This weekend we headed up to the area I grew up in – a tiny community with 73 houses and about 300 residents for my husband’s work party. Instead of renting out a place, they host the party at the boss’s house every year because they just have a really cool house, and even with all the neat stuff they rent for the party (bounce houses, dunk tank, pony rides, catering), it’s still cheaper.
So after the memorial (see Kaleigh), we headed on our adventure – about 1.5 hour drive. We arrived a bit late, but just in time for the egg toss. We made it pretty far into the contest – maybe 4th out of 10 teams? – and luckily, no egg on either of us. We enjoyed some soft serve, got some delicious BBQ ribs and biscuit (and other yummy food), and took our daughter on the bounce house obstacle course for at least 20 minutes. Then we sat and enjoyed watching the associates and secretaries throw balls at the dunk tank in order to dunk the senior partner. (Last year he wore a full suit in the dunk tank, which was awesome, but this year it was just too hot.)
After that, we wandered around a bit more. At this point, my daughter made friends with one of the little girls – a niece of one of the attorneys, I think. Their initial conversation after introductions went like this:
- I’m four!
- I’m five!
- I’m going to be five!
- I’m going to be six!
- After I’m five I’m going to be six like you!
- Well, then I’ll be…
And the other girl was then interrupted by her grandma, who told her she wasn’t six, she was five. I explained their conversation and we all laughed. The girls decided they wanted to go play with the chicks some more (I forgot to mention those!), so I asked to take them and watch them.
A little side note here. We don’t live on a farm, but my parents do, and I grew up in the country. My daughter visits my parents. Around Easter, my mom got us about a dozen chicks to have for a bit. We took them to my daughter’s preschool and to Cubbies (Awana) – and I thus became known as the Chicken Lady. The chicks lived with us for 2 weeks (in the garage) before going back to live with Grandma. My daughter knows how to catch, hold, carry, pick up, and care for chicks, and has for a while. Those chicks are now full grown and laying eggs, by the way. Side note over.
Anyway, back to the chicks. So I take the two new best friends to see the chicks. It was like a hot box in their little room (they like the heat when small). My daughter starts giggling, chasing the chicks around, picking them up, handing them to me, passing them to her new friend (who is afraid to hold them), and trying to find the one special gray one. The other little girl (city folk) was worried the chick would “bite” her or that the claws would scratch her. She was scared to pet one, let alone try to pick one up, despite reassurances that it was fine.
After a few minutes of the three of us with the chicks, the girl’s grandma joined us. Within about ten seconds, she started worrying about my daughter and how she was behaving around the chicks:
“Let’s be careful!”
“Watch where we’re stepping!”
“Oh, oh, oh, go slowly!”
“I don’t know if you should…”
Now these comments could have been directed towards her granddaughter, but she was walking around like she was in a minefield, and certainly wasn’t picking up the chicks unless my daughter was throwing* them at her (accompanied by me saying, “You know, she may not want to hold one,” “Ask first,” or “let her get her own.”).
After about a minute in there with us, poor grandma looked like she was about to faint. She took the other little girl out – because of the heat. Now it’s entirely possible that the heat could have been the reason, but it’s equally possible she just couldn’t handle my demon child torturing those poor chicks while this mom stood idly by. I could have explained that my kid knew what she was doing, I suppose, but the grandma was so politely corrective, and didn’t really ask, and left so quickly – there just wasn’t time. Ah, well, I guess she’ll never know.
We stayed a bit later and chatted, then headed home for a lovely sunset drive down the mountains. What a beautiful, fun day.
*I don’t literally mean throwing.