Weeds

I am having lunch with my kids.  My two year old son is smashing peanut butter and jelly onto his face when his eyes widen, he looks out the window and says, "whacker!"  He wears his sisters dresses, sparkly shoes and pink tights but this guy can hone in on an engine and label it without ever laying eyes on it.  His ears are tuned to some primal engine language that I swear is as obtuse as the seventh color in the rainbow.   We live on a farm, so his attraction to tractors and the like has been fed like a kid growing up in a candy shop.   The candy at the moment takes precedence over peanut butter as he cranes his neck out the window and says, "Daddy whacking mommy?!"


"No," I say, "Daddy's at work."


"Jim whacking Mommy?!"


"Yes," I say, "but he's not whacking Mommy, Jim's whacking weeds."


"Ok Mommy,"  he says settling back down and crossing his arms over his chest.  He gazes off across the fields and says, "Lots of weeds out there Mommy."

There are lots of weeds out there, it's true.  We have a big festival coming up this weekend and how on earth does it all get done?  The old farmall has stopped moving again and perched itself beautifully up on the hill above the wild ammi and the sunflowers.  Despite all the work to be done, I see this machine's greatest purpose to be perching and posing.  My son discerns its sounds like a musician tuning his instrument.  "Stopped again, Mommy?"


"Yes," I say as I reach to cuddle him, "old'red has stopped again."