outdoor cats. Then I remembered that I am the crazy cat lady, and my groom was well aware of that when he married me.

As it turns out, I had no need to worry. I was about to pull off my best yet "It's easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission" moment. Not that I try to make it a habit or anything. See, as we were on Facetime attempting to gently break it to him that we had brought a new animal home in his absence, he jumped ahead of my words and assumed it was a large animal that eats grass. A donkey.

He was so relieved that it was only a cat.

Excuse me while I high-five myself in the mirror...



Paw-lee looks an awful lot like Bad Kitty, but with extra toes on her gigantic adorable feet. However, if the tragic events leading up to the cat re-homing incident had a title, it would definitely be Bad Doggie.


The roller coaster of emotions was rattling at top speed.

My own kids were angry and in shocked disbelief that I had executed our Red Rooster while they slept the night before. Despite my 20 minute top-of-my-lungs sobbing under the stars I was nowhere near finished grieving. It may have been Game Over but that doesn't mean it wasn't horribly upsetting or that I didn't love that ornery rooster dearly.

My friend's family was reeling from the violent death of two of their other kittens from the week before, which had followed yet another one, which had followed the inexcusable death of their sweet beloved Momma cat just days after her babies were born. Bad, bad doggie.

Now that the remaining one is ours, I feel so guilty that I wasn't more strongly insistent on taking a time-share of bottle feeding that batch of kittens when they were tiny.

For the record, The Old Nichols Farm has officially reached it's quota of cats.

For the record, we're in love.



My husband is in China again, and I think it would be pretty darn funny to borrow someone's ass (the four-legged kind) and park it in my corral just to mess with him when he gets home.

Hello 10th

Hello Kitty. Hello breakfast strawberry.


Hello schoolwork.


Hello snakeskin!


Hello Paw-lee!


Uh. Hello mess.


Hello sensory experience. (are you annoyed with the hello stuff yet?)


BUSTED! Caught shopping in Daddy's stuff.


Hello 14-inch circumference eggplant! (can't help myself - I tried, and anyway, Hello Kitty started it)


Helllllllooooo broody Mimi!


Hello "why am I missing a pic?" Hello whatever.

Hello linky:

Summer

Would we be this uncivilized if our nearest neighbor wasn't a mile away?


{some of us don't have tan lines}

Definitely.

How (not) to tame your rooster

First, you've got to catch your rooster. This is likely easier said than done. Go ahead, click that link. I'll wait.

Red happened to be distracted by the little sister's dance moves. He was either plotting against her or very confused. Or both. One of the grown-ups saw the golden opportunity and nabbed him quick. The element of surprise... there's nothing quite like it when it comes to catching a disrespectful rooster.

It's true. We've got an ongoing respect issue. Lack of respect. The bird hates my kids. Having them sit on him once in awhile boosts their courage and knocks his ego down a healthy notch.



Except, ummm... when the rooster's face turns dark purple and you have to remind the kid he's not supposed to be sitting with ALL his weight on the rooster. I mean, the thing has to be able to breath.



Oops.

Well, that's better. Red is so much more handsome red than purple.

The other brother will want a turn too. But the sister won't.

And when we finally let him go...

Did you know roosters can swear?

Magical

A neighbor asked if I was surprised. My blank expression was accompanied by a four-second inner monologue echoing in my brain that went something like this: "Surprised that I'm a year older? That my nearly-eight-year-old spent half the church service hiding under the pew because he couldn't stand the guest-pastor's voice? That we might actually have some chicks hatching soon? That the mohawk fits the littler boy's personality perfectly? That someone broke the unspoken no-birthday gifts rule and did a dang good job of it too!? Oh, no. Wait. What if it's that thing that I joked to my husband was going to happen only because the winner gets a girly girl prize, and that is just my luck."

And yep, it was that thing.

4H kids learn a whole lot of life skills, like the uncanny ability to put together a very very last minute entry for the Fair and still somehow walk away with the super-fancy Champion ribbon. It's a priceless talent to have, really. My Mom will be thrilled to hear that I've still got what it takes.

So I sincerely ask, what in the world will I do with a $20 styling salon gift certificate?

My husband sincerely asked, "What if a man had won it?"

I looked at his partly-bald head and giggled, "I guess you could get your hair cut!"

Anyway, last night topped off a pretty great week with a magical combination of ingredients: My children were sleeping and their Daddy was home to watch them. It was warm out. There was just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes from being obnoxious. In a quiet corner of the barn, tiny peeps sang to their Mama hen as they fought their way out of their shells and into a whole new world. Electrons from the sun were blasting the Earth's magnetic field, causing the sky to dance overhead.

To the best of my knowledge, none of the psychotic little skunks crossed my path when I was out of the car.

And I stayed up way, way too late.

Magic, I tell you.

Our buggy 4th

We brought our collection of Red Admiral chrysalises to the lake:
a. to keep the kids entertained on the three-hour drive.
b. because I heard it was the cool new thing to do.
c. to show my Dad the evidence that I had identified the caterpillars wrong. (oh, the shame... they're Red Admirals, not Buckeyes)
d. because I was too chicken to ask my neighbor to babysit them for me after I'd already asked him to keep an eye on my chickens, and you certainly can't have butterflies flitting around the house unsupervised.

e. all of the above.

The Bean was ecstatic about:
a. Daddy and you and me and the boys and me and you and Daddy going to the lake? And Daddy? And ALL of us!!!
b. stealing tomatoes.
c. helping her Mom get an abandoned Project 52 back on track.
d. fishing during the day...

and at night...

e. all except choice "c", of course.

The boys found a toad that:
a. peed a lot!

b. made them laugh and squeal and climb up a cliff and run ALL the way back up the hill to show the Grandmas in the cabin.
c. did not amuse the Grandmas.
d. was gigantic! (at least by North Dakota standards)
e. ALL of the above.

The porch was a great place to find:
a. Great Grandpa Gus talking in German!
b. bare feet.
c. numerous Mayflies that stuck like velcro anywhere we put them!

d. a rogue cactus, which ended up stuck in someone's poor little foot!?
e. all of the above.

Perhaps the best part of shooting off fireworks when we got home was:
a. The Bean's very first sparkler!

b. scaring the living daylights out of our curious chickens with that first "boom".
c. Daddy tossing a firecracker into the septic tank.
d. playing with fire and making smoke.

e. every single bit of it.

This "4th of July Week" multiple choice fun is brought to you:
a. at least a few days too late.
b. just to freshen up this crusty old moldy lonely blog.
c. for the third time, which officially makes it an annual tradition. (2011 and 2010)
d. by a procrastinating Mom who should be doing dishes and folding laundry.
e. all of the (cough, cough) above.

This life

I hope my kids grow up remembering that their Daddy could fix anything.



My own Dad builds cabinets. Embedded deep in my brain is the sound of his saw, the smell of the wood, laughing as the air compressor blasted off the sawdust I had inadvertently collected on my skin when it was time to go home.



I wonder if it will be the smell of gasoline, the sound of the summer bugs and the toolbox drawers opening and closing, the happy sprawled dog panting beside them, the feel of wearing the shop floor on their dirty bare feet... but I hope it brings them right back.