Our girls, like most four-year-old girls, love pink. And purple. And sparkly things, unicorns, butterflies, lizards and cats. But especially pink. Their brothers aren't so fond of pink. They prefer the color dirt. I know this because it's what they have chosen for the color of our walls, windows, light switches and their socks. "Do you like pink?" Emerson asked Fischer one day not long ago. "No." "Why?" "Because pink stinks !" Cue 'angry tears and screaming.' This of course delighted her brother who began using the line anytime he wanted to see her cry. Which was often. It didn't change her passion for the color, however. She still demanded the pink plate, pink cup, pink shirt, pink shoes, and pink gum if she had the choice. Because pink is the best when you're four. Fast forward a couple of weeks. The girls were collecting pieces of garbage off the van floor. Why? I don't know, but who am I to stop t
People think we are raising twins, but they're wrong. We actually have triplets: Emerson, Carter, and Carterror. It's true. Carterror doesn't hang around often, but when the days are long and naps have been missed, she comes out swinging. Today, when we should have been napping, we ran errands. We needed some grain for our cows, so before picking up the boys from school, we stopped at the feed store. The girls spent a little time looking at all the fish, birds, and pets they have for sale. Immediately, after telling them not to touch the tanks, Carter tried to go fishing. That's when I realized Carterror had arrived. I called her name to stop her and realized her shirt was exceptionally lumpy. "What's in there?" I asked, pointing to her newly developed bosom. "My kitty," she replied, pulling out a stuffed cat from her sweatshirt. A minute later, we were walking down an isle of bovine paraphernalia and she darted around a corner.