What you are looking at here is a boy bending a small cherry laurel sapling over for the goats to dine upon its leaves. And his young brother, holding a tiny branch of cherry laurel to feed the hungry goats as well. Owen has make-up on. He is currently intrigued by KISS and painted his face with a black and blue glittery eye-shadow which I sometimes use as an eyeliner when I am feeling especially sassy.
So. Not lately.
Anyway, I was just impressed as hell that the boy came up with the idea and all day I had a wonderful time with those two. Owen suddenly wants to hear stories. Real stories. Stories about when I had my babies for one thing. He actually asked me today what I had for dinner when my babies were born which is mighty random but to tell you the truth, I DO remember what I had for dinner the night each of my babies was born except for Hank and as I recall, I was too excited to eat for about three days after his birth. So I told Owen the details of all of that- my post-birth culinary adventures and he also kept asking me how the Rolling Stones became the Rolling Stones and on about the third telling I started including accents and so forth and he told me he loved me about fifty times and he was wonderful.
We were in the library and we were just having a fine time of it and I was reading Owen a funny Mother Goose poem and holding Gibson because he'd woken from a nap and didn't want me to put him down and Owen went behind the couch where I was sitting and stood there and I said, "Owen, are you peeing?"
"NO!" he shouted. "Don't look!"
Well, of course he was. Peeing. On the air vent.
It was the most bizarre thing.
"Don't talk! Don't talk!" he kept screaming. He knew he'd screwed the pooch.
I was so astounded that all I could do was say, "Why? Why in the world would you do that?" and of course there is no answer to why an almost-four-year-old boy would pee on the air vent behind the couch in the library and he dashed into the living room and hid behind his grandfather's chair and continued to scream, "Don't talk!" and Gibson was crying and it was just crazy.
But the damn thing was, I couldn't help laughing and I just couldn't get mad at him.
I cleaned up the pee and went into where the child was hiding and he was quiet by then and I said, "Don't make your old grandmother crawl back there," but he didn't say anything and I did crawl back there and Gibson was crying because I'd set him down and Owen appeared to be asleep and I thought, well, that's it. He was so tired he just didn't know what he was doing, so I picked him up and put him gently on the couch and he laid there perfectly imitating sleep and I kissed him and told him I could never be mad at him and that little faker was wide awake and he deserves an Oscar for that performance.
And that's what being a grandmother is all about. Jesus. I would have smacked my own kid on the butt. Or something.
The men are back. I have chicken and dumplings simmering. I am so grateful to have my husband back. I'm grateful for a lot of things. And if Owen ever pees on the air vent again he IS IN SUCH DEEP TROUBLE!