No Refunds

I suppose there are cases when you buy some one a gift and it breaks before you get it home or you find out the recipient already has a whatchamacallit. So you run back to the store and return it. After standing in a long line you have exchanged the gift and are on your way with another idea. Christmas gift-giving takes on a different look in Togo.

Every year at Christmas, we try to bless the families of the guys that work at our house with a little extra. This year the plan was for each of them to receive a goat and a bag of rice. The guy from the village arrived today with the goats, have I mentioned that Marty was not home and had forgotten to tell me that they would be coming today? Now if this scenario wasn't already light years different from your gift-giving routine, just wait. One of the goats got hung up somehow in the taxi van and was dead by the time it got to our house. It was beyond me, how the driver did not notice.

So I am standing at the front door with three live goats and one not. I ran to Koffi's house, who ran and got Benoit, our night guard. Then proceeded a discussion of who was going to take the dead goat, which meant it needed to be dressed today.

I felt sorry for the one that agreed to take the deceased animal, I would have returned it to the store for him if it worked that way. I would have atleast liked it if the driver felt some responsibility for not delivering the goat breathing. Still, their families will be eating well for a few days. I hope the blessing didn't get lost.

I do apologize if this touches a sensitive cord for any of my animal loving readers.

My Life With Boys

I recently bought a pink t-shirt. That may not seem like a big deal, but you see, I have never worn pink. It isn’t supposed to look good on a redhead. For some reason, though, I really wanted something pink. I think I wanted to remind myself that I am a girl. Living in a house full of males has diminished my girly-ness.

My friends that are mothers of all boy families know what I am talking about. (And there are an abundance of you: Savannah, Tracey, Katey, Karen, Sandi, and Christine, to name a few.) These women know that it takes a different kind of womanhood to exist in an all-boy household.

For one thing, a mother of all boys had better know something about sports, if she doesn’t want to be left out. I have spent my share of afternoons throwing footballs and catching baseballs. It has been to my favor that my cousins, (all the kids my age were males on my Dad’s side of the family) taught me how to throw a spiral and how to close the glove on that ball. I have been amazed at how much Taylor (the silent one) will talk if I am on the receiving end of his passes.

Another thing that I have noticed is that our language is different. I find it effective to use sound effects when communicating with my boys. Add a few “Pow!”, “Brrrrr!”, “Splat!” or “”Zing!” to my discussion and I have all ears. One day I realized our family had engaged in a conversation that consisted of very few intelligible words, and the funny thing was we all understood each other.

Sometimes I have wondered what it must be like to have tiny nails to paint or little tresses to braid; to have someone to pass on my sewing knowledge to; someone to share the small, cute, quiet things in life with. I guess I will wait for daughter-in-laws and granddaughters for those things. For now I will enjoy throwing the pig-skin with my boys . . . while I wear my pink t-shirt.