When Tomahawks and Dinners Collide

Everything was going according to plan.
The day had gone smoothly. The baby went down for a much-needed afternoon nap and the toddler was reciting letters along with an educational show. I took the opportunity to start on dinner. Then a mix for chocolate chip cookies magically appeared on top of the stove. The 3-year-old Cookie-Fairy must have left it as a present. As the Benevolent Mom-tator of the house, I even made the cookies. TO show love to the men in my home, I pinched the cookie dough into little hearts. (Okay, some of them were kidney shaped. I decided to write a quick love note: “I love you with both of my kidneys.” In Ancient Israel it was not the heart but the bowels the held the emotions. By comparison the kidneys aren’t so bad.)

With the corn on the cob and garlic mashed potatoes at the ready, I slid the steaks into the oven and turned my attention to the 35 pounds of boy tugging at my dress. We headed outside to play in the garage just until the steaks were done. That’s when it all went wrong.
While throwing the ball back and forth I heard an unusually loud thud. Then another. Then the familiar and disturbing sound of claws against wood. Something was in the crawl space. Something alive. Something not human.
I commanded my son to get to the door while I searched the tool bench for something handy—at least handier than the plastic shovel my son gave me. God bless that kid.
I was about to defend the home when Son One pointed my attention to a car in the driveway that I didn’t recognize. We walked up the driveway to see the sister of our dear 80 year old neighbor, who was dropping off a darling red rocking chair and farm toy for the boys. Be still my heart. The cuteness of Son One running up to sit in the rocking chair and playing with the new toy took my attention off the imminent danger…for a while.
After that 20 minute detour I headed back down toward the garage with my firstborn hot on my trail.
My husband and I spent the weekend clearing out some of the vines and overgrowth near the garage, so the tools were handy. A tomahawk, to be exact. No, not a shotgun. (Too close and thin drywall.) No, not fireworks. (We’re not totally ridiculous.)
Thankfully, this is the age when my son likes to play with my phone. Thanks to him, you get to witness what happened next.
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In bedazzled flip flops and a floor-length cotton maxi-dress I wielded an absurd weapon and headed up creaky stairs. Reminder: I’m not totally ridiculous. Also, I’m not blonde, wearing heels or answering the phone. The chances of being the first character to be taken out by an animal were slim.
Yes, going after an animal with an older weapon in a floor-length dress… totally Pioneer Woman meets The Patriot.
thepatiot
Except not. Not at all. My dress may or may not have been tucked up to the knees. The pastor preached on girding the loins this Sunday (1 Peter). This is life application going on here, people!
After giving the crawl space a good going-over, it seemed my rodent friend had escaped. At least for now…
An hour had now passed. I brought firstborn back up to the house (without the tomahawk) and discovered that I had indeed killed something. Dinner.
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Apparently I need to stick to crock pot dinners. It is now leftover pork chop night.
As I threw out the dead shoe leather I decided it was extremely appropriate to look out at the garage and remind the wildlife of what happened the last time an animal invaded my house.
Just another exciting day in my world. The next time something invades the home I’m calling for help…and Chinese food.

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