When I got my first apartment my sophomore year of college my parents found a little table with two chairs for my kitchen. Since it is small and sturdy, my husband and I continued using it after we got married. Since our first apartment’s dining are was cramped, my small table worked well within the space. The table remained our dining set after we moved into the farmhouse because a) it served the needs of the two of us reasonably well and b) we didn’t want to invest in a bigger table since there was no telling where we would go for vicarage.
Well, now we actually know where we are going to live the next two years (barring any sort of unexpected disasters) and we know we have the space for a bigger table. So when our friends contacted us the other day about a large table they had found, we were eager to hear the details. Our plan panned out as follows: Since they don’t have the space in their apartment to store the table, we are going to keep it for them for the next two years. Even better, they said that we could go ahead and use the table (which is great because we have to figure out how we are going to seat 12 people for dinner in less than two weeks). The found table is fairly sturdy, albeit a bit scratched, and even has a leaf that we can take in and out. A decent upgrade from my tiny, two person table.
However, we cannot part with tiny table because bigger table isn’t ours forever. Additionally, it’s still in good condition so I’m sure we can find some use for it the next two years. The problem my husband and I discovered after setting up bigger table is that we actually don’t have room for tiny table. Our usual storage area is the upstairs but apparently we can’t fit tiny table up the extremely narrow stairs–the table is about a half inch too wide. After staring at the table and the staircase for a few minutes, my husband and I concluded that there is probably some way to finagle the table up the stairs. However, it wouldn’t make sense at this point to spend twenty minutes wrestling the table up the stairs only to have to bring it back down in about three weeks when we move. Consequently, tiny table is now serving as giant side table, standing ridiculously tall and ridiculously wide next to our couch and chair. Not ideal, but I suppose it will have to do for now.
Yet the table excitement has led me to wonder if this is how normal twenty-somethings spend their time–sharing furniture with friends, renting old farmhouses with narrow stairs, planning their possessions in relation to moving. Is this normal or is it just a sem. family thing?
To be honest, I haven’t helped with a Vacation Bible School program since I started high school. However, this is the second year my husband is serving as a teacher for his field work church’s VBS program. As a former daycare teacher who spent 30+ hours a week corralling grade school children (and many of those hours I did it by myself), it is really funny to see my husband spend a week doing a similar job. Our conversation after a day at VBS generally goes along these lines.
Husband: Some of those kids really don’t listen the first time.
Husband: Some kids forget to raise their hands and keep blurting out answers.
Husband: They also kind of check out at the end of the day.
Husband: I also had to stand a lot.
Husband: Stop smiling at me like that!
Don’t worry, my husband really enjoys teaching VBS–I just get really tickled when he gets a small does of what it’s like to work full time with children. I hope VBS is this entertaining for me every year!
I think I have acquired moving disease. Symptoms include going shopping and thinking, “Do I really want to pack that?” and hoarding what would usually be considered junk as packing material. My most recent accomplishment was looking at our cheap, broken air mattress and deciding it would make a good tarp. A little scissor work and viola!–a piece of plastic to throw over furniture in the truck. Other bits of things I have saved include newspaper, tissue paper, any worn out piece of clothing, and every plastic bag we have brought home from a store in the last three months.
Much to our delight, the missing momma cat and two of the kittens came home last night. We have no idea where they were or why it took them so long to come home but they are safe and healthy. We still have some hope that more of the kittens will come home, although our more practical thought is that they wandered onto a neighboring farm and will live happily ever after there. It’s better than thinking that all ten of them were dead.
I love animals. My family has had a dog since before I was born and we have had cats since I was in first grade. When I was in elementary school I wanted to become a veterinarian. In college I had a beta fish for a year and a half and spent a brief stint of time trying to keep hermit crabs (both of these creatures proved to be too fragile to live any length of time so I had to stop keeping them because I got too upset when they died). When my husband and I got married, we really wanted to get a dog or a cat. However, since the majority of vicarages don’t allow pets, we decided that it would be foolish for us to adopt a dog or cat and then have to give them up two years later. Hopes for a pet were set aside for fourth year.
Then we moved to the farmhouse that came with farm cats. I referred to the two farm cats that hung around the most as our pseudo-pets. We knew we couldn’t keep them but I still faithfully fed them every morning and made a kitty bed for them out of a cardboard box. Seven months later, they gave birth to their kittens in the box. For the past two months my husband and I have watched the kittens grow from tiny little fuzzballs into miniature cats. We played with the kittens everyday and enjoyed watching them frolic around the yard. We enjoyed having them snuggle in our laps–they were even beginning to purr when they saw us.
On Friday night my husband was saying good night to the kittens. Seven of them sat curled up in his lap while the other three pranced around the porch, pouncing on bugs and chasing each other. They were healthy and happy. They were all there. Saturday morning I got up to feed them and an odd silence greeted me. They weren’t on their mat, nor under the porch, nor under the cars. My husband and I searched the barns and walked around the fields but not a trace of them could be found. They just disappeared. One of the momma cats hasn’t been seen since Wednesday night. I think something ate all eleven of them.
I knew that it would be unlikely that all ten kittens would survive; I just never expected that all ten kittens would be gone in one night. It’s hard to accept that they are gone because we can’t find any remnants of their existence. I find myself still hoping (despite logically concluding that they are gone) to see them come leaping down the porch steps when I pull up in my car or playing on the porch when I peak outside. Instead I see the remaining mother cat patiently waiting for her kittens to come home. It breaks my heart.
Now that I’m 24, I told my mom that I hoped that I wouldn’t get mistaken for a teenager anymore. She told me that I probably would. *Sigh* I suppose there’s always next year.