Raccoons and Retakes

RECAPITULATION: a concise summary

Things have been a little quiet around here lately because my last post was more effective than I had planned and my discretionary time has been filled with friends.  It has been fun, but I hope to be back on track with a regular writing schedule again soon.  In the meantime, let me give you a quick glimpse of the last days:

Last Friday – We attended what was supposed to be a housewarming party with a couple dozen people.  Due to schedule conflicts, it ended up being a relatively quiet (but delicious!) dinner with friends and one other guest.  The hostess channeled her mother and Bangladesh culture as she kept insisting that we eat more.  We complied more than we should have.  Our children played quietly and were appropriately charming, with one exception.  At one point, Son – oblivious to the hostess’ sensitivity about the number of people absent – said loudly, “Mom, I thought this was supposed to be a party with a lot of people.  There is hardly anyone here.”  End charming phase.  They don’t edit.  Ever.

The blurry line between Friday and Saturday – Around midnight, our doorbell rang.  It was the neighbors on the block behind us.  They heard what sounded like our chickens being attacked.  Sure enough, our chickens were freaking out and shiny eyes were staring at us from the trees.  Husband and I attempted to get three panicked chickens locked into the secure portion of their coop (instead of sprinting around the run taunting the raccoons).  It was far more complicated than it should have been and involved brooms, buckets and some cursing.  If the neighbors took a video, I expect it to “go viral” quickly.  With the chickens locked away, we made an assessment of the coop and run and determined some reinforcements were needed.  We added staples to the chicken wire, screwed a few openings closed, and used twist ties in some creative ways.  MacGyver would have been impressed.  The middle of the night is not ideal honey-do-list time, but Husband was a good sport.  We returned to bed only to hear noises again.  This time, the raccoons had torn down the chicken wire and managed to get into the run.  Husband used our broom and I gathered balls from the children’s bedroom to scare off the raccoons.  Husband chased them away, but in the process managed to fall in our pond.  Thankfully, no bones were broken.  By the time the second round of coop construction was completed, it was nearly 2am.  I confess, there was a small part of me that would have accepted the raccoons killing our chickens if they would only do it quietly and quickly so that we (and our neighbors) could get some sleep.

Saturday – Woke up feeling hung-over from the attempted midnight massacre but still managed to cheer appropriately at Son’s soccer game and can 80 pounds of applesauce.

Sunday – Migraine.  Abandoned plans for dinner with friends.  Abandoned plans to bake cake for brother-in-law.   Hid in bedroom and mourned the inability to achieve dark and quiet with kids.

Monday – The usual…brutally early bus ride, work, rushed dinner prep, etc.

Tuesday – Coffee with girlfriends at my place.  Husband came home sick from work to find us sipping lattes and gabbing around a table filled with baked goods and snacks.  I’m hoping he was feverish enough not to have registered the scene.  I don’t want him thinking that’s how all my days off look.  It was dangerously close to bon-bons.  After coffee, I beat my personal best shopping time (with Daughter in tow) and gathered our weekly groceries and Husbands sick-food requests.  Then Daughter and I explored the zoo with friends before picking Son up from school, making chicken noodle soup, getting Son off to soccer practice, etc.  Slept on the couch to avoid Husband’s cooties.

Wednesday – Another work day, only this time followed by a night meeting at Son’s school.  Turns out, I don’t have the stamina to do that.  I could hardly form complete sentences by the time I got home.

Thursday – Picture day at Son’s school.  He looked especially dapper in his button shirt and sweater vest.  But, when I saw him return from photos, he was wearing his fleece hoody.  I asked if he took it off for pictures.  He said, “No.”  Seriously?!?!  How did the number of adults Son had to pass on his way to the picture chair let that fly?  I asked Son if he knew that he was supposed to wear his fancy clothes for the picture, and he replied somewhat bewildered that he did wear his fancy clothes.  He unzipped his fleece and said, “They are right here!”  Apparently, he thinks the camera has x-ray powers.  Retakes, here we come…

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9 thoughts on “Raccoons and Retakes

  1. Wow. I think my life is challenging. But it’s crazy to me that you can just “pop in” at the zoo for a while. Around here, that is a plan-it-well-in-advance, pray lots that it goes well, all day affair that you are relieved to be over. Kuddos to you, though!

    1. In fairness, it takes only seven minutes to get to the zoo from our house. I left our house at 11:45 that day, did the grocery shopping, returned home to unpack groceries, renewed our zoo membership and met our friends by 12:30. I actually think the zoo is better when done in small frequent doses. That way, you leave before meltdown and don’t feel pressure to see everything. Easy peasy…

  2. Or you could keep that classic school photo reminder of the kid you had on that day — sort of like one year where mine had the shirt misbuttoned with a grimace on his face and hair if not uncombed then certainly having a bad hair day . . . . ~ Kat

  3. Too funny!!! I’ve spent enough time on a friend’s farm in Pullman that I know about trying to corral animals. But having to repair the coop at night??? That takes the cake.

    My picture day story… Son (mine) has beautiful curly hair. And what does photographer, the helper, or some other adult do? Attempt to comb Son’s hair flat! He looks like a dweeb!!! Retakes for us too. Although the dweeb photo could be good for a big laugh 10-20 years from now. Hmmmm.

    P.S. I forwarded this entry to a friend who has chickens in her back yard.

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