Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [51]
My boys have made friends with a family of home-schooled kids down the road. They live on an old working farm and they heat their farmhouse by burning logs in a woodstove and piling hay bales against the outer walls for insulation. Their water comes from a well on their property that often gets contaminated and becomes undrinkable when some random bit of wildlife gets in and drowns. Those kids are not allowed to play on our trampoline or ride the go-cart, because their mother thinks they are too dangerous. Meanwhile, on their property is a dilapidated barn with huge holes in the upper floor. If you were to fall through, you would drop straight down two stories to land on a row of hogs or a couple of dead pigeons and a pile of boards studded with rusty nails. If the barn doesn’t do you in, you are sure to be zapped by one of the electrified wires hidden in the tall grass, or be butted by an angry goat. Despite being fed all the organic grains in the world, kids are still going to be goofy; her youngest once fastened a bungee cord to a tree branch in their yard, then proceeded to jump out of the tree with the other end in his mouth, managing to rip out half his teeth in the process. I guess we all have our own idea of what is dangerous.
The farm kids don’t have television and though they do have a computer, it is for educational purposes only. They aren’t allowed to play any of the popular online games, which their parents think are too violent. They are polite children, perhaps a bit socially awkward, but it’s hilarious to overhear them playing a game of chase with my kids.
“When I catch you, I’m going to slit your throat and hang you up upside down by your feet until all your blood drains out! Then I’m going to skin you and butcher you and put you in the freezer until winter!”
You certainly don’t learn that kind of talk from World of Warcraft.
AS YOU CAN IMAGINE, OUR PLACE IN THE COUNTRY IS A CHILD PARADISE, to the likes of which apartment living cannot compare. City children love it here. So much, apparently, that on one Thursday afternoon I started receiving messages from various parents thanking me for inviting their kids up for the weekend. What? After the third mother (and fourth child) left a thank-you on our answering machine, I decided I had better investigate. I collared Peik and Truman, the only two old enough for unassisted sleepovers.
“Have you two been inviting friends for the weekend without asking me first?”
“Dude,” Peik said, turning on Truman, “it’s my week to have friends, not yours.”
“According to whom?” I wanted to know.
“Mom,” Truman shot back, “Peik always has friends. It’s my turn.”
“Well, I don’t see how it’s going to work. I will ask your father when he gets home.” They both groaned, knowing this is what I usually say when I’m not going to give them what they want.
I have nothing against my boys having friends around. It’s well worth any extra work, because when either Peik or Truman has company they are far less likely to spend the weekend trying to kill each other. Guests keep them out of my hair. They are particularly appealing in the country, where I can simply lock the door and let them in only for meals or the occasional emergency bathroom break, which does not include peeing. “Pee in the grass like you always do,” I say through the screen of the locked door. Blake is usually around to make sure the boys don’t burn down the outbuildings while creating some kind of AID (airborne incendiary device), and the motorcycle and go-cart usually break down before anyone has a chance to get hurt.
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