Last night, while getting ready for bed, I heard Jon ask incredulously: “WHY is there a deer in the bathroom?” He was talking about one of Bitty’s favorite toys, a large blow-up target deer that normally resides in her bed, but had made its way into the bathroom last night (and, as is typical around here, never made it out again.)
That question got us talking about all the funny things we’ve asked “why” about, over the last few months. Aside from the typical “why are there a million toys all over the floor” and “why are you jumping on the bed?” Jon and I came up with a list of the funniest things we’ve shaken our head over in recent months and, because I typically share way more than I should on public forums, I thought I’d document them here (along with a few fun pictures of typical household chaos!):.
Why are you eating out of a pot?
Why are there caterpillars in our bowls?
Why are there snails on the kitchen counter?
Why is all our silverware outside?
Why is Shmooey sleeping with the meat grinder?
Why are we doing this (scalding a chicken, cleaning off boots, raising 75 baby chicks, keeping baby goats, etc) in the house?
Why is there goat poop on the floor?
Why is there goat poop on the couch?
Why is there goat poop on the kitchen counter???!!!
Why are there chicken feet in your violin case?
No, really, why are there chicken feet in your violin case???!!!
Two things occur to me as I read over this list. First, most of these things can be traced back to our third child, which should come as no surprise to anyone who knows us (“daddy said I could keep the feet from my favorite chicken!”) Second, it occurs to me that someone reading this may come away with the impression that we’re completely trashy and our house is an unsanitary mess (okay, so we’re a little bit trashy and our house is usually a mess, but it doesn’t typically feature dead chickens on the refrigerator or goat poop on the beds.) But really, when you start butchering your own chickens, transporting animals in the back of your family van and harvesting your own poop for microscopical examinations (and lest that sound somehow scientific and civilized, I mean sticking your fingers up a goats butt to dig out poop, smooshing it into a salt solution and then putting it on a microscope slide so to search under high powered optics for parasite eggs at the kitchen table) societal norms and stigmas just don’t seem to matter in quite the same way they once did.
Besides, it’s going to make for some wildly embarrassing stories to tell when the kids (especially daughter number three) are older.