Yesterday, I dropped the boy and Cousin B off at the golf course. I had to snap a quick picture, because that cousin of ours was wearing a collared shirt. THAT happens as often as total, lunar eclipses come around, because B is a T-shirt and gym shorts sort of fellow.
Before I had even pulled out of the golf course’s property and made it onto the highway to head back home, those two well-dressed ruffians were already texting me pictures from the first green, like THIS ONE:
Yes. That really WOULD BE a snake, being cradled in a golf glove. I don’t care how TINY he is, either. A snake is a snake is a snake. He might as well be a cattle-eating anaconda, as far as I’m concerned.
Being a Boy Mom is not for the faint of heart, I’m telling you.
Also? Well, the sport of golf might be dead to me now. How many snakes will kids find on hockey rinks? Or on basketball courts? I’m going to have to research the snake-finding statistics in these sports, and encourage the boy to divert his passion to something with fewer reptiles involved.