Friday, August 4, 2017
Because I know you were all on the very edges of your seats, waiting to hear what vehicle we could find to transport our ever-growing crew of children and the extra-large dog.
We've been a one-car family for almost three months now, which has been fine, but we do need a vehicle in which all six of us can actually ride. Since we do want to be able to bring the baby home from the hospital in October. The Subaru is not that vehicle.
After months of nationwide searches for full-size vans and Suburbans, we got . . .
A 2005 Honda Pilot.
Not a car that was particularly on our radar, but A. saw it for sale at the (tiiiiiny) used car place in the village and thought it was a pretty good option for us. Plus, it had the great advantage of being seven miles away, which made things a lot easier.
It's an 8-passenger SUV, which I'm sure automatically makes me a way cooler mom than when I drove a rusting-to-pieces old minivan, right?
Right. I'm pretty sure no vehicle is going to save me from uncool mom status at this point, but I can imagine, anyway.
It seems to be a nice car. No rust, which is a good starting point. It also has the great advantage of having all-wheel drive, which is actually almost a necessity where we live. There were many dicey moments with the minivan in our driveway last winter, and the last thing I want with a car full of children is dicey moments in bad weather.
My only questions when A. talked to me about it were if it had functioning air conditioning and if the seats can fold flat. Thumbs up on both counts.
Also I wanted to know what color it is. A. looked at me like I was crazy at that question. No, it doesn't matter what color it is, I just wanted to know. (It's a gray-blue color, like the color of the one in the page I linked to above, actually. Perfectly acceptable.)
So now we have a vehicle in which we can transport all four children. That means we can actually take this baby home from the hospital when the time comes. Victory.
Thursday, August 3, 2017
Last night we began the transition for Jack to sleep not only not in his crib for the first time ever, but also in his brothers' room.
That's right. Three man cubs. One cave. Complete insanity.
And by "began the transition," I mean that A. took Cubby's and Charlie's bedframes out of their room, chucked three mattresses on the floor, and left them to it.
That was not altogether successful.
Finally, at 10 p.m., I entered the fray to sit on the floor at the foot of Jack's mattress, sing a few lullabies, and quell them with my very presence until they fell asleep.
My foot was also asleep by the time they fell asleep, but hey! At least none of my teeth got knocked loose!
By the third kid, expectations are kept niiiiice and low.
Wish us luck in our continuing re-education. We're gonna need it.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Awhile ago when A. was moving the rams' electric fence to a new spot, he let them out to graze freely. They ended up right next to my garden. Thankfully, these sheep are much less aggressive than those wretched Cotswolds that would bulldoze their way through any obstacle to get to cultivated plants.
I found the combined sight of much of our winter food preparations--albeit still on the hoof and in the ground--to be amusing enough that I took a photo of it.
Obviously, those boys in the pea patch will not be eaten this winter. They're doing some pre-prep for themselves by bulking up on foraged vegetables before I can get to them.
The sheep have already passed the cute stage and are steadily working toward the stage when it's a relief to butcher them. Actually, I would be happy to do it now. They have a habit of yelling as soon as they see a person--no doubt in the hopes of the dried corn their shepherd occasionally feeds them--and they continue this yelling in the pasture adjacent to the garden as long as I'm working in there.
That's okay, though. I work away at staking the tomato plants with the background noise of blatting sheep, and I vindictively plan all the lamb stewed with tomatoes I'm going to eat this winter.
Keep it up, boys. The loudest one goes first.