Processing IX

Be it ever so humble. . . The Bee Buggy (Hubby's truck) was filled to capacity with exhausted restlessness as we made the 3 hour drive north last night. Well. . . It used to be a 3 hour drive. With three young children, it takes what it takes. I didnae bother to track the stats on last night's sojourn. Here we are, back at the farm with a mind-boggling amount of practice at calling the "job site" home. Little ones arenae so esoteric in their definitions of, "Home." They are the natural masters of Keeping It Simple, Sweetheart. K.I.S.S. K.I.S.S.

Nightfall was well fallen before we arrived to find two of the chickens roosting on the patio table chair closest to the back door. I felt a rush of panic over finding the rest of the flock. Had a predator taken advantage of the coop door which hadnae been closed against predators for two nights running? No one was even surprised, much less offended when I abandoned the unloading of the bee buggy to grab the nearest chicken and run to the coop for a head count. I couldnae count the heads well in the dark, but they seemed pretty close to right. When we donae show up for the roosting show, the chickens often come to the house in search of their nighty night kisses. I concluded that these two were still waiting. Chickens can be such hams. I went back to the back porch to carry the other chicken to the roost on my way to check on the turkey babies. All there. That piece of the chaos seems to be intact. Seems. . . Not even my night vision is good enough to check details like water levels by the night lights. Still, just being alive enough to show up is a fair indicator, all by itself.

The funeral is done. The bachelor pad is ? ? ? Not mine to sort beyond the responsibilities of property ownership and, for now, that ball is in Hubby's court. I don't share playing courts with trophy conditioned athletes twice my size. Not even Hubs. My small body has forced me to develop brains over brawn and even a dumb trophy driven jock isnae dumb enough to stand in front of a moving train. If Hubs were to drop that particular ball today, I would hire a random person to sweep the place clean. Any profit you make from selling valuable objects is your tip. Enjoy. I just want the bachelor tomb to be a house again. Let there be life.

Buttttttaaaaa. . . I amnae going to go another round of tit for tat with the love of my life over ^it^. In you I trust, my love. You will drop that ball when you are ready. I amnae going to wrestle you for ^it^, AGAIN. Rescue them middle aged babies all you want, Sugar Daddy. Let's see if it works better this month. Prayers in progress. . . I promise to applaud when you hit *that* slam dunk.

Leaving the New Music City/Hollywood, etc., to its own accolades. . .

I had hoped to have Big Bro in school today for the sake of recooping the fragile routine we had established before the parental deaths, but the late hour of our arrival home makes me wonder if another day out of school would be appropos. It has been one hell of a week. We have another hour before the *normal* wake up time. We see what grows.

Whichever way the healing mysteries flow, prayers in progress to let the healing begin. Just praying. . .