I think I have discovered why people on our street have a hard time selling their homes. It may have something to do with our children. Take this morning at 7:10 . Grady looks out the front window and calls up to us "Come quick, there is a fox outside" I look out, and sure enough there is a fairly large fox happily trotting down the road. Trouble is we're not the only observers, and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of our stupid-assed cat stalking the fox. This is the same dam cat that caused me to stay up until 2:30 AM last night - or technically this morning - trying to get him in so he wouldn't be eaten by a marauding coyote, only to discover that he'd had a sleepover at the neighbours. (Cue string of curses about the stupid-assed cat and a few choice words about the neighbors that keep letting him in).
Anyway back to the fox, I start yelling at the cat through the window, but Lindsay took matters into her own hands, and ran out armed with a shoe which she pelts it at the cat. She won't however go out to retrieve the shoe because she is in her pajamas, and sends Grady instead, while she stands on the porch yelling (and I do mean yelling) directions. "Left, no the other left. No, I mean right. Are you blind ? Go that way. No, not that way, behind the tree. No not that tree, the other tree. Behind you. Turn around, no turn the other way. Oh My God, it's right in front of you." This fiasco continued for a few minutes. Did I mention that Grady is dressed only in his underwear and a pair of sneakers ? I can but shake my head in bewilderment, and live in hope that one day I'll get notification from the hospital to tell me that all my brood were mixed up at birth, and that somewhere three nice normal children are waiting for me.
Something tells me that by the end of the summer, and by summer I mean the ten tormented weeks from hell that I am forced to share in close contact with my children - I will be found uncontrollably twitching, in a fetal position, under the kitchen table.
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