Family

The Egg Tree

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The other day, Cayden came home in a gloomy mood. I tried to cheer him up with offerings of pizza and unfettered TV use. How about the Ipad?

Nothing worked until I opened the fridge and checked the battered carton on the top shelf. “Want to do the egg tree?”

The egg tree. No relation to the cat tree.

I don’t remember when I hatched (groan) this plan. It was probably about 6 months ago. As faithful readers know, our kind neighbors keep us well stocked in eggs. One day I came upon a few cracked ones — which must be discarded — and just before I trashed them, I thought about smashing them.

Tossing them in the trash seemed wasteful. Plus, I wanted to egg something.

I considered an appropriate target. Some place where splattered yolks would be inconsequential. Where the wildlife would clean up the mess.

And along the driveway there’s a small cluster of junk trees. Surrounded by a no man’s land swath of grass. Ideal targets.

That first day I ushered the kids to the trees and invited them to commence throwing. Like soldiers in a firing squad, they lined up and took aim. (The actual egg tree is a particularly skinny and crooked little tree; perhaps they chose it for the added challenge). The kids were thrilled when they struck their target. When they missed, some of the eggs would survive and make it to the next round.

Since the first egging, I’ve taken to saving up the cracked ones until we’ve got a few. Hurling them is a great stress reliever.

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A millisecond before impact

If there’s a more practical use for inedible eggs — a viable method to recycle them — I don’t want to know about it.

Pitching them at a tree is much more fun.

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Color War

 

A few weekends ago, Martin and Cayden waged war on the girls.

It was an unprovoked attack; no skirmishes led to the assault. The acquisition of new weapons was reason enough for a military offensive.

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“Don’t you dare shoot me with that nerf gun!” I gave Martin my most menacing glare.

But my warning went unheeded. Martin fired the entire cartridge of ammo at me. I ducked in the mudroom as foam bullets whapped the mudroom door and window.

I hunkered down — defenseless — until Brynn produced her own form of weaponry.

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We waited until the guys ran out of ammo and stopped to reload. Then we launched a counter attack.

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Shortly thereafter, the insurgents agreed to suspend aggressive actions.

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Surf and Sand

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Last weekend we returned from our annual pilgrimage to Martha’s Vineyard, and I’ll let these photos and captions sum up the highlights. (Stay tuned for a farm-related post tomorrow.)

 

Kids confined:

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Obama’s Vineyard vacation? Presidential presence was far less intrusive this time around.

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Maisie stowed away and joined us.

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With Crazy Maze and my cousins’ dog, Sally, our crew hiked every morning, exploring varying island terrain.

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Some trails were more inviting than others.

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Midweek Brynn decreed: manicures for everyone.

Everyone.

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In a blink, the trip was over. One final swim. Then goodbye, MV.

Til next year.

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