I don't know where you are, but it's GORGEOUS where I am today, so we went outside. In a matter of two hours we (and by "we" I mostly mean "Jon"): Played with bubbles, played on the swing set, cleaned out the dog kennel, had our first tricycle-into-the-parked-automobile collision, played hockey (with a redneck hockey puck), nearly impaled the dog with a pitch fork, got scratched by the cat three times and rounded the morning out with a picnic.
Playing outside at our house pretty much always includes bubbles, Jon's NUTS about bubbles. In anticipation of this beautiful day, I bought a gigantic jug of bubbles and one of those bubble guns with a propeller on it. You'd be amazed at how much bubble solution you can burn through with one of those bad boys.
After bubble fun was over we headed for the swing set for the first time this year, and lo and behold! Jon's legs are long enough to reach the ground. I may never have to push a swing again. Jon was pretty psyched about being "gatnormous" as he put it.
"MOM. Lookit my legs! Them go all the way to the ground! I'm gatnormous!"
The bubbles and swing set time had gone off without a hitch and I was starting to feel pretty confident that maybe Jon was getting to the point that I could try to get some things done outside while he played and we wouldn't have a catastrophe of one kind or another.
So I thought I'd clean out the dog kennel. Which involves a hose. And a pitchfork. What the hell was I thinking?
It was going pretty well to start off with. I put Jon's helmet on him and got out his trike and he was having a hay day on the patio. Until he decided to go full speed into the side of the Tahoe that was sitting in the driveway.
All I heard was, "They call me Speed. That is my NAAAAAME!"
And then a crash and some wailing.
This was our first collision with the trike, and I know it sounds dumb to have a helmet on a three year old riding a little plastic trike in the driveway, but you haven't seen this kid in action.
He crashed into the back tire of the 'Hoe, the trike tipped and he somehow pinned himself under the trike, face down in the gravel. Luckily the helmet has a little visor on it and it kept him from doing a total face plant. He wasn't hurt, just scared and was ready to park the trike for a while and come help in the garage.
"Whoa, you got a big poker-thing, Mom."
"It's a pitchfork, I use it to get the straw out of Cody's dog house."
"Don't take out his hay! What's he going to eat? He needs that!"
"He eats dog food, Honey. He sleeps on the straw in the winter when it's cold. Now it's too hot for him to sleep on it."
"Oh. Can I use your big poker fork?"
"Oh. Just kidding. Can I go through that little door?" Cody has an indoor/outdoor kennel with a swinging doggy door on it.
"NO. If Cody come from the other way he'll bonk into you and you'll get hurt." Cody is 85 pounds of muscle and bone.
"Oh. Just kidding. Is that my hockey stick?!" And he was off. Whew.
After whacking a whiffle ball around for a few minutes, it was decided that Jon really needed a puck. It's just not hockey without a puck. Of course I didn't have a puck to give him, so we had to improvise. This was one of those White Trash Mom moments that we all have.
Don't judge me.
Out of the sincere desire to entertain my child, I made a hockey puck out of an empty chew can filled with sand and wrapped in duct tape. Shut it, I was desperate.
And what was Jon doing while I was so masterfully crafting his custom puck? Well, he was "helping" with the pitchfork, of course.
I stepped outside the garage for less than 30 seconds to see if the puck would sail across the pavement and when I turned around there was Jon with the pitchfork stuck in the wall and poor Cody in the corner looking at me like, "You left me in here with this guy?!"
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I SAID NO!"
"It's Ok, Mom, I'm just helping. See?" As he tries to wiggle the fork out of the wall.
"BOYS DON'T TOUCH PITCHFORKS. WHEN YOU'RE AS TALL AS MOMMY, THEN YOU CAN TOUCH A PITCH FORK, OK? NOT NOW."
"Oh. Ok. Look! The kitty is going through the dog door, I'm going to catch him!" And he bails through the dog door.
"I SAID DON'T GO THROUGH THE DOG DOOR!"
"It's ok, Mom! I got on my helmet!" Well , thank God for that I guess.
Back outside, he was entertained by the cat and the trike again for awhile and I finished up the kennel cleaning. I just had to wash out the dog bowls and I would be all done with chores and we could have a little picnic before nap time. I thought, "What a nice end to a sunny morning."
But washing the dog bowls meant getting out the hose. And Jon loves the hose more than he loves bubbles. Which is A LOT.
"The HOSE?! You're getting out the HOSE?! I LOVE THE HOSE, YAAAAAYYYYY!"
"Don't touch the hose. You know you aren't supposed to play with the hose." And I'm an idiot, because I then left the forbidden fruit laying in the driveway while I went in to get the dog bowls.
"Here kitty, want a drink?"
"THE KITTY DOESN'T WANT A DRINK! DO NOT GIVE THE KITTY A..." And then there was more wailing.
"He scratched meeeeee!"
"Well heck yes he scratched you, kitties don't like water!"
"He needed a driiiiink! It's hot todaaaaay He was thiirrrrrsteeee!"
"The kitty does not want to drink from the hose. Ever. Ok?"
"Ok." Sniff sniff.
"Do you want to have a picnic?"
"YES I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE PICNIC!" And the tears were gone.
We had turkey sandwiches, Cheetos and oranges on a blanket outside, with the dog lounging in his newly cleaned kennel and the cat lurking around waiting for picnic scraps.