Life as a wallflower

I spent the early morning sweeping up flour around the house; it was a good party. The partiers were thrown down around the living room, the worse for wear for the sugar consumed the night before. I placed glasses of water around them suggesting that maybe it would help. The morning after the Halloween night before.

Ah well.

Luckily, halloween coincides with the father of the house coming in earlier from the farm. We’re back to milking once a day and he’s back to us. Back for bedtime, back for story time, back for crabapples and divvying of sweets post trick or treating.  For daddy is the hero of our farming story and his presence always means for us; relaxation. Dad leaves the farm at the front door with his wellingtons and we relax. The boys relax because they have someone else to wrestle with, to tell their stories to, to impress, to argue with.

And I become a bit of a wallflower. Thankfully.

I mean, I was there to put the coined bob apples in the bowl along with the grapes and nuts. But I don’t enjoy watching them (almost drown) going to the bottom of the bowl to catch their treasures. Nor do I really enjoy watching them make a mess. I have no problem contributing to the eating of the sweets and crisps. That is not a problem but I stand back and smile, edging my way to my book and hot beverage in the corner when they contemplate cutting a pile of flour in order to avoid (or delight in) dipping their faces into said flour. I’ll leave ye at it. They are all particularly good at pushing each others heads into bowls of flour I must admit. It must be a boy thing. His side.

Nor do I like when the eventual sugar rush hits and I usher the wrestling mass of little men and man upstairs to continue this particular adventure. I might give the occasional roar up the stairs (my contribution to such a bedtime) when I feel that maternal guilt or the noise is such that it disturbs my radio-washing-the-ware time.  Back to the sink I go. With pleasure. Eventually, I might cave in and walk up the stairs to see the farmer-hero of our story half asleep half reading to three boys as they hang off his every mumble; one  flung over his shoulder, one in his lap, another under his arm as they delight in the Winter time that brings their Daddy home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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