I don't remember what day it was.  It never matters, though, when Zander is on Christmas break.   Rising in the morning, living, falling asleep at night, dreaming;  a tranquil repetition of simplicity.

 

but just basic 101 photography zander.  notice street signs impaling your subject's head please.  

Slowly slowly, very slowly creeps the garden snail
Slowly slowly, very slowly leaves a silver trail

Quickly quickly very quickly he falls from careless hands
Quickly quickly very quickly mother reprimands.

I admit, I was a little over emotional about the snail's shell cracking.  I tattled on Ender to Zander (who didn't care.....strange) and I believe I cracked Ender's heart in the process.  He was certain the snail would shrivel up and die and never find a home again.  I wonder who gave him that thought....?  So I tightened the belt around my big girl pants and convinced Ender all would be well with the snail.  He was brave and bold and would certainly find new and better accomadations.

"Haven't you ever heard of a slug?!" Zander yelled form up ahead.

Wrong!

There is a slight difference.  It doesn't matter anyway... I did think the snail recovered from his slight wound.  They can grow their shell back.  However.... a month later, in the same spot,caught in a rain storm, Ender came ripping down the sidewalk on his big wheel.  No no no, the sight was not pretty.  The sound of the crunch was a sonic boom in my heart.  I hurried the children a long, trying to forget.  But I can't, because its smashed carcass has made a large stain that we pass every time we walk to the park.  

Gunther chasing pigeons. I like pigeons, and I hope they know it is all in fun, nothing personal. 

Garden trolls.  They confound you with their mischievous glee and leave you simultaneously joyful and infuriated.  I distinctly avoided books like the Cat in the Hat and Amelia Bedilia and the one cartoon Lilo and Stitch....As a kid I could never equate messy with funny.   I still can't.

But here I am dealing with a particularly horrid beast.  Cora, of course.  She pleasures in grinding baby green caterpillars between her claws of fleshy steel.  She hunts them down and tries to drown them in the dog's water bowl. (A great pesticide if your four year doesn't want to save them for his habitat)  She will rip your herb's roots from their damp dark safety and watch them burn and dry up in the sun.  She's little, she's round, but she moves with fire in her toes.

The world is her playground and she is having the time of her life.  She owns it with no responsibility or grave consequence.   She is so happy and is befuddled at your outbursts over her destructive joy.

I can see her storming the gates of hell with Jesus, once her brain is fully developed, and by prayer and petition she progresses in sympathy and empathy.