Food Fight! (Seriously...) & The Realtor (Rant?)

James has red speckles all over his eye - the eyelid, brow bone, under the eye. They are the kind of spots you get from smacking into something, like a tree or a lichen-covered rock. There's a shadowy tint below the eye, too. It's not quite a black eye, but something obviously happened. I inquired and he filled me in, "Oh, that? Yeah, that's just from when John hit me with a chicken leg."

I couldn't keep the Mommy Composure. Just couldn't.

The most mature, articulate response I could muster was, "That is the WEIRDEST thing I think I've ever heard!" He laughed. It seems that while I was preparing cheese crisps for lunch, there was some kind of disagreement that culminated in a duel. It was all over when the chicken leg came into play. The boys worked it out and they both laughed about it while they told me the story.

Part of me is glad they worked it out between the two of them, eventually, and enjoyed one another for the rest of the day. Part of me is somewhat mortified that my children ever thought this was an option. A chicken leg to the head? Yet another part of me is quietly whispering to the other two, "These are the threads of your children unravelling! The seams will pop soon and it'll be worse than ripping open a beanbag!" That part also includes a very frightening laugh that echoes to the marrow. I'd like to think our familial stitching is strong enough to get them through the topsy-turvy phase, but my prayer tonight is, "Please let this week pass smoothly."

Tranny Guy was sufficiently mortified that we were back (and still under warranty, which is what bothered him the most, I think) and promised to have the Suburban back to us tomorrow at five. Hmmm. That would help. I was as nice as the situation warrants (perhaps moreso), although I did pointedly make the problem of getting all four of us home without the Suburban "their problem". I figure if they don't want to haul us around, then perhaps they ought to do a better job, eh? If it happens again, I'm going to make them swing us by the market, too, because I'm nearly out of creamer again.

Tomorrow, I need to email our realtor. It's nothing big, but I believe there may be a small *do the quote thing with your fingers* communication issue *okay, you can stop now* that needs to be rectified before it explodes into another series of Realtor Rants. It seems that since we mentioned we'd be willing to buy a trailer on acreage and build our own home, she inferred that we must want a new home. So, being the intuitive creature realtors are known to be, she raised the price ceiling we gave her and sent us the listing for "the house you're going to buy, I just know it!" It would leave us with no money for a chicken (one), let alone cattle or fencing for the cattle, it has far less acreage than we want, and it has a monstrousity of a brand spanking new house w/ oak cabinetry (which we so don't really care about). The thing is, if we can't find a great old house that has stories and ghosts and mojo, we want to build our own home and start right then and there with our own stories and ghosts and mojo. We want to infuse them all the way to the foundation. We don't want somebody else's generally contracted cookie cutter house with glamor bath. There is no mojo in a glamor bath! But how to convey this to the realtor species, I don't know.

Anyhow, tomorrow is a huge packing day. We are pleasantly surprised to find that the drawers and the kitchen are all that's left to pack. Bonus!

Kiss those babies!
~Dy