January 30, 2004

  • Belly Laughs


    "WHEEEEAAAAOOO (get back, get back; get lost) WHOOOHOHOOOO (stop! get back) WWWHHHHHEEEEE!"


    This would be me, zipping a-l-l-l-l-l the way down the cow pasture on a red plastic sled, with my 3-year-old on one knee, 6-year-old on the other, and the frisky yearly steer thundering after us inquisitively.


    There aren't enough belly laughs chez LMF, to be honest.  We run a fairly tight ship on schedule, with lots of checks and balances between our disparate worlds of work.  Sometimes I'm sort of afraid we're not teaching the kids enough about how to just let it all go and giggle.


    But last weekend my husband, the family cook, was giving me turkey-roasting instructions while dressing for a day of rough woods work in the frigid air.  The kids were riotous around us, the oven was half open, and I was dubiously eyeing the trussed fowl.  My husband put on his fuzzy rabbit-fur hat.


    "Turn and baste every half hour."


    I nodded.  He zipped up his Carhardts.


    "Put some foil over the legs if they start to get too brown."


    The youngest pulled on my legs begging for a game.  I nodded again.  My husband laced his steel-toed boots.


    "Two and a half hours, but be sure to check the temperature."


    I picked up the youngest and jounced her absent-mindedly while looking around for the thermometer.  My husband wound his scarf, simultaneously opening a drawer and tossing two oven mitts toward me.


    "These might help you when you try to flip the bird."


    There was a moment's serious silence.


    Then we roared.


    Yep.  Good ol' belly laughs.

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