His birfday

One of the little people that lives here had a birthday a few weeks ago. I thought, like many a parent might, that I would try to get a few pictures of him on his special day. Try being the key word there, since he screams and runs away from the camera now. Where did I find him? In a laundry basket, of course, and wearing nothing but his underwear.

"Dude, how old are you now?"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh... NOOOOOOO!"



"I'm just taking pictures of the laundry basket, don't worry."

"Oh. Are you taking pictures of the laundry basket?"

"Yep. So how old are you?"



"FOUR!"

"And what's that on your arm?"

"It's a Sand Shark. A Sand Shark tattoo. Because the Great White Shark ripped in half. It ripped into TWO pieces, and I didnint want it to do that."

"I know, I was sad when that happened too. Why are you four?"

"Because it's my birfday. Because I came out from you in the green car. Ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Why in the world did you do that?"

"Because I didnint want to wait!"



"Your Grandmas think that was silly. Why are you hanging out in a laundry basket?"

"Because I want to."

"Are you going to the moon?"



"No. This is a summarine."

"A submarine? Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"Huh. Well, should we go to Dairy Queen and get ice cream with sprinkles, since it's your birthday?"

"With SPRINKLES!"

"But you have to get dressed first."

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Noooooooo!"

He punches them

The weather that arrived here yesterday was dynamic.

A mix of rain and snow was driven through the barn roof. As our house rattled and shook through the night, part of our corral fence blew over.

My free-range hens made the choice to spend the day inside their cozy coop, where it is warm and (mostly) dry.

And so, apparently, did Marshall.


{he punches them}
Had it not been for their rather dynamic relationship, it would have been a very good choice indeed.

Madeline Bea's creative prompt: Dynamic

Focus

The auto-focus is messed up on my camera. It's front-focusing.

It's so frustrating.

Most of the images I've been posting lately were manually focused. This is just plain wrong. It shouldn't have to be done. It also means it was nothing more than dumb luck that I nailed the focus on Mr. Underwear's beautiful eyeball.

It's also frustrating to no end when I, myself, can't stay properly focused.

If I forget a load of laundry, I have to stay up late to get it done. If I lose track of our pantry and freezer, meal planning becomes frantic and stressful. If we don't have the boys pick up their stuff on some sort of semi-regular basis, it spills over into every room in the house. If I don't immediately fold the clean clothes that are piled high on the couch, the little Bean will put it back in the dirty clothes hamper. She's such a helpful little thing.

Since my camera can't focus to save it's life, I've been playing with my lensbabyand it's super-wide angle attachment (which allows macro capabilities). It has to be manually focused anyway. It looks bizarre, with that short piece of wobbly hose attached to the camera.



When things are properly focused, it makes all the difference.

I'm trying to remember, also, that if my house is a disaster because I spent the entire day playing with my babies... my focus is right where it needs to be.

Clean clothes are just a luxury anyway, right?

Linking up with Macro Monday

Vulnerability

This month, the discussion at Shutter Sisters has centered around embracing imperfection. It's a great theme, really.

Imperfection is all around us.

Society tells us we must be perfect. But we can't.

I smile in church on Sunday morning, but the fact is our little family was beyond frustrated with each other in our attempt to get there on time. The weeds pulled from my garden return again and again. I put on my good shoes to go into town, then step in chicken poop on my way to the car. When I pack up everything the kids need for a weekend at Grandma's house, without a doubt, I'll forget to pack underwear for myself. I try to be a good mom, but I yell at my kids.

Our world is broken, and so are we. It's just a part of who we are.

But there is One who is perfect, who takes my imperfections daily.


{I take too many pictures of raspberries}

We fall.

But there are things hidden inside that we might not otherwise find.


{there were three beetles but I wasn't fast enough}

Exploring imperfection has helped me understand why you'll find very few posed portraits of my kids here. Sure, I'll attempt nice posed shots for friends and family who ask. (The photographers who manage to do that impossible task are immensely talented.) But what I really adore, the photos that grab my heart and take my breath away, are the lifestyle-type shots.

The moments that just happen.

The moments that are real and true and honest.

The moments are are messy and imperfect.

The moments that we are vulnerable.

The moments that make up this life.

Fashionable hens

I wrote this a few months ago as a guest post for another site. The lady I handed it to has had her world turned upside down, so while the guest post may not actually happen, I thought I would share it here anyway. Please excuse the crappy pictures. And, you can find my original post on this same topic HERE (it's one of my all-time favorites).



I have a problem. Several, actually... but let's not go there. Not today.

I have a Buff Orpington rooster, who just happens to be a rather handsome fellow. He has a number of jobs here on The Old Nichols Farm, and he does them well. Very well, in fact.



Red adds atmosphere to our farm, sings the praises of each and every day, protects and provides for his ladies, and generally marches his Royal Highness around like he owns the place. He also, ummm... gifts his hens with what they need in order to lay fertile eggs.

He takes every single one of these jobs very seriously. You would too, if you were king.

But, as those of you who share space with a rooster already know, he is a trouble maker. A royal thorn in my side, to be exact. Luckily, Red has a few things going in his favor. At the moment his good attributes outweigh the bad, and anyway, I can't find my axe.

Red is endlessly enthusiastic about one job in particular. He likes his ladies. Very much. He's got his favorites too, which doesn't help matters any.



You notice the missing feathers on her back?

Yes, I do have a problem.



Chickens can get sunburned. Who knew?

Summer is the least of my worries for these naked hens of mine. Out here on the prairie, winter is coming. It's not negotiable. It won't be fun. When the thermometer hits minus 20 Fahrenheit, I throw my hands up in defeat, plug in the heat lamp in the coop, and pray that I don't end up burning the whole barn down.

Colder that that? Yeah, it happens.

I chose these breeds (Buff Orpington and Barred Rock) for a number of reasons, but the most important was cold-hardiness. Oh. Oh, my. Oh my poor, poor, naked hens.



I've been restricting the amount of time Red spends with them, but it makes everyone so grumpy. I think he just makes up for the lost time by getting extra busy when he is with them.

I could always turn him into chicken soup (the axe has got to be here somewhere), but I like having him around more than I care to admit. I was nearly in a panic the other day when I thought we'd lost him.

I've weighed my options. There is only one thing to do.

Time to saddle these girls up!

Sadly, this isn't our first rodeo. Last fall I used fleece. The girls need more hefty coverage this time around. I honestly can't believe how many feathers Red has ripped out stomping around on their backs.

I went searching for a few items: leftover snake-skin patterned (seriously) fleece, my favorite pair of jeans that just happen to have a hole across the butt cheek (no I'd rather not talk about it), and the pattern for the size and shape of saddle that seemed to work best last year (it took a few tries).

I couldn't find the snakeskin fleece, which totally ruins my story.



We're going with white flannel instead.

Now this is highly technical. Try to stay with me.

Flannel on the bottom for comfort, rugged denim on the top for protection from overzealous claws and sharp spurs. Two teardrop shaped holes for wings. A slit at the back for the tail.



Approximately nine and a half inches each way.

As I began to sew the two layers together I had a thought. Romeo was going to get his toes caught in the stitching and Lord have mercy, then I would have a real circus on my hands. So I only stitched across the front side.

Embellishment optional. I couldn't help myself.



Now for a test drive.



New clothes usually feel odd at first. But a few minutes later she was back to scratching around the yard.

Fleece is stretchy. Denim and flannel? Not so much. I should have made the holes just a bit longer.



I haven't specifically seen it in action yet, but I think this will work.

Now if I could just get these girls to stop leaving their eggs in the doghouse...

I cannot explain

Did it spontaneously combust? Or die of a horrific fly-sneeze?



There it was. Clinging to the glass of our bedroom window. Stiff and crusty.

I've seen it happen before. All summer I find them, dead, hanging from my clothesline... from leaves on tomato plants... from the kids swingset. But only when they're attached to windows do they really fascinate me. Part of them vaporizes from beneath and splatters all over the window. I don't get it.

Best of all, if I don't get it cleaned up right away, I have to use a razor to scrape it off. And I swear it's true.

But the real question is, do I have nothing better to blog about than dead flies?

Barnyard Bokeh:



1. Barn.
2. Leaky barn roof.
3. The other even more crappy barn.
4. Another little leaky falling down shed where I get to keep my gardening stuff. Lucky me.
5. The windmill almost made it into the picture. Actually it's not falling down one bit and is really quite cool. (and good for climbing)
6. Horny rooster crowing and a bunch of annoyed hens scratching around under an orchard that isn't impressive at all yet.
7. Green grass where hoses and pipes are intricately assembled by a six year old plumber.
8. Sneaky hidden chicken nest back in the pasture. What the heck. When they quit laying eggs in both the coop and the doghouse, I know there is funny business going on. They can't fool me.
9. Dirt. I'm surprised there is any left outside anymore.
10. More dirt which circles the entire house, which is certainly better than the moat which was there before, which was a result of our drain-tile project this summer, which means our basement is sort of dry now.

Have I mentioned we have frogs in the basement?

The end.

PS. This post is my husband's fault, because he insisted I take a picture of the remains of that exploding fly.

PPS. If you're subscribed by email, this post is brought to you twice, courtesy (again) of my husband who was being a pest and somehow caused me to "publish post" when this was only half-written. Awesome.

This morning

I walk into the kitchen, smashing Cheerios with every step I take. My breakfast is going to be leftover soup. Knoepfle Soup, with some of the very best chicken on this earth.

It feels cold in the house, I was bad and turned the furnace up. My excuse? If Mama is cold the babies must be cold too. I'll have to remember to turn it back down in a minute or two. The grass is white. October is half-over and this is only our second good frost. I'm looking forward to my hot soup.


{that isn't a horse, it's our horse-sized dog}

All of the bowls are dirty. Every last one. I didn't get the dishes done last night because I was looking at cameras on ebay. Twenty minutes turned into two hours. Ebay makes me nervous.

I put my soup in a mug. That should work. Wrong. Apparently soup heats differently in the microwave when it's in a mug. Another mess.

But all is not lost and I sit down with my half-mug of soup. The little Bean circles me like a shark, saying "Hot! Hot! Hot!". The hair clip that she begged for before she dumped Cheerios all over the floor is that close to freedom. I cringe because it looks painful hanging there by only a few hairs. But she's happy.

I'm suddenly perplexed at the orange things floating in my soup. They almost look like bits of carrot, but I didn't put carrots in this soup. Yes, they're definitely carrots. This is not my Knoepfle Soup. Oh, yay. This is the Potato Soup I made over two weeks ago. It doesn't look funky. It doesn't smell odd. I put it down and get a new mug. My fridge is big but it's not that big. Now where is my Knoepfle Soup?



The Bean is shrieking like a trapped weasel. It's a muffled, far-away sounding scream. And being her mother I know exactly what the deal is. She managed to wiggle her way underneath the fitted sheet on her Mommy and Daddy's bed. Again. You know, the fitted sheet that is underneath the other sheet, that is underneath a blanket and a comforter. And on top? Her brother is jumping on her.

I rescue her, kick them both out of the bedroom and sit down with my soup because I have got to write this all down. Because this is my life... on a calm morning. And I want to remember these ordinary mundane details too, not just the more dramatic ones I have recorded here.