Yesterday I got to go along with my nearly-4-year-old on his preschool field trip to a local farm. We visit this farm nearly every year, and I have to say, God’s lovely autumn creativity is rivaled only by the delicious scent of homemade pumpkin donuts wafting through the air. Mercy! They are SO. GOOD. The crispy deep-fried shell is smothered in frosting, and opens to reveal a warm, spicy center that would probably convince even Jillian Michaels to forget about the Extra Sugarfree Gum and Protein shakes in favor of at least one…dozen.
We went on a hayride, chose a couple of mini-pumpkins, played in the hay, rode a “pumpkin” train, laughed during storytime, and again–the donuts. Not that I’m fixating or salivating at the very thought of them. [What are we doing tonight, honey?…]
M and I laughed at the goats, who by all accounts have the coolest jungle gym set ever, and who get to spend their days vacillating between munching aimlessly on straw–and sitting upon that same straw. For the longest time the Billy below refused to look at me for a picture. I called out to him like a pathetic fool: “Here Billy Goat! Here Goat! Look at me!! Look at ME!”
In a swift act of pity, M cried out with authority, “HEY GOAT! LOOK AT MY MOM!!”
Since I seem to be creating lists of options lately, I’ve decided that perhaps I should…:
1. Feel badly that I have no power over these creatures,
2. Call Cesar Milan for tips
3. Acknowledge my child is a goat whisperer and start charging hourly fees for his services.
A little extra money would be nice…