Porch Sitting and Possums: Tales from the Suburban Wild

Porch Sitting and Possums: Tales from the Suburban Wild

Life out here just outside of Atlanta is a little bit sweet tea, a little bit chaos, and a whole lot of “did that really just happen?”

Take this week, for example.

The girls have been “porch sitting” with me like they’re eighty-seven years old. They’ll grab a juice box, plop down in a patio chair, and comment on the neighbors like they’re narrating a small-town drama. And since their minds aren’t trying to process 50 gagillion things at once, they have amazing memories. We get the recap at lunch, dinner, and storytime. After the girls’s bedtime, I find my husband and I discussing their recaps like headlines on the news.

Now let’s talk about the possum.

Or should I say, “our fourth child who only comes out at dusk and thinks our garbage can is a buffet.” Last night, Nugget lost his mind barking at the back door. I looked out expecting a squirrel. Nope. That possum just stared me down like I was the one trespassing. Sir, I pay this mortgage. Kindly back away from the Cheez-It box.

The girls are now arguing over what to call him more than they did when we brought Nugget home. Its either “Peanut” or “Scruffie” - may the best girl win!

And all this before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee.

Sometimes I scroll through Pinterest and see those adorable parenting schedules and Montessori play stations and think “aw, bless their hearts.” Because down here, parenting isn’t always picture-perfect. It’s a mash-up of Target runs, sticky porch swings, and kids making “mud pies” that are suspiciously poop-adjacent.

But goodness gracious, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Except maybe an uninterrupted shower and a possum-free trash can.

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