As you all know, I live with five males, ranging from 39 to 4. As a woman raised in a mostly all-female household (mother, step-mother, two sisters), I try gamely to fit in, but find myself occasionally mystified by the guy-ness, or inadequately equipped for things like appreciating how cool it is to write in the snow with your penis. This was clearly one of those moments.
Me, (coming downstairs for a cup of tea before returning to my book) “What’s with the sledgehammer, honey?”
The boys: “Daddy is going to let us smash geodes! Awesome! We tried it with the hammer, but it didn’t work, so now we’ve got a sledgehammer – yay!”
Me: (thinking about my book): Cool.
Me, (doing a slight double take, noting that everyone is barefoot and not dressed for the outdoors): “Honey, WHERE were you planning to smash rocks with a sledgehammer?”
Eric: (Long hesitation and sheepish grin.) “Ummmm…Oh, outdoors. Definitely outside. Ummm…on the porch. Come on boys, let’s get some socks and shoes and jackets on and go outside.”