A turkey in the hand is worth two in the brush... to some people...

As you may know, I am not a huge fan of dead animals. I support my husband's hunting mainly because I know it is good quality time for him to spend with the boys, and also to make him happy. I let him hunt, he's happy. I don't let him hunt, he laughs at me, and hunts anyway. So I just go with it, spend money on his debit card while he's gone, and silently pray that he doesn't actually kill anything. My prayers are not often answered in the way I would like. Not only does he kill stuff on a regular basis, now he has the kids actually being "successful".

Dallin, who is 12 and of legal hunting age in the great state of Utah, was lucky enough to get a turkey with his bow earlier this year. He was excited, so I was excited for him. Yay, that's so great! I'm so proud of you! Please, please, please don't bring it home...

Well, I guess it was a pretty good turkey, so Jason took it to his way-too-good-of-a-friend taxidermist to get stuffed. I was happy because that meant I had a few more months of animal-freeness, and then I forgot about it. Until the other day, when Jason sent me this picture from his phone. With one word: "Yes."

Yes, what? Yes, the turkey is done. Yes, it's huge. Yes, I'm bringing it home. Yes, it's wearing a seat belt.

Soooo.... that's great! It's really.... beautiful. I.... love it. I mean it looks so... real. I guess we are keeping it in the house?

Fortunately, the turkey is living in Dallin's room for the time being. I don't often go in there, but when I do I will be reminded of a happy boy and his very large accomplishment in the spring of 2015. And hope that it is his last accomplishment of the sort for quite some time.

Now, will you take a moment and review with me the thoughts that are going through Jason's mind in the above photo:

Man, this is cool.
I'm driving with a turkey.
This turkey is huge.
Everyone looking in here thinks I'm so cool because I'm driving with a huge turkey.
I need a picture of this.
This is awesome.

It's not like I can read minds or anything, but yeah, sometimes I actually can.

A Mother's Day to Remember. Or not.

I had to laugh this morning at all the forces of the universe conspiring against me as I tried to accomplish a huge goal in my life - to play the piano in sacrament meeting. Yes, I was just accompanying the Primary kids singing Teach Me to Walk in the Light, but it was a BIG deal for me and I wasn't going to let anything get in my way. However, it almost didn't happen.

I took the kids on a quick trip to Burley this weekend to see my brother Aaron perform his Senior Recital. I can't go to his graduation, so I was determined to go and be a part of this, even if I had to take the kids myself and be there less than 24 hours. We had a great time, and of course got a late start on the journey home Saturday night. But I had to be back to play the piano in our 9 am sacrament meeting, so staying wasn't an option.

I packed up the kids and pulled out of my parents' driveway at about 7 pm. Luke had been complaining that he didn't feel good, but I was hoping he was just making it up. My mom sent him with a barf bag just to be sure. As we drove past the rest area near, well, nowhere, on I-84, Dallin yelled, "Mom, Luke is barfing all over everything and it's not in the bag!" It was true. Luke had barfed all over himself and the entire backseat and not a speck of it had gone in the bag. I pondered that mystery during the unpleasant 15 minutes to the gas station in Snowville, where I got him out and started to brush the contents of his stomach off his clothes. At this point I got a whiff of something else. Something worse.

"Luke, did you....?" "No, Mom, I swear I didn't!" I checked his pants, and yes, he did. Poor little fellow didn't even realize that when he was throwing up, he was also... throwing down, as we like to put it delicately. Now that presents a problem when you are at a gas station with no other adult and three other kids. I've already given you more detail than perhaps I should have, so I will stop there and just say that I took him in to the bathroom with a pack of wet wipes and prayed that the other kids would not be victimized in any way by the rif raf in the parking lot of the greasiest Flying J in the nation. I considered taking them all in with me, but the bathroom is small and what would I do with Jake while I performed the necessary but horrific actions that would be required of me? We would end up with even more germs than we already had. It worked out in the end, and we continued on our journey without further incident, arriving home just after 11:30 pm. I unpacked the barf-filled vehicle and prayed that no one else would get sick.

This morning I was up early, freshly showered and ready to practice the piano and conquer my fear of playing in sacrament meeting. Abby came in to my bathroom and sat on the potty. A moment later I could hear the choking and gagging noise that mothers know all too well. I grabbed her off the toilet and spun her around. She successfully barfed into the toilet and I congratulated myself on a job well done and further cleanup avoided. It was at this moment that I was aware of a warm sensation on my feet. You will remember that her pajamas were around her ankles at the time. I looked down and had a realization that would ruin any Mother's Day, I don't care who you are. While she was throwing up, she was also... throwing down. All over the floor and my bare feet. Shall I say it again? All over my bare feet. Less than an hour before I was to conquer my fears and become a new person, all on Mother's Day.

I did the only thing I could do. I looked heavenward and called for help. My cry was answered by Jason, who came in, surveyed the scene, and asked in a horrified voice, "What do you want me to do?" I could only croak out a small, "I don't know." Then he left.

I cleaned up the crime scene, disinfected my feet and went to church, unpracticed and unabashed. When the time came for the Primary children to sing I marched to the front, hid at the piano behind all the standing kids, and played the song. I didn't make any mistakes until the third verse when I started thinking, "Hey, this is fun! I'm really good at this! Why was I so scared?" and lost my place and played three wrong notes. I don't think anybody noticed because the kids and moms were all singing together and apparently getting emotional from the wonderfulness of it all. I'm proud to say I was a part of it and I didn't let nerves, barf or shiz get in my way.

Oh, my life...

So I know you are jealous that I am married to a hunter and my life is non-stop, constant excitement. Seriously. There is never a dull moment. Take Monday night, for example. I didn't really have anything planned for Family Home Evening. I mean, I was planning to have it, but that's about as far as I was with it. So when Jason's mom called in the afternoon and said she had a raccoon in a trap that needed to be shot, well hey, there's FHE right there.

After dinner we loaded up the kids and the bows and arrows and headed to Grandma's. I thought a gun would be easier than bows and arrows, but Jason informed me that it is illegal to shoot a gun within city limits. Also, I should add that my mother in law called the fish and game to see what to do with the little critter and they said NOT to let it go, that raccoons are nuisances and need to be... done away with. Well, the job proved to be a little harder than originally planned. Apparently raccoons are kind of like cockroaches and they just refuse to die. I was inside trying to block out any mental images of what was going on outside when the boys came in with the news that well, the raccoon was still holding on, but they were working on it. Finally Jason came in and said the job was done. I will spare you any further detail. Okay, well, I thought, that was bad but now we can move on. Wrong! Jason had the awesome idea of taking the raccoon home so he could skin it for the boys. We watched Where the Red Fern Grows recently as a family, which turned out to be a horrible idea since the whole thing is about catching raccoons and turning them into coon skin caps. So yeah, we should do that! Just because Billy did in the backwoods of the Ozarks 100 years ago. Sweet. As a result, the raccoon came home with us in a garbage bag in the back of the van. I was not okay with that. It didn't matter.

I was hoping Jason would forget about his little "project" and end up disposing of the remains after a few days. Wrong again. I returned home from running errands on Tuesday afternoon to find the VERY disturbing image of a creature with its back legs tied to a rope, tied to the RAILING of the garage steps and my husband sitting right exactly where I park the van, just skinning away. When he saw me, he yelled, "Don't look!" but it was too late. Fortunately for you, I don't have the words to describe a skinned raccoon. "Horrific" is a start, but just imagine a shaved cat, but about 5 times bigger, hanging from its feet while your six-year-old watches in fascination and, well, there was some blood involved. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, but I'm the one who has to STEP in it every time I step out of my vehicle now. I do actually step around it, but it isn't easy, and it provokes very negative thoughts in my mind about raccoons and hunting in general.

I'm sorry if you were hoping that was the end of the story. So was I, but it's not. The raccoon skin made its home on the back of Jason's 4-wheeler in the garage for a few days. It was there the last time I saw it and tried not to make eye contact with it. Then last night I went down to the basement deep freeze to get a bag of chicken. There was a Kohl's bag with a suspicious lump in it inside the freezer. I thought, hmmm, must be some deer meat that Jason's dad brought him from their hunt last week or something (forgetting that Jason's dad isn't HOME yet from the hunt last week). Later I mentioned it to Jason and he said, "Oh yeah, I put the raccoon hide in the downstairs freezer so it doesn't rot". Well, if that isn't just great news. I just touched a dead raccoon in a Kohl's bag. Why was I born? What am I supposed to learn from this? I'm trying to be a better person, honestly I am, but I just don't understand why these kind of experiences are necessary for me in the eternal scheme of things. I guess I still have a lot to learn. I just wish I could learn it all in a very sanitary, death-free, non-redneck sort of way.