As you know, I am the only girl living in my house. My family’s idea of Fine Entertainment runs to tractor pulls and dirt piles. Going to the bathroom outside, standing up, with Papa, is the pinnacle of the day.
I don’t really get it. Boys are weird.
However, it’s become clear to me lately that I wouldn’t necessarily understand girls, either, if we had any. We have some good friends with three girls and no boys. Their house is peppered with evidence of three little feminine souls. I find mud-caked shorts in the kitchen, and they find, well … this:
I know that’s a purse. I think it’s also a poodle.
And my personal favorite, which I snapped a couple of weeks ago as I was leaving.
Barbie, all alone in the driveway, doing splits. You just don’t get to see that at our house.