After we acted as Human Tampers for My Captain this weekend, he decided to reward us with a creek hike.

To an arthritic, overweight, sloth-like Mama, there is questionable validity in the term ‘reward.’

We aren’t all made the same, is what I’m saying.

But I love my munchkins, and I could tell they were in need of a change of venue, so I dutifully came along.

At first we found great beauty and reveled in the excitement of adventure.

But it was about the time we entered the creek I realized that My Captain had not brought along the necessary gear…..He didn’t have his muck boots.

What did this mean? It meant My Captain would be the official Camera-Man.  It also meant that Mama would be the one in the drink with the kids.

This was fine for a while…..

And then Critter’s boots started rubbing his shins raw….

So I carried him barefoot to the flat path parallel to the creek.

It is a good thing my arthritic, loping, ga-lumphing limp, and several wind-milling-armed near-misses did not translate to film.

But even if they had….there is no way on God’s green earth I would have posted them!

I have SOME self-respect, after all.

(not much, but some.)

If you haven’t gone fall-creeking with your kids….do it today.  It’s worth every blooming near-miss, every galumphing gait,

and every photo-bomb.

I promise.

I don’t know how many of you guys put a big emphasis on family dinners, but here at The Little Cottage, we try to make a habit of it.  There is something so centering about all of us gathering around the table, talking about our successes and failures, eating homemade, mostly nutritious food, and basically remembering how much we love one another.

Except for when the Critter and Varmint are fighting.

And except for when either Critter or Varmint gets in trouble for poor manners.

And except for when Mama is in a foul mood.

And except for when My Captain isn’t there because he’s working overtime.

But other than that, we are basically remembering how much we love one another.

Sometimes we’ll have Grandma Jane over, or sometimes her Mike, or sometimes maybe Goggy and Papa.  But the a couple of nights ago, we were visited by a newcomer:

He didn’t say much, but he did hog most of the avocado slices in ginger dressing.

And he didn’t eat all of his beef and cabbage.

And he drank his apple juice out of a snifter.

And frankly, I hope he comes around again soon, because he’s a hottie, man!

We’re ready to lay some Sod, baby!

(Wait, what?)

The patio!  It’s in!  We just need to lay the final sod up to the brick pavers.   Our good buddy, Muddy, (yes, that is really his name) is bringing it Thursday.  So we needed to get the base top soil ready.

(The what?)

Base Top Soil.

(What the Sam hell are you talking about, woman?  Is it the base, or is it the top?)

We needed to get the bottom layer of dirt prepped.  Geesh.

And we couldn’t use the gas-powered tamper to do it, because it would compact the soil base too densely.  And none of us wanted to use the hand tamper, because THAT would have taken forever.

My Captain decided we could all just put our muckboots on and stomp on it, and he even suggested we do it to music.

Critter was NOT excited about this.  He wouldn’t have minded just stomping the dirt down, but he REALLY didn’t want to watch us dance.

He REALLY DID NOT WANT TO SEE ME DANCE.

Specifically.

And the last thing he should have done was let me know this, because Hello?! OW!  Hurtful!!!

Especially when it was so clearly HAMMER TIME!!

If you haven’t seen a 220lb, arthritic, middle-aged soccer mom get jiggy wit it to ‘Cant’ Touch This,’ while tamping base top soil, YOU. HAVE. NOT. LIVED.

And Critter mourns because it is a vision so permanently sealed into his brain he will never see the world the same again……

He now has a name.

Our beautiful little bribe of a kitten has a name.  It is Sir Monty of Stinky Butt.  Little did we know when we adopted the little fuzzball (so we could get our road fixed more quickly) that we would be adopting royalty into our family.

Or, if not royalty, certainly Peerage.

Because let’s face it, even if your title revolves around a stinky butt, it’s STILL a title.  Which is not the same thing as saying if you have a stinky butt, you are automatically given a title.  If that were the case, our entire family would be Sirs and Ladies.

Some of us would be Dukes, if you want to know the truth.  Ahem.

So here he is…

…a little bit tuckered out from discharging all of his many officious doodies…..er, duties.

May I present to you Sir Monty.

All together now:  1, ….2, ….3…

AWWWWwwww!