This is what my baby ate today. Just popped it in her mouth and scooted away as fast as she could, her gagging, screaming mama scooting after her. Why it was in my house and not here:
I don’t know.
This teeming mass of digustingness that bursts forth every spring and invades my space. Jeff the Pharmacist (not his real name), who nearly killed me (but that’s a story for another time), swears chickens love Eastern Tent Caterpillars, but he’s wrong. Our chicks hate them. I poked a stick into that gooey orb and carried several, gorge rising, down to the coop and tossed them in. No reaction from the Kevins. They prefer whole grain bread torn into little pieces. Strike two for Jeff the Pharmacist (not his real name).
Meanwhile, the olders were otherwise engaged doing this:
oh, and this:
You should never leave kids alone by a creek, not because they’ll drown, but because you will go looking for them later only to find them stripped down to their skivvies in near glacial temperatures, doing wild things with sand and mud. But then you can dangle a hot bath in the outside tub like a carrot in front of a donkey and they’ll happily follow you anywhere.
They’ll even lead the way, filthy clothes in hand.
When you get back, you’ll put your baby on the floor for just a sec so you can download the pictures you just took and when you peek at her a scant minute later, this is what you’ll find:
Better Kleenex than caterpillars any day.
And at the end of a Sunday when you are so dog tired from chasing kids and picking up one mess after another and when your muscles are so so sore from exercising the day before (more on that later) that you can barely bend over without losing your breath, you’ll relive the moments in slow motion as you flip through the pictures and you’ll realize you can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday.