Pointing Fingers

I was raised as an only child.  With sixteen years between us, I can barely remember the time before my sister married and left home.  I liked being the only child.  Single children have the luxury of uninterrupted time and the undivided attention of their parents.  Time to read, to lie in the grass and watch ants, to listen, to develop an active imagination.  I didn't have to share my toys and nobody broke my Crayons.  My mother would periodically arrange "play dates" and signed me up for Bluebirds (Campfire Girls) and then Girl Scouts, undoubtedly because she felt her little hoyden needed socializing.

There is a drawback to being an only child.  If (make that when) something gets broken, etc., there is no one else to take the blame.  If it was done or not done, you did it.  What was I going to do, point at my father?  My own Kids could have been named Who Me, I Didn't Do It, Huh Uh, and I Don't Know.  They banded together and it was four against one.  My daughter had her own room, but the boys slept together in a larger dorm situation.  For a short while I had a spare room for sewing and reading, but then one of the boys said he wanted a room all to himself.  After his bed had been moved in, I went upstairs one night to find him lying asleep on the floor outside the dorm room.  When asked why, he said, "Mama, I couldn't hear anyone breathing and I couldn't go to sleep."  I guess there are benefits to being one of a group, too.  Besides, they could always point fingers at each other.

While Inga is a member of the herd, she has no one to blame for her troubles but herself.  Another day without milking.  I'll bet she is first in line today.

UPDATE:  Satomi remains in the infirmary, but is moving around a bit more.  She is a quiet little thing and I haven't heard a cluck out of her.  Black eyes in a black fluffy chicken make it difficult to tell which end is which when she is sitting.

Morning Mouse has not shown up for a week or so.  He has either tired of the Bucket Game or has found another source of entertainment.

Thing, I am happy to say, has not reappeared either.  I have not gone into the middle barn to see what havoc he might have wrought there.

My daughter will come up to share a few hours on Saturday, which pleases me no end.  On Sunday, my friend Linda from Seattle will arrive for what I know will be a too-short visit.  If I don't get the dusting done, I will have no one to blame but myself.  I'd better get busy.