If you ever needed proof that Aidan is my child, this should do it.
One day about two weeks ago, a door opened in our house and no one noticed that Chief was within 2 feet of it. Because Aidan was the one who opened the door, Chief ran out of that door at full speed which is what he does every time he gets the opportunity because he can basically run past Aidan and not get stopped. He knows who to try.
About 30 minutes passed, and we were getting ready to go to dinner, so I decided I should probably go outside and try to bring him back in. I’m used to this. I go outside and call him. He shows his face, but he won’t come close to me because he doesn’t want to get caught. But this time, I call him and I see him far off about 3 houses down. He hears me because he keeps looking up, then he goes back to running around in this circle. Hmmmm.
I start walking and calling “Chief! Get over here! Get outta Mr. Brown’s yard!” But he is straight igging me. Then I see a little white thing running in front of him. What is that? That’s a funny looking dog…. Then I see that the little white thing is trying to fly. What? Is it a goose from the pond? Then I hear the little white thing squawking.
Oh crap. It’s a chicken. And Chief is hot on it’s tail. This could end badly, so I take off. But now I’m quiet because I don’t want to draw any attention to Chief and this chicken. So, I’m yelling through my teeth (you know, like Chief had done something bad in church and he needed to know he was going to get it. Like that.) “Chief, if you don’t leave this chicken alone!! Leave it, Chief! It does NOT want to play with you!!!” But nooooooo, by this time he’s got the chicken down and some part of the chicken’s body is in Chief’s mouth because the other part of it is flailing wildly and feathers are kinda sorta flying.
I’m not getting close to this. Oooooh, no. Then I see this chick walking her dog. At the most inopportune time in my life ever. She’s now a witness to the chicken slaughter. And she looks a little terrified. I don’t know what to say to her, and I don’t know what she’s heard, so I say “Oh my, this dog has this chicken!” (Like I had to idea whose dog it was). She’s all like “Well, I have to pass by to get to my car.” And I say “I’ve seen this dog before, so I’m going to run home to get my car and get him. He’s not going to bother you” and she takes off past the scene of the crime and I take off to go get my car (because the only way to get Chief now is if I trick him like I’m about to take him somewhere.)
I turn around, and I see the chicken hobble into a drainage pipe, and Chief is hopping around it like “Hey, chicken, are you done playing?” He was still at the pipe when I got back with the car and say “Chief, get in, we’re going for a ride!” He’s like “Awwww, snap! I got to play with a new friend and I get to go for a ride”, so he hops on in like the juvenile delinquent that he is. The chick comes literally from out of nowhere and says “I think the chicken is dead.”
Ya think??? Chief has a mouth full of feathers, so rocket science isn’t needed to know that the chicken isn’t okay.
I get home and drive ALL THE WAY into the garage and close it. I don’t need anybody else seeing any of this. I clean the feathers out of his mouth and go inside. Tim notices I’m in a bit of a frenzy, so I explain what happened to him and I’m all disturbed that Chief killed this chicken. And Tim says “Crazy dog, don’t you know you’re allergic to chicken?” Obviously NO.HELP.THERE.
On top of it, Tim thinks we should probably find out whose chicken it was and offer our condolences. No way, hosea. I’m not going around knocking on various doors asking people if our dog may have killed their family chicken pet so if they want vengeance, they’re going to have to find me to get it. I’m prepared to pay for the chicken and be really sorry, but I’m not going out to start any neighborhood feuds if I don’t have to.
After a couple days, no one said anything about the chicken and all was well.
Then. Our neighbors came over and in the conversation they mentioned that one day they came home and a bruised chicken was on their front porch. Me and Tim were all like “Wuuuut? A chicken?” Oh yes, a pretty white chicken that had obviously been attacked by something. Us: ”Oh no!! What did you do? Poor chicken!” Turns out, the person behind them has chickens and their two sons came looking for it that night. The poor chicken was in bad health, but they nursed it back to health, and you all will be glad to know that the chicken survived! Praise the Lord, the chicken is alright!! Glory!!
The only question the neighbors had was what in the world could have gotten at that poor chicken? They’d been discussing this chicken situation with other neighbors (of course) and they all determined that there must be a coyote on the loose. I’m thinking “They think a coyote did it!?” The only thing Tim and I said was “Well, we didn’t see a coyote, but we did see that chicken.”
And we’ll never speak of this story again.
Yesterday was Easter, and while we are certainly grateful for the rising of Christ, it was pretty non-descript around our crib. Church is always too crowded on Easter so we take a little vacay. Judge me, I don’t care. Anyway, there were no new Easter frolics, no egg hunts, no Easter Baskets. The latter of these things has been rubbing Aidan the wrong way for quite some time now. He’s been wondering why on earth the Easter Bunny always skips his house.
Well, it’s because despite my good intentions every year, I’ve just never made him a basket. Reason I’m a horrible Mom number 1. So I figured that after all these years of not getting one, he’d get used to it. Reason number 2. However, on Sunday as we were riding past church on the way to Walmart, he asked me straight out, point blank, if the reason his Easters are lackluster is because I’m the Easter Bunny (this is directly related to how he found out I’m the tooth fairy – remind me to tell you that one day).
So, I admitted it. Yes. I’m the Easter Bunny, or, in this situation, the lack thereof. But I made sure that I mentioned that Daaaaddy was also 1/2 of the Easter Bunny, so he should share in the empty Easter blame as.well. And Aidan took it well. At first, he made a little sad face, but I think he really felt better that this fictional character wasn’t disappointed in him, his Mom was just a slacker. I’ll take it.
It took a turn for the worse. He said “Wait a minute. If you’re the Easter Bunny, are you also Santa?”
I froze. Which, to Aidan, was a clear indication that I am, indeed, Santa Claus. Now, Christmases are generally pretty good around these parts, so I didn’t feel the need to mention Daaaaddy’s part in the Santa shenanigans. The boy had already suffered enough for one day. Then he looks like he’s going to cry. Oh, no. He says, “So if Santa isn’t real, then how did I talk to him on the phone in second grade?” Crap, he remembered that.
I was already in hot water, so I just told. “Well, your teacher sent a note home and told us to tell her the things you were going to get, and to tell her one naughty thing, and one nice thing. Then she gave our lists to one of her friends who called and said he was Santa. He looks incredulous. I look very sorry for having to break this news to him, but enough of the lies, doggoneit!!
“So, it was you? Mom, why did you tell Santa bad things about me? Why weren’t you loyal to me?” At this point, I am FREAKING.OUT. “What? What do you mean?” “Ma, when Santa called I was the only one he said negative things about. He said on the phone that I didn’t clean my room and he didn’t say bad things about anyone else! And you told him that!?”
Then I remembered that day. He was right. Santa did say nice things about him, but I remember he cried because Santa mentioned his naughtiness in front of all his friends.
Why didn’t I just make the freaking Easter Basket???
Y’all. There was nothing I could say, even though I considered saying that Daaaddy filled out the paper. I just told him that I was sorry and that when I told his teacher that, I didn’t know it would make him feel bad, but it was still true (and it still is today, but it would be mean to point that out in this very delicate moment). And I reminded him that even though his room wasn’t always spic and span, he always got whatever he wanted for Christmas, so that meant that Mom and Dad were very proud of him. He seemed okay with it, I felt like the worst Mom ever.
Then for the rest of the day I bought him whatever he wanted and had to play Monopoly Empire about 7 times and let him win. Let’s just call it the Santa tax.
A student asked me on March 25 what she could do to get her grade up. She’s failing, but she admitted that she hadn’t had a lot of time to do school work because she’d been busy planning her wedding that was earlier in the month. Problem was, half her assignments hadn’t been turned in. My advice to her was “Turn in your assignments.” Because….duh. The late period, posted in class since day one, explained that you can submit work all the way up and through week 11. Sunday, I stayed up till 1am grading the slew of late work that they had bum-rushed me with. When I was done, I emailed this to everyone:
I have graded all of the late work that has been submitted during weeks 1-10. This work can only be submitted through Week 11, so the late period has officially ended. The only assignments that you can still submit now are quizzes, Week 11 late work, and Week 12 work.
All of your work has to be done by SATURDAY when the course ends, so make sure that you get in what you can!
You get it? I mean, you understand that, right? I woke up Monday morning to the above student’s FOUR late assignments, and her email that said:
ok I have submitted everything that could thanks again for allowing me to go back submit my late work.
That’s what it said, verbatim, word for word. Thanks again for allowing? Where did I allow?
Now y’all see why I have to walk away. There’s reasons.