I spent a lot of time this week tromping along behind this little machine here. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp.

It’s a little machine, isn’t it?

Compared to all this yard?

This is the orchard, and in case you miss the topography for all the lush vegetation, that there is a hill. I didn’t miss it. Though I wished I could have.

(That’s The Baby Nickel down yonder, fiddling with the gas tank. Mr. Handsome is convinced that he’s going to the the one to blow himself up, the way he’s drawn to gasoline and tanks.)

And that wooden structure there (the beginnings of a fort—use your imagination) is close to the ground on the one end. It doesn’t move when you hit it. With your head.

I have several days off before I have to do it all over again.

Warning: If you have a weak constitution and can’t stand the sight of blood, do not look at the pictures in this post. I don’t think they’re very bad, but I know I’m not everybody and I do want to be sensitive to my dear readers.

I was weeding the strawberries this morning when The Baby Nickel came over to tell me something. I didn’t pay attention at first because, well, because I was weeding and I don’t like to be bothered when I’m bent over double pulling giant nasty weeds out of my garden, but then one of the girls said something about a cut, so I looked up. The Baby Nickel was calmly holding up his arm to show me a nice little gash he had somehow acquired.

I pondered it briefly and then muttered to myself, “I think I better pay attention to this one”, yanked a couple more weeds, put my glove and weeder thingamagiggy back in the tool shed, and then walked back to the house.

(Yes, that is a tag you see on the front of his shirt, which is inside out and backwards. He dressed himself, okay?)

I called Mr. Handsome and he told me where we had some butterfly strips (we have a couple of fancy medical kits that Mr. Handsome’s mother gave to us before we went to Nicaragua ten years ago). Then I called our Nurse Friend Sue (I hope everyone out there has a nurse friend—they are worth their weight in gold) and she told me what to do.

I washed out the wound with soap and water, put a little bit of ointment on it, stuck the strips of tape on it…

…bandaged it up…

…and all was well. The tough little kid didn’t whimper once. I think he was just fascinated by the whole process and rather pleased with himself for getting injured enough for his mama to pay him some attention.

Note: A little later I got a call from our Nurse Friend Ann, who lives several miles down the road from us. I had called her before I call our Nurse Friend Sue, but N.F. Ann wasn’t home. N.F. Ann told me that she had to admit that when an ambulance went by their house at 8:00 this morning, the first thing that flashed through her mind was our family. I assured her we were all in one piece and explained why I had been calling her. Then she invited us over for supper tonight. Isn’t that a nice ending?

Ps. In case you were wondering how he got himself his nice little gash: he was swinging on a rope hanging from the tree that’s by the doghouse and somehow he cut it on the metal roof of the doghouse. And yes, he is up-to-date on his tetanus shot.

My children’s haircuts cost considerably less than mine (er, I’d rather not go into any details, please—my conscience has totally chewed up my ankle over this one). Yo-Yo Boy had his first buzz a couple nights ago. I keep wanting to run my hand over his round head’s bristly softness.