It is the second day of archery season. My husband is camo-clad, scouring a mountain for cow elk, bow in hand. (Or he very well might be asleep under a tree somewhere in the middle of the forest. But I prefer to imagine the former.)
There is something unequivocally and undeniably sexy about the idea of my man killing an enormous animal. It's rugged. It's manly.
It's also, I'm starting to realize, unfair. He has managed to find a hobby that requires him to spend countless hours enjoying peace and quiet in the outdoors, away from whining and screaming and spilled milk, under the pretense of providing for our family and carrying on an important male tradition that is in danger of being lost.
From September to the middle of November he has the perfect excuse to leave me at home, spending my time arguing futilely with a two year old, scrubbing crayon from walls, vacuuming sand from carpet and force-feeding addition problems to my first grader while trying to fold laundry, make beds and attempting to find a way to make zucchini actually taste good.
Something about this set-up doesn't seem fair. Perhaps I ought to take up hunting.
In the meantime let's all say a prayer to whatever Higher Power may exist that he kills his enormous animal(s) quickly and doesn't have to be gone all hunting-season long.