This same time, years previous: the walk home, oatmeal toffee bars, big businesses read little blogs, sour cherry cream pie, egg and ham casserole, nutty therapy, playing Martha, and caramelized onions.
After five months of riotous slothdom, I’ve taken up running again. It’s glorious! It’s not that I so much enjoy getting slapped in the face with cold air immediately after waking, or the pounding on pavement, or the I’m-dying feeling as much as it is the Having Done It High I get from, uh, having done it. Running first thing in the morning means I start off the day feeling like I’ve slayed dragons, and before breakfast even. Plus, it makes lazying around the house for the rest of the day slightly more justifiable.
Yesterday when I got back from my run, my husband and two older kids were on their way out the door—my daughter on her way to the farm and my son to the job site with my husband. I told the kids to “hold it” because photo op.
Pictures snapped (what begrudging curmudgeons!), they helped my husband clean out his truck.
Well, kind of helped. If bickering and pulling down his pants is considered helping.
Then I took a selfie which prompted a lecture from my husband on the proper way to take a selfie—camera above face! chin down!—from the man who has never taken a selfie, ha.
It got blurry and sickly greenish (thanks to all that florescent), but that’s how I feel in the morning, so it’s fitting.
Oops, stretching!
And then they were off, and I headed into a quiet house (since the younger two children were still sleeping, sweet bliss) to fix my coffee,
This same time, years previous: sex ed, over the moon, family time, roasted vegetables, and getaway.
For years now, I’ve wanted to raise pigs. I didn’t want to have a big production or anything, just one or two piggies for the meat. I even went so far as to spend hours talking pig details with our neighbors who butcher pigs every winter and know all things farm related. But my husband wasn’t on board. Pigs schmigs, he scoffed. You forget. I am not a farmer. Eventually, I dropped the subject.
And then one of my husband’s co-workers called him and said, “Hey! I’m on my way back from PA and I have pigs. Want some?”
And my husband was all like, “Whoa! That’s so cool! We should totally get some pigs!”
And I was like, “Huh? Are you saying something? Because there’s this buzzing in my ears.”
About twenty-four hours later, we said yes. And twenty-four hours after that, my husband hauled two pink piggies out of the back of the van.
All the kids were excited, ‘cept for my younger daughter. “I don’t want you to get pigs!” she hollered. “I don’t like meat! We need a new kitten! Wah-wah-wah!”
We’re planning—at this point, at least—to outsource the slaughtering, though the kids (minus the one) and I are lobbying to butcher at least one of the pigs ourselves. “Do it for the kids,” I hiss at my husband. “It’s their education. Just think of all they’ll learn!” So far, he’s remained unmoved. Then again, we have pigs, which is proof enough that there’s reason to hope (and keep badgering).
As is our custom, we’re doing everything backwards and wrong. The pigs are currently (and temporarily) bedded down in the garden, which is very taboo (bacteria-loaded poo and all that), and we don’t have a fence set up for them or easy access to water or anything else needed for raising pigs. But this is how my husband rolls. There must be a pressing need before anything gets done. Lucky us, two pooping squealers in the back yard makes for the best sort of pressing need.
Good thing they were his idea, not mine. I think we’ll be fine.
This same time, years previous: the creative norm, no buffer, and a fast update.
