I have the greatest husband in the world. If you thought you did, I'm sorry, you were mistaken. You can have the number two slot. Live with it. My guy's name is Peter. I don't know what his mama was thinking when she named him that, thus the reason we don't have a Peter Junior. We do have a Pierson, which means "son of Peter", and that was as close to a namesake as we were getting. By the way, Peter Senior was in full agreement with me on that. He was, shall we say, teased a good bit about his name growing up. Anyhoo, he's older than dirt now, mostly gray headed, (for which I claim!), and works as a computer guru in the middle of the ocean. The fish just love him. One time he caught a blue fin something-or-other, but as he was pulling it out the barracudas got ahold of it and by the time he pulled it up it was nothing buy a skeleton. It was the reverse of the classical fisherman's story of "it was this big. No, it was THIS big!" He provides for me and the younguns best he can, and he puts up with us too, with is an added bonus. No wonder the poor guy is gray. As I write this, he down in the bottom pasture splashing in the rain water before it drains away. I sure ain't going down there. It's wicked cold!
We've got us a whole passel of younguns. First off, there's Chad. We used to call him Goober, but at 17 he seems to take offense to that. Something about being awesomely cool? Not sure about that. I still remember him posing for every picture with his hand cocked in the classic gun position while he click-clicked his tongue and said, "oh yeah, baby!" in his "coolest" voice. I have pictures if you want to see them. Speaking of pictures, he also loved to play dress up. I have Batman pictures, cut up and colored papered bags, card board boxes, Egyptian robes, Indian, and pirate costumes pictures, just off the top of my head. But I shouldn't mention any of that, now that Goober is cool and all. He's graduating this year, valedictorian of his homeschool class. We're so proud. He went to college a year early, under the scholar's program, and he works at a gourmet popcorn place. (psst, they have Butterfinger popcorn! Just a note.)
Our next kid just turned 13 last week. God help us all. Her name is Scotlyn, but for the first 4 years of her life she only answered to Stinky Moose. Feel free to revert to that name anytime you want to see blue flames shoot from her eyes. It's entertaining. Scot is my "sensitive" child. That's the only thing I could tell myself that could keep me from strangling her during the four year long temper tantrum that was the beginning of her life. Then they tapered off and she became an absolute doll until....the hormones hit. Something tells me that the teen years are going to be a repeat of the preschool years. Any recommendations on boarding schools? For her or me, doesn't matter.
After that one came along, we decided to make it an even three. Along came Pierson. He was the purtiest baby you ever laid your eyes on. He had reddish hair that grew toward the middle from both sides and formed a mohawk on top. It flopped from side to side in a big curl. Add big eyes and big ears, and you've got one funny looking, lovable kid. He was always laughing and happy. Boy, did that change. Yeesh. He was a tank! Ate and ate and ate. Seventeen monster pounds at 4 months. He was also gassy, so we called him Stinky Butt. Not wanting to scream Butt out in church, we changed it to Stinky Stinkerson or Stinky Pete. He doesn't like being called that, and now that he's a blue belt in karate, I'm considering not calling him that anymore.
So there you have it. My very own nuclear family. I'll save the horses and dogs for another day.