As I sit and type this cold wet night, words are escaping me. It would appear I am losing the ability to form sentences without the echo of my children’s incessant bickering ringing in my ears.
Whether you live in the city or deep in the woods, you can always spot a house with kids by the primary-colored plastic décor.
It could have been a scene from Christmas Vacation. Uncle Eddie and his blue polyester suit were the only ingredients missing from my latest installment of homestead lunacy.
“What happened?” the doctor asks in a thick Middle Eastern accent. “Well,” Aaron slowly replies as his eyes desperately began darting around the room searching for a way out, fire alarm, incoming trauma—anything that would save him from telling this story again!
“Chickens?” I whined. “But I don’t want chickens! I want goats for my first farm animal!”
“Jacked up” can be defined as being full of excitement and nervousness or being overly stimulated, but on our homestead, it’s a term of endearment used to describe the qualities of my foreman, Jack.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Reality and I homestead a small piece of property a few hundred miles south of Fantasy Land.