You’re at Belly Acre Farm if . . .
You look in the dog run and instead of rawhide chews, the dog is gnawing on overgrown cucumbers.
You’ve spotted a house with green vines and blue flowers overtaking the front porch pillars.
Mom’s favorite song comes on the radio and she turns it WAY up and dances along.
Safety Man brings his noise dosimeter home and announces that Mom’s music is over 90 decibels.
There’s a practice net set up for your hubby and son to practice hitting golf balls into.
There are two different dents in the soffit of the back porch from errant Birdie Balls – golfesque practice orbs that your son mis-hit.
There’s a deep dent in the metal framing of the front door. It has golf ball dimples, courtesy of your son. (Note: He did receive the lecture entitled, “What if that had hit a window?”)
Two eight-year-old girls are out on the front lawn bouncing on giant soccer-style hippity-hops.
There are no more yellow summer squash in the garden. They’ve been ripped out and added to the compost pile. (At last!)
You see a white Buick pulling out of the driveway to deliver the latest round of raspberries to Hubby’s work – where they’ll be sold to his co-workers.
A dog looking like a Black Lab streaks across the back lawn towards the neighbor’s escaped chickens and you hear a frantic woman growling, “No! Annie come! Come!”
If the kids have their friends over for milk and cookies and Mother proceeds to try to teach them how to burp on demand. (This is after she’s made them promise not to tell their mothers where they learned their new-found skill.)
Fall is in the air and you hear a blood-curdling witch’s cackle. Never fear, it’s just me.