Kitchen Wars

     The Holidays are upon us. First up: Thanksgiving. A time of warmth and thankfulness. Gratitude and family.

     For those of us that host Thanksgiving, it means: Cooking, baking, cleaning and shopping.


     For those of us that host Thanksgiving in a home that also houses a hunter, it means copious amounts of alcohol.


     It used to be cute. Before kids, Bearded Man would get up at 0430, don 67 layers of camo topped with blaze orange, spritz on doe urine and shotgun in hand, would trek through the woods all day. It was nice and peaceful and quiet, and, he never shot anything.


     Now that there are children, we are ALL up when Bearded Man gets up at whatever hour of the morning he choses whichever particular day, as loudly as possible. The dogs are up. The kids are up. I am up. The cat is up. Not sure about the fish. They always seem to be up. And adding more fish to their fish family.


     Also, the last few years, he has actually shot deer. Which poses problems with Thanksgiving dinner. Because, the deer must be processed etc.


     Which, I suppose, brings us to this week.


     Saturday: Bearded Man shoots a deer first thing in the morning. Brings it home, and hangs it in his shed. Bearded Man is alerted that Mama needs to work every day but Thursday this week, therefore, the kitchen is OFF LIMITS Mon, Tues, Wed after 5pm. Bearded Man is heartily advised to deal with his deer Sunday.


     Sunday: Bearded Man goes hunting again. Does not get a deer. The kids and I, meanwhile, haul the Christmas stuff out of the attic and put it all up. Bearded Man returns home and is advised to get working on the deer. The kitchen is OFF LIMITS Mon, Tues, Wed after 5 PM. I then leave for 2 hours for a previously accepted commitment, and Bearded Man has full kitchen access for the rest of the day. I return home, and Bearded Man is watching TV, while sipping beer. Slight hysteria begins. The deer is then hauled into the house.


     Monday: Return home from work, get dinner on the table, and decide to start baking. Bearded Man commands use of half the kitchen, to continue processing the deer. He has also given Lexi allotted time to wash the dishes. When the time is up, complete or not, she must exit the kitchen and leave the sink open. Breads get made, Mama forgets to take Joe to Scouts - AGAIN - and runs him to the meeting 15 minutes late. Decide to clean the refrigerator out Tuesday, because use of the kitchen sink is prohibited. Bearded Man then announces he cannot possibly do more tonight, and will continue Tuesday. Full blown hysteria presents, and this writer announces that she HATES hunting season, she HATES not EVER getting to sleep in, she HATES dealing with sleep deprived kids every weekend, she HATES dead deer on the kitchen table, and further more that NEXT YEAR, she is NOT cooking dinner, and Bearded Man may as well save his money, because he will be driving the entire family to the nearest Thanksgiving Buffet, and that she will plan on sitting around watching Hallmark Channel Christmas movies and drinking lots of wine!!!!!! Teenage daughter has the unfortunate timing of making a sarcastic remark, and gets yelled at as well. After which, I remembered I had to pick Joe up from his Scout meeting, and left to go get my kid.
     During which time, I run into another mother, who had heard that George had just managed to break the same living room window twice in less than 3 days.


    "Why is he so violent, I wonder? You really need to spank him more! He is clearly out of control. Maybe he needs help? With this violence?"


     *breathe. Just. Breathe.* Seriously, if one more person tells me to beat my child, I may beat them and see how THEY like it. It is NOT nice to tell people to beat people, even if you procreated the subjects one is being advised to beat.


     The story goes as such: Saturday, with company on their way over, George, dressed as Iron Man,  had gone outside to search for one of his special painted rocks. He found one, and, in full Superhero Mode, somehow, the rock went flying. Right through the window. Thankfully, it was the INSIDE window, and not the outside storm window. When I marched into the living room, he was casually pulling the curtain across it. Upon inspection, there was a hole about 3 inches around, right through the glass.
     Company was coming, and honestly, he felt so terrible, I didn't have the heart to do much more than yell.


     Monday evening, George was doing his all time favorite thing ever. He was flipping upside down on the couches. This is where he gets a running start and flips up the couch, with his head down, and his feet on the top of it. Apparently he has grown, though, because, his foot went right through the same window. Breaking the rest of it.
     He announced in tears that this was the WORST DAY EVER, and, sobbing, took himself (and his unscathed foot) to his room.


     Back to the judgy mom and her judgy husband, who were both looking at me disdainfully, and instructing me, like several other parents, to spank my violent out of control kid.


     NO! I am not spanking him. For goodness sake, he's five years old, and certainly wasn't breaking the windows deliberately. He is NOT out of control, and I am NOT spanking him for accidents.


     There. Go ahead and judge. I don't beat my out of control kids. They will probably be blights of society now. Hashtagsorrynotsorry


     For those who have advised me to get better control of my child, as well as those who have informed me that their kid certainly has never had these issues: Good for you. Once again, the title of this Blog indicates that I am aware that I am absolutely not the perfect mother. Ah well. I got that off my chest. We're all good now.


     For those of you who are hunters, or, spouses of hunters; I have no issue with hunting. As long as the carcass is  not on my kitchen table, I am pretty okay with it all.
     If the carcass is on my kitchen table during Thanksgiving prep time; we may have strong words.


   Anyhow, at the end of the day, I am sure Thanksgiving will be fine. The dead deer will all be shoved into pig intestines eventually, dinner will get made and eaten, and hunting season, please Lord, will be over soon.


     Next up: Christmas!