Six whole days with the kiddos under our roof (plus an extra–a friend of Mason’s from International Falls) and so far, so good.
The first night at our house a series of loud bangs outside sent three children crowding into my bedroom at 10 p.m. wondering where the drive-by shooting was.
I couldn’t immediately debunk their theory that it was gunshots we were hearing rather than the more likely fireworks, but I settled them the best I could with assurance that drive-by shootings don’t happen in Sleepy Eye. The following day I verified through friends that what we heard was fireworks.
“I could have swore we were hearing shots from a 12-guage shotgun with nine millimeter shells,” Mason’s friend said. “In International Falls where I live, by the airport, that’s what it sounds like when they are shooting to chase deer off the runway.”
Hubby asked him what kind of gun he had. The friend replied that he doesn’t own a gun, but he does have a trapping licence. Hubby asked what he liked to trap and he said mostly skunks.
“They make good jerky,” he added.
Hubby and I both nearly choked.
“You eat skunk jerky?” we asked incredulously.
“Well, no, I don’t. But I give the skunk carcases to a guy who makes skunk jerky,” he replied.
From this point on, any jerky Mason offers me that comes from International Falls I think I’m just going to refuse unless I can verify 100 percent what animal the jerky is made from.
Throughout the week we’ve noticed little quirks we hadn’t noticed in the past. For instance, my children eat condiments as snacks and side dishes as meals.
Before the kids came we had three jars of pickles in the fridge and two jars of olives. As of press time I’m fairly certain we don’t have a single pickle or olive left.
I came home from work the first Monday they were at home without my supervision to find Raman noodles scattered across the kitchen floor like a carpet.
“I made lunch!” Maddie proclaimed proudly.
The following day when I arrived home for lunch Maddie had made herself a ham sandwich from mystery meat I didn’t remember purchasing.
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“This ham tastes funny,” she commented when she had two bites of the sandwich LEFT. She gave me a bite and I spit it out.
“Where did you get the ham?” I asked.
She showed me a bag that I regrettably opened and took a whiff of. I tossed the mystery meat I can only hope was ham and made a mental note to clean out the fridge.
If that is the worst I have to deal with this summer I will be a happy camper!