Wednesday, May 25, 2016


Yesterday afternoon I had my act together, and had had it together for hours, when I had the thought, "This can't last.  Something's bound to go wrong."

And I was right.  After one of the children had been grounded, I had lectured all three of them, and I found my hands in my hair, getting ready to pull hanks of it out by the roots, I got out the bubbles, because bubbles fix everything.
Well, maybe not everything, but they do seem to act as a magical reset button for children.  I don't know why this is, I just know that it's true.  Why is that piece of information not in every parenting book?  Instead they drone on and on about potty training and how This is the Only Proper Way to Discipline Your Children and how if you let your baby cry it out you're a terrible parent and deserve to die and how if you pick up your baby when she cries you're a terrible parent and deserve to die.

I'm not big on parenting books.  Give me a real live fellow parent with actual conversation any day.  Them I will listen to.

Aside from bubble meditation, we've been taking family forays to the driving range.
This involves all three male Crislers hitting small balls with metal sticks, and yours truly sitting on benches that I can only assume are there for people like me.  I like these benches.  They provide a perch for me where I can do all my golf course activities, like taking pictures and reading books and not golfing.  Adelaide was absent for this particular outing.  She spent zero hours grieving.

We have a new resident in our backyard.
This started as a regular ol' brush pile.  It has been shaped and molded into a domicile complete with a tunnel running straight through it featuring front and back entrances.  Our children swear they did not do this.  Am I freaked out by this?  YES.  Yes, I am.  The best possible answer to "Who built a house made out of weeds in our backyard?" is "Hobbits," but it's more likely "Grass demon who sneaks out of its creeping Charlie igloo and sits on the chests of our children at night and sucks the breath from their lips."

You know- something like this:

Um, Grandma?  Why did we watch this movie at your house so often?

But seriously- what is living in our backyard?


  1. Your first photo is idyllic and calming, and needs to be applied frequently to counteract the feeling of horror that the photo of the brush pile domicile engenders. S H U D D E R ! Unless that was built by a Boy Scout trying to get the "Surviving Outdoors" badge (it's a real badge, but I can't remember what it's really called right now), then that domicile is Trouble With A Capital T. It is probably the home of something related to an Attack Rabbit. It better not be a skunk.

    But that first photo is magical. Surely The Good Witch Glinda is about to arrive in that photo?!

  2. I have to agree with CHM about that first photo --so very lovely.

    I wish the critters that lived around our house built their houses ABOVE ground, in our various brush piles. But no, they burrow --under (and then into) the barn, under (and then into) the house. We have taken out at least 6 chipmunks this spring, and there are still more. If they would just stay away from the house, we'd leave them alone!


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