Exhibit A

Being the mom of five wild indians makes my life interesting.

Exhibit A:

Yesterday I loaded them all into our Wild Indian Wagon and stopped to get gas.

Okay, so apparently our local fillin' station has had problems with people leaving the pump nozzles clicked down and spilling gas everywhere so they took the little whatchamacallits that hold the trigger on the nozzle down off. And a 47 gallon tank  takes a while to fill when you've run the tank purty near empty.

Meanwhile...back at the ranch...err...back inside the Wild Indian Wagon...my very wild Wild Indians decided to reenact Custer's Last Stand...on a very small scale since I'm pretty sure Custer and the Native Americans had a much larger space to battle it out in than the backseat of a Suburban.

I'm pretty sure you couldn't get hydraulics to make that thang move in the way it was moving. For reals...you know in cartoons when a group of kids gets into a fight and all you see is a cloud? There's a reason for that. The person who came up with that must have had five wild indians too.

So I stood there pumping gas, pretending to ignore the commotion inside the vehicle...which was pretty difficult since I was leaning up against it.

And believe me, people were staring. But, being the mother of five wild indians, that ain't no thang...it's a pretty common occurrence around these here parts.

All of this is going on and the guy at the next pump decides it's a good time to strike up a conversation. He asks me about the kids, acts shocked when I tell him how many there are and that, yes! they are ALL mine.

And then he hit on me. I don't know if he's crazy, desperate or if he just thought any woman with that many kids could probably use a boost. I don't know. He promptly left.

After what seemed like a million years at the time, I finished filling the tank, and got back into the car expecting for the refereeing part of my job to commence but...

Somehow they had reached a truce. They were happy as larks. They were sweaty and disheveled but you'd have never known they had just fought the battle of the century. I don't even know what the battle was about and I doubt they remember either.

I'm sure that all the people at that gas station thought I was a horrible mother for not interrupting their fight...and maybe I am. But I think it's nice for them to work things out themselves...to either figure out a way to solve the problem or just decide it isn't worth it. Because, let's be honest, I won't always be there to do that for them. When they grow up and have a spouse...mama definitely can't step in and solve the problem. It's all them and Jesus! So I might as well save myself some energy and give them a chance to practice!

Errr....or something like that! That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

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