Not even the fact that I had three kids worth of snow-pants, boots, hats and mittens to track down could keep me from doing a little happy dance in the yard when the first big flakes started falling!
Winter is coming! 
I just need it to hold on for another week or so while I re-prioritize my to do list.
I’ve got a few outside jobs that really need doing before we get real snow!
Since this is likely to be the post that has you all backing away slowly through the blogosphere trying to put as much distance between yourself and the crazy, cranky lady as you can manage I’d like to thank you all now for being such friendly, loyal readers. But perhaps there is someone out there who also hates cheerful messages so, forgive me if you can, I’m just going to dive right in.
I hate inspirational messages printed in unlikely places.
My tea bags for instance. When my tea tells me” savor,” “be good to yourself,” “relax” I feel my eyes start to roll in my head. I find it to be the equivalent of someone asking me how I’m doing yet not actually caring about the answer – but worse. For instance, the lady at the checkout. I find it unlikely that she cares about how any of us are actually doing today. It’s just polite conversation. If that same checkout lady instead spewed random, cheesy sayings I’d not only think she was a bit wacko but I’d be mildly irritated. I would find it difficult to believe that when she advised everyone to “Be true to yourself.” that it was anything more than a nice sounding bit of fluff to end a conversation with. I’d also be annoyed that she felt qualified to comment on my life (because, yes, I am just that crabby). Perhaps, since it was an actual, real life person, after I rolled my eyes it would make me smile. More likely I’d finish my eye roll on the way out the door as I moved on.
If it was a person.
When my tea bag tells me “peace” it isn’t someone who looked at me and thought I might need a nice inspirational message to help me through my day. It’s not even a person being polite. No, it is a tea bag. A tiny piece of paper printed by a machine and inscribed with sappy messages because of some sort of marketing campaign.
I’m not feeling the “love.”
That said, the irritation that my tea has brought me this week has nothing on the chocolate.
We almost always have a bag of dark chocolate in the house. Those little individual wrapped pieces that are just perfect for popping in your mouth when you think perhaps it might be a good idea to either scream obscenities or eat your own offspring. The chocolate gums up your mouth stops you from saying something you’ll regret later and with a moments break common sense can rule again. Our current bag has little “love notes” written inside the wrapper. “Sleep late tomorrow.” my chocolate advised me today.
I’m sorry is there a prize at the bottom of the bag I didn’t know about? A nanny perhaps? Because without one how will I ever take such wonderful advice? WHY ARE YOU TEASING ME CHOCOLATE?
So I eat another one. I eat another one, mind you, not because I’m calmly sitting and enjoying my afternoon with a cup of overly cheerful tea and a book. No I’m eating another one because I’m taking a moment to lower my blood pressure before diving into the fray of my three kids all of whom are in some stage of upset The cat has thrown up on the rug, the dogs are scratching at the door wanting in and my chocolate has just pointed out the fact that I will be waking up early to start it all over again. And this wrapper. This wrapper tells me to “Love every moment.”
The way I look at it is thus. Yes, I have beautiful, healthy children who are growing up fast – thank God. You know how people say women forget the pain and the details of childbirth in the euphoric glow of their new baby? I remember childbirth, it was great. However the hours between two and three this afternoon I’m hoping my brain selectively deletes in favor of the wonderful time we all had just before bed.
There are many moments of life to love. I refuse to believe I have to love them all, no matter what my chocolate tells me.
Ivy: “I changed my mind I don’t want to be a mom when I grow up. I’m going to be a diver.”
Me: “You could be a diver and a mom.”
Ivy: “No, because if I had children then I would have to cook a lot of food.”
Me: “Yup, and you know what they would say -“
Ivy: “-I don’t like it.”
Ivy: “But Mom, you know what I’d do. I wouldn’t give them anything else.”
Me: “Huh. Do you think I should try that?”
Ivy: “No, you shouldn’t do that because your the best mom on the whole world! And besides I don’t even know how to cook yet!”
This conversation occurred after a long painful supper. It was meal that eventually met the high standards of politeness and “trying it” before Ivy’s benevolent mother offered her reheated leftovers after everyone else was done eating.
Anyone who leaves a door open brings in three sticks of firewood.
At the rate we are going we’ll have the entire woodpile moved indoors before snow falls!
Also, if you saw the picture of the wood stove and though -“Hey, that’s just like mine!” let me know, I’d love to ask you a few questions!
I took the girls trick or treating without John for the first time today.
It was all tears and fights and 37 million costume changes – before we left the house.
But eventual I took a pumpkin, a princess and a fairy (who abandoned her wings and turned into a princess) out in the rain and despite wet feet, cold rain and a late start they ended up with quite a haul of candy.
My friend Jessie was roped into the photo by Ivy because her scrubs, which she has cleverly hid behind Jane, were Halloween themed. She is also smarter than I am, or perhaps not as desperate for Milky-Way bars, as she declined our offer to join us in our “fun” night.
The house looked like a bomb went off, I’ve never had so much crying while doing something “fun” and the only one who consistently smiled and wished everyone “Happy Halloween!” was the same one who announced to all who would listen, “I a punkin!”
But that pile of candy is loaded with mini Milky-Way bars so it was probably worth it.
Probably.
The rumors are true. We went bird hunting in North Dakota for our tenth anniversary.
I know there are a fair amount of you reading this who think that’s grand- you’re probably related to me. I also know that there are a fair amount of you reading this who think I’m nuts. I know this because I’d been telling all sorts of people about our plans before we left. And while only a few were so bold enough to say such things as “Do you hunt?” and “Why?” the rest of them had it in their eyes.
The first question is an easy yes.
As for why we chose North Dakota over some place with sand and drinks with little umbrellas, well…
There are few times that I will willing get up before the sun rises just for fun. 
Very few times.
But if you don’t get up early enough to get some breakfast, get the dogs ready to go and get to the field, you just don’t make it in time to see mornings like these.
Mornings in a field of grass that stretches as far as you can see, where you are just as likely to flush an owl or a deer as the pheasant the dogs are searching for. 
Mornings so still and clear you can hear the dogs running and sniffing through the field ahead of you.
Or the cold mornings where the frost on the grass bursts off as the dogs run through it, leaving streaming trails of glitter in the sunlight as they hunt for birds. 
As the morning wears on, the birds move out of the easy cover and become harder to find. The dogs get tired.
I get tired.
But there are always more field to explore.
And you can’t stop yet, because there are probably birds, just over the next hill. And yes the hill might be a mile away but the dogs are looking birdy so you can’t stop now. And when you think about it, you find you no longer even want to. 
Suddenly the birds will be coming back into the heavy cover for the night, the dogs will be pointing left and right and when it seems far to early to be done for the day, the sun will go down.
Invariably I will be astonished that the day’s hunt is over, exhausted, yet still filled with plans of places we can go, fields we can try and combinations of dogs we can run – tomorrow.
And, if it’s been an exceptionally good day, there just might be a bit of extra weight on my back.
A bit of weight in a bundle of feathers that holds both the promise of a delicious dinner and the story of following a dog through a sea of grass to see what happens next.
I’ve spent the last week doing this:
With this guy:
And a pack of these:
A great week!
I’ve got to clean my gun tonight but I’ll have more pictures to share tomorrow!
My puppy that is not my puppy Digby still comes to visit us every day and I still love him.
Just in case you need a bit of a pick-me-up I’m offering him up for virtual hugging. 
Any day can be improved with a little bit of puppy love!
Just to clarify the “little bit” does indeed refer to the 50 pounds of tail wagging, licking and wiggling that is Digby.
I love fall.
The blue skies.
The yellow leaves.
The orange pumpkins!
Gramps once again grew a bumper crop of pumpkins for his great granddaughters.
Once again I made everyone else do the heavy lifting while I took the photos.
And once again I decided that pumpkin picking makes for some of the best pictures of the entire year!
You can see other years of pumpkin picking here Pumpkin Patch and here Pumpkins.
I am a great list maker and a great list forgetter.
I like making lists, shopping lists in particular are a must. But I’d be lying if I said that the list made it to the store with me more than 50% of the time. Often it never leaves the house. Sometimes it gets left in the car. Occasionally I misplace it in my pocket, and on one memorable and confusing occasion I brought an out of date grocery list into the store with me.
Then of course there is the handwriting/spelling factor. You are perhaps blissfully unaware of the fact that my handwriting is mostly illegible because you are blessed with being able to be able to read what I type instead of what I write. Don’t even get me (or anyone else) started on my spelling. I confuse spell check. Regularly. What all this all means is that when I do make it to the store list in hand there is a good chance I may spend half my trip trying to decipher my own handwriting.
Pathetic.
Here is my last list. Created for a Menards run, it never left the house.
Later that day I found it still on the counter covered in scribbles. Now days later, it’s still sitting here and have no idea what the last word is.
2 Outdoor Lights
Doorstop
White Lights
Broom ___?
I think it was “thing.” Why did I feel the need to write “thing” after broom? Why if seized by such a need did I attempt to spell it “ting” and leave out crossing the “t”? Is that what my scribbler was attempting to help me out with?
I’m not sure it’s worth the psychoanalyzation because, as usual, I remembered everything on the forgotten, illegible list but forgot to buy the item that wasn’t written down.
I make lists because they help, even when I don’t bring them.
Written in response to For The Promptless S.3 E.10 Shopping List hosted by Queen Creative.
Behind the Willows 