Transporting a Calf in my Car and Other Such Nonsense

When we bought the new car, I made foolish declarations such as:

“There will be no eating in the Infiniti.”

I am bound and determined to keep this rig tidy!  So, we are not eating in the Infiniti . . . but transporting a calf to town for the vet?

Sounds perfectly reasonable.

Hey.  I am bound and determined to save this calf.  I am giving it my all.  THERE IS LITERALLY NOTHING MORE IN MY POWER TO DO FOR HIM.

Anyways.  We went to the vet. Sweet Pea, Little Dude, and I loaded him into the new car atop a tarp and a camping blanket, if you can believe such a thing.  I used all of my muscles and it was very exhausting.  I treated us to ice cream after.  WITH THE CALF STILL IN THE CAR AND WE ATE IN THE NEW INFINITI.  I am a destroying all hopes of a clean car.  But what could I do?  We loaded a calf and drove it to the vet!  And Tiny Tim will probably live!  Ice cream for everyone!

He was starting to fail over the weekend and refused to eat, which is what led to the vet visit.  They showed me how to tube feed him and gave him a few shots, but they said he actually looked pretty good!  And as a result of the shots . . . I think he might be on the up and up! And I have not had to tube feed him!

I am starting to love him.  This is not going to end well.

Also, he might be cleaner than Little Dude is in the Infiniti.  Are we surprised?

No.  No, we are not.

***

When I was younger, I watched the movie “City Slickers.”  There was a calf named Norman.  I thought that was an EXCELLENT name for a calf.  I figured I would never have a calf, but I promised myself I would at least name a dog Norman.

I realized on the way home from the vet that I had two boy baby calves in my life, and I failed to name either of them, “Norman.”

If Tiny Tim survives, I am going to rename him, “Norman.” Because I can.

***

One of my daughters, who shall remain nameless, might be getting involved with a boy.

Mmm-hmmm.

His parents called a meeting.  I named it “The Meeting of the 4 Parents,” because I am a dork like that. His parents, who are clearly more mature than us, felt it would be good to set some ground rules.

Before “The Meeting of the 4 Parents,” the aforementioned daughter started pop quizzing us with questions.  And David and I found ourselves to be hilarious.

Daughter:  Can we hold hands?

Me: Perhaps if you are praying before a meal?

Daughter:  Mom!  Stop being so immature!

Me:  You want to always make sure you don’t get too close.  Leave room for the Holy Spirit!

(Yes, I went to a Christian school as a child.  Why do you ask?)

Daughter:  I am not talking to you anymore.

So, we went to the meeting.  It was good.  Sorta awkward at times.  Pretty sure I want to just send this daughter back to preschool or something.

Fast forward to a few days later when the aforementioned boy joined our family for fireworks.

Little Dude:  Mom!  Dad!  They are holding hands!  And they are not holding hands the NORMAL way.  They are locking their fingers . . . like this! (and he shows us, looking HORRIFIED)

Me:  Ok.

Little Dude:  OK?!  MOM!  It is dis-TURB-ing me!  It is making me UNCOMFORTABLE!

Me:  I don’t know what to tell you, bud.  It was determined at “The Meeting of the 4 Parents” that holding hands was allowed.

Little Dude:  It’s weird.

***

And yes, it is all weird.  I am not ready for this.  My girls are growing up and I am not sure if I can handle this unknown territory.

Sweet Pea got a DEBIT card this week.  And tomorrow, she gets a driving permit.  And she wants to drive us home.

From town.

All 45 minutes of it.

Pray for me.

Happy Wednesday!