It’s 80 degrees and the flies are thick as thieves.

Laundry is on the line. My house is mostly clean. The fridge is stuffed with leftovers.

Bread is cooling. Granola is done. Yogurt is yogurtizing.

The asparagus is up.

Horses like carrots.

Happy Monday!

Story Number One
A couple days ago our dead Christmas tree showed up on our back yard. We had properly disposed of the tree by tossing it on the burn pile, but we had neglected to properly dispose of the burn pile. Meaning, we haven’t burned it.

So anyway, the other day I looked out my window and there was a very dead Christmas tree in the yard, a chain around its trunk and my daughter astride the tree, horseback-riding fashion. The other end of the chain was attached to the back of the mower. My son was siting on the mower.

Are you getting the picture? Here, let me help.

Now do you get the picture?

This was serious business, this tree-riding exercise. They fashioned a seat (saddle?) out of an old pillow and gave the younger sibs riding lessons.

Correct turnage was of utmost importance.

(Note my baby’s shoes. He’s wearing my only decent pair of flip-flops.)

I am not a fan of joy riding. Senseless fuel-burning and jetting all over God’s creation is not my idea of a good kind of fun. But I forestalled putting the brakes on such a creative venture, remembering all too well my own pre-teen craving for motorized fun (some of my most vivid fantasies had me in the driver’s seat of go-carts, bumper cars, and mowers).

Then my husband came home, watched for a minute, witnessed a near accident and put a stop to the fun.

The end.

Story Number Two
My oldest son thought he wanted to grow out his hair. I wasn’t too fond of assuming the role of Mother of Hairy Mammoth, but I kept my mouth shut.

Except for enforcing daily hair washes.

And then on Sunday morning, after watching his papa cut his hair, the Hairy Mammoth decided it might be fun to follow suit.

So he did.

Aside from carving a couple race tracks in the back of his head, he did a pretty fair job.

The end.

Story Number Three

I have no words.

The end.

This same time, years previous: oven fries

This little rosebud has been hanging out at our house this week.

She’s a peach.

A sweetie pie.

A sugar drop.

Even though she’s a piece of cake (excuse me, but the sweetness analogy aboundeth—I can not help myself) to take care of, I’m frazzled.

It’s my kids, see. They have some serious Baby Love Issues.

It’s like this: they all want to hold her, touch her, stick their fingers in her mouth, give her a bottle, put her down for nap, play peek-a-boo, change her diaper, carry her, sing to her, play the piano for her, push her in the stroller, make her laugh, make her stop crying, take her jacket off, put her shoes on, shake rattles in her face, wipe her drool… and so on.

I’m about ready to go out of my mind. Yesterday I squawked at Nickel who was leaving me and the baby no personal space whatsoever, “Will you get back! Just move AWAY.”

He threw his head back (he was smack-dab up against me so in order to see my face he had to tilt his face to the sky) and wailed, “I can’t stand of the baby!”

“What can’t you stand of the baby?” I inquired.

“‘Cause it’s here and it’s so neat!”

That’s pretty much how all the kids feel about Miss Rosy Cheeks, Honey Pie, Sugar Cakes, Hunk O’ Love. (And that goes for me, too. I’m smitten.)

When she went down for a nap today, the kids sagged. They asked when she’d wake up. They waited. They puttered. My oldest son begged to be allowed to just go in and look at her, take a picture of her, do something. I said no, and gave them an early lunch to help ease the monotony. Still, they hovered.

“That’s it!” I shouted in a stage-hiss. “This is not helpful. You guys are all old enough to help with a baby, but I am not going to sit around to help you be helpful. If I need to watch you then I’m going to give you jobs so I can at least watch you doing something helpful. Got it?“

They kind of got it, but not really. The baseboards got dusted, courtesy of a certain little boy who would not leave the room, and I did some threatening and wild gesticulating, but I am typing this so something is working.

Oops. I wrote that too soon.

Suddenly all four kids are milling about, poking Little Miss Buttercup and offering her kisses and toys, the poor dear. Better run…

Signed,
Sugar Drop’s Secret Service Agent

This same time, years previous: grape kuchen and coconut brownies