And I Didn't Even Blink

I was outside with all three boys this morning when Cubby called me to the front porch, announcing, "You HAVE to see this."

That's how I knew it would be something I probably wouldn't actually want to see, but I went anyway.

It was a dead grackle. Yup, could've happily skipped that one.

I could tell from the fact that the grackle was directly under the parlor window that it had flown into the window. I was almost certain it was dead, although I did have a momentary flash of horror as Cubby bent to pick it up that it might have just knocked itself out and would come back to consciousness right there in Cubby's hands, at which point I'm pretty sure I would have had a stroke.

It didn't, though. It was very dead, with a broken neck. And I know it was broken, because Cubby spent several minutes in a minute examination of the deceased bird, pulling out its wings, feeling its beak, touching its creepy sharp talons, and all the while its head was flopping grotesquely about on its broken neck.

"It's so beautiful," he said. "But so sad."

I assume he meant sad that it was dead, because the grackle was quite clearly beyond any emotion.

Cubby then danced the grackle about on the porch railing, singing an original song with the refrain of, "I'm the beautifullest gracklegracklegrackle, graaaa-CULL!"

And then Charlie had to have a turn, of course.

Some of you may be wondering how I could have let my sons play with a dead bird. Well, it's not the first time, you may remember. And I did insist that they could only play with it this afternoon, at which point we would bury it in the gully because it would start to rot. I also insisted they wash their hands thoroughly when they were done with it. See? Totally responsible!

In the end, I suppose I just didn't care that much if they were playing with a dead bird because, well . . . this is our life. And this is the sort of thing they do. Country boys gonna be country, and nothing I can do will change that.

You Want a Carefully Styled Food Photo?

Well, in that case, you'd best go somewhere else.

But! If you want to celebrate Cinco de Mayo Blackrock-style, post-three-kids . . . well then. Look no further.

Taco meat with a toppings consisting of cheese, onions, tomatoes, and lime? Festive!*

It's kind of dumb that I insist on celebrating (in the loosest and lamest sense) Cinco de Mayo, considering I have zero Mexican ancestry. But then again, I'm only nominally southern, and I'm pretty stubborn about the New Year's Day health, wealth, and happiness, so what the hell. We take our traditions where we can find them.

Feliz Cinco de Mayo, mis encantadores!

* Plus gin and lime, even though it's not Friday. Wild. Should've been tequila, but, well, I didn't have any and I don't really like tequila, so there you are.

Running Wild

I've had an on again/off again relationship with running my whole life. I've been firmly in the "off" setting for the past six years, however. I just couldn't figure out the logistics of running while also being pregnant/nursing/on constant call for one, then two, and now three children.

Also, if I'm to be honest, I just didn't really want to run.

But then I did.

Last week when we took the kids to the playground at the local school, I ran around the extensive athletic fields. It was surprisingly easy. Then again, it was also only about a mile and, more importantly, on the grass.

I didn't realize that the grass was a key component until I tried running on the road this past weekend. As soon as my feet hit the blacktop of the main road, I could feel the jolts running up through my body from the unyielding surface. And then my wretched foot started to hurt.

I thought it would be okay, though, because I only run on the main road for a few hundred yards before I turn onto the small road leading away from the lake. When I ran it regularly six years ago, that road was gravel.

Alas, I am doomed by progress. That road has been paved.

DAMMIT.

I walked part of the way just because I didn't want to cripple myself by striking hard on pavement with my weak feet.

Okay. Now what? I can't run regularly on a paved road without crippling myself. I can't be getting in my car to run at the athletic fields. I have a very limited amount of time for this fitness crap, you know. I'm already getting up at 5:30 a.m. so I can be done and showered in time for my child care duties to commence at 6:30.

That left running from the house up to the Plantation.

I had some reservations about this. It's a very steep incline running up there. But then an easy downhill run to come back, which is nice. Also, it's wet. Really, really wet. High grass in our pasture to start, then unmowed grass in the neighbor's field, all trapping every drop of moisture. It rained all day yesterday, and by the time I got to the neighbor's field this morning, my feet were so wet I was squishing with every step.

It was 39 degrees. That's some cold, sock-saturating water, right there. I was really questioning my motivation for doing this at about that point.

That was the worst part, though. By the time I got through the fields I was mostly awake (5:30 a.m., remember?), and the path through the woods was relatively dry, though muddy in parts. I had to stop once to break off a hanging limb that was in my way, and I had to do a small hurdle over a fallen tree, which was actually kind of fun.

I scared off three deer and heard some wild turkeys gobbling in the gully as I ran. There was no loud traffic, no chance of being hit by a large truck, and no hard pavement.

So I guess I'll be a trail runner now. Let's just hope I never meet a coyote up there.

Let the Puppy Games Begin

Okay, are you ready? I want everyone to take a deep breath before you view this photo, the better to make the appropriate exclamation. Here we go . . .

Awwwwww. 

That's Sky. He's a ten-week-old rough Blue Merle* collie puppy that the MiL brought home yesterday. He's her retirement gift to herself, but of course, she must share him with the small boys of the household.

Cubby has more or less not left the puppy's side since his arrival.

It's very cute.

Charlie likes the puppy, but is not so attentive.

Still cute, though.

Jack is mostly disinterested.

Puppies are okay, but not as fun as the ducks.

As for the older dogs . . . Mia is resigned to her fate as always, though doesn't go out of her way to engage Sky, and Otty tried to bite his face off within ten minutes of his arrival, so he prefers to hang out with the humans. Can't say I blame him.

At the moment he sticks close to the people and his crate, but I'm sure he'll grow into his natural role of raccoon killer and carrion chewer. He has plenty of time.

* This refers to his coloring and it means he has patches of black, white, and bluish gray. Rough means fluffy instead of short-haired like Mia and Otty.

The Masked Moron, Times Three

When I was young, between the ages of five and eight, my family lived on the island of Oahu. As is only to be expected when living in Hawaii, we went to the beach a lot. We did not live particularly near the beach, however, so it was kind of a long drive every time.

It was boring for little kids, so to entertain himself, my brother--about ten years old at the time--would put on his swim goggles, wrap his towel around his head, stick up a sign in the window announcing himself as "The Masked Moron," and make faces at all the cars passing us.

Even at that young age, I mentally rolled my eyes and thought how dumb boys are.

I remembered this particular game a few years ago and thought to myself, "Oh my God, my own son is going to be a Masked Moron in only five years or so."

Yeah, that was wishful thinking.

The next generation of Masked Morons has arrived.

You can see Jack is already taking notes for his own ridiculous masked play when the time comes. There are three of these boy things in my house, you know. I guess I'd better practice hiding my eye rolling now.

More Fun All the Time

Day Two of Spring Break, a.k.a., The Week of Trial by Child:

Cubby appeared downstairs at 5:53 this morning, announcing that he had thrown up on his pillow. He then retired to the couch in the living room with a vomit bowl in case of further indignities.

Then Jack woke up and Cubby had to be relocated to the davenport* in the parlor with the doors shut to separate the invalid from a totally uncaring large baby who wanted to crawl on the invalid's face and put the vomit bowl on his head.

It's nice to have such a large house sometimes.

It's pouring rain outside, so I guess it's just as well that one of the Three Musketeers is out of commission and not going crazy in the house.

Now it just remains to be seen who else will fall victim to the virus. Stay tuned.

* A davenport is a couch, but since this couch is almost a hundred years old, it gets the designation of "davenport." Because that's what they were called when this particular piece of furniture was given to A.'s grandparents as a wedding present in 1928. History lives at Blackrock.

An Inauspicious Beginning

Day One of Spring Break, a.k.a., The Week of All Three Children, All the Damn Time:

Jack started babbling to himself in his crib in the room adjoining ours at 4 a.m. and continued for the next hour and a half. I didn't get him up and he did go back to sleep, but that was it for me. I was awake for the day at 4 a.m. and up at 5:30 a.m.

When I did get up, I found that the coffee maker had died. Luckily, the MiL has both a French press and a plain old filter cone thing, so I could still make my beloved coffee with chicory. It didn't taste the same, though, and I was grumpy about this.

Charlie woke up spoiling for a meltdown and eventually had one over his egg. Which ended up on the floor.

But!

The children actually managed to play relatively well today, and were mostly outside despite the threat of rain.

The dead coffee maker inspired a trip to a store in the Small City, at which we also got some desperately needed shoes for Cubby, and socks and sunglasses for me. Because I like to spoil myself with fripperies. No one had a breakdown in the store and I only had to threaten Cubby and Charlie once for unauthorized cart pushing with Jack as the passenger.

There were enough leftovers in the refrigerator to have a tasty dinner without any actual cooking.

All in all, it could have been a lot worse. It could have been like this infamous day during Winter Break, for example.

One day down, six more days of Spring Break to go.