Bones

Let's just admit it.  All families are unique.  Different.  Individual.  

I'll go ahead and call a spade a spade.  Mine is just plain weird.  Or so I assume the neighbors must think.  We raise chickens in the burbs.  Our shrubbery consists of things like blueberries.  My eldest makes costumes from bones.

That's right.  I came home from errand running to find him striking warrior poses in the driveway and wearing assorted bovine skeletal remains.  Then, I came out to take pictures.  It seemed like a photographic opportunity if there ever was one.  I kid you not, traffic slowed.

Oh, well.  Who wants to be normal when you can be a ninja warrior?

The headdress, creatively fashioned from a pelvic bone.

A rib bone dagger.  

His other weapon was a surprisingly aerodynamic boomerang, or as it is more commonly called, a jaw bone.  It did not return when thrown.

Oh, and look.  He decorated.  He seemed genuinely hurt and disappointed when I did not see its decorative value.

In an attempt to salvage what good standing we have left, I put it away.  I figure there will be plenty of other future opportunities for us to raise concern among neighbors.