Fam-Damily Update

 

I was going to write a brief brag about the fact that I’ve just potty-trained my fifth kid.  Don’t you think there should be a medal or something for this landmark achievement?  Though, admittedly, I’ve become a big slacker compared to my early days.  I mean, my first child (at 16 mos) got a potty chair for Christmas!  Shoot, I was ready to go before she was even born.  Potty training before age two or immediately thereafter was practically a moral issue.  That’s what happens when you take a triple-alpha over-achiever and let her be a mother.     

Well, let me be frank.  The only reason Jireh just got potty trained is because I shamed myself into it.  I mean, he’s turning three this month and has been begging to “go on da potty” for almost half a year now (while I’ve been trying to convince him otherwise).  That, combined with the fact that I just ran out of the huge super-saver box of diapers… 

Surprisingly, the potty training went super quick.  I guess that’s what happens when you wait until they have, like, a full vocabulary, can put on their own underpants, and have been wanting go “like brothers do it” for a while now.  Gee.  I wish I would have learned this approach before the fifth kid. 

Nonetheless, I was still feeling a bit pleased with my son’s quick adaptation to toilet life, until this morning when, while wanting to help him get dressed, I couldn’t find his thick little cotton training pants.  I asked him where he’d put them and he proudly informed me that he “flushed ‘em down da potty.”  I took a deep breath (and tried to remember the fact that it really was funny, all things considered) and explained to him that we don’t flush our undies. 

One hour later, he peed again.  And flushed his undies.  I found out right away, because of the loud panicked screams eminating from the bathroom area.  Rushing in, I found an almost-three-year-old trapped on the top of a toilet that was, shall we say, overflowing it’s bounds.  After rescuing him and getting him washed up (and the floor), he seemed to understand a little better about why we don’t flush undies.  At least, I hope.

Item #2 of family news is that our family has grown!  Check out this move-able chicken coop my husband built for us!  It’s for four gorgeous laying hens, which we bought from a friend (so we could get eggs NOW, instead of raising them from chicks), but they became free-range when the Blue Russian escaped and flew up to a spruce tree, whereupon she yelled at us voraciously, in that highly offended way that only an upset hen can do.  She succeeded in winning them their freedom.  They enjoy pecking around the farm house fields, scratching and picking at all the little green shoots that are just starting to appear.  The chickens always come back to the coop at night to sleep and to lay eggs during the day, and, so far, the bald eagles haven’t eaten them. 

 The dog is doing just fine with the chickens, which was more of a concern to me than the eagles are, what with the demise of two rabbits we let loose a couple years ago.  To be fair, I never did *see* him do it…  But he has this thing for fur over feathers, I’ve learned.  The reason I bring this up is because good friends of ours just passed on a brother and sister rabbit to my girls.  Hopefully the injuction against incest doesn’t apply to bunnies, because I sort of didn’t get the wire seperating the cages fastened as tightly as it apparently needed to be.  In fact, I didn’t get it tight enough three times in a row. 

I finally went out and nailed a board inbetween them, so all is well, other than the fact that my kids know what the phrase, “breed like rabbits” means now.  And what a male rabbit’s organ looks like.  Might as well learn some science while we’re at it, I figure… 

 

I’m betting you didn’t know that rabbits could be leashed.  I didn’t either, but my girls dragged me to the feed store and each bought themselves a “rabbit harness.”  Note the dog’s hungry look.  Rosemary and Basil got loose yesterday (which happens almost every time the girls put them in the harnesses) and it took us the rest of the day to catch them.  When I finally got Basil, I noticed quite a collection of dog slobber on his back.  Looks like we can’t let the rabbits go free-range until Mighty the Dog gets arthritis or something.  It’s just as well.  Who needs hay fields full of genetically-stupid bunnies? 

Speaking of hay fields, here’s a picture of the three boys going for a walk.  Life is good.