The chickens and I got home last night from work. Girls are running about after we all change into our nightclothes. Then there were lively games of armwrestling and thumb wars on the living room floor. That was followed by a jaunt outside where I let my children play with eggs.
Yeah. You heard me. Play with eggs.
This all stems from when Fear Factor was on the air. And yes, weak stomach though I have, I watched it with the short people.
That morphed into Fear Factor for my children! Because yes...I have a wide sadistic streak. So I know my children's fears and weaknesses. And one of the "stunts" was eating hot dogs dipped in mayo, mustard, bbq, and something else. The last one escapes me. Anyway...oldest chicken loathes mayo. Baby chicken dislikes bbq. So it was all fun. Then we'd toss eggs to each other and see who they cracked on.
(Um...anybody calling DHS yet?)
After we broke out the eggs (literally), we stepped inside because the children were not aesthetically pleasing (nor were they fragrant) at this point in time, and they hopped in the shower. Middle chicken took the first shower and decided to shave her legs.
OK. All you females know that behind the legs is NOT the funnest place to run a razor over. It's not as bad as some...but I'm just saying. So she accidentally slices against a small mole there. I, of course, have one, too. So I'm making sympathetic sounds, and we're doctoring the area. And then Middle chicken is like...WHY in the world do I have that there? I explain that some is genetics. I have one there, too. And it's unpleasant when razor meets mole.
(At this point in time...a disclaimer. I am hell on wheels in English. But I don't have much interest in Math or Science. Ya ya. Bad, bad me. So any untruths I'm about to retell should be chalked up to my Scientific ignorance. Back to your regularly scheduled blog...)
After the genetic discussion, I explain that melatonin concentrates on some area of the bodies and darkens the pigment.
Oldest chicken pipes up, "Why does it have to concentrate on my bootay?" Because, you see, oldest chicken has a nice heart-shaped mole on one buttcheek. I apparently have one, also. (I've been told)
And so does my Mom. (Sorry, Mom. I just outed you on my blog. Love you. *grins*) You don't get to know WHICH buttcheek because we all need a little mystery in our lives. But needless to say...Middle Chicken about fell out of her chair when Oldest Chicken spoke up. Puts it all into perspective, doesn't it?
Then there came a game or sixty of tic-tac-toe. But I begged off and took my butt to bed.
It's not all fun and games. Not all the time. Nor is it the guillotine.
Just another day in the life.
1 month ago