Do you ever make chocolate pudding for the kids, and then eat every last drop of it (with a spatula) before they ever knew it existed?
Do you ever step out of the shower with a noticeable scratch on your forehead because there was a stiff twig in your shampoo?
Do you ever have a Shakespeare-type tragedy unfold at bedtime? The little brother begins to lift the toilet lid so he can pee, even though you told him to wait until his older brother used it for a step-stool to get up to the counter, so that he could brush his teeth. The big brother reacts in brotherly love by jumping onto it anyway, which smashes the little brother's fingers between the toilet seat and the porcelain bowl. The big kid completes his awkward ballet move by tripping over his little sister, knocking her down while she generally minds her own business.
But it's not over yet.
When told to go into the other room to discuss what just happened, he flops onto the couch in such a manner that he inadvertently kicks you in the nose. Hard.
Do you ever find that the dog has relocated her food bowl, along with a beheaded rat, to the place your front step would be, if you had one?
Have you ever had a day like that?
No?
Really.
Huh.
Yeah, me neither.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Just another chicken story
Another excuse, another chicken story...
Because of a temporary internet handicap, I'm only able to post words at the moment. No pictures.
I made the mistake of participating in a mini-workshop online a few days ago, which involved downloading a 43 page document and listening to a 40 minute audio recording. It might have been the best twenty-five dollars I ever spent, except that... well, this apparently shocking amount of online usage was enough to anger the gods of our satellite internet. They show no mercy, in case you were wondering. We've been soundly spanked and our internet speed reduced to a level that makes good old dial-up look even better than sliced bread.
Unfortunately, dial-up is not an option for us because our dog chewed the line in half.
And I'm not joking either.
Fingers crossed that I can actually upload a few lines of text while that shiny satellite gives me it's middle finger as it zooms past somewhere way up there...
My neighbor stopped by a couple weeks ago and found a random pile of fourteen eggs in my barn. Strange, because I'm in that barn at least twice a day and I had no clue they were there. Stranger still, the dog is in and out of that barn constantly, and she didn't know they were there either.
Today I saw a hen sneak around some scrap metal along the side of our garage. Guess, my friends. Just guess what she was up to? Ah, yes. There was another unauthorized pile of eggs. Eight. One of them was squishy.
A squishy egg. I can't even begin to describe how wrong it felt in my hand.
In the two and a half years I've had this flock, we've been lucky enough to witness some bizarre stuff in the egg-laying-department. We've seen two itty bitty little "fart" eggs, one of which was laid on Easter Sunday. I was nearly bombed by a hen who laid an egg in mid-air. The girls have laid at least two eggs without a shell, just that transparent outer membrane.
But a normal looking egg, the correct size and color and weight... and yet it squished and wiggled and wobbled under my fingers?
No lie.
I'm speechless.
Maybe the girls need a bit more Calcium in their diet?
Because of a temporary internet handicap, I'm only able to post words at the moment. No pictures.
I made the mistake of participating in a mini-workshop online a few days ago, which involved downloading a 43 page document and listening to a 40 minute audio recording. It might have been the best twenty-five dollars I ever spent, except that... well, this apparently shocking amount of online usage was enough to anger the gods of our satellite internet. They show no mercy, in case you were wondering. We've been soundly spanked and our internet speed reduced to a level that makes good old dial-up look even better than sliced bread.
Unfortunately, dial-up is not an option for us because our dog chewed the line in half.
And I'm not joking either.
Fingers crossed that I can actually upload a few lines of text while that shiny satellite gives me it's middle finger as it zooms past somewhere way up there...
My neighbor stopped by a couple weeks ago and found a random pile of fourteen eggs in my barn. Strange, because I'm in that barn at least twice a day and I had no clue they were there. Stranger still, the dog is in and out of that barn constantly, and she didn't know they were there either.
Today I saw a hen sneak around some scrap metal along the side of our garage. Guess, my friends. Just guess what she was up to? Ah, yes. There was another unauthorized pile of eggs. Eight. One of them was squishy.
A squishy egg. I can't even begin to describe how wrong it felt in my hand.
In the two and a half years I've had this flock, we've been lucky enough to witness some bizarre stuff in the egg-laying-department. We've seen two itty bitty little "fart" eggs, one of which was laid on Easter Sunday. I was nearly bombed by a hen who laid an egg in mid-air. The girls have laid at least two eggs without a shell, just that transparent outer membrane.
But a normal looking egg, the correct size and color and weight... and yet it squished and wiggled and wobbled under my fingers?
No lie.
I'm speechless.
Maybe the girls need a bit more Calcium in their diet?
Friday, November 18, 2011
Orange pumpkins
Three weeks ago, it was still autumn. I should have taken pictures of the kids in their Halloween costumes that day. But of course, we haven't had one afternoon free of first grader homework since then, while the weather was still nice.
We still haven't done it. And I imagine we probably won't. Momtographer fail.
Weather being "nice" is all relative. A month from now I'll wish I had done it today. Maybe, because I've actually typed this, we will. Today. Or attempt to, anyway. Then I'll post them here and make you guys look at them.
And since I'm going to make you look at my pictures... because, after all, this is my blog...
Maybe I'll even post some from our one and only family vacation ever since we had kids. The one we attempted even though it was an insane idea (to put it mildly). The vacation we went on four months ago. Four months. My kids have grown inches since then. I'd bet money on it. You could also bet money that I haven't finished processing my pictures from that vacation (four months ago).
Excuse: The image files are way too big and my computer is way too slow. Painfully slow.
When we got home from that family vacation, it wouldn't have been us who decided that we just couldn't admit failure in the pumpkin growing department. So the first grader and his mother planted a pumpkin from seed even though it was the end of July.
Why? Because we wanted to.
And like the boys always say when I ask them why they've done something stupid, "Just for fun!"
Doesn't everyone plant pumpkins when the end of July rolls around?
So I can tell you the whole truth: It obviously wouldn't be us ridiculously giddy for having orange pumpkins to show for that less-than-sixty-day growing season. Or something like that.
Heck yes. Apparently they can ripen off the vine.
We still haven't done it. And I imagine we probably won't. Momtographer fail.
Weather being "nice" is all relative. A month from now I'll wish I had done it today. Maybe, because I've actually typed this, we will. Today. Or attempt to, anyway. Then I'll post them here and make you guys look at them.
And since I'm going to make you look at my pictures... because, after all, this is my blog...
Maybe I'll even post some from our one and only family vacation ever since we had kids. The one we attempted even though it was an insane idea (to put it mildly). The vacation we went on four months ago. Four months. My kids have grown inches since then. I'd bet money on it. You could also bet money that I haven't finished processing my pictures from that vacation (four months ago).
Excuse: The image files are way too big and my computer is way too slow. Painfully slow.
When we got home from that family vacation, it wouldn't have been us who decided that we just couldn't admit failure in the pumpkin growing department. So the first grader and his mother planted a pumpkin from seed even though it was the end of July.
Why? Because we wanted to.
And like the boys always say when I ask them why they've done something stupid, "Just for fun!"
Doesn't everyone plant pumpkins when the end of July rolls around?
So I can tell you the whole truth: It obviously wouldn't be us ridiculously giddy for having orange pumpkins to show for that less-than-sixty-day growing season. Or something like that.
Heck yes. Apparently they can ripen off the vine.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Cloudy
I'm done posting pictures of rainbows and telling stories about the unicorns that live in my barn, and making you gag by lying about how incredibly amazing and wonderful my life has been since the day I had kids. Or do I not do that? Because, yeah. That's really not how it is.
I'm half-tempted to lock this blog down to public readers. Why do I write it? Why do I share my pictures? Who is it for? I'm not sure. Most days I question whether I'm emotionally stable enough to be writing here.
{deleted paragraph where I did nothing but make excuses}
Yesterday's sunrise screamed that the weather was about to change. Bipolar weather. It rained while the sun was shining, snowed briefly, rained, then snowed for ten minutes again. All within half an hour. Fitting.
This morning after the first grader was on the bus, the half-sized cats kicked back outside, the firstfire put out fight between the two little kids deferred until later resolved, and the laundry folded... it's not even 8am and there isn't any laundry piled in the living room.
HOORAY!
Anyway, this very strange orange glow caught my eye out the window. Like fire all around.
It looked so weird. There was a heavy bank of clouds and a tiny space where the sun was shining straight across the earth beneath them. Sideways light to the direction the snow was falling. And brilliant fire orange.
That might look like a normal sunrise, but it was long after that sunrise color usually fades.
So it's snowing. Not that it's going to stick around for more than a day or two, but, technically it is snow. I still have to clean out my garlic and plant my chicken coop.
No.
Plant my garlic and clean out the coop. And pull that rag out of the side of the house and squirt some of that expanding foam stuff in there instead. Luckily the hole is too high on the wall for my birds to reach, because:
True: Chickens eat styrofoam and dried expanding foam if they can get to it.
Why?
Their brains are the size of peas. Small peas. I think.
Embarrassing confession: I found my missing camera remote
, the one I spent two months searching for. It wasn't in the top of my bedroom closet with that fancy elusive ax. It was in...
well,
I laughed at myself when I found it, because...
I was sure it couldn't be the missing one (for seriously?)
except that it was all scratched up,
like the old one,
so it was pretty immediately obvious that I'm an idiot.
I reached into my camera bag to grab a tube of chapstick for a kid while I was driving, and came out with the remote in my hand. My kids grandmothers: we were going like two mph on a gravel road with no one else in sight, don't freak. The kid laughed. It makes perfect sense that my husband stole it, strategically waited until I'd purchased new ones, and then planted it back in my bag.
Right?
Sometimes I wish I was that delusional.
56. Enough pockets in a camera bag.
57. Three remotes.
58. Chapstick.
59. Sunrise.
60. A chicken so funky the furnace guy asked, "WHAT is that?"
61. Successful attack on the laundry, despite help from The Bean.
62. French toast made from homemade cinnamon bread.
I'm half-tempted to lock this blog down to public readers. Why do I write it? Why do I share my pictures? Who is it for? I'm not sure. Most days I question whether I'm emotionally stable enough to be writing here.
{deleted paragraph where I did nothing but make excuses}
Yesterday's sunrise screamed that the weather was about to change. Bipolar weather. It rained while the sun was shining, snowed briefly, rained, then snowed for ten minutes again. All within half an hour. Fitting.
This morning after the first grader was on the bus, the half-sized cats kicked back outside, the first
HOORAY!
Anyway, this very strange orange glow caught my eye out the window. Like fire all around.
It looked so weird. There was a heavy bank of clouds and a tiny space where the sun was shining straight across the earth beneath them. Sideways light to the direction the snow was falling. And brilliant fire orange.
That might look like a normal sunrise, but it was long after that sunrise color usually fades.
So it's snowing. Not that it's going to stick around for more than a day or two, but, technically it is snow. I still have to clean out my garlic and plant my chicken coop.
No.
Plant my garlic and clean out the coop. And pull that rag out of the side of the house and squirt some of that expanding foam stuff in there instead. Luckily the hole is too high on the wall for my birds to reach, because:
True: Chickens eat styrofoam and dried expanding foam if they can get to it.
Why?
Their brains are the size of peas. Small peas. I think.
Embarrassing confession: I found my missing camera remote
, the one I spent two months searching for. It wasn't in the top of my bedroom closet with that fancy elusive ax. It was in...well,
I laughed at myself when I found it, because...
I was sure it couldn't be the missing one (for seriously?)
except that it was all scratched up,
like the old one,
so it was pretty immediately obvious that I'm an idiot.
I reached into my camera bag to grab a tube of chapstick for a kid while I was driving, and came out with the remote in my hand. My kids grandmothers: we were going like two mph on a gravel road with no one else in sight, don't freak. The kid laughed. It makes perfect sense that my husband stole it, strategically waited until I'd purchased new ones, and then planted it back in my bag.
Right?
Sometimes I wish I was that delusional.
56. Enough pockets in a camera bag.
57. Three remotes.
58. Chapstick.
59. Sunrise.
60. A chicken so funky the furnace guy asked, "WHAT is that?"
61. Successful attack on the laundry, despite help from The Bean.
62. French toast made from homemade cinnamon bread.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Wild Bean
(Really, what was I thinking?)
Plus
Exhausted boys in bed at their regularly scheduled time
Equals
Way crazy stuff at hours this house is normally very quiet
.....
To be perfectly honest
It was an awful lot of fun
Monday, November 7, 2011
Being mindfully aware
It was one of those crisp but sunny autumn mornings. A morning where the front door squeaks as it complains against the changing seasons. The kind of morning where you wonder if you really need that jacket and hat... when a Daddy keeps the kids busy so a Mom can spend a quiet hour crossing one more thing off her must-do-before-winter-sets-in-with-a-vengeance list.
The Christmas gift I lost nearly two years ago has been found. I still don't understand how I managed to lose it in the first place. I walk toward the barn with determined resolve to completely disregard the caution label on the side of that expensive shiny tool.
"Use cutting edge for cutting wood only"
I guess, technically, I did plan on hitting wood with that thing. But only after passing through something else with it first.
It was the kind of morning, the kind of tool, the kind of resolve, the kind of simple story that so many other prairie women have experienced in days past.
51. The privilege to teach my children that meat doesn't really come from a cellophane-wrapped package at the grocery store.
52. Knowing that his days were real... singing, scratching, free, drenched with sun and wind.
53. Feeling his life within my hands in those last moments, holding him close with quiet respectful gratitude for the gift that he truly is.
54. A deep connection to the prairie women of days past who put food on the table in exactly the same way.
55. Being mindfully aware of the true cost of my food.
This has nothing to do with the incomplete story I posted two days ago.
The Christmas gift I lost nearly two years ago has been found. I still don't understand how I managed to lose it in the first place. I walk toward the barn with determined resolve to completely disregard the caution label on the side of that expensive shiny tool.
"Use cutting edge for cutting wood only"
I guess, technically, I did plan on hitting wood with that thing. But only after passing through something else with it first.
It was the kind of morning, the kind of tool, the kind of resolve, the kind of simple story that so many other prairie women have experienced in days past.
51. The privilege to teach my children that meat doesn't really come from a cellophane-wrapped package at the grocery store.
52. Knowing that his days were real... singing, scratching, free, drenched with sun and wind.
53. Feeling his life within my hands in those last moments, holding him close with quiet respectful gratitude for the gift that he truly is.
54. A deep connection to the prairie women of days past who put food on the table in exactly the same way.
55. Being mindfully aware of the true cost of my food.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
When having chickens isn't glamorous
He launched himself off the bus and made it to the house in three monstrous leaps. He was out of breath. Not because the bus ride was so strenuous, but because he was so utterly overwhelmed and giddy about what he needed to say.
"Mom. (huge breath) I think I saw a (huge breath) big Barred Rock rooster (two huge breaths) and he ran (huge breath) across the road (huge breath) and into the (huge breath) tall grass!"
*crickets chirping*
"What?"
The floodgates broke and his words flew free: "abigblackBarredRockrooster andhe ranacrosstheroadrightbeside thebus".
There are no black roosters here.
"What? With feathers?"
"It looked like a Barred Rock Rooster and he ran across the road. With feathers."
Impossible.
"Are you sure it was feathers? Maybe it was fur. Was it a badger or a raccoon or a skunk?"
Because people mistake badgers for roosters all the time.
He cocked his head to the side, "I think maybe it was a turkey".
"Right", I agreed in complete disbelief, "a turkey".
The disastrous unending chaos that is our normal school-day afternoon and evening caused me to completely forget about that wacky conversation. After all, it was only one of many that fill my mommy-days. Like so many things that I want to remember, I promptly forgot about it.
Until.
Until the boys were in bed, The Bean ready to head to her bed, and a huge pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Until I heard an unfamiliar noise. Until I looked out our back door and saw my husband with...
*wait for it*
With a very large annoyed black rooster in his arms.
Now honestly. What the heck is this.
I dropped my bedtime Bean and stepped out the back door to assess the situation. She took this as an opportunity to escape out the front door. It was a clever move on her part since a rogue rooster is more than enough to sufficiently distract her mother.
Bean exit stage left.
He hung onto that mythical Black Rooster just long enough for the boys to get a peek. They deserved a free pass out of bed to see this. The Older Brother had seen almost exactly what he thought he'd seen. Almost. It was no Barred Rock. But still.
I took a closer look.
Lord. Have. Mercy. He was infested with parasites. Just crawling with them. Many different kinds.
We figured chances were good he'd never last the night (coyotes and all), and let him go. He was gone. Fine with me because Lord knows I already have more on my hands than I can deal with.
Big Black Rooster exit stage right.
Nearly a full day later, guess who came marching straight through our yard like he owned the place. The second evening he magically appeared again. He wanted to stay. I watched through the window as he puttered around the yard, cautiously approaching my hens. I was certain he didn't belong to any of our neighbors.
Our dog wouldn't touch him because, well, it's a chicken. Around here, chickens are to be defended, not attacked. It's part of her job description. It seems I've trained her well.
My headache:
1. Would my very healthy flock now come down with all the yuck he'd exposed them to?
2. Could I catch him to medicate for all the filth he was carrying?
3. Would it even be possible to treat that severe level of disease?
4. Could he peacefully spend his days with a flock already ruled by a Red Rooster?
5. Would there be some serious rooster drama?
6. Would he attack my kids?
7. Would he refuse to go into the coop at night and freeze to death when our extreme cold arrives?
8. Either I keep him or I don't.
9. People who dump animals off in the country are cowards.
10. Where's a coyote when I really need one.
Option A:
"Shoot him", I muttered to my husband.
He laughed and walked out of the room, "You shoot him".
*sigh*
If it had been a badger or a raccoon or a skunk, I wouldn't hesitate to take care of business. I've done it before.
Option B:
I meandered my use-no-chemicals-attitude self through all five (or was it even that many?) "animal health" aisles of our local farm store. I couldn't find what I was looking for, and no one seemed interested in helping me. I didn't want to be there. I was sweaty. I was hungry. I was frustrated.
The item for "livestock and horse" was there.
The shelf that was supposed to hold the "poultry" version was empty.
Apparently it's a hot item.
I slammed my car door and headed across town to the other farm store. Aren't we lucky to have two? Maybe not. They had only one aisle for "animal health". None of the four items on the mostly bare shelves had anything even slightly to do with healthy or diseased chickens.
Vaguely recalling that chickens are officially classified as livestock, I found myself back at the first store. Funny it didn't occur to me to check the fine print on that label the first time. Sure enough, there it was: the "livestock and horse" version works just fine for chickens too.
All the miles home, with a few groceries and a can of chemicals in my back seat, I was still debating precisely what my plan of action would be. As I pulled into our yard, Big Black Roo was dancing up to the ladies whistling "Hey Baby!". Really? I was not amused. At all. And in that moment, I knew exactly what that shaker can of "livestock and horse dust" was going to be used for...
"Mom. (huge breath) I think I saw a (huge breath) big Barred Rock rooster (two huge breaths) and he ran (huge breath) across the road (huge breath) and into the (huge breath) tall grass!"
*crickets chirping*
"What?"
The floodgates broke and his words flew free: "abigblackBarredRockrooster andhe ranacrosstheroadrightbeside thebus".
There are no black roosters here.
"What? With feathers?"
"It looked like a Barred Rock Rooster and he ran across the road. With feathers."
Impossible.
"Are you sure it was feathers? Maybe it was fur. Was it a badger or a raccoon or a skunk?"
Because people mistake badgers for roosters all the time.
He cocked his head to the side, "I think maybe it was a turkey".
"Right", I agreed in complete disbelief, "a turkey".
The disastrous unending chaos that is our normal school-day afternoon and evening caused me to completely forget about that wacky conversation. After all, it was only one of many that fill my mommy-days. Like so many things that I want to remember, I promptly forgot about it.
Until.
Until the boys were in bed, The Bean ready to head to her bed, and a huge pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Until I heard an unfamiliar noise. Until I looked out our back door and saw my husband with...
*wait for it*
With a very large annoyed black rooster in his arms.
Now honestly. What the heck is this.
I dropped my bedtime Bean and stepped out the back door to assess the situation. She took this as an opportunity to escape out the front door. It was a clever move on her part since a rogue rooster is more than enough to sufficiently distract her mother.
Bean exit stage left.
He hung onto that mythical Black Rooster just long enough for the boys to get a peek. They deserved a free pass out of bed to see this. The Older Brother had seen almost exactly what he thought he'd seen. Almost. It was no Barred Rock. But still.
I took a closer look.
Lord. Have. Mercy. He was infested with parasites. Just crawling with them. Many different kinds.
We figured chances were good he'd never last the night (coyotes and all), and let him go. He was gone. Fine with me because Lord knows I already have more on my hands than I can deal with.
Big Black Rooster exit stage right.
Nearly a full day later, guess who came marching straight through our yard like he owned the place. The second evening he magically appeared again. He wanted to stay. I watched through the window as he puttered around the yard, cautiously approaching my hens. I was certain he didn't belong to any of our neighbors.
Our dog wouldn't touch him because, well, it's a chicken. Around here, chickens are to be defended, not attacked. It's part of her job description. It seems I've trained her well.
My headache:
1. Would my very healthy flock now come down with all the yuck he'd exposed them to?
2. Could I catch him to medicate for all the filth he was carrying?
3. Would it even be possible to treat that severe level of disease?
4. Could he peacefully spend his days with a flock already ruled by a Red Rooster?
5. Would there be some serious rooster drama?
6. Would he attack my kids?
7. Would he refuse to go into the coop at night and freeze to death when our extreme cold arrives?
8. Either I keep him or I don't.
9. People who dump animals off in the country are cowards.
10. Where's a coyote when I really need one.
Option A:
"Shoot him", I muttered to my husband.
He laughed and walked out of the room, "You shoot him".
*sigh*
If it had been a badger or a raccoon or a skunk, I wouldn't hesitate to take care of business. I've done it before.
Option B:
I meandered my use-no-chemicals-attitude self through all five (or was it even that many?) "animal health" aisles of our local farm store. I couldn't find what I was looking for, and no one seemed interested in helping me. I didn't want to be there. I was sweaty. I was hungry. I was frustrated.
The item for "livestock and horse" was there.
The shelf that was supposed to hold the "poultry" version was empty.
Apparently it's a hot item.
I slammed my car door and headed across town to the other farm store. Aren't we lucky to have two? Maybe not. They had only one aisle for "animal health". None of the four items on the mostly bare shelves had anything even slightly to do with healthy or diseased chickens.
Vaguely recalling that chickens are officially classified as livestock, I found myself back at the first store. Funny it didn't occur to me to check the fine print on that label the first time. Sure enough, there it was: the "livestock and horse" version works just fine for chickens too.
All the miles home, with a few groceries and a can of chemicals in my back seat, I was still debating precisely what my plan of action would be. As I pulled into our yard, Big Black Roo was dancing up to the ladies whistling "Hey Baby!". Really? I was not amused. At all. And in that moment, I knew exactly what that shaker can of "livestock and horse dust" was going to be used for...
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