The Lumberjack's Wife

Life has been busy, as usual.  On Sunday, we went to the beach for Jason’s birthday.  Little Dude has decided to become a fish in the past few weeks and works on his sweet, swimming skills.  Or skillz, if you prefer.

He thinks he is swimming, but he is basically doing belly flops and then giving his mother a heart attack when it takes him a bit of time to resurface.

He “swam” for a long time yesterday.  After the party, we stopped for ice cream on the way home.

Because we feel having an ice cream cone right after eating birthday cake isn’t excessive at all.

Here is Little Dude, enjoying his frosty treat at 5:30pm.

And here is Little Dude around 6pm.

When we got home, we tried to wake him up, but to no avail.

Somehow he ended up in the middle of the living room floor while we went about unloading the car and putting things away.  Finally, I gave up and took him to bed, even though I was worried he would be up and ready to party soon.

Not so!  He slept until 8:15am.

Yesterday, I lost my marbles and decided to make and can two batches of strawberry jam, fix one batch of runny blackberry freezer jam from last year, and pressure can 4 quarts of green beans.

Did you know you can fix runny jam?  It’s true.  Click here if you don’t believe me.

By the end of the day, my back was killing me.

Sweet Pea asked me why I don’t just buy jam.  I am thinking she is my most brilliant child.

***

Alright.

I have been getting lots of questions regarding the private and personal lives of chickens.  And since I am clearly the expert on all things farm and ranch-y, I thought I would give you a bit of a chicken tutorial.

You are so welcome.

*Warning*

This post might need to, *ahem*, be flagged for adult content.  Consider yourselves warned.

Chickens.

Chickens is the umbrella term for all the fowl that are currently residing at my property.

A chick is a baby.

A pullet is like a teenager.  Maybe?  What do I know?

A hen is a female chicken.

A rooster is a male chicken.

If you are one of my boys, you call the male the “Daddy Woo-Ster” and think all the big eggs are laid by him.

But don’t listen to my boys.

They live in their own worlds and pinch each other in compromising places when they are excited.

Roosters don’t lay eggs!  I repeat.  Roosters do not lay eggs.

Now.  I have heard some confusion on the whole egg sitch.  So allow me, your farm and ranch expert, to shed light on this mystery.

I have gotten a few questions about the mysterious ways of the poultry.  One person thought that hens only laid eggs if the rooster had, *ahem*, visited them.

False.

Another asked if the hens laid eggs and the rooster went around somehow “sprinkle-fertilizing” the eggs.

False.

The hens lay eggs no matter what, if they are the right age and all that nonsense.

If you have a rooster, there is a good change your eggs are fertilized.  The “Daddy Woo-Ster” struts his stuff around the chicken yard and acts like The Ladies Man.  He, *ahem* “visits” the ladies as he pleases.  Then the hens lay an egg every day or every other day.

If the egg is gathered right away, it is just an egg.

Imagine that.

If the egg is kept warm under the hen’s feathered hiney for about three weeks, it magically turns into a chick.

If you do not have a Daddy Woo-Ster, you would still get eggs, they would just never turn into baby chicks, no matter how long they sat under the feathered hiney.

And if you are a hen who stops laying eggs, you must fear for your life.

You might find yourself in one of Teller’s Special Cans of Mystery Meat.

And lest any of you are confused, there is NO WAY I am ever going to be able to eat the canned chicken.

Nope, nope, nope.

This concludes today’s edition of:

Life Lessons by Teller

I hope you are all a bit wiser.

***

On a completely unrelated note, this is what Handsome Dude asked me the other day:

HD:  Mom?  Can you make me a turkey sammich for wunch?

(That would be turkey sandwich for lunch, for those who don’t speak HD)

Me:  Sure.

HD:  But can I have a turkey sammich without the turkey?

Me: What?

HD:  I NOT LIKE TURKEY!

Me:  Dude.  What do you want on your sandwich?

HD:  Bread.  White stuff. And Trees.

Allow me to translate, dear readers.

The boy wanted bread, mayo, and cheese.

This is why I drink coffee.

Later, dudes.

We have been busy little food preservers these days.  Oh, yes.  So hold on to your pants and prepare to be dazzled!

Amy came over and, as Jason put it, we “jammed harder than a rock band.”

Plus we had cute aprons.  We are THAT cool.

Amy and I feel like we are truly earning the right to represent the Maliblahblah name.

We may or may not have shared in a celebratory hug once we discovered that all the jam had set up properly and all lids were sealed nice and tight.

Jam making.  Not for the faint of heart.

Our green beans are on.  Daisy Mae, who is a true Maliblahblah at heart, went out to the garden and gathered some beans.  She then helped me cut up the beans and pack them into quart jars to prepare for the pressure canner.

I have used the pressure canner thrice now and have had no disasters.

Be impressed.

The boys went and gathered blueberries from our garden.  They were extremely excited.

And is Handsome Dude pinching Little Dude’s chesticular area?  I ask you?

Yes.  I believe he is.

It is time for a COW.  Because I am really good about remembering to do a COW once a week.

This week’s Comment of the Week was probably the best comment I have ever received.

Back in April, my blogging friend, Kendra, aka The Queen of the Brussels Sprouts, suffered from several mini-strokes.  She has been recovering in a hospital and has had a miraculous recovery.  She is still recovering, but she is now home.

My heart skipped when I saw her name come through.  She wrote:

“hi friend
i am home again
it was good to laugh at your posts again….”

I am so glad she is home!  She is such an amazing lady and I pray for her continued recovery.  You can check out her blog here.

Happy Weekend!

The three older kids have been participating in a free sports camp the last three days, so for the past three mornings, Little Dude and I have been BFF.

Meet Little Dude.

He is four years old and quite spunky.

Oddly enough, Little Dude could care less that the three others are going to have oodles of fun without him.  He never seems to care about being left out.

Little Dude also talks nonstop.  It is quite charming or annoying, depending on what mood I am in.  Yesterday, LD and I stopped at Target.

Yes!  Me!  At Target!  Who knew?!

He tried to talk me into buying him some Angry Birds pajamas.

LD:  Oooooh!  ANGER-EE Birds!  Mom!  Look!

Me:  Sorry, dude.

LD:  Oh, man.

So later when I saw the ANGER-EE birds notebook on sale for $1, I let him pick one out.  Which immediately bumped my status up to Mother of the Year.

And what is the deal with Angry Birds, I ask you?  I have never played that game.  It looks kind of dumb.  Almost as if all you do is fling mean-looking birds at objects.  But what do I know?

Next, LD and I did some thrift store shopping where I found several items of clothing for yours truly.  WooHoo! Back in the days of yore, I would never be able to find decent clothes for myself at thrift stores.  Now, it is basically all I wear.  Which begs the question:

Did my style-sense get worse or did thrift stores get better?

Hmmmm.

Taking LD into fitting rooms is a treat.  I have learned to always wear a tank top and try to never try on pants in front of the lad.  This is because he is constantly shouting and wondering where my *ahem* unit is.

Little Dude.  Not quiet.

LD:  Oh, Mom.  That not look good.  It’s like-it’s like-it’s like-it’s like it not fit you.  Like you are too way bigger.  Right, Mom?  RIGHT?  MOOOM?!  RIGHT?  You are too BIGGER, RIGHT?

Fantastic.

Little Dude.  Not good for the self-esteem.

So, we picked up the other children.  Yesterday was the last day of camp and we had to all come back that evening for a parent night.  If the kids brought back their homework, they would be entered into a drawing for a free bike.

Handsome Dude took this to mean that he was, most assuredly, getting a new bike that night.  He lives in a special, happy world.

Next, we had to rush off for Handsome Dude’s kindergarten inventory.  Yes, I know.  It is confusing.  I homeschool, but we are also in a program where we must meet with a contact teacher.  Just accept it.  This post will read much easier if you do.

Handsome Dude started off the session with much hope and promise.  But then, his attention span started to wane and his attitude tanked.

She would ask him a question, and he would pretend like his body no longer contained a skeletal structure and slowly slump to the ground.

She would ask him a question, and he would ask her why she had to keep asking him questions.

She would ask him a question, and he would reply:

“Um, could you hurry up?  I gotta go win a bike.”

She would ask him to write a letter in the alphabet, and it was almost as if his hand was so fatigued from all her incessant questions, that he could not even hold the cumbersome pencil in his tiny, not-at-all dramatic, little hand.

He certainly is precious, is he not?

Amazingly enough, and you had better sit down for this, Handsome Dude is a perfectly normal kindergarten boy.

Color me relieved.

After THAT fun meeting, we drove to my parents’ house to kill time until HD had to go collect his new bike.

My mom is Super Grams and has a swimsuit for each child at her house.  So, the kids changed and we walked to the park, which also has basketball hoops and a splash pad.

Oh, to be young and walk down the street in my swimsuit and bouncing a ball.

We went to the parent night, and I am sad to report that, no, Handsome Dude did not win a bike.

Which was odd, since he clearly was supposed to win.

We drove home and Little Dude talked the entire time.  Which might shock you.  The boys do this one thing every time we drive to and fro:  they yell at me to beat the cars.  They feel like every drive to town is a race and they get quite miffed if there are any cars ahead of me.  In any lanes.  Ever.

It’s fun.

And you would think they would get tired of this game, but, alas.  They never, EVER do.

LD:  Mom!  Beat that car, Mom!

Me:  I can’t.

LD:  Why?

Me:  Because I can’t go that fast.

LD:  Oh, cuz the police man will take you to jail?

Me:  Yeah.

*And then later on, when I did actually pass someone*

LD and HD, screaming for joy:  YYYYYEEEEAAAAAHHHHH, MOM!  YYYYYYEEEEAAAHHHH!  YOU BEAT THAT CAR, MOM!

And as we actually pass the poor soul . . . .

LD:  HA HA HA!  You too slow!  We BEAT you!

Seriously.  They never tire of it.

LD:  Look, Mom!  It’s the moon!

Me:  Yup.

LD:  Beat that moon, Mom!  BEAT IT!

Me:  I can’t.

LD:  Oh, no!  The moon is beating us!  IT IS WINNING YOU, MOOOOM!

Me:  I’m going to listen to the radio now.  I want you to be quiet.

LD:  BUT YOU HAVE TO BEAT THE MOON

I turn the radio up.  Luckily, it is a song I know and sometimes, a mom has got to tune out her children and sing her heart out.

Even if that song is “Everybody Hurts” by REM.

Me (singing in a not-so-pretty voice):  Everybody hurts . . .

LD:  MOOOOM!  MOM!  I have to talk to you

Me:  Not now, dude.  Mama needs to sing.

LD:  But, MOM!  MOOOM!

Me:  No!

LD:  Yes!

Me:  NO!

LD:  But the song is about ANGER-EE birds!  Listen!

And he thought that when Mr. REM sang “Everybody hurts”, he was actually singing “Angry Birds.”

Because that would make sense.

Me:  No, he’s not saying that.  Now quiet!  I want to listen to the song!

LD:  BUT, MOM!  LOOK!  LOOK, MOM!  I HAVE AN ANGER-EE BIRDS NOTEBOOK RIGHT HERE!!!  SEE, MOM!  LIKE THE SONG!  SEE?  SEE?  SEE?

Me:  Yes.  I see.

LD:  OOOOH!  BEAT THAT CAR, MOM!

Usually that precious boy falls asleep on the way home.  But not last night.  He stayed awake to the bitter end.

And here is after we pulled up at home.

Showing me his ANGER-EE face.

Just like ANGER-EE birds.

Right, Mom?

Right?

RIGHT?

MOM?

MOOOOOOMMMMM?

Happy Thursday!

I thought I might take a moment to remind you all just why this blog is entitled “The LUMBERJACK’S Wife.”

Before Sweet Pea and I left camp on Friday night, David was in charge of harvesting the wood for the campfire.

I can assure you that this task did not begrudge him one bit.  When David goes for campfire wood, his motto is:  “Go Big or Go Home.”

Case in point:

Stand down, readers!  I know the picture is a bit blurry! Daisy Mae was the photographer.  You can rest assured that if I was the photog, all images would be crystal clear.

This tree was about 30 feet.

You may ask:  “Taylor!  Why on earth does your husband do such things?”

Well.  Because he can.

Look!  Here I am in a picture!

I am the mother near the truck in the jean not-so-short shorts removing my wanna-be-Lumberjack, Little Dude, from the line of action.

So, that’s all the pictures I have from the camping trip because Sweet Pea and I left soon after that.  (In case you missed it, our dog died tragically right before we got to camp.  You can read about that here.)

Sweet Pea and I had a really nice time together just the two of us.  I realized just how easy, peaceful, and CHEAP life is with just one child.

We went shopping.  I did not have to use my angry eyes or have anyone ask me about my “unit” in the dressing room.

We ate lunch.  It was less than $7.

We went to the library.  I did not have to shush anyone.  AND I got to visit with an adult.

I stopped for coffee.  And I bought her a special drink, too.  (I know.  Mom of the Year, right?)

I cooked dinner.  We shared one chicken breast.

We went to the movies.

It was a much needed one on one weekend for us.  And neither of us had to help anyone wipe their bottoms.  Score!

I was supposed to get into the shower ten minutes ago, so we are going to have to switch this post to a list fashion.

Please.  Hold on to your pants.  Things are gonna get pretty crazy.

1)  Sister Meagan came to visit with her dog, Ellie, last week.  Here is a picture of the dudes with Ellie.

Ellie was such a good dog and very well-behaved for a pup.  I told Meagan she needs to find us a pup and train her for a few months and then give her to us.  She didn’t really answer, but I am sure she loved the idea.

2)  I feel like we need to take a moment to recognize the awesomeness of Handsome Dude’s Space Man Goggles.

They have not broken.

Ever.

Holla, Space Man Goggles!

3)  Remember how I told you that we, as a family, grab our nets and chase animals about our lands?

I was not lying.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

It’s what we do.  It’s who we are.

4)  Peter the Cat feels like we have created the ginormous garden just for his own personal use.

He attacks the corn hourly.  And look at me with my big girl gardening pants on!  There is stuff actually growing out there!

Teller the Gardener!  Who knew?!

5)  The kids are showering Tank the Dog with extra love, on account of losing his sister this weekend.

Although I fear extra food is the last thing he needs.

6)  We buried Miley near the garden and put an arbor over her.

We are thinking we need some sort of climbing plant to grow on the arbor.

Thoughts?

In other news, David’s grandmother is turning 90 and there is a big bash for her this weekend.  My girls are supposed to do a presentation on how much the world has changed since Grandma was born.

And since I never procrastinate or get too busy to remember things I have committed to, I thought maybe you guys could throw out some ideas on how the world has changed since the 1920’s.

Perhaps?  Maybe?  Please?

Please Advise.

Back in February, the girls asked us to let them get some dogs.  We found two black labs, a brother and sister, named Tank and Miley.

The girls fell in love immediately with these two dogs.  Everyday around lunchtime, they would take the dogs on a walk and play with them.  Those dogs were two of the happiest dogs in the world.

Tank and Miley knew they belonged to the girls.  Everywhere the girls went, they went.  If the dogs had to be put outside to, you know, go to the bathroom, they would definitely let me know that they felt inconcenienced to be away from their girls.  And as soon as I would let them back in, those two dogs would race throughout the house until their girls had been located.

Sweet Pea and Miley had a particularly special relationship.  They would cuddle and read together and Sweet Pea would often get out of bed and sleep on the floor with Miley.

Last night, we loaded up to go camping.  The dogs ride in the back of the truck.  I have never been a fan of dogs riding in the back of a truck, but we have no other options.  Tank and Miley have never tried to jump out and are pretty mellow, so it has always worked out ok.  When we got to camp, Sweet Pea noticed that Miley was no longer in the truck, but Tank was.  The girls and I got out of the truck to walk back up the road to see if we could find her.  Jason and Amy pulled up right after that and they had already seen her, and she had already passed away.

We think she was up on the side of the truck and when we went over a small bridge, we must have hit a bump and she fell out.  We think she died instantly.

The pain I had to see my Sweet Pea was just so horrible.  I was sad for Miley.  She was a great dog and had quickly become a part of our family.  But breaking the news to Sweet Pea that she had died was really hard.

 Sweet Pea is nine and things like this affect her more.  David drove back and got Miley.  He offered to bury her at camp or take her home.  Sweet Pea asked to take her home.  David told her we could make a pink cross for her.

Sweet Pea just kept asking to go home.  I don’t blame her . . . I wanted to go home, too.  She tried to be brave and cheer up, but she would just keep disappearing into our trailer.  When I would come to her, she would cry:

“I just can’t do it!  I just can’t.”

To make things trickier, we were camping with David’s work.  (Jason works at the same company David does)  David was in charge of the trip and it was really not possible for him to leave.  His truck was needed for a big river float the next day so it was looking pretty impossible for me to get Sweet Pea home.  Jason and Amy offered their car for me to take her home in, and I am extremely grateful to them for that.

Please be praying for my kids, especially Sweet Pea and Daisy Mae.

So.  We went to the dump the other day.  Or the “refuse station,” if you are more proper-like.  And I am not. The dump can be an exciting place.

I’ve spoken before of “dump-shopping,” no?

Well.  Here in these parts, people will leave items out of the garbage that other people can take.  I think it is kinda gross, but have you met my husband?  Getting free stuff at the dump makes his heart sing.  Although I would be lying if I didn’t say I was pretty joyful when he brought me home 40 mason jars that someone just FOOLISHLY abandoned.  Mason jars are more precious than fine rubies.

Teller needs mason jars.  So she can fill her pantry with preserved meat.

Oh, the horror!

Bored Hillbilly Tip #1:  Go the dump and get yourself something snazzy.

Last time he was dump-shopping, he found an old fishing net.  Fishing nets are all the rage at our house.  We use them to catch fugitive rabbits.  And wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as we came home from our Dump Shopping Adventure, we used the “slightly-used” net to catch four baby bunnies.

Catching bunnies is surely a treat!  The whole family gets involved.  I am sure we look completely normal running around the lands with large fishing nets and hollering for excitement of it all.

Bored Hillbilly Tip #2:  Git yerself a net.  Catch yerself a hare.

Sister Meagan came over this week.  She got to experience farm and ranch life at its finest.

At one point, we noticed the dogs “chewing” on a hen.

Fantastic.

We got the dogs away and I went out to deal with the poor bird when I noticed the poor bird was no longer lying dead in the driveway.

Odd.

Sister Meagan and the girls spotted the not-so-dead hen hiding between the house and our aluminum fishing boat.

Oh!  Fun fact.  David has this aluminum fishing boat that he NEVER uses.  We just move it around from place to place so it can add curb appeal to our house.

Bored Hillbilly Tip #3:  Find a boat at a garage sale.  Buy it, but don’t plan on using it.  Insist it stays with you always, just to miff your wife.

So the hen was alive, albeit grumpy-looking.  I, being the experienced farm and ranch wife that I clearly am, decided to move the boat.  My plan was to move the boat away from the house and then get a . . . wait for it . . . fishing net to grab it and carry it back to safety.

Bored Hillbilly Tip #4:  To spice things up a bit, use your fishing nets to catch poultry as well.

Who knew fishing nets were so versatile?

*Excuse me while I interrupt this post to speak to my beloved*

David!  Here’s an idea.  GO FISHING.  Take the boat and the fishing net and GO FISHING.

That is all.

***

 As soon as I lifted the boat, which was not light, the bird crawled underneath it.  Which was a problem.  So, Sister Meagan had to come and help me lift the boat and we basically made things worse by leaning the boat on the poor chicken’s neck.

Don’t judge us!  We couldn’t see!  We couldn’t see!

The chicken lived and as soon as we lifted the boat again, it dove under a pig trough.

What’s that?!  Oh!  Have I not told you?  My husband brought home a very large, orange pig trough about two years ago.

Why?

Because he can.

It sits next to the fishing boat.

Bored Hillbilly Tip #5:  Find a pig trough.  Bring it home, for no other reason than because it was free.

Maybe I should plant flowers in it or something?

So, anyways, Sister Meagan and I felt bad about the hen, but we were afraid we were causing her more harm, so we let her be.  We went and checked on her a bit later and she looked not-so-alive.

Bummer.

Well, we went to town that night and got home late.  I informed my husband of the dead hen’s location and he went to retrieve it.

And good news!  The hen was alive!

See?!  I AM a good farm and ranch wife!  I AM!

I know, I know.  My life is weird.

Well, we don’t do such crazy things everyday.  This week we went to water park with Aunt Amy.  Amy and I were matchy-matchy with our gray and white striped tanks.

I fear Amy wants to be just like me.

See?

We don’t LOOK like hillbillies . . . . do we?

Oh, man.  Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get used to this life.

I gotta go.  David left some more chicken meat for me to preserve today.

*sob, tear, wail, moan*

And then, we are going camping.

Holla!

So.  We can all agree that boys are odd, yes?  Well, pray tell, has this soap phenomenon happened to anyone else?

This is seriously the soap I found in their tub.

?

There is a bee smashed into it.

A BEE.

Let’s move on.

I think I may have crossed a line with my rural living last night.

Oh, yes.  I think I did.

I, yes, I, Taylor Maliblahblah, took pieces of raw chicken flesh from the very chickens my husband plucked and butchered, crammed pieces of meat into pint jars, and pressure cooked them into something that I am trying to convince myself I will actually one day eat.

But I probably won’t.

Now, I have heard your warnings, dear readers, about the dangers of pressure canners blowing up in one’s face.

I am happy to report that I did not become yet another “Pressure Canner Fatality.”

I do, however, have these unsightly jars in my pantry.

I mean, really.

It was all fun and games until I realized I am probably going to have to eat it.  I shudder at the thought.

Just to make up for it, I had to can something pretty right after the whole chicken flesh ordeal.

Raspberry jam.

Nailed it.

I texted my mother in law and told her I did the pressure canning of the chicken.

Her response?

“Wow, what a woman!  You’ve come a long way, baby!”

Bam!  Proof that I was not meant to live this life.  And, simultaneously: Bam!  I am officially a Maliblahblah now.  Pretty sure none of David’s siblings have canned raw flesh before.

And did my mother in law just call me “baby?”

Meanwhile, back on the ranch . . . .

David’s truck has not been driven in awhile.

Case in point:

We found a beehive when we opened the door.  My poor Handsome Dude was stung twice earlier today while standing by the truck-we didn’t know about the hive then.

Oh!  And in other awesome news, our minivan’s automatic door was acting funny.  David had to remove this from the door track:

Why, yes!  That IS a mouse.  I’m glad you asked!

Boy oh boy.  My blog is full of delight today.

So, tell me dear readers.  Which picture grossed you out the most today?

Was it:

A)  The Boy’s Soap:

B)  The Homemade Canned Chicken

or

C)  The Dead Mouse from our Minivan

Please be advised:  one should not be eating while reading this blog.

Thank you.

The girls informed me the other day that they would like to go out to the garden and have themselves a little harvest.

“Mom! MOM!  MMMOOOOMMMM! Please can we go get some stuff from the garden?  Please?  PLEASE?  We have the perfect basket!”

And, so, I let them.  Because I am nice like that.  And I had not one clue that two girls could get that excited over a basket.  They went and put sundresses on and made a whole event out of it.

What’s that?  Oh!  You thought we just grew weeds in our garden?  No.  You have been misinformed.  We have some lettuce, raspberries, strawberries, cilantro, spinach, and sugar snap peas that are ready for the picking.

And weeds.

We have had an incredibly busy week.  Just ask my husband who was running around in his unmentionables looking for just one clean towel for to dry himself off after his shower yesterday morn.  Never in my life have I been so far behind on laundry.

No towels.  I am such a failure.

The weather has been nice and warm this week.  This kids discovered a fun way to cool off.

We met my friend, MindyLou, at the park and met her SUPER, CUTE, ADORABLE baby boy. (Holla, MindyLou!)  We went to Vacation Bible School all week and have been blowing through our gas budget like it ain’t no thang.

Yesterday, we met my sis in law, Lisa, and her two little girls at the beach.  My smart phone had alerted me earlier that very day that there would be severe thunderstorms and flash floods.  We were thinking my smart phone was not-so-smart when we arrived at the beach and saw blue skies and sunshine.

We were enjoying ourselves and having a pleasant day.

But, then:  disaster struck.

Daisy Mae was climbing up some big wooden post to get to the dock and jammed her finger.

So she came to me, wailing for all the injustice in the world, and told me she burned her finger.  This was a mite confusing, seeing as there was no fire source nearby.  I figured out that she jammed it and tried to calm her down.

But, then.  I had to take Little Dude to the bathroom.

Oh, joy of joys!  The beach bathroom with a curious, not-at-all-in-a-hurry, 4-year old boy!  Super clean and fun!

Little Dude:  (singing)  I am going poooooooooootty!

Me:  Shh!

Little Dude:  Oh!  Now I need to go poopy, Mom!  Yup, yup, yup!

Me:  Ok.

(tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock)

(That was my way of relaying to you that time was passing slowly.  Did you comprehend?)

Me:  Are you done?

(I asked him this because he is singing and touching things)

(Oh, the horror)

Little Dude:  Ummmmm . . . . nope!  There is still more.

Me:  Ok.  Can you try to finish up?

Little Dude:  IT’S SO WEE HARD!

Me:  Shh!

Little Dude:  Maybe it’s stuck!

Me:  Can we try later?

Little Dude:  No.

(tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock)

(See?  It worked so well the first time in relaying to you the passing of time, I decided to do it again!)

Little Dude:  All done!

But then, we have to put the swim shorts back on, because, alas, he had two legs stuck in the mesh netting that lines his awesome Cars swim trunks.  And of course, he is stepping in the fantastic, not-at-all-creepy, mystery liquid that is covering the bathroom floor.

Is it water?

Is it pee?

We may never know.

So, we are done with the bathroom (darn) and return to see that Daisy Mae has taken a turn for the worse.  Oh!  And fun fact:  my smart phone WAS smart after all because at the same, exact moment, a dark thundercloud covered the lands and, yes:

Flash flood.

Mysterious wet bathroom floor, injured and dramatic 8-year old, and lightning.

It was the perfect storm.  Literally.

We get in the car and Daisy Mae is handling things well.

“I can’t live like this!  I just can’t, Mom!  I can’t!  I am going to DIE!”

Boy.  She sure has a high tolerance for pain.

Lest any of you are worried sick over Daisy Mae’s condition, she was completely fine within 15 minutes of assuring me that death was upon her.

So, we got ourselves all gussied up, headed to church, and got home around 9:45 pm.  Only to discover we had no power.

Does anyone remember how my mother and I made our own Mason jar candles?

I don’t wanna brag, but they pretty much saved the day.

Little Dude was thinking life with candles and flashlights was pretty exciting and having a grand time.

But, then.  He tried to turn on a light.

LD (wailing):  ITS NOT WORKING!

Me:  What is wrong!?

LD:  I tried-I tried-I tried-I TRIED to turn on a light and nuffing happened!  NUFFING!  NUFFING!!!

It was fun.

Luckily, I am married to a hot, electrician, wanna-be lumberjack/farmer, who doesn’t scold me for not having a fresh towel for him in the morning.  Said husband somehow used our camp trailer’s generator to bring some power into the house, thus allowing Little Dude to peacefully go to sleep when we could turn the hallway light on.  You know.  So the monster could not get him.

I knew I married that David Maliblahblah for a reason!

Happy Weekend.