It seems like I got the pre-approval for the fawns. I don’t know how this happened. The only thing I can think is that they have fawns coming out of their ears and they’ll pretty much just hand them to anyone willing to bottle-feed an animal three times a day for four months. (My suggestion — just ask anyone woman that’s ever breast-fed a child. Three times a day for four months will sound like NOTHING to her. Plus, you get to keep the fawns outside in a cage, which unfortunately, you’re not allowed to do with children.)
When I talked to the fawn guy on the phone, he said he would come by and look at the property. To me this meant, “He won’t be coming inside so you don’t have to clean your house.”
So I didn’t. In fact, I was so confident in my assertion that no stranger would be crossing the threshold of our home, that I decided to do some summer cleaning. I took every possible thing out of the kitchen so I could clean it. I took the slipcovers off the couches to wash them. I got out the big black garbage bags to get rid of all the kid’s clothing that is outgrown, torn and stained. (Sometimes a single item is a trifecta.)
So the inside of the house was total chaos. Plus, my kids had playdates, so there was a herd of screaming children running amongst the old clothes and kitchen appliances scattered on the floor.
Of course, there’s also the 45 baby chicks that are currently residing in Emerson’s room. They add a lovely noise and aroma to our daily life.
So after the fawn people (there were two) checked out our property and said it looked like a great place to raise fawns, they said, “Can we go inside and sign the paperwork?”
Uh….. Inside the house? But can’t you hear the screaming from here? The dogs barking? Things crashing? The incessant sound of chicks peeping? The black garbage bags on our porch?
I stood there frozen for a second, not knowing what to do. Could I just sign the paperwork on the hood of the car? Probably not. I thought, If I want these fawns, I’m going to have to show these people the dark underbelly of our lives.
I trudged back up to the house filled with dread. I decided not to apologize for anything. I don’t know why, it just seemed like if I said, “Our house isn’t normally like this”, they wouldn’t believe me anyway, so why say it?
I stepped into my dystopian Mad Max world, turned to my guests, smiled my best Martha Stewart smile and said, “Can I offer you anything to drink?”
If only they had said, “A couple of shots of tequila would be wonderful.”
Then I could have joined them.