Well, Mr. Moon is still eating his. He was a hungry boy this morning.
Also, bacon was involved.
Miss Baby came to the feeder this morning and charmed my heart, as she always does. She is a tidy eater and doesn't scatter the birdseed. I just love that little hen.
Can you see her there?
We have no idea where she's laying. I miss her tiny eggs, they charm me too. It's nice to have a choice on size of egg to use. One of our hens lays ginormous eggs with two yolks, the other five lay normal-sized large eggs. And Baby's eggs are half that size. Well, perhaps we shall find her nest again one day.
As you can most likely tell, I really don't have much to say today. Which, for a Sunday, is an excellent thing. I am not in any sort of existential angst and my soul is not in shit-storm mode. They boys are coming over later and since their Boppy is here today it will be a special visit. They love their Boppy and he might even take Owen fishing. Ssssh.....
Don't tell him.
It'll be a surprise!
Boppy and Owen frequently bed-fish. This is when they get two of Boppy's antique rods and reels and sit on the huge bed in the guest room and pretend to fish. Owen uses one of my old favorite purses as a pretend fish. He catches it and pats it and says, "Sorry, Buddy. You okay?" If I walk into the room when they are fishing he asks me if I have my flippies on. I think he means swim fins but I love the word flippy. I am constantly astonished at the amount of information his brain already stores. Every minute of every day is an exploration for that him. The other day he came across a dead cardinal in the yard. There's a window into my office which is sort of a death-trap for birds in that they fly into it and break their necks. There's stuff hanging all in the window so I am not sure why they do this but they persist in flying full speed into it and this does not always end up with merely a headache.
The first thing Owen wanted to do when he found the dead bird was to touch it. Touch it and pick it up.
"Noooooo..." I said. "Honey, that's nasty." He looked up at me like, "Why?"
We discussed how it had died and that in fact it WAS dead. "Maybe the sun warm it up," he said.
"No, baby. It's really dead." I told him that I'd dig a hole and bury it but he did not like that idea at all. "It's okay," I told him. "I'll do it later."
When we were coming back inside he turned around and looked once more at the bird.
"Poor little fella," he said.
And then I made him wash his hands.
Mer Mer's day care where there is never a lesson plan but where the learning never ends. And isn't this the way it should be? And all the while Gibson, usually in my arms, is watching and learning too. Owen copies me and Gibson copies Owen and looks on with complacent equanimity whether we are feeding a mule or poking a dead bird or doing a puzzle or feeding grapes to the chickens or playing ball on the stairs. He does want to be involved sometimes and frustrates Owen by trying to eat the puzzle pieces and scares me by climbing the stairs but mostly, he is watching and exploring in his own mouth-and-fingers way. And Owen is extremely patient when I am trying to get Gibson down for a nap, either giving him a bottle or rocking him and when Gibson wakes up and begins to cry in the little Pack-n-Play, Owen is always the one who hears him first. "Baby awake!" he says and when I head back to pick Gibson up, Owen always says, "Wait for me!" and he races along with me and we get that baby and hold him and tell him we love him and that there's no need for crying. And then he stops, usually, and is ready to play again.
It's such a goodness, being a grandmother. I get to be eternally the good cop. Well, mostly. When we were going to lunch the other day, Owen unbuckled his seat belt right before we got there (he was in his junior seat and can just reach down and unlatch the belt) and he got a good fussing-at and long explanation of why he cannot do that by his mother and he's really such a good boy that he feels terrible when he's done something wrong and it's hardly worth it to the poor child to be naughty, he has such an internal sense of wanting to be good. So he was crying piteously, saying, "I sorry! I sorry!" and of course I said, "Come here, baby. It's all right. We love you. We just want you to be safe," and I hugged him and kissed him and said, "Come on, let's go eat noodles and say hey to the Buddha."
"That won't help!" he cried, but he settled down and I pondered the difference between being mother and grandmother and was quite happy in my role as the grandmother.
Well, enough of that.
Mr. Moon washed the dogs and my part of the deal is to wash the dishes and I need to do that and then he wants to maybe take a little jaunt in the convertible down to buy bait for this upcoming fishing trip and he's invited me to come along so I need to get busy.
It's Sunday. The boys are coming, the pancakes are eaten, I just saw Elvis quietly and without fuss top Miss Bob and then she fluttered off and he stood there for a moment as if stunned, and the world is spinning and I swear, I can almost feel it, like microscopic bubbles in my blood and I am a little dizzy with it all although Mr. Moon is harshing my buzz a little by discussing how he will help me clean the Glen Den, which, I completely admit, is in dire need.
"Yes," I tell him. "But later."