Animal Farm

I’ve been told by my children that pigs are the most highly intelligent (farm?) animal there is, with an estimated intelligence equal to that of a three year old child. This has me disturbed at several levels, not the least being bacon and ham, or my beloved pork chop casserole. Frankly, the idea of eating an animal that thinks like a three year old makes me not want to eat pig anymore. And this is coming from a woman with a hefty German ancestry.

But on the other hand, when I look at my children, who often seem to function only at the level of a three year old, cannibalism doesn’t sound so bad.

My boys have been displaying new behaviors that include writing mean notes and signs about each other and taping them onto their bedroom doors. What makes this very fun is that their doors face each other and they can see the signs each time they enter the respective room which creates a constant state of tension and frustration.

Then there is the matter of their clothes. They leave their clothes in heaps in the bathroom. Take a bath, strip and leave the clothes. Take a shower, strip and leave the clothes. Wake up in the morning, strip. Go to bed, strip. Go to the bathroom, strip. (I know, this last one puzzles even me but he’s part chimp I think and can only go #2 naked.

The same thing happens with school backpacks and shoes, coats, and socks. Walk in the door, drop coat, dump backpack. Kick off a shoe. Kick off another. Peel off a sock. Later remove the other.

And this goes on. Day in and day out and I love my children, I do, but there are times I just look around my house and feel like I live with pigs.

Fortunately, the boys have a built-in self preservation system at work. As soon as I trip over Jake’s size 8 basketball shoes, or stumble across another heap of Ty’s discarded clothes, my youngest son shouts, ‘I love you, Mom’. Smart kid. He knows I can’t yell at him just after he’s reminded me of his love and affection.

And it works.

Too bad pigs can’t talk.