Well, I have officially been living in the country for a week.
For those of you who don't know, I was born in the country. In fact, I was born about 20 feet from where I am currently sitting. I lived here for 18 years being angsty and stir crazy and loving/hating it.
Then I became an adult, travelled, went to college, and moved to where people do things, a place called "the cities".
It was a magical land, and I loved it.
And then I had babies, and our neighborhood had drive by shootings, and we had layoffs and dead end jobs and too much debt and too little time and money.
So we said, fuck it, lets get outta dodge.
The first place we thought to go was the farm.
Where my parents still live.
In a giant ancient farmhouse with it's fairly new addition that has been new for about a decade now and is still not done.
They are giving us the attic to rennovate/turn into a respectable apartment.
We are working on that.
And by working on, I mean I still haven't found where all my pajamas are hiding in the grand mountainous ranges that are my material possessions stacked all over the room.
The official story is that we moved up here for health and to help start a sustainable goods company.
It's a good story. It's even true. And it sounds so much better than, "I burnt out after having 2 kids and working full time and trying to keep up with the Joneses and attempting to be an artist in a competitive market, so instead I had a nervous break down and am now living in my mother's attic with my 2 Tiny Tyrants and my Latin Lover (Tyrant Daddy is Puerto Rican. From New York. He must love me.)Which is also true. And probably a more provocative story. Oooooo, drama!
So far parenting in the country has consisted of explaining why Old Kitty (Yup, that's his name. I can't remember what we tried to name him when we got him 18 years ago. I think it might have been "Mittens"...) is often seen with small furry rodents dangling out of his mouth. Sometimes he sneaks them inside and presents them to us at dinner. "What a Good Kitty!" says Grandma.
Facts of life kid, facts of life.
We also had a talk about how dirty baby chicken hay is not to be thrown into the air and danced under in some sort of pagan ritual. Even if the farm dog brings it to you in his mouth like a nice little present. Nope, poopy hay is just not appropriate confetti. Even in the country.
Also, we need to check babies hair every night for wood ticks. Wood ticks can bite you and make you sick.
Ah, quaint and rustic. The simple life.
However, there has been no drive by shootings, both babies have been running free on acres of land with hardly a street sign in sight, usually naked, since that is how we roll, and I am finally starting to get over my daily Target-stop withdrawals.
( One vast improvement from my childhood: wireless internet. Thank the gods. )