What About A Duck Named Bob?

"He's doing it again," Mary sighed, rolling her eyes. 

I peered out the window at the duck coop. Sure enough, a male duck was standing in the doorway. There was a traffic jam of ducklings piling up behind him, trying to push their way through. The poor, oblivious duck stretched his neck and tilted his head, looking the doorway up and down, attempting to make sense of the opening before him. What was it? How did it work? Perhaps he should sit down and ponder it for a while. 

He hunkered down across the doorway just large enough for one duck at a time to pass through. Nineteen ducklings, trapped inside the coop, began quacking loudly for him to get out of the way. They wanted the food Joey had placed in their yard. They wanted to bathe in the large water tub, dunking their feathers and flapping their wings. They wanted out. This duck, however, wasn't moving. He seemed convinced there was no way to get to the yard from the coop.

Disgusted, Mary slipped on her shoes and headed outside. I watched from the window as she shoved the offender from his spot into the duck yard. The other ducks poured through the now unblocked doorway quacking their indignation as they passed by in their rush to get to the food. 

"We have to keep him, Mom," Joey pleaded beside me. "He's just too dumb. We can't eat him." 

We raise ducks and chickens for food. My children know this. They don't have a problem with it. Yet, here was my youngest son asking me to grant clemency to this duck, to change his status from farm animal to pet. 

"Joey, do you know what a pain it would be to keep him over winter? He'll be messier than your chickens. The coop will have to be cleaned out more often - in the freezing cold." 

"I know, Mom. It's just... I've already named him." 

Uh oh.

"His name is Bob."

"Why Bob?"

"You know, like in the movie, What About Bob?" 

In the movie, Bob Wiley is so afraid to leave his apartment, he had to talk himself into walking out the door. I had to admit, the name fit.

A short time later, Bob was moved into the chicken yard and we gathered around to see how the chickens would react. I was certain Bob would be bullied, but instead, Bob began to assert himself. He flapped his wings at the girls when they tried to peck him. He pushed through the feathered throng to join them at the food pan. He even chased a couple of them away from the water when they tried to keep him from it. After much clucking and quacking, chasing and flapping, the duck and the chickens settled down and ignored each other. Huh.

Bob then did something that surprised us all. He waddled up the ramp and into the coop. He waddled out of the coop and back down the ramp! Without prompting, without being pushed, he had figured out how to use the door! In and out he went without any hesitation. I briefly wondered if we had moved the wrong duck. A quick check showed that, no, this was indeed Bob. Again, huh.

Bob made himself at home with the chickens. The only time he appeared discontent was when the other ducks grew noisy. He would pace the fence, looking through the wire at the duck coop.

"I think he needs some girl ducks to keep him company." one of the children suggested. 

That was not going to go over well with their daddy. It had been hard enough to convince Matt to keep Bob. He bemoaned the loss of one duck dinner and I doubted he would agree to the loss of more. 

"One female," Matt conceded, scowling. 

Lucille joined Bob in the chicken yard. She was one I had kept an eye on from the beginning. Being the only Pekin with a tuft of feathers that "poofed" out of the top of her head, she was easy to spot. 

"You know that's a defect, right?" Was the only thing Matt said. 

Yes, I knew. Somehow it seemed fitting. Our family kept the misfits, the oddballs. Remember our pet asthmatic chicken? It's just how we were. Why change now? 

A few days later, another female duck was added to the chicken yard. Azula (named for an anime villain with a distinctive laugh) was a duck I had been looking forward to getting rid of. It's not that she was a mean duck or anything, but, well, her quack was... evil. I'm not even kidding. Many a time, a  horrendously loud, maniacal quack would pierce the noisiness of our daily routine, sounding for all the world like she had listened in to our conversation and determined all was going according to her evil plan. Oh, yes. That duck would have to go.

It was Alex who requested a stay of execution. He lobbied hard for her, listing the advantages of keeping her and promising to do any extra work required. He then gave me sad eyes for good measure. 

So, we have three ducks now. It's very entertaining.

And there's the story of how we ended up with a duck named Bob. Never a dull moment here at Cold Anchor Farm...

Chicken Joe

There's a new coop-keeper in town and he goes by the name of Chicken Joe. Older siblings, otherwise occupied, left the position wide open and Joe stepped in to fill the gap. 

It began with the arrival of our new Amish-built mini barn. 

How exciting!

In short order, the coop was readied for its new tenants, and Joe moved the chicks from the brooder box to their new home. He spent hours sitting on the coop floor, playing with the fluffy babies. I think he would have slept out there if I had let him. 

As the chicks grew, Joe noticed their individual personalities emerge and the naming process began. Asparagus, a Light Brahma, was the first to be named and Joe claimed her as his very own. She loved to climb from Joe's hand up to his shoulder to hang out, sort of like a pirate's pet parrot. 

The other Light Brahmas were named Buttercup, Louise, and Candice. Louise and Buttercup are sweet birds. Candice is a dork.

Clover, a Black Australorp, was by far the most curious about any humans who entered the coop. Her favorite pastime was (and still is) pecking at Joe's freckles. Joe's frequent and exasperated exclamation, "Clover!" amused me to no end. 

The other Black Australorps were named Wednesday, Frankie, and Pearl.

A Plymouth Rock (Barred Rock) named Tulip soon became Clover's sidekick. She followed Clover's lead and even now the two are together more often than not. 

The Plymouth Rocks are quite friendly. Joey gave Rosie the nickname "Sweetie" and Judy is almost as gentle. Gidget, on the other hand, is a feathery pain in the tush who won't leave my rings alone. She behaves well if she's picked up, though.

Marshmallow, a Gold-laced Wyandotte, was quickly identified by Joe as our only truly naughty chick. She is cranky. She pecks hard. Chicken Joe will have none of it. He catches her up and carries her around, scolding her all the while. It's the chicken version of "time out."

The other Wyandottes were named Hazel, Pidge, and Debbie. Hazel is my personal favorite. She loves to be petted. As soon as your fingers reach her black and gold feathers, she sits down, and leans into your hand, eyes slowly closing. 

My oldest daughter and her husband added a couple of Lavender Orpingtons to the mix. Thistle and Blue Moon are just a bit older than the other chicks and tend to stick to themselves. Shy or stuck up? Time will tell. They're certainly beautiful birds, with soft, fluffy, pale gray feathers.

Keeping all the chick names straight was a difficult task and Joe suggested we band them. Even the smallest bands were too big for their tiny legs, so we began with nail polish in a stripe on their legs - a different color for each chick. Of course, the polish wore off and Joey was relieved when they had grown enough to wear the bands.

One by one, the girls got their new jewelry. Chicken Joe was so very careful as he placed the colorful plastic bands on each chick. Tulip was one of the first. After banding, she and Joe had a little chat about it. He assured her that yellow was a good color and went nicely with her lovely feathers.

He eventually convinced her. Tulip sat on his shoulder and watched as he banded the other girls, softly clucking advice into his ear. Afterward, Joe and I hung a sign in the coop yard that identified the chicks by breed and band color. He thinks the chicks like it.

(I'm not sure if you can make out the duck on the painted sign. 

Stay tuned. The duck story is coming soon.)

Chicken Joe has taken on his new role with much enthusiasm and it's a pleasure to watch. I think this is the beginning of something wonderful.

Tulip agrees.

Left, Wright, and Ghost

"Mom, there are kittens in the corn crib!" one of my brood hollered to me from the field behind the house. By the time I got out to look the mama cat had hidden her babies and it would be several days 'til I had the chance to see them for myself. 

Mama Cat is feral and though we have witnessed her out hunting, none of us have been able to get close to her. The babies, on the other hand, are gradually getting used to us. They like to hang out in our garage. 

There are three of them. I named them. (Of course, I did.) They are Left, Wright, and Ghost. 

Left and Wright are almost mirror-images of each other. The biggest difference being Wright has a tiny pink nose. Left is the friendlier of the two. I've been able to hold him and pet him and even bring him briefly into the house. I might have tried to keep him there if not for the disapproving look on my husband's face. Perhaps I'll convince him in the end...

Wright and Left. Aren't they adorable?

Ghost has a spectacular lightning bolt on her face and is larger than the other two. So much larger, in fact, I suspect she is from a previous litter and has chosen to stay with her mama longer than her littermates. She will tolerate my petting her while she's eating, but barely. Ghost has the makings of a good hunter and the best way to get her attention is to trail a string or long blade of grass on the ground in front of her. She moves noiselessly about the garage and freezes when you spot her. Don't look away! She disappears in the blink of an eye.

Ghost

Our farm is that much livelier with the presence of these tiny wanderers and I've become quite attached to them. I do hope they decide to stay.  

Special Delivery

I look forward to this day each year.
With excitement, I hear the truck rumble up our driveway. After directing him to the spot, I stand back and watch the driver, one claw-grab at a time, unload an impressive cargo. 

At first glance, one might think he is merely unloading logs. The truth is, he's actually unloading 

the sound of a chainsaw, 

a swinging sledgehammer, 

hours of work, 

splinters, 

and the occasional smashed finger. 

He's unloading a competitive spirit. Who can carry the heaviest armload? 

He's unloading warm toes and cozy bedrooms, 

"discussions" of the ideal thermostat setting, 

and the scent of woodsmoke. 

He's unloading peace of mind and a sense of security for the upcoming winter.

It's easy to forget the chill of winter winds on days like this, but we all know it will be here in the blink of an eye.

Even In A Salon

I unlock the door and begin flipping light switches. Everything is still, but the quiet won’t last long. The open sign will come on, the phone will start ringing off the hook, and voices will sound throughout the building. I welcome all of it.

You see, I’ve changed my mind. 
I once thought a place like this simply wasn’t for me. A dedicated do-it-yourselfer and generally not-fussy person, I rarely entered a beauty salon. 
Then, I found myself looking for work.

Our old farmhouse was in need of serious repair and rather than getting a loan, my husband and I decided I could work outside the home a few hours a week to help cover the costs. Of course, we prayed about it first, but I’m ashamed to admit I had little hope I’d find anyone willing to hire me, prayers, or no. I’d been out of the workforce since our first child was a baby – over twenty years! I now realize God had a plan and it no longer surprises me how everything lined up so perfectly.

It happened fast. Within a week’s time, I was answering phones and setting appointments for a local salon. It was more complicated than I expected, but my boss, Laurie, and my new coworkers were amazingly patient with me as I learned the computer system, the routines, and details of over thirty different services offered.

I find it difficult to be away from home. Being a wife and mother is my primary vocation. I told God that if I was to spend time away from my family, I didn’t want it to be just about money, rather I hoped He would give me opportunities to serve Him wherever I happened to be, even in a salon.

Even in a salon…

If only I had known.

Working at the salon quickly became more than just a job to me. I discovered that this place is about so much more than the externals of cuts and colors, nails, and lashes. For many, it's an island of warmth in an increasingly cold world.

Milestones are marked within these walls. 
In the time I have been here, I have watched squirmy little ones get first haircuts. 
I have seen brides prepare for their momentous day. 
I’ve been present as the entire shop gathered around someone who'd received bad news, offering concern and support. 
I've been warmed by the sight of someone getting a haircut before a big job interview, or young ones dressing up for their first dance.
I have witnessed elderly, whose memory has failed them, relax with the routine that's somehow still familiar to them. 

There is tremendous, hands-on love and care in this place.

The salon reflects it's owner. The way Laurie treats those entering her shop shows me that, more than business, her priority is caring for people. It’s why she does what she does.

One example of this is when Laurie found out some of her clients who were diabetics or on blood thinners were going to various nail salons for basic foot care (not a safe option!) because the local hospital no longer offered the service. She worried about the health of those clients, so she found the RN who used to do it at the hospital and hired her to provide the service here.

There are many extras I witness her doing quietly for others, things most people will never even know about, but I notice. Laurie truly cares about the welfare of those around her. The clients who find themselves in her chair are friends whether it’s the first visit or they’ve been coming for years.

I can say the same for the other stylists. They are all extremely skilled, hard-working people, who take their profession seriously. 
They are creative. 
They fix things. 
They bring out a person’s beauty. 
They make people feel good. 
And, like therapists without the couch, they listen - giving  sympathy and comfort, or laughter and congratulations as their clients share the happenings in their lives. They are kind, and funny, and sometimes a bit sassy. I genuinely like each of the women I work with.

I only ever see the other receptionists as we change shifts, but even in those few minutes, we can laugh together about the ridiculous stuff that happens to us while trying to care for so many things at once. They are pretty awesome.  

For myself, I get to welcome so many people each day I’m here. I get to smile, to look them in the eye and call them by name, to ask how they are. I get to show people that they matter. I get to help. I have encouraged, comforted, prayed with, and for, folks I wouldn’t have met otherwise. It’s such a gift to me and I'm grateful.

It’s been two years now. The home improvement project that started it all is going well and the worst of it has already been tackled. There are still days it’s hard for me to leave home, but I know God has a purpose for everything, and this time - is time He is using. I am content here.

Even in a salon.

Independence Day 2020

God of our fathers, whose almighty hand

Leads forth in beauty all the stary band

Of shining worlds in splendor through the skies,

Our grateful songs before Thy throne arise.

Thy love divine hath led us in the past,
In this free land by Thee our lot is cast;
Be Thou our ruler, guardian, guide and stay,
Thy Word our law, Thy paths our chosen way.

From war's alarms, from deadly pestilence,
Be Thy strong arm our ever sure defense;
Thy true religion in our hearts increase,
Thy bounteous goodness nourish us in peace.

Refresh Thy people on their toilsome way,
Lead us from night to never-ending day;
Fill all our lives with love and grace divine,
And glory, laud, and praise be ever Thine.

It’s Starting to Be a Thing

Does your lawn mower have a name? Mine does. The machine is a Cub Cadet so I stuck him with the very original name of Cubby.

(For the record, I’m in the habit of giving inanimate objects names. We have a tractor named Hazel and a Truck named Phyllis.)

Cubby and I have a unique partnership. I drive him around taming acres of grass on our little homestead, and he challenges me to learn new skills… like lawn mower repair. He’s cool like that.

A few weeks ago, he alerted me it was time for another lesson by making a noise I hadn’t heard before. A weird, whining vibration came from somewhere below my seat and Cubby crawled to a stop, engine still running, but no longer moving forward. Searching for the cause, I found remnants of a shredded belt and under the battery a little plastic fan that had been torn from its mount.

Pushing Cubby back to the garage, I scolded him for the timing of this particular repair lesson. I had a long list of things to do and he really wasn’t helping matters. A little advance warning to clear my schedule would have been nice! He ignored me, as usual. It was lesson time, and that was that.

Now, each lesson begins with learning the names of parts. Peering through the narrow gaps, I did my best to identify the original placement of the broken bits, then went to the internet to search out a parts diagram. Armed with the names of what was needed, I rang up the local repair shop.

“I need a 72” drive belt and new hydrostatic transmission fan for a Cub Cadet LTX 1046M. Do you have them in stock?
I internally patted myself on the back for sounding so nonchalant about the whole thing. I knew this repair was a step up from the last one I’d tackled, and I was slightly concerned I was out of my depth. I would have to call in backup.

Once I had the parts, I grabbed my favorite muscle man, and we headed out to see Cubby. I was glad my hubby had agreed to help me with this repair. The guys in the how-to videos I watched used an impact wrench to remove the tightened nuts and I was fairly certain, even with an extender bar, I would need Matt’s strength to get them to move. Plus, he’s really cute. So, there’s that.

It took a bit of doing to get Cubby on the lift, but once he was up, I crawled underneath and began taking things apart to get them out of the way. The clutch was easy-peasy, but the fan mount gave me a couple new bruises. Between my straining one way, and Matt tugging the other we had the old parts removed and the new ones attached in very short order. I knew we could do it. Long ago, I learned my man and I make a great work team, and there is something wonderfully satisfying about laboring alongside someone whose moves you anticipate. You know, I think I’ll keep him.

Thankfully, Cubby decided to take it easy on us (Not a single tool was chucked across the garage, and swear words kept to a minimum. Good job, Matt!) and within a couple hours, my mower and I were once again attacking the weedy, green expanse. Triumph. I was so proud and grateful. I didn’t even change, wearing my oil stained t-shirt like a badge of honor as we circled the property.

I’m sure the cows were impressed.  

The Misadventures of Tico and Clipperman

For the record, I'm NOT making fun of my husband. My daughter explained that, since he and I are two halves of a whole, it's really self-deprecating humor. So, I'm gonna go with that.

You remember Tico, my little, black dog? There he is! Isn't he cute?

I hadn't gotten around to giving Tico his summer haircut, and Matt decided to help me out and do it himself. It mattered not that he had never given our extremely squirmy, petrified of the clippers, long-haired doggy a buzz cut. He's a small dog. Really, how hard could it be?

I'm hardly an expert, but I have given Tico enough haircuts to be really, really just okay at it. At least when I do it you can still tell Tico is a dog, a plus in my book. So, I was not prepared for the sight that greeted my eyes when a chewed up, slightly lop-sided, black dust mop ran up to me and wagged its tail. Oh. My.

My poor dog looks like he'd been mauled by a rabid squirrel, or maybe had an unfortunate encounter with a weed-whacker. The hair on his back is unevenly chopped and there are large chunks of his mustache missing. Most of the hair on his legs is untouched giving the impression he is wearing wooly chaps. The hair around one ear is shorter than the other so it appears his head is permanently cocked to the side, and his tail is shaved part way down, ending in a long tuft like a lion.

“But, look,” my husband urged, “he’s much cooler now.”

No. I could not look. Every time I did I burst into laughter. I tried to control it to no avail. While petting Tico, I had to keep one hand up so I couldn’t see his face, all the while apologizing to my husband for laughing. It’s been a week and my reaction hasn’t gotten any better. I worry might give my dog a complex. 

Of course, my children think it's funny. More than one of them has commented that he now reminds them of a black version of Falcor, the luckdragon in The Neverending Story.

Falcor

You may wonder why I haven't fixed it yet. I totally have it on my to-do list. Honest. It's just that there are a LOT of things on my to-do list. This is number 36. I'm getting there. In the meantime... he is cooler, so...

Tico's rather "meh" on the whole subject. He has informed me his vanity has taken a backseat to the fact he now gets sympathy treats from the dinner table. He considers this a fair tradeoff. I hope he still thinks so a couple of weeks from now. It will take at least that long for me to scratch his haircut off my list. Perhaps I'll ask my husband to give it another try. I am a firm believer in learning by doing.

On second thought...

Once Upon a Grandma

"Once upon a time, I had a baby."

     "You've had more than that."

"Well, this is about the first one. I had to start somewhere. 

Now, hush! I'm telling a story. 

Where was I? Oh, yes. 

Once upon a time, I had a baby. We named her Annie, and she grew up."

     "That was fast."

"You're tellin' me.

She grew up and she got married to a very good man."

     "Aww..."

"Yes, it was very sweet. 

Annie got married and soon she was growing a baby of her own and I became a Grandma."

     "Just like that?"

"That's how it works.

All the while that new baby was growing, I was waiting."

"Patiently?"

"Of course. I am always patient, pretty much... some of the time... 

if it's warranted.

Look, I think we're getting off track, here.

Annie found out her baby was a girl."

"So that made her the first daughter, of a first-born daughter, of a first-born daughter, of a first-born daughter, of a first-born daughter..."

"Yes. It's very cool. Stop interrupting.

Annie grew that baby until the baby decided she needed a change of scenery. 

I went with Annie and her good husband, Isaiah, to the hospital."

"A stowaway?"

"No, they invited me. Why would you...?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it past you."

"Hmm... Shall I continue?"

"Be my guest."

"Thank you.

We all greeted Eloise as she made her entrance into the world."

"Eloise is a nice name."

"Isn't it? 

Eloise was beautiful and tiny, and perfect, and cute..."

"She couldn't help but be all of those things, just look at her Grandma."

"... and her parents?"

"Oh, yes, them, too.

I admit, both Annie and Isaiah are doing an amazing job. I'm very proud of them.

You know, I heard that grandchildren are a reward for letting your own children live... or something like that. 

And I love being a Grandma. 

I love grandma-ing. Yes, I just made that up. Feel free to use it.

"Uh..."

"She was baptized."

"Eloise?"

"Yes. That was a blessed day. 

We celebrated with Isaiah's family (who had traveled a very long way) and all of our church family. That little girl was welcomed into the Church as a newly born child of God. I tear up even now just thinking about it."

"Tissue?"

"No, thanks. I'm good, now.

You know something wonderful about being Eloise's Grandma? I get to hold her."

"Okay."

"No, you don't understand. I love babies. I love to hold them, and rock them, and talk to them, but you can't just go around grabbing other people's babies to hold. They tend to look at you funny."

"Um..."

"So, now that there's another baby in the family, I can hold her and rock her, and talk to her to my heart's content. 

Grandmas are allowed to do that. 

And since Annie and Isaiah hold her all day long and enjoy a little break from time to time, they don't complain at all. 

Their arms get a break and my arms get a baby." 

"That's what's known as a win-win.

And the Grandma lived happily ever after.

The End."

Snowmageddon 2018

A post about snow? At this time of year? My plan was to write this back in April, but... life happened. This is me catching up. 

...~*****~...

The air was warm. The grass was greening. Hats and mittens were tucked away until next winter, then...

Whamo!

A blizzard. An honest-to-goodness blizzard in the middle of April. 
They gave her a name, even. Evelyn.

One day we were running around in short sleeves and the next...

... David was eaten by a snowdrift.

My thoughts exactly.

We had over 33 inches of snow that weekend. High winds pushed it into great mounds of white, covering everything. 

Look at my poor plum tree. Buried half-way up!

Snow filled our front porch and piled up against our windows, darkening the house. Matt attempted to clear our driveway, but by the time he got to the end of it, he had to start over.

The roads were impassable. Snowplows were getting stuck in ditches. Highways were closed. Unable to fetch Brendan from his job the next town over, we reserved him a room at a hotel within walking distance. We managed to get him home the next day during a lull in the storm, thanks to our truck's four-wheel drive. Then we hunkered down while the next wave of snow arrived. It would take a while 'til the weather cleared.

"Mom, don't you love it out here?"

Of course, Joey didn't mind. A spring blizzard was an adventure of the highest order! During another break in the storm, he scrambled to find his snow bib and boots. There were drifts to climb, snowmen to make, brothers to bury! 

I grabbed my coat and camera and headed out, too. There was a sheet of ice beneath all that snow and as I walked I was followed by the sound of it cracking. It would have freaked me out if I didn't know for certain there was solid ground under that frozen layer and not a river for me to fall into. The noise was eerie. 

There was something else bothering me, however. My children had burrowed like groundhogs into the wet snow.  They were delighted with their tunnels. All I could see were tunnels waiting to collapse on top of them, trapping them under cold, heavy heaps. 

Now, I know this is hard to believe, but on rare occasions, I will worry more than strictly necessary. (I'm sorry if this admission has shocked you and caused you to re-evaluate your perception of me.) As I observed my children disappearing into the snowdrifts, I did my best to calmly remind them to use caution and the good sense our Lord gave them, and "just don't dig too deeply." 

Well, I'm pretty sure that's how I meant it to sound. Oddly, instead, it came out as, 

"Avalanche danger!" 

What did I just yell? Even I know two feet of snow falling on top of you does not an avalanche make. To their credit, not one of them rolled their eyes at me (at least that I could see.) We all had a good laugh about it later.

This snowdrift was as tall as I am.

Alex buries Brendan. Ah, brotherly love!

I'm happy the children made the most of the snow while it lasted. In a matter of days, the warm weather returned and the snow melted surprisingly quickly. In fact, a couple weeks after I took these pictures, I drove past an old woman (in shorts) shoveling the tiny remnant of snow off her now green lawn. 

Of all the snowstorms we've experienced, Evelyn will certainly be remembered for years to come. 

Morning Musings: Coffee Mugs, Batman, and Mark Twain

What do these things have in common? The gradual return of my health, apparently. It seems I like to string random topics into a cohesive whole to amuse myself, and laying in bed, recuperating, has inspired more randomness than usual.

I've been told I have a quirky brain. My response? 

"Thank you."

My favorite coffee mug

This past Christmas, we each received a mug bearing a fun quote - something from a movie or TV show, or simply a snarky saying. I have no idea where the wording on my mug comes from, but it makes me smile... every single morning... especially since contracting my most recent illness.

Did you know my mug has a Cockney accent? It has! Something like Michael Caine playing Alfred, Batman's butler. Granted, they don't use a silver tray, but when someone brings me coffee while I'm resting in bed, I can almost picture this:

Of course, my mug doesn't quote the Batman movie. It says, "Good morning. I see the assassins have failed." To which I silently add, "again." *internal smirk* 

Yes, I'm still here. Recovering, even. Amazing, right? 

"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." - Mark Twain

This is good. It's almost staggering the number of things piled up (literally), waiting for me to get back on my feet. It's true, everyone has pitched in and helped keep the household fed and clothed, but it's equally true some things remain invisible to eyes that are not my own. See that thing on the floor there? That thing that everyone has stepped over at least a hundred times? You and I are the only ones who have noticed it. Weird. 

Wait a minute. Maybe the others did notice it. Maybe they left it there as a signal to me that they needed me. Maybe, just maybe, that thing on the floor, begging to be picked up, is the Mom equivalent of the Bat-Signal. 

I shouldn't be surprised. I was the same way as a child. My mother didn't mind at all, however. I know she would have been bored if I had been a neat child. I made her feel needed. Yeah. That's what I was doing. *ahem* What a good child I was.

As Mark Twain once said, "My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it."

Anywhoo, my mug is now empty and I'm feeling well enough to go pick that thing up off of the floor. Take that, illness! You have failed. 

Again.