Equal Opportunity Porch Portraits

Following my own raggedy lead, whenever we're home, everyone seems to jump into their most comfortable clothes, Nando needs to dump his torn up cammie jammies, but loves them. Comfort above all.

Also, as usual, I'm working in the garden, while these three had lined up their chairs to color, draw and watch me work. I never ask kids to weed as I have so many perennials intermingled, it'd be too easy to decimate a plot. They haul wood chips sometimes, they love to pick the food, which I don't mind, but the garden truly is my own happy sweatshop.

Joel Salatin in his incredibly fascinating book, Everything I Want To Do Is Illegal, (to which my brother retorted, "Well, Duh,") takes on child labor laws indicating that now, as a result of such arbitrary restrictions, we have aimless teens occupying themselves with artificial entertainment, and thuggishly roaming our streets smoking crack. I'd just gotten a work permit for Martin to work for Chuck in his landscape design and installation business, only to find the restrictions on what he can or cannot do, is ridiculous.

If you eat meat, you really should read Sallatin's book and do it right. This brilliant meat-eater is explaining so much of what I did not know in his personal battleground in regards to raising meat and selling it.

Last day of Fall Break, we've had a quiet bout here and I'm loving it. CW has an orthodontist appointment again this morning and we have a soccer game tonight.

Paloma and JoJo nearly came to blows when we first arrived at church yesterday, surprisingly JoJo manned up but he yelled, in the sanctuary, that Paloma was a fat Sasquatch, which she isn't, having lost the weight she'd gained last year on meds. I was afraid we'd have to leave, that JoJo would escalate, that she'd retaliate, but fortunately Edgar appeared and sat next to JoJo, calming him down somewhat, coming home with us to see Jimbo.

In the picture above, Lily has a sack of crayons and markers, pens and pencils that we'd gotten for a quarter at a yard sale. Tabby'd raged on Friday, refusing to pick up her own crayons, deliberately breaking them, daring me to intercede. I just stared at her while she involuntarily flinched as if she's routinely beaten. She's lived here nearly five years, time to shed that old and unnecessary reaction.

I let her rage for about 30 minutes or so, eventually she calmed down, having loudly expressed her anger over nothing, picking up the broken crayons, not getting a consequence from me as it'd have been pointless in the face of such fury. But, the next day at a yard sale when she'd asked for a very large container of crayons, I turned her down, explaining I wouldn't spend good money on stuff for her to break.

Dr. Mandy had called during this duck fit, to reschedule with me, and could hear Tabby carrying on in the background, giving her valuable input with which to work with Tabby later.

Tabby doesn't have mental issues, just some emotional mountains to climb, and she understood and repeated back to me, in her own words, my point.

Lily, calm and logical, got the point, and I did buy her what she'd asked for.

It's raining hard, good as I'd planted more greens, but since I can't go outside and don't feel like vacuuming, I'm going to try and finish the Salatin book to return to Sarah who is very eagerly awaiting the read.

I'm also reading Deeply Rooted: Unconventional Farmers in the Age of Agribusiness, which I'm loving. Do I love every book I read? Well usually so as I don't pick up Harlequin romances to read, but rather non-fiction foodie books, gardening or farming tomes, or inspirational, managerial books, biographies, or social issue concerns. If I don't like the book, I quit reading it and move on. My time is valuable.

I was reading in bed last night, nearly ten pm waiting on CW, Chuy and Martin to come home from Yolie's house where they'd taken a video console to Chuck for repair. Yolie'd been spinning La Llorona stories, scaring the tarnation out of my three usually very level-headed sons who then wanted me to drive the 100 yards and pick 'em up. Are you kidding me? Chuck drove them up the hill, they were literally frightened to pieces, asking me to walk them down the long, dark hall for protection. I was laughing too hard to take them seriously. "I'm sure glad we have door and window alarms," they told me.

"Won't work with La Llorona," I intoned in fake dread, looking at three pairs of very wide eyes, "I hear her crying, 'Mis hijos mios,' listen y'all." Southern Spanglish at work. My strongest sons still at home, reduced to mush.

Jeepers.