Terry has decided he wants to own a ranch.

I mean, it’s an obsession. He knows the prices of chickens, cows, goats, coops, acre-age, fencing, you name it, he’s researched it. I have never seen a man so elated with the prospect of getting up extra-early every day to tend to cattle, etc. I should probably mention here that said-man grumbles and complains when his darling daughters cause him to rise before 6:30 every day. Just sayin’.

I think that he is being overly ambitious, especially given that we have $0 and no experience with farming or the like. I’ve never milked a cow or collected chicken eggs, I’ve never had to move hay bales or build a fence… and I can guarantee Terry hasn’t either. So who exactly is going to take care of the chicks when they are born? Who is going to herd the cattle?

Psh, not me.

And I’m certainly not taking care of poop.

Speaking of poop, Ariana is in full melt-down mode today. Okay, the poop transition was meant to be a transition from animal poop to children’s diapers, not in anyway indicating that I think my daughter is poopy or anything like that. You know what I meant. And if you didn’t, well, you should have.

Anyway. She has spent the entire day saying no to everything we ask or say, whether it’s food (me: “Do you want a banana?” A: “No.” me: “An apple?” A: “No.” me: “A pancake?” A: “No. Cookie?” me: “No.”), talking about her toys (me: “Stop taking Harper’s toys away” A: “No.” me: “Don’t make me tell you again to stop.” A: “No.” me: “Do you want to go in time-out?” A: “No.” me: “Then you need to behave.” A: “No.”), or, well, anything.

I can deal with lotsa parenting stuff, but a sassy, cranky, I’m-going-to-act-like-you-are-hanging-me-by-my-toenails-when-we’re-in-Walmart kind of a child drives me up the wall. I probably should get down from here and take care of things.

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