What was Santa thinking, was all I could manage to mutter as visons of bloody stumps and a burning farm house pierced my imagination. Why didn’t he dull that thing before delivering it? And why why why do we let him watch Survivor Man all the live long day?

 I mean come on, I have enough guilt. I’m the mother who I let her baby kill snakes in her defense, talk about wenises at the table, and tell true whoppers at the dentist office. Now, thanks to Santa, I may have to brave a trip to the emergency room because of an accident with a hatchet. Or regretfully field scoffs and mean looks from firemen while they hand me a small flint stick… the most likely cause of the blaze… while my house lays smoldering.

 I shudder at the thought, but realize it’s not that far from the reality. I grew up with two brothers  who loved to play Dukes of Hazard. Oh yes my friends, complete with flaming arrows. Once on a windy day we totally burned down an old farmstead. It was one of them ‘please don’t tell Dad‘ moments. (Like he wouldn’t notice or read the paper.) No wonder my mom prays so much.

 So here I am, with W is asking for a butterfly knife for his birthday. Ben doesn’t seem to have a problem with this. But then, his way of thinking is sometimes predictably a half bubble off of plumb.

 Welcome to my world.
 

Sis

PS ~ W wanted me to tell you…pocket knives work better on the fire stick than the thing it came with to strike it! Just in case you needed some useful information. You’re welcome.