After all my Alabama bragging, I wanted to write about my Arkansas weekend.
On the fourth of July, we went to a Mexican restaurant for lunch. I’m not saying that we were making a statement by going. Really, nothing sounded better than Osegueras, but once we got there, we felt so celebratory. Even though we did have apple pie that night for dessert and did watch a grotesque display of thousands of dollars worth of fireworks from the neighborhood behind ours, we celebrated our country best at a Mexican restaurant.
Saturday morning we went to the market. It is Fayetteville. Everybody wears their flow-y skirts, and we all carry bouquets like bridesmaids. It started raining, and it wasn’t particularly enjoyable, but I want boys who can handle a wet shirt, so we stayed, and there were the best mountain musicians right at Confrontation Corner (Seth and I call it this because this is usually where someone asks you to sign a petition for legalizing mary jane). A couple, both with gray hair, danced in the rain cheek to cheek.
On to other things: I just went to the park to meet a few girlfriends, and Brooke’s daddy brought a baby goat for all our kids to see. (kids. hehe.) Anyway, baby goats are the cutest things ever. Isaac was over checking her out and had been allowed to hold the goat’s leash. I was far away but watching him. For some reason the grown-ups standing there didn’t hear him saying, “Excuse me! Excuse me!” I tried to get their attention because he obviously needed help. The goat sensed his weakness, and she just started full-throttle, nose-to-the-asphalt running across the parking lot. You’d think he would let go, but he didn’t. Squalling all the way, Isaac was being taken on a hard run by a goat. I mean, he was running, and it was pitiful. Brooke’s dad rescued him, because I was late to be at his side for all the laughing I was doing. Such a good mom I am.