Jack & Jill-So bizzy!
On Sunday my sister had a get together at her house and after breakfast the kids amused themselves by leaping off the bed of the my dad's pick up truck. "Look at my trick! Watch my trick!" Guys, that's not really a trick – you were just jumping off the back of a truck.
No matter, because when you are six and three, jumping off the back of a truck can provide hours of fun. Or at least minutes of fun, until the three-year-old accidentally jumps off the truck onto his one-year-old sister.
"Hey guys, why don't we find something else to do? Like don't you want to run down these hills or something? What do you call these hills anyway?" (In my mind, geography is always better with a title. I adore stories with fictional titles for the landscape: the Hundred Acre Woods, the Forest Savage, the Red Sea...). "Oh, those are our rolling hills. We call them rolling hills." Aiden told me. I looked across at the soft, undulating landscape. Not a very imaginative title, but you're right Aiden, they are rolling hills. He went on, "We roll down them every day!"
Oh! The Rolling Hills!
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Henry and Aiden rolled down The Rolling Hill until they were too "bizzy" (their word, not mine) to stand.
This reminded me of a time when I was in junior high and my class took a field trip to a nature preserve. There was a steep slope leading down into a sort of valley, perfect for rolling. I encouraged all of my classmates to join me and so we flat landers, excited for the thrill of varied topography, all ran to the edge of the valley and threw ourselves on the tough, still gray, late winter grass and rolled. Unfortunately, as the first kids down discovered, the tough, gray, late winter snow that remained at the bottom of the ravine hid a well preserved deer corpse.
Henceforth, this ditch shall be known as Rotting White Tail Ravine!
No matter, because when you are six and three, jumping off the back of a truck can provide hours of fun. Or at least minutes of fun, until the three-year-old accidentally jumps off the truck onto his one-year-old sister.
"Hey guys, why don't we find something else to do? Like don't you want to run down these hills or something? What do you call these hills anyway?" (In my mind, geography is always better with a title. I adore stories with fictional titles for the landscape: the Hundred Acre Woods, the Forest Savage, the Red Sea...). "Oh, those are our rolling hills. We call them rolling hills." Aiden told me. I looked across at the soft, undulating landscape. Not a very imaginative title, but you're right Aiden, they are rolling hills. He went on, "We roll down them every day!"
Oh! The Rolling Hills!
This reminded me of a time when I was in junior high and my class took a field trip to a nature preserve. There was a steep slope leading down into a sort of valley, perfect for rolling. I encouraged all of my classmates to join me and so we flat landers, excited for the thrill of varied topography, all ran to the edge of the valley and threw ourselves on the tough, still gray, late winter grass and rolled. Unfortunately, as the first kids down discovered, the tough, gray, late winter snow that remained at the bottom of the ravine hid a well preserved deer corpse.
Henceforth, this ditch shall be known as Rotting White Tail Ravine!
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