The days really start to run together if you don’t write them down in some way. Now we know why certain retired grandparents are expecting weekend-level responsiveness on Tuesdays.
Yesterday I started the day with conference calls on the Bob Jones. My key fob was nearly dead. Just twenty-five pulls of the door handle before it opened. A recycling trip to the school dumpster and back-to-back CO-VID-eo conferences all. Day. Long.
The boys lugged 5 loads of our newly chipped pine tree into the mud pit that is the chicken coop. Hopefully now our eggs won’t resemble Nate’s knees.
I’m told Nate gunned another ball. This time it was a soccer ball, over the mountain, into a never-ending thicket of poison oak. They listened to it for “5 minutes” as it crashed through the brush and maybe landed on a neighbor’s house. Or broke a window. Or hit someone in the head. Four days in and their ability to discern reality from fantasy is waning.
The boys did a Stars Wars workout on YouTube. We only had one light saber.
Oh, and apparently in response to the toilet paper shortage, James installed something on our upstairs toilet called the Toto washlet. I’m still very much on the fence. Or rather… using the downstairs bathroom.