Yes, it’s that cathartic time of the week again where we admit that our laundry’s never done, our dishwasher’s gone into permanent depression at the miracles we expect from it, and there’s a sock behind the dryer that will never, ever see the light of day again.
Oh yes, folks, it’s that magical, confession-is-good-for-the-soul time of week – it is NOT ME MONDAY – where the unimaginable becomes laughable and you realize you are not alone on this mad treadmill we call motherhood.
So pull up a stool, reheat your cuppa tea, and let’s enjoy a chuckle or two that we might have in common.
I will start by confessing it can’t possibly have been a full week since our fateful excursion with 40 preschoolers to the local farm, can it? Surely I wouldn’t have blocked that pleasant memory from my mind? Can one suffer from post-traumatic stress related to the madness that ensues when you mix together boys, cows, chickens, boys, tractors, mud, and have I mentioned Boys??
Let’s, see. You take 40 giddy preschoolers and place them on 1 first-time bus ride:
You introduce a whiff of country, a dirt track, and some cows, and you get jumps of joy that actually catch some air (check out those sneakers hovering above the ground)
Throw in some chickens, a whiny toddler and a winsome turkey, and you’ve got a day that is one part fun and two parts constant, exhausting, unrelenting zone defense. And, no, we absolutely, positively did not pounce on the chance to leave early that a broken nail provided (and in case you’re wondering, NO, the nail was not mine!)
And no, I did not top it all off by purchasing Jackson his very own “milking gloves” to commemorate his first official foray into the ancient art of hand milking.
Some might think these are kids gardening gloves, others might suggest that they are my attempt to reclaim my own gardening gloves, but just ask Jackson and he will set you straight – these are his very own, personal sized milking gloves – and hey, who are we to argue? Unless he starts trying to milk his family members again!
