Our neighbors have goats. You might think that this is quaint or pastoral or something else along those lines. I might think the same thing too, if I didn’t already have kids, err children, of my own. The first night in our apartment I woke up to hear this plaintive yell. It sounded like, “Aaagghhh, Daaaaad!”. Now, if it hadn’t been in the middle of the night I might have stopped to wonder why one of our kids was calling for Husband Dear instead of me. I’m usually the middle of the night person of choice—might be because, as much as I love that man, trying to wake up Husband Dear in the middle of the night is a lot like trying to wake up a brick…Anyway, I digress, a few steps into my stumbling into one of our children’s rooms and I realize, “Those aren’t my kids—it’s the goats next door.” Now tell me, how many times do you get to say that to yourself? Honestly, when you live here, you can say that to yourself nearly every day, at varying hours of the day (night) until you begin to feel a little crazy. Have I mentioned how much I value sleep? That’s why earlier today when I commented on the delicious grilling smell coming from outside and Husband dear informed me that he had seen one less goat next door, I didn’t feel too bad.
