Oh yeah, I was going to post something about our holiday weekend--well Friday, the two older girls spent the night with friends, and the younger two kids spent the night with Grandmama and Grandpapa, so I got to go on a real, live DATE with my wife. I managed to talk her out of staying home and cleaning house, so we went to the bookstore then out to Palace for supper. The bookstore was embarrassing, as I had a terrible bout of gastrointestinal distress which necessitated that I spend thirty minutes in the restroom. Spending thirty minutes in a bookstore restroom is not the best thing in the world to do--for some reason, people give you strange looks when you emerge. Maybe it was the yodelling. Luckily, my distress was not an impediment to enjoying a plateful of potstickers and a huge bowl of hot and sour soup. (What?! Quit looking at me like that!)

Saturday was spent getting the kids back from their various locations, and the supreme delight of getting our tax refund deposited in the bank, which meant we could now purchase the Secret Plastic Storage Shed, which shall be hereafter referred to as The Not At All Secret Very Large Children's Playhouse. Our neighborhood president sent out a new and improved set of covenants he wants to adopt--he has apparently spent a lot of time researching life in The People's Paradise of North Korea, and I suppose fancies himself a righteous successor to Benevolent Father. In any event, he promises to make sure everyone knows what is an acceptable child's playhouse, in case there is any doubt. Which I guess means there is some doubt now, so I will use this to exploit the weakness in the system. I've told the kids it will be their playhouse, although Daddy will have to use part of it to put things in. They seem comfortable with the arrangement, so everyone else should, too. So there! ::sticks out tongue and say "nyaahh"::

I put down the floor, which necessitated several attempts to level it out on my little pile of gravel, and which was made even more difficult by the fact that Neighbor Girl had invited Her Friend over to wash cars and get a tan. Since I am married and a dad and go to church an awful lot, I had to keep poking things in my eyes and thinking of Janet Reno. Jonathan, on the other hand, being single and an eight year old player, had no such constraints and quite happily helped me hold on to big pieces of plastic, as long as it meant being able to stare at two girls lying on the driveway wearing bikinis. Not that I know what they were wearing--I'm just guessing, honest. I swear on a stack of Albrights.

Sunday was the normal church day, and luckily no teachers were sick or inexplicably absent--there were just a bunch of late ones. That's okay, I needed more gray hair. Afterwards, we went and visited Oldest Girl's grandparents (Reba's former inlaws). These monthly visits will one day provide a rich lode of material for the book I intend to write. As for now, I simply repeat "what does not kill me make me stronger."

Then, it was back to church again for a meeting with all the kids, who are sending along letters to a sister congregation in Russia via a small group which is leaving this week. I hope they will get some response, especially for those kids (like mine) who are a bit too spoiled and have no concept of life being any harder than they have it now. Might open a few eyes. Even little Catherine got in on the act--Mom wrote her letter, but she signed it. Be interesting to see how this turns out.

Monday we had planned to take the kids to ride horses--we went to Camp Coleman, but they were closed to the public for the day so we wound up at Oak Mountain State Park, which is a beautiful place. The kids went through the petting zoo first, and managed to not step in poop or get bitten. One horse seemed a bit nippy when I was petting its nose--it nearly gnawed a plug out of my arm but I managed to stay out of its way. Some little kid's mother was standing there when he chomped at me, and I mentioned that he seemed sort of peeved. I turned around to check on my kids and heard someone shriek behind me. The woman had apparently not thought the horse would actually BITE someone, and had her son over at the fence petting the horse on the nose again when it latched onto him. Jonathan said "That little boy put his hand right in the horse's mouth!" After we wandered far enough away, we had an impromptu Possumblog Logic Class. "What happens if you're idiotic enough to put your hand in a horse's mouth, kids?" "It'll bite." "Thank you." Having finished the lesson, it was time to go over to the pony ride area. Oldest Girl has ridden a horse exactly once, which she thinks is sufficient to go jump on any horse and take off, so she was bitterly disappointed that all of the "real" horses had been signed out. Ah, to be twelve and know everything. Boy had a great time; of course, this could have something to do with the teenaged girls who were the pony guides. Eight years old, and he already has more suave coolness than I have ever been in my entire life. Ashley, despite her incredibly advanced equestrian knowlege, deigned to be led along at the mosey. Rebecca, who loves horses more than anything, and wants to be a vet, and has read every Pony Pals book there is, got on a pony which suddenly decided it was through for the day and got balkish. She was scared and it took her a while to unfreeze enough to let a little smile get out. On the other hand, The Tiny Terror was fearless, and probably would have enjoyed a runaway horse immensely.

Afterwards, we went back across the county to look for a fountain for the back yard. Why? I wish I knew. Soothing water sound? Well, you have to be at home to hear it, and there is always someone flushing a pot somewhere in the house when we ARE at home. Something to look at? There's lots to look at. Sky. Birds. Trees. Dirt. But there's nothing that combines the allure of running water with the bonded stone convenience and subtle "hi-tone finish" of a garden pixie fountain. I have come to find out that children really do not care if you have a degree in architecture, nor that half of the books in your house are about art or design, nor that you bring home a paycheck because someone cares enough to ask your knowledge about the art and science of building, because pixies are cute and the quiet dignity of a simple, trickling bronze bowl is really boring. ::sigh:: Of course, I may just be mad that there's not a Vargas version. Now THAT would be a fountain!

So, in a greatly condensed form, that was my weekend. (Somewhere in there I slept, but I'm not sure when.)
posted by Terry at 4:40:00 PM