Onward

Onward, because tomorrow is a new day (and I really have no other acceptable choice anyway).

Last weekend was fueled by a neglectful stupidity, the high-magnitude type that spirals from bad to worse in a particularly horrifying domino effect. When I looked back and realized that the moment the frazzled cashier cussed her computer out in front of my kids was actually one of the better moments, I had the choice to either sigh in defeat or laugh at the insanity of it all. Except by that point I was far too tired to laugh.

Driving onward, with lessons learned.



Those lessons will be useful, I suppose, the next time my husband is in The Netherlands and calls at 2am to calmly say that none of his credit cards are working. Because now I'll know that the bank that does the immediate Western Union money transfer doesn't have their lobby open on Saturdays, and they don't do that through the drive-through. I'll know not to attempt to purchase too much Western Union "Go Cash" at Family Dollar or the computer will lock up for an unspecified expanse of time while accusing me of fraud (and I'll even know the correct location of said dollar store - the only place in town that has it). I'll also know they only accept cold hard cash as payment. And I'll be certain that when it can't get any worse, it will. And no, really, you don't want to hear the other half of the story.

Tomorrow is a new day. Can I get an Amen?

The little pirates

Phase One of the "Get Those Pirates Out of the House" project has begun in earnest.

Two and a half weeks. Is that all? It seems like so much longer. Two and a half weeks of the little savages pillaging and plundering our house. Two and a half weeks of extracting them from my camera bag, the dishwasher, and from behind the boys beds. Two and a half weeks of them gleefully terrorizing Her Royal Highness Ellie, our resident fat indoor cat. Two and a half weeks of nearly failing to keep The Bean from loving them to death (literally).

I've been tossing them out the front door. Under supervision only. The dog almost has me convinced she isn't going to eat them, and "almost" isn't quite good enough.

In two and a half weeks they've gone from "kitten" to "miniature cat".

Oh. And they finally have names.

Captain Hook...



... and Black Beard.



Possibly the least creative names I've ever come up with. My dear husband consoled me by mentioning that my brain is no longer functioning. Instead of being offended, I'm taking it as assurance that I truly am as overwhelmed and exhausted as I feel.

A very good friend threatened to drop off two more kittens. I promised her I'd return the favor by stuffing a hormonal adolescent rooster in her mailbox.

I think I've got all the carousing uncivilized little brutes I can handle at the moment.

But they sure are cute.

A perfect storm

Gardening has always been my escape. My quiet. My time alone after spending a long day kissing owies and tripping over toys, washing dishes and wiping noses and butts. Apparently, that little fact somehow failed to cross my mind when I made the decision to get the kids more involved with the garden this year.

I mean, I know it's the right thing to do. But still...



The Bad: If I were to be completely honest, attempting to "garden" with them this week was beyond frustrating. The carrot seeds blew away. The barn cat sat on the garlic. The boys nearly knocked each other out with their long-handled rakes. The woodticks, fine. I can deal with those. Having to retrieve our runaway Bean from the pasture over and over? That gets old fast.


{for the record, I had no idea the boys were wearing almost-matching shirts}

The Good: The kids Daddy got some of the mud tilled up. We I managed to get carrots, beets and onion sets planted. It's better than nothing, that's what I keep telling myself.



The Truth: We will get the garden in... eventually. Time spent climbing gates and running through the pasture and getting boots muddy isn't time wasted.



Believe me, we had the wood ticks (and a happy barn cat) to prove it.

Linking up with KinderGARDENS week 3

Right now

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. I was enjoying a peaceful moment hanging clothes on the line when all hell kid choas broke out in the house.



Why is it that things can go from happy calm to complete and utter destruction in 2.5 seconds flat?

Upon questioning the guilty-looking parties, I ended up with conflicting stories involving a whoopee cushion, a little girl who was supposed to be napping, and someone's butt being shoved off a bench onto the floor.

Evidence:


This was immediately followed by a poop explosion (a poopsplosion?) the likes of which I haven't before seen in my six and a half years of being a mother.

Every cloth diapering mom knows the first diaper to go into a squeaky clean pail is a nasty one. Every. Darn. Time.

I guess I forgot. Or something.

You know how you can whip a wet diaper off the kid while slipping a clean one underneath in one swift motion?

It pretty much flew everywhere.

But Right Now?

She's asleep. Sweet victory!

Peace Like a River

Our snow melted. Most of it. There is still a surprising amount left in the tree rows. All that melted snow? It's less than ten feet from our house.

My kids have been boating.



Wood Ducks have moved in.

The roads are a mess.

Our neighbor was moved by the Spirit to request the song "I've Got Peace Like a River" during church on Sunday. It was only the day before, on his birthday, that he'd been standing in waist-deep ice-cold water trying to unplug a culvert with my husband. As we were singing, I was moved by the Spirit to turn around and look at him in disbelief. He was grinning from ear to ear and waving his arms around doing the actions to the song. Clearly, in my professional opinion, he was still suffering from hypothermia.

Peace like a river?

The minute I saw those ducks in our backyard, I should have known what kind of day it was going to be. A Monday in every negative sense of the word. I should have known.

So it was that our power went out on a beautifully sunny day. And our sump pump, and our drain tile pump, and our septic tank pump quit running. And our sewage came pouring into our house like a river.

I sacrificed The Bean's squishy pink ball and shoved it down that ancient crusty shower drain in the basement, with a stick, and wedged it in with a concrete block. Apparently I'm not superwoman, because the pressure change caused a geyser of poo water to shoot straight up from a crack in the floor beside me.

Peace like a river.

I made an executive decision that the situation was out of control, and slogged my way back through three inch deep sewage in my rubber boots.

Peace like discovering that by some miracle, the cell phone actually had good reception without having to climb the windmill. My lucky day, indeed.

Peace like good neighbors who dropped a driveway/culvert project to rush over with a generator.

Peace like a quick lesson on how to use the shiny new generator my husband raced home with.

Peace like a few Japanese origami cranes to remind me that others need my prayers and truly, I have nothing to complain about.



Oh, Japan.

I have. Nothing. To complain about.



Peace like knowing He will Never Let Go

Funny math

I've never been particularly great with math, but this one has me totally confused.

Every respectable rancher has an accurate total count of his/her livestock. I raise free-range chickens. Chickens are poultry. Poultry is considered livestock. Livestock is raised by ranchers. Argue if you'd like, but I'm gonna roll with it. Today, I just happen to like how it sounds.

You see the mood I'm in? Consider yourself warned.

At the moment, the big question in my mind is not whether I am a rancher, but whether I am a respectable rancher.

Exhibit A: The notebook that holds a very detailed accurate count of my birds.


Once I had all the wrinkles ironed out last fall, I was left with ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, three Barred Rock hens, and a partridge in a pear tree big Red Rooster.

Minus one.

My hefty old axe was not involved this time, and neither was the stupid green plastic handled machete. I swear (usually not on the blog) it's the truth, people.

The plot thickens:

When I closed up the coop after my goofy feathered rototillers put themselves to bed last night, I did a quick count because it was my apparent lack of a count the night before that led to the day's tragic circumstances. (I found one of the hens frozen outside the barn.) Yes, I'm feeling mighty guilty about it, but I'm also blaming the rooster for not keeping track of all his girls.

Ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, two Barred Rock hens, and a Red Rooster.

Huh!? It was a Buff Orpington that had kicked the bucket!

Are you still with me?

In complete disbelief, I counted them again, out loud. Ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, two Barred Rock hens, and a grumpy Red Rooster.

This is kindergarten-level math, for sure, but I had to count them yet again. What on earth!?

I turned to a very annoyed King Red and asked him what the heck was going on in his kingdom. He gave me the stink-eye and demanded to know why the heck I hadn't filled his royal barley bucket yet.

Exhibit B: Rooster with way too much attitude.


I headed back across the yard through -17F windchill weather without my coat (because this was supposed to be a quick trip to the barn). I returned with a five gazillion candle-power (or something like that) flashlight. Don't laugh! This thing is fantastic when you're playing "Where's Waldo" with chickens in the dark. I could probably flag down an airplane with it, if I really wanted to.

The missing Barred Rock turned up in the first place I checked. Believe me, this is not normally the way this game is played. Checkmate! I tossed her into the coop and His royal Highness King Red glared at me.

Ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, three Barred Rock hens, and a Red Rooster who thinks he owns the universe.

Have you been paying attention?

I have exactly the same number of chickens as I did the previous day.

I'm rather confused about the whole matter.

This is not an easy thing to screw up. Honestly. I count them almost every single evening when I close the coop door. Sometimes my sweet husband locks them up for me, and once in awhile even he counts them. And if, if it is somehow possible that one of the Buff Orpington ladies was spending her nights away from the coop, I would certainly have seen her out in the yard on at least one occasion before I let the flock out their palace in the morning.

They tricked me for months. Months!

Whether I'm a rancher, respectable or not, I'm really not sure.

I am quite sure that I'm a mother.

I, uh.... I have three children. At least I think so. Maybe I'd better go count them.

Rain

I am so thankful for old plaster walls and ceilings.

Our littlest one has a habit of leaving a trail of complete destruction wherever she goes, like the Peanuts character Pig-Pen, except it's not dust.  It's everything.  Absolutely everything.  I really do try my best to stay a step ahead of her, but it's just impossible.  I cannot win.

Our little Bean dumped some water onto the floor.  In her defense, she then brought me the lid of the container and said, "UH OH!".  I ran upstairs to the scene of the crime with a gigantic towel, to find only a little water.  Perhaps more impressive was the fact that my guilty little Bean was completely dry.  Not even a drop on her socks.  But the evidence, the empty container, spoke the truth.  It must have gone through the floor.

I made it back downstairs in time to hear the four-year-old announce in his don't-worry-I've-got-it-all-under-control voice, "we will call this room the rain forest".

Sure enough, it was raining.  If we hadn't been in the house and also in the deepest part of January, it might have been a soothing sound indeed.

Thankfully, our old plaster ceilings can handle a bit of rain much better than the drywall of a fancy new house.

Later that afternoon I giggled at my preschooler as he sat in the living room with an umbrella.



With a sister like that around, it's always a good thing to be prepared.

How the rubber chicken rides

In a period of less than 30 hours:

We had an appointment with a neuropsychologist during which our oldest son told his Daddy to "pass gas" for Mommy. Except he used a different word.



Then during the long ride home, we endured the many sounds that accompany the dear-Lord-please-let-this-drama-be-over-soon moments of a child's first loose tooth. It was excruciating. For all of us.

A little orange hen was invited into our kitchen.

You all think you know where I'm going with this but you are soooooo wrong.

She sat calmly in the middle of the floor where the kids fed her popcorn and read her a stack of books including What's Up Duck. Apparently it was just what she needed.



She's feeling better now, thanks for asking.

The kid pulled his tooth out in the middle of the night. All by himself. Quietly. Then he repeatedly lost and found it in his bedding while he waited for morning. I, on the other hand, hardly slept because I was terrified of the horrors that I knew that loose tooth would unleash upon us the following day.

For once, I was pleasantly surprised.

But not for long.

Our impulsive four-year-old was viciously attacked by a toilet seat. He was lucky to have escaped with only minor injuries to the middle toe of his right foot. I'll spare you any further details of that one.


{ISO 25600, just because I can}

And, although the rubber chicken is that close to having beads explode out it's... ummm... rear end, still it rides on the rear view mirror. I'm starting to wonder if I should put it out of it's misery.

And with the snow...

My main goal for this evening was to straighten out our front entryway. Basically, it's an eternal disaster.

Because of a certain epic drain-tile project, because we no longer have a sidewalk or concrete patio or steps going up to our front door, because we have to use the other door beside the front door which isn't technically our front door, because it snowed... I was going to do this tonight. Designate clean and dirty zones, specific hooks and baskets for each kid's winter junk, the type of thing that makes sense to a mom but will probably never be followed for more than a day or two.

Before I attacked the entryway I wanted to close the chicken coop for the night.

I filled an empty milk jug with warm water. I grabbed the hat that I wore last night when I shoveled the coop out. Goo fell into my eye. Most likely, literally, crap. Strangely, this didn't bother me as much as the thought of walking through our disastrous entryway.

I tiptoed around the mud in the entryway, determined to make it to my boots without getting my socks dirty.

This was apparently too lofty a goal.

Far, far too lofty.

Between me and my boots were three steps. I expected that. What I didn't expect was the slick of thick wet mud and slushy snow completely covering every square inch of these three steps, as well as the landing where my boots sat, mocking me. I put my jug of water down because, apparently, I can think better with both hands free.

After a long minute and some grumbling I aimed my toes for the very edge of the first step.

I kicked the jug of water over.

It poured down and across all three steps, soaked the bottom of my pant leg, and my entire sock. I probably don't need to mention what a happy little clam I was.

I squish, squish, squished my way back into the kitchen, searching for a towel. I looked back, saw my wet sock prints in the carpet and sighed. The sigh of defeat. I slogged back through the stairs of despair and shoved my wet feet into my boots.

Then I realized my gloves were still in the kitchen. Seven degrees Fahrenheit outside? Eighteen mile per hour wind? Who needs gloves?

I stepped outside into a sparkling winter wonderland. With each step more and more snow packed into my boots, which I had failed to zip up. Evening chores completed, I headed back into the house and up the soggy muddy steps: feet wet, hands cold, and two eggs in my coat pocket.

But I learn!

I do not make the same mistake twice!

I covered my coat pocket with my hand, feeling those two fragile eggs inside it. Last Friday when I bent over to take my boots off, two eggs rolled out of my pocket and down the steps. Down the steps, leaving a smattering of egg on each one. Crack, crack, crack, splat. If that's not thrilling I don't know what is.

But I learned my lesson! I wasn't going to lose these eggs!

And then, I guess, I needed to take my hand off my pocket to pull my boot off. Or something.

Crack, crack, splat.

{sigh}

For real. Right into the wet muddy yuck.

Maybe we should just use the back door.

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.

Tiny intruders

I finally caught one of the little buggers!



The drama started about a month ago. Something woke me at 4am, and in my groggy half-conscious state, I couldn't figure out what it was. It was something loud. Very loud. I decided it must be my husband snoring on the couch.

But no, that didn't seem quite right.

Was it the little Bean snoring with her head tucked into my armpit? (Her presence was the reason why her Daddy had escaped to the other room) No, it wasn't her.

It seemed to be coming from the basement.

It sounded like... a frog? A really loud frog? Yes, in the basement.

A few days later we could distinctly hear at least two of them singing to each other.

The search was on.

My husband saw one jumping around behind our freezer. Our boys searched with flashlights until their batteries went dead. Despite doing a quick check for them whenever their song echoed through our home, the only time I saw one was when I lifted a bin of recycling and scared the little guy that was hiding there. It hopped underneath the freezer, of course.

They're tiny little creatures, and fast too. Did I mention how loud they are?

We hear them all the time.

The little Bean puts her finger up to her lips (shhhhhh) and parks herself by the baby gate at the top of the basement stairs so she can hear them better. In fact, when we hear frogs outside now, she puts her finger to her lips and laughs like a hyena.

It's been quite a game.

The sound of frogs singing has been a sort of zen-like addition to the chaos of my days. And honestly, even my husband admits he likes hearing them too.

And I finally got one!

There is a hole in the concrete floor about the size of my hand, with a little cave that disappears behind it. A tiny little frog cave. We've had water issues. Don't ask. The frogs are just the icing on the cake.

Would it worry you to have an empty space of unknown size underneath your basement floor? What if the entire thing is going to collapse? What if I step off the stairs tomorrow with a big basket of laundry and end up in China?

And you know, there are other animals besides frogs that spend winter hibernating deep in the ground. I won't mention them here.

{Cough} Snakes.

What if we get snakes in our basement? My mother would never ever visit us again. I would miss her. Although I do like snakes as much as I like frogs.

Salamanders? I adore them even more. But really? Not in my basement.

Those poor frogs must be so confused. They dig down looking for a nice warm place to spend the winter sleeping, take a wrong turn and end up...

It's been a full month! What the heck are they eating down there!?

So I caught one. Right after our big kid got on the bus one morning. I couldn't just let it go outside. I knew he needed to see it. He loves frogs. LOVES them. But what to do with it until he got home?

I was brilliant. The boys have a little terrarium plant thingie, complete with a lid. Perfect.



The younger boy and I stuck it in there. I spent the day imagining how excited that big kid would be when he saw it, and how happy the tiny frog must be sitting in soft moist soil among the seedlings, instead of on cold concrete.

When the kid arrived home that afternoon, I told him I had a surprise.

I built up the suspense and I built it up good.

We peeked into the terrarium.


{awkward silence}


It was gone... apparently buried itself for the winter. Again.

{sigh}

Sometimes I'm so brilliant I even amaze myself.

The cost

You Capture this week is "photographer's choice". I don't understand how that is a theme. But, whatever, it's Beth's deal so she can do what she wants. It will be fun to see what everyone comes up with.

Photographer's choice? Consider yourself warned.

Okay, I'm teasing and I promise my photo isn't graphic. Promise!

I had some business to take care of on Saturday. My oldest boy wanted to assist, which made the job even more entertaining. Things started off in our usual fashion as it took us nearly an hour to round up the items we needed.

First, a rake. The tines on the one in the barn weren't wide enough for the job. Since it was obvious that the boys had stolen the other one, I sent the kid searching our yard. Our yard is big. BIG.

Meanwhile I looked for the block of wood I used last year. It wasn't in the barn. It wasn't behind the barn. It wasn't anywhere. I started searching our woodpile for a suitable replacement, but couldn't find one that met my strict criteria. I am so hard to please.

The kid had gotten distracted and was hypnotized by a water hose.

As I stood there bemoaning the fact that my perfect old chopping block was gone forever, the little rooster crowed honked, which caused me to burst into laughter... until I realized I was an idiot. Why hadn't I locked him up the night before? I needed him too.

Aw, heck.

From the front corner of the barn to the back, around the lean and back in the front of the barn, me after Honk the whole way. This interested the kid so he joined in the chase. My memory fails me at this point as I don't recall where I finally nabbed him. I do remember the kid laughing.

I decided one of these blocks of wood was going to have to work, but I now had a hormonal adolescent rooster in my hands. The kid didn't want to hold him. I needed my hands free. Into the dog house Honk went.

"HONK"

There was the missing rake beside the dog house which is also in the barn. It had been there the whole time.

My shiny, new, gleaming, expensive, sharp, forged steel head, unbreakable handle, lightweight, evenly balanced axe has gone missing. How is it possible to lose an axe? If anyone can, well, apparently it's me. I grabbed the awkward, double-sided, four foot long wooden handled, hefty old blood spattered axe. Honestly.

{Cue the theme from Mission Impossible here}

I am woman, hear me roar.

A lost-and-found rake, replacement block of wood, barely tolerable axe, and annoying rooster.

Use your imagination.

Or not.

Did I mention I had the camera on the tripod, all set up and ready to go?



No roosters were harmed in the making of this photo.

It's like picking home grown vegetables, except... not.

Honestly, although it makes for a humorous story, taking his life was not something I took lightly.

I was able to thank him for his life, knowing he had a real one. Honk did not grow up under a heat lamp, but under the warm wing of a loving hen. He spent his days scratching and singing out in the sun, interacting with the social order of the flock... so different from the lives of store-bought chickens. In taking his life, I was mindfully aware of what my food really cost. You're welcome to read more of my thoughts on this topic HERE.


You Capture - "Photographer's choice"

The second day of school

The first day of school gets all the attention.

Clothes are laid out the night before. Moms put a tissue in their pocket, just in case. Cameras click click click. Everyone is at least a little bit unsure.



The first day of school, our big kindergartner was ready. His mom was ready. The camera was ready. As we waited, someone noticed spiderwebs and admired them, which calmed any remaining nerves.



Although preschool last year had prepared us all for school itself, the bus was a new thing. He wanted me to step on the bus with him. I was happy to.

Amazingly, considering it was only a few weeks ago that he declared, "And I'm not gonna do it", all was well.

In a cloud of dust, our big kindergartner was off to his first day of school.



Of course it was the second day, when I let my guard down, that the drama arrived.

Again, I waited outside with the kid. The bus was coming down the driveway. The doors opened... but he hesitated.

So our ninety pound beast of a dog got on the bus instead.

Happy tongue swinging, flapping tail slapping the seats, nose investigating, completely ignoring my request for her to get her butt back on firm ground. I finally had to grab her collar and pull. She knew mom meant business and didn't argue.

The giggling kindergartner got on the bus. You would laugh too, if your gigantic dog wanted to go to school with you.

And then I discovered that my clever three-year-old had locked me out of the house.

I have everything under control. Always. Yes, I do. I'm the mom.

Tilt shift baby!

When you live way out in the boonies, where your chickens lay eggs in the doghouse, you still have to enter society once in awhile. Unfortunately. I'd rather be moving our couch in search of escaped amphibians.

Both of which I had to do twice this week.

Was it only yesterday I swore I would never go grocery shopping with all three of my offspring ever again? Ever. For the rest of my days.

I was so distraught I even forgot to use my coupon. It was that bad.

Honestly, the kids aren't normally so bad... two is okay. Three is a gamble. I'm sure it's due to some phenomenon involving psychology, calculus, time of day, and the pull of the moon's gravity on the earth. I don't know. I won't ask my husband because he would sit down with some duct tape, graph paper and a paper clip and figure it out.

And yet, I find myself about to lose my mind again. I find myself having grabbed the cart with the bad wheel that wobbles around and around, praying we find what we need and can get the heck out of here before disaster strikes.

Squeak, squeak, squeak...

Things seem a little off. Perhaps it wasn't a level headed idea, but we gotta get this job done.



Sorry Bean, but the big kid needs shoes.



How is it possible that a kindergartner has need for two pairs of shoes? At school. Need as in "required". Gah.

Hey Wal-Mart! Guess what? I went to K-Mart, so there!



Shoe shopping is serious business, this can't be rushed. But we're already feeling dizzy.

The monkeys want to be free!



Suddenly he realizes that if he pulls up on the front panel of the cart, his cage door starts to open! It lifts the Bean forward up into the air! She squeals and hangs on for dear life... but it's a bad angle for him, and she's too heavy to go all the way over.

He drops the partly open cage door.

It falls back into place.

The Bean plops down in her seat.

Her fingers?

Pinched.



Frogs in the living room is nothing compared to this.

When sharpshooting goes bad

My husband stuck his head in the house and hollered, "Is your coop open?"

I didn't answer right away because I was busy thinking (and making pancakes). Why in the world would he ask me that? My chickens were puttering around the yard doing their thing, so obviously the coop was open. But since we have such great communication around here, I played it safe. Perhaps a gust of wind had blown the coop door shut. Or something. And why would he care anyway?

"It should be open", were the words that I chose gently, very much the way you would pick raspberries off the cane.

Then all things were made known to me.

"There is a skunk in the shop."

"In the shop?"

"Yes, in the shop."

Concise and clear, with no room for error. Such a beautiful thing.

A cupboard door slammed and I heard that metallic "ka-chink". He had my gun.

{if you don't like the type of story that involves a skunk and a gun, you would do well to end today's visit to the farm now... you've been warned}

It was my turn to yell. "Be sure it's not a cat!" I put my spatula down, swung my baby onto my hip and followed him out the door.

{insert some banjo diddly here... and have I mentioned we have nothing but mud in front of the house right now, along with the flattened remnant of my once beautiful flower bed?}

Okay, so it was something. Not a gust of wind, but rather similar in a way if the occasion was right. And people, you already know the occasion was so right that it was going to be very very wrong.


{a raspberry that has nothing to do with my story}

I raced off to the barn to be sure my chickies weren't under skunk assault, since all kinds of metal things were at the same moment apparently fighting for their lives in the shop. All was well. The bird-brains were oblivious to the drama as usual. Life in a shell. First literally and then figuratively.

Just then Pepe le Pew meandered out the shop door, and I witnessed my expert marksmanship former Marine husband drop to his knee while simultaneously firing a single shot. He made it look effortless. I was impressed. It would be an understatement of magnificent proportions to say that his form was better than mine when I shot a bad little skunk two years ago.

However, my aim was better.

It went back into the shop and the Marine was left pacing back and forth on the driveway with my shotgun, debating his next move. Firing inside the shop without eye protection was not an option.

It was interesting and everything, so I went back into the house. I found our boys running around the kitchen with their pancakes, like little wind-up crumb dispensers.

"Is Daddy still alive?"

"Yep. He's standing out there looking very grumpy."

They were bouncing off the walls. "Can we see him? Is the skunk dead? Mommy can we see Daddy? Did he shoot the skunk? Mommy! MommyMommyMommy!"

I moved my pancake batter bowl and put them both, with pancakes in hand, on the kitchen counter with a window facing the farmyard. An eternity later A few minutes later I heard the front door swing open, but I couldn't hear the words that accompanied it. I was sort of curious to say the least.

"What?"

And then I smelled him.

The boys scrambled down from their perch and met him at the border of the demilitarized zone baby gate that blocks our entryway. Our hero had already discarded his clothes at the door. The air was filled with a nearly electric excitement, along with a stench that burned my eyes and made me gag.

It was our oldest boy, always the thinker, who surveyed the scene and made the whole event priceless.

"Daddy", he demanded, "How grumpy are you?"

I'm not sure I've ever giggled and gagged that hard at the same time.

Luckily, it wasn't a direct hit. Two showers later their Daddy was cleared to spend the night indoors.

In a way, the whole ordeal reminded me of THIS...


Although that time the battle was less stinky to say the least.

A bedtime story

So finally it happened. Something that has never happened before, for us. Not saying I'm proud of it, or anything. I guess it just means I can sympathize with other parents in yet another of these "oh crap" parenting situations.

We had one of those days. You know. The kind where you collapse into bed and wonder at how on earth you (and your offspring) survived the day.

The Bean has arrived at the place where she needs between one and two naps a day. This adds to our daily disaster in strange and frustrating ways.

It was only six in the evening and she was froot-looping it bad. Bouncing off the walls (literally), laughing like some kind of evil maniac who had escaped the psycho ward (she is my daughter, after all), shaking the kitchen table so violently she spilled the boys cups... she stopped, briefly, when she heard our rooster crow. She crowed back at him through the window, and then went racing into the other room and attacked the furniture.

It was too early for bedtime but really, what could I do?

We use flat cloth diapers during the day, but at night she uses her Cadillac of a cloth diaper, the BumGenius 3.0. We have only one. I wash it every day. It has velcro closures. She likes to take it off as soon as I put it on her.

The plot thickens...

It was hot in the house. HOT. And humid too.

I made a gut wrenching decision to put her to bed in only her diaper. Why? Because she was so darn tired, I knew she was going to just go right to sleep once I laid her down. Plus, her short sleeved onesies that I normally lock her diaper into were all dirty, so I really had no other option.

We did our thing, she was sufficiently distracted, and to bed she went like a happy obedient little snuggly lamb.

Appearances can be deceiving.

Forty-three freaking minutes later she let loose a blood-curdling screech.

FAIL! I knew what it meant.

I snuck up the stairs and peeked through the crack of her barely open door, only to see her bare naked little crack peeking back at me. Sure enough, there were two wet puddles in her bed. She'd nailed her favorite blankie, along with the discarded BumGenius, but the party had been much wilder than that.

She had pooped.

Had she not squealed mid-squish with the poop in her hand, it would have been far worse. Sometimes the only way I stay sane (I mean, beyond my normal level of insanity) is by convincing myself that it could always be worse. Always. It could be. How that would be possible, I'm not always sure, but it helps to imagine it anyway.

The party travelled with her into the tub, nearly an hour after I put her to bed.



With the BumGenius out of service, I panicked, but then rejoiced upon finding a disposable diaper in the bottom of our diaper bag. I gathered up her bedding and remembered that I was out of laundry soap. It's not a big deal. I make my own. Why was the jug empty? Because I am queen of not doing something now if I can put it off until later. Later had arrived.

Things could always be worse.

My husband was home. He chaperoned her bath-tub party so I could take care of all the dirty business. Thank God. And then he put the boys to bed while I snuggled my little force-of-nature a second time.

And wouldn't you know it, there was a short-sleeved onesie in her dresser, the entire time.

An illusion of peace

You Capture assignment was just to shoot like crazy all week long, and then to post only one photo. Just one.

I had a rough week. Lately it seems like all my boys do is fight. All day long. And it seems like all I do is yell at them.

The little bean is perpetually in "search and destroy" mode. It's one thing after another.

She snuck off with every shoe she could find and threw them behind the dryer. With the shoe project complete, her dresser called to her, she answered, and emptied the whole darn thing. Then she took her brother's banana (it might as well have been the end of the world). The other brother left the bathroom door wide open and, well, use your imagination. Next, she grabbed the CF card (from my camera) which was attached to the laptop which I thought was safely out of her reach. When I took it from her, she unplugged the laptop instead.

That was all within a period of about ten minutes.

When I picked her up to say "Why, girl?", she latched onto my arm with her five big teeth and would not let go.

Another bruise.

Beyond that, yesterday she unplugged the fridge at least five times, and I had to extract her from the dishwasher at least twice. I think we have finally secured the refrigerator plug.

It just doesn't stop.

Our house is a disaster zone. There are dishes all over the kitchen, piles of clean laundry all over the living room, dirty towels on the bathroom floor.

I am completely exhausted.

But we're all healthy (although the bean is cutting some gigantic molars) so who am I to complain.

{sigh}

Oh yes, my one photo.

Even though the light is horribly harsh, and technically this isn't a great photo, it is my favorite of the whole entire week.

It's my favorite because of the sweet calm of the moment. It is a perfect capture of childhood here on the farm in summer. Boys joyfully exploring together, and flattening a path through alfalfa that is already so tall. It was a warm, windy day. They had just crashed their kite and were moving on to the next big thing.


There is another photo that I also really, really like... with the abandoned tractor in focus in the foreground, and a blurry exploring boy disappearing into the alfalfa in the background. But at the moment I like this one of the two of them better.

You Capture - "Your best shot"

A black eye and a strapless dress

I had a wild and crazy week.

My grandpa thought I'd been a blogger missing-in-action because I'd been busy gardening. Not so much. We've had something like five inches of rain in the last week. I now officially have a swamp. Maybe I should look into growing rice.

It was Vacation Bible School week at our church. I was put in charge of crafts by a dear friend who has an unwavering faith in the impossible, and obviously believes I have the ability to successfully multitask.

There is just nothing like showing a group of children how to assemble a "bopper popper" (which consists of two cardboard tubes, two rubber bands, a string and a ball), and attempting to explain how it relates to their lesson for the day... while balancing a way-beyond-naptime year-old babe on my hip, her blankie over my shoulder, and doing my best to keep from being knocked completely over by a hysterical five-year-old with a black eye.

Yes, the black eye was a direct result of a game the first day of VBS.


Church events are an awful lot of fun, just look a that face! You know he had a great time.

I felt a teensy bit guilty for escaping VBS half-way through the week.

But I had to load up a few bags and my kiddos, and hit the road. You see, my cousin was getting married. Outside. On a pasture that was so authentic it was best to pay close attention to where you stepped.


Beyond the cow poop which may or may not have been attached to the bottom of my sandals, I also quickly learned to pay very close attention to something else.

I sat down. And so did the top of my strapless dress.

Apparently I don't have much to hold it up.

Not to worry!

It was fifty-five degrees out and windy. Naturally, since it was still hours before the wedding, I had a sweatshirt over my dress. Classy, I know, but darn lucky too.

I was saved by my sweats.

And the way it turned out, it didn't matter what anyone (except the wedding party) had chosen to wear. In the last hour before the ceremony began, a light mist turned to rain, and the wind continued to blow. Guests were wearing whatever jackets, sweatshirts, hats and blankets we could scrounge up from our vehicles.

We wiped off our wet seats, shivered, and laughed while we got soaked and witnessed a wedding to remember.

As the ceremony began, the groomsmen handed their jackets over to the shivering bridesmaids, who in turn gave the men their flowers to hold. We listened to a guitar held under umbrellas. I watched the photographers do magic with cold fingers while trying to keep their Canon 5D Mark II cameras dry.

The bride and groom laughed.

It was completely insane.

It was awesome and uniquely their day.

My yesterday

Yesterday evening I sat here eating cold rice and broccoli (which was honestly not half bad), as the kids were all finally in bed and it was the first peaceful moment of my day.

I haven't been blogging much. I'm sure you all missed me terribly. Although, I did get a little something fun posted late last night.

My five-year-old has had a miserable fever for over a week. He even went over 105 at one point, which scared me more than I care to admit. We've gone through most of a bottle of acetaminophen and more than half a bottle of ibuprofen. Not good.

He had a clinic visit yesterday for the second time. Different doctor than the last one I wrote about, thankyouverymuch. He had to have his finger poked and something like three drops of blood taken.

And I am deaf.

Holy screaming, tears, drool-flinging, sputtering hysterical drama. At that point they were thinking maybe he had Mono. I'm sure the technician wrestling with his finger was thrilled to be in the path of his germ spewing turbulence. She was wearing a full-body armour paper suit.

There is no way that was adequate protection.

(sigh)

But that bloodwork paid off big time, you know. We were right back where we started only knowing what he didn't have. Not Mono. Okay, that's good. At his first visit we found out he didn't' have Strep.

The antibiotic we started him on after his first visit was obviously not doing a darn thing for him so she changed it.

The next high-magnitude disaster was that we forgot to ask for suckers. Sick kiddo realized it as he was buckling himself into the car. His supply of tears was endless. At least he wasn't dehydrated.

His new antibiotic was almost fifty dollars, and that was just our co-pay.

Crazy.

Also crazy is the fact that we have carpet in our dining room.

Have I mentioned how much I dislike carpet?

Some of us had broccoli for supper, although not all at the same time. Have I mentioned how much the little Bean loves to eat broccoli? It's almost her favorite thing. She loves it so much that she had to tip her plate up to her face and lick it, dumping all of her broccoli straight down into her lap and onto the floor. Did I mention that my husband ended up with broccoli squished between his bare toes?

So, yeah, we have glorious carpet in the dining room, which is embedded with broccoli. Simply brilliant.

I hate carpet.

I'm that close to declaring war on every stitch of carpeting in this house. The Bean's bedroom is next.

About the time we were realizing exactly how many places in the room had been decorated with broccoli, our youngest boy spoke up.

"I'm tired"

And then he immediately fell off his chair. Taking his bowl of rice with him.

Carpeting? In the dining room? Lord have mercy. Squished broccoli and rice.

There are moments every day that I have to admit complete and utter defeat. I'm certain it must be therapeutic to recognize it. Because otherwise I might just sit in some broccoli in the corner and cry.

We had to get the kids to bed. It was The End. You know when you get to The End because you are so far past it. It makes bedtime routines a heck of a lot of fun.

My stubborn sick kid refused to got potty before heading up to his bedroom. Keep in mind I had been pushing him to drink water ALL day. As I looked into his grumpy, miserable, dark circles under-the-eyes face, I suddenly knew what I had to do. It was the moment of destiny for my bruised purple toenail.

Fear not, I'll spare you having to see a photo of it.

A sewing machine tipped over onto it. Just tipped over, didn't technically fall. It was heavy and hurt like... well, if you've ever had a purple toenail then you know.

My socks were already off (wet broccoli does not add much to the comfort level of socks). I sat on the bathroom counter and hung my bare purple toe (with the rest of that foot) over the toilet.

"You want to pee on my purple toe?"

He thought that would be awesome. Luckily for my toe, my foot was faster than his bladder valve.

He was laughing so hard, I'm still amazed that he actually aimed it so well.

Boys.

I'm finding it hard to believe that somehow we survived the day. Except for my sad sick boy, it's a success, then, I suppose.

The revenge of José

Since some of you have an emotional investment in José Jalapeño, I thought it would be considerate of me to finish his story. You'll thank me later, perhaps.

(You can read about him here. Also click here, to see his adorable baby pictures.)

José had been looking terribly delicious lately. My oldest boy wanted the honor of picking him. Really, I wanted to pick him, but you know how it goes when you're a mom.


He did a great job.

With José in hand, we realized just how small he was.

No problem, my youngest boy wanted to wield the kitchen shear too. I can't blame him. This was a ton of fun (keep in mind that we don't have a television).

With two hands on the weapon, a three-year-old boy's assault on the jalapeño plant began.

He aimed for the largest one,


and missed.

The tiniest one was set free instead and went bouncing across the room.

The child was determined. It appeared that he didn't even notice his first victim and pressed on towards his goal. It took a few minutes, but he finally returned victorious to the kitchen.

They smelled as amazing as they looked (the jalapeños, not my boys).


I chopped them up, thinking I would need to remember that my hands would be like fire to any mucous membrane for the rest of the day. Specifically, I wondered how I would safely change the baby's diaper.

But there it was, ready for the broiler.


Don't look at my ugly plate, I have much more handsome ones but they can't go in the oven. Well, actually they could, but it might be exciting in a bad sort of way.

Into the broiler it went.

And then? I don't even want to say it, but you know it's true.

I touched my eye.

My left eye. The one I need to make an appointment for because I think my tear duct is blocked. For real.

I didn't realize it for a few microseconds, of course. I grabbed my eye and quite honestly don't remember what I said, but my husband stood there staring at me like I was an alien. I quickly turned the broiler off because gosh darn it I am not going to ruin these chips! And went racing for the bathroom sink and ran lots of cold water into my poor eye that cannot wet itself.

It was like strolling down memory lane, except in a very painful way. Don't worry, you're coming with.

The last time I had ice-cold water running over my eyes, it was in my previous life in the exciting world of biotech.

I had isopropyl alcohol that contained human brain DNA splash all over my face. It was in my eyes, up my nose and in my mouth. It's true, people, I swear. The doctor at the walk-in-clinic told me I won his strange and unusual case for the day, hands down. And believe me, his day was nowhere near over.

Those of you who don't know me in real life, I truly am a walking disaster-waiting-to-happen. I don't want to believe in the theory of parallel universes. I can only imagine the kind of destruction I may have caused by now, although the theory fascinates me to no end.

After José had his way with me, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my eye didn't hurt. It was just nice and warm, in a numb kind of way.

I went back and got the broiler going.


You know what, honestly? Totally worth all the drama.

Amazing.

I grew a jalapeño (a bunch of them actually), in my house, during our frozen winter, and I ate it. I did share with my husband which might even be a bigger miracle.

Truly, I am a rebel if there ever was one.


But after what I went through to do it, I really turned the event into an indulgence. Now that was pure perfection.