Adorable versus Expected

We've slowly phased into a new era of parenting, and I can't say I'm disappointed.  Life used to be so cute.  

Adorable.

Charming.

Darling.

No more, my friends.  No more.  

These days the kids are starting to really earn their keep and it's amazing just how capable they are.  I wish more parents took some training wheels off their completely grown adult children to see what they can manage.  

Then: The kids used to enjoy riding the dozer with their dad, and still do on occasion.  
Now:  It's not uncommon for one of us to yell at them to pull it out of the way while we need to work on something else.  

Then:  I used to bring a high chair to strap a baby into while we worked calves.  I'd give them rocks and sticks to play with I checked on them constantly through the bars of the chute. 

Now: Kenyon likes to reload my syringes because he's faster than me.  I'm not complaining.  

Then:  The kids sat on Wesley's lap while he hauled or fed cattle. 

Now:  I'm glad you can drive a pickup and gooseneck.  It would be a lot handier if you knew how to drive a stick and could take the groundload. 

Then:  Please go outside the shop - I need to weld and we can't hurt your eyes!

Now:  Where is your welding helmet?!  Why am I doing this myself?!

Then:  We'd explain how we were giving this calf a shot to make him feel better. 

Now:  Child #1 questions every doctoring decision and gives his two cents on what he would rather administer if he were running the show.  I had tears of laughter while working calves that day.  Father and son had a heated discussion about what medicines were *right* for the situation.  Wesley looked at me through the chute and rolled his eyes.  Not five seconds later I made eye contact with my son who gave me a similar exasperated look and threw his hands in the air to emphasize just how ignorant his father was.  

Then:  What's that squeaking sound? 

Now:  Yeah, Mom, I'm gonna be a little late to lunch today.  Heard a little squeak earlier, loaded the grease gun and gonna do a little maintenance before I head home for dinner.  

Then:  Go work with your 4-H calves. 

Now:  John is standing on the back of his calf and trying to step over onto another one.  Knowing him, I'm sure he has a goal of walking across his pen of calves without ever touching the ground. 

Then:  Stay back from that fire!  HOT, HOT!

Now:  Kiddo, light your stick, start a line and pay some mind when you drive across this pasture.  

Then:  Mom! Slow down, I see a calf out!

Now:  Hey, Mom, I'm gonna finish up my schoolwork and go fix some fence this afternoon.  Some calves are getting out on the 40 and they are a bunch of prrrrrretty ornery cattle.  (Whew, close one kiddo.  Nice save and thanks for not cussing.)

Then:  Momma, this is broke!

Now:  Hey, Mom, I notice there was a loose board on the swing set so I took your drill, switched the batteries, stole a few bits, screws and a ladder and fixed things.  Put most of it back.  

Then:  Momma, can you come shoot this racoon I trapped?  

Now:  Hey, Mom, I know we were gone a while.  I went to check traps and turns out I didn't secure the trap well enough to the post and he ran into a tree and got caught.  We went back to the shop, got a ladder, went back to the tree, got the trap loose, drove back to the shop, used the winch and a come-a-long to pull the lever on the trap apart.  Didn't want to bother you.  

I remember two years ago my husband and I were talking about welding on a set of pens but knew we needed to hook onto the welding trailer before we could do anything else.  Thirty minutes later I saw a feed pickup and welder parked in the middle of the drive and wondered how it got there.  Turns out the 7 and 9 year olds heard us talking and wanted to be of help.  

What we're learning, slowly but surely, is that someday you might make some decent help out of your littles.  The secret is surviving..... both you and them!  

Pickups and Wives

My husband and I often work together and there are days I swear that he delights in (figuratively) throwing everything but the kitchen sink at me just to see how much I can take.  Similarly, I have often jumped into his pickup to drive somewhere only to glance around and think 'you poor dear' when I see door panels hanging on by a thread, buttons that no longer work, a dash that you cannot hardly see for all the pens, paperwork, medicine bottles and spent cartridges scattered across it and a floorboard that has enough dirt in it to create a viable flowerbed.    Therefore, over the years I have definitely come to realize there are similarities in the way men treat their pickups and wives.  

There are some men that have pickups strictly for show.  The pickup has many *ahem* enhancements that were not necessarily standard issue.  You know, things to perk up their ride.  A lift kit, shiny rims, all the bells and whistles.  These pickups sure do look nice, and many are often jealous when they see them on the road, but.... when it comes down to it - are they actually functional?  Can they really serve a meaningful purpose in society?  Time will tell.  Also, I seem to notice that oftentimes men will trade in this enhanced model after a few years and upgrade to a new, more enhanced model. 

Along these lines are the poser pickups.  The pickup has a feeder, a bale bed, a hitch, all the necessary accoutrements... but you wonder if they've ever actually done any real work.  Not a speck of dirt on them EVER, and the interior always looks like they came straight from the showroom floor.  I don't know about you, but I've yet to see a pasture that never had mud or dirt in it.  I, too, would like to keep things clean around here, but somehow it just never happens... These pickups are lovely to show off in front of company, but rather useless in a functional setting.  Thank goodness most never make it to that point. 

Next is one of my favorites - men that love their ol' faithful and are not afraid to show it.  He probably acquired her brand new 30+ years ago and has taken the best of care of that pickup every single day.  Oil changes every 3,000 miles (not 3,001), washing her every week and taking her for a drive every Sunday afternoon.  They toodle down the road in no big hurry and enjoy the simple pleasures in life.  To be honest, I witnessed the inspiration for this type of pickup just the other day.  I had to run to town for parts and glanced over as I drove past the car wash.  Sitting in line was the cutest couple whom I adore that have been married for eternity and were very happy to enjoy the simple pleasures in life like washing your pickup. 

I giggle when I hear someone brag on how much work their 'truuuuuck' can do when in all actuality it happens to be something like a Ford Ranger pickup that does well to haul 4 bags of concrete.  It's okay to be realistic.  Please don't act like she's pulling a load of cattle down the road daily and let's all just be proud of what she realistically does and does well.  We were taught growing up that a truck was greater than one ton and anything less was a pickup.  No need to pretend you're something that you're not.  These pickups should be celebrated for being tiny, efficient and highly maneuverable.

Probably the majority of men have a plain jane work pickup that, although nothing fancy, does a very nice job and helps keep 90% of rural America running.  There are some dents and bumps and perhaps a diaper or two under the backseat next to a set of wrenches if he has little children.  He's a little behind on the oil changes but does the best he can.  He appreciates the pickup and the pickup works well for him. He could probably stand to tell her that a little more often. 

There are a few pickups rolling down the road that I would venture to call a TRUCK.  Think an '89 Dodge with a 5.9 engine.  You can pull up next to that thing, hear it purr and would swear you're parked next to an absolute beast.  These pickups are amazing and should be treasured.  They can go anywhere, do anything and although they look a bit masculine still clean up nicely on Sunday morning.  

And then there's a small subset of men like my husband.  During our marriage he's only had two feed pickups.  Not because he doesn't treat them like absolute dogsh!t but because he runs them until they are limping around on their last leg and near death.  He changes the oil once all the bells and whistles on the dash start to alarm him of an imminent shut down and washes her once a year whether she needs it or not.  (Spoiler alert, she always needs it.)  He asks her to run 20 miles an hour through a pasture chasing cattle then thinks nothing of slamming on the brakes and making a complete 180 on her day's plans to do something else suddenly deemed more urgent. 

For example, last summer I took his driver seat to a man to have it recovered as his Father's Day present.  When I went to pick up the seat, the man was so kind and polite.  

"Well, ma'am.  He, um.  Well, um.  He damn sure got the good out of that seat.  Frankly, there was nothing left."  

I believed every word he said.  The poor man couldn't even recover the seats; he had to rebuild them.  

I write this all in good humor, not as a cry for help.  It just happens to be one of those things that once you make the connection you just cannot ever 'unsee'.  And this is the type of post you can't write during times of distress or strife, which is why I've been chewing on this one for YEARS.  We're finally at the point that we can both (mostly) laugh about our situation.  These days, when my husband says something outrageous to me or does something outlandish to his pickup I simply shrug my shoulders and yell over my shoulder as I'm walking away "PICKUPS AND WIVES, HONEY.  PICKUPS AND WIVES." 

Sweet Summertime

The year is flying by.  Nothing major ever seems to happen around here but we are making all sorts of tiny steps towards our little people becoming more grown up, independent folks.  

Each morning the kids are up and out the door as the sun rises so they can feed their livestock and walk the hogs.  I often wonder if the kids realize how fortunate they are to witness such a beautiful time of day in such a beautiful area, or if some of these sunrises are totally wasted while they cuss and discuss various 'little 80 year old man' topics.  

This year the boys work with their 4-H calves all by themselves.  Get them caught, rinsed, walk them in the yard, they can do it all.  It's so incredible to watch a 50 pound boy be able to control a 1400 pound steer.  Mom, I'm 56 pounds - please get it right.  

When the kids are working on their arts and crafts projects for the fair this summer I just give them the hot glue gun and walk away.  I think some of the kids have burned their fingertips enough times they may not have any fingerprints left, but perhaps they'll grow up to become bank robbers and thank me for being so farsighted.  

The oldest is 10 and cuts all his own boards for woodworking.  I'll admit, I still peer over his shoulder on this one.  Partly because it is super dangerous, but partly because I love woodworking so much.  He seems to enjoy it as well and I love that we can bond through this.  

The three oldest kids all played baseball this summer and had a great time.  All three also played catcher at times.  This was my favorite position growing up and it gave me great pride to see them tough it out during miserably hot games.  

This day was particularly rough. She got up early to help load cattle, had swimming lessons during the late morning, picked up rocks and sticks from a previously flooded field all afternoon and then was absolutely comatose during the hour-long drive to the ballgame that evening.

Arguments are starting to evolve around here as the children age.  During breakfast last week I heard a heated discussion on what type of spray we needed to use on our soybeans.  I don't think my favorite PBS cartoon, Daniel Tiger, has a helpful jingle I can sing to diffuse these sorts of arguments.  Also along those lines, I miss many of the PBS cartoons that helped us along during the past decade.  It seems now we've graduated to old westerns, science documentaries and exploration-type shows.  

I'll admit, we push our kiddos pretty hard out here.  We see how the rest of the world is spiraling and it only further solidifies our desire to raise our children more like '80's babies', with less technology and more time outdoors and filthy.  But it's not always work!  This summer we've tried to make more time to carve out a little bit of fun.  Great Grandpa stops by occasionally and though he doesn't stay long, the kids always glean a little bit of knowledge (and a lot of bull) from him.  We recently stole away for a weekend and went camping with cousins.  The kids are now hooked and have been mentioning pooling their money to purchase a camper.  And one of the best perks of kids maturing is that we can now eat at a restaurant and actually enjoy the experience!  Our good friends recently opened a sundry in a nearby town and it is quite the place.  I enjoy a reprieve from feeding a small army and the kids enjoy eating at such a fancy place with familiar faces. 

Stop, Drop and Roll

The days are getting warmer and the sun is shining longer which means there is more opportunity to work outside.  Each morning my husband and I exchange lists of our respective obligations for the day.  

Without fail, almost every single day the focus ends up shifting to accomplishing the tasks on his list.  It makes things on our side much more chaotic, but as any elementary-aged child can tell you: when the world is turning into a dumpster fire, the best thing to do is stop, drop and roll. 

Stop everything you're doing.

Drop whatever task you may have been in the middle of accomplishing.

Roll with the punches and things will (probably) work out just fine. 

Last week John really wanted to finish his library book.  The Magic Treehouse series is pretty captivating at his age and reading is something that I don't want to discourage in our children.  I needed to make ear tags and help Wesley work calves so John had to tag along and continue to read aloud about adventures in ancient Rome while I continued my work.  We swapped his magic treehouse for a magic vet shack and he shouted the story to me over the loud hum of the hydraulic chute. 

Stop, drop and roll.

And, because this kid can relax anywhere, he took a few moments to create a rock lounge chair.

The kids love to jump haybales.  If they could do nothing else for recreation I think they'd be just fine.  We had just started to enjoy our afternoon when I got the call that everyone needed to head to a pasture and help gather a set of calves. 

Stop, drop and roll.

The kids are having fun working with all their 4-H calves this year as they are now big enough to do most everything themselves.  We thought it was going to be a productive afternoon of scratching on calves when we got the call and suddenly tracking a bull sale online was more important. 

Stop, drop and roll.

We were interested in bull #10 and bull #110 in the sale order.  The kids did a wonderful job of tracking everything in between and letting us know when they were getting close to our prospects and it allowed us to keep working.

As this busy spring season progresses I have a feeling we're going to stop, drop and roll each and every day. 

About Time

I had to walk to the barn one evening last week and happened to see this calf standing at the water trough with one of God's great sunsets framing him.  I'll never tire of seeing a great sunrise or sunset.

During this parenting adventure I find that I am constantly either looking forward or backward, but not relishing in the moment nearly enough.  

For instance, if I leave the house with all the kids now and feed them at 11:30, I have enough time to pick up parts, groceries and run to the bank and be home just in time for naps so I can run snap tests on cattle while the baby sleeps and then start supper during snack time.  Perfect.

Or planning for the week: We can help work cattle these three days and skip naps, and then schedule me picking up feed on Thursday afternoon at 2.  It's a 45 minute drive which will work perfectly for the kids to nap in the pickup. 

Or, you can plan everything perfectly, lay exhausted kiddos down for a nap and then your husband decides to dry fire his implant gun in the house multiple times to test it and now everyone is awake and cranky.  (I cannot even make this stuff up.  That happened as I was typing the previous paragraph.) 

As you can see, my life primarily revolves around working for my husband and then fitting the children in around the cattle and crops in our life.  

***

I feel like this is how we operate in agriculture as well, always looking forward or backwards but rarely taking a moment to enjoy the now.  The kids were helping me grocery shop last week and I grabbed a package of multiple cans of wasp and hornet spray to throw into our cart.  Kenyon asked why I was grabbing that already as technically this is still winter.  My answer to him?  "It's about time to think about shipping calves."  

From his perspective I was being absolutely ridiculous, but in middle-aged parent math I feel this timeline checks out.  

It's about time to start calving, which means its then about time to turn cattle out on grass, then about time to burn, then about time to work calves, about time to bale and haul hay all day, then play baseball all evening, then about time to finish projects for the fair, then about time load trucks at all those pens with angry hornets and wasps.  

Yes, sir.  About three good blinks and it will be the end of summer.  Then it'll be about time to chop sileage, wean calves, preg check cows, survive the dreaded holiday season and BOOM.  It's 2025.  I feel like I should say Happy New Year, but at this point I don't know if I'm dreadfully late for 2024 or incredibly early for 2025.  

Fall Recall

I often wonder how our children will recall their childhoods.  Will they think back fondly on how they ran rather feral through pastures or will they remember chores and fixing fence?  

Will weaning calves bring back smiles or mild cussing when they think of how filthy they were and how tiresome it was to roll out and set up pens to sort cattle time and again?  Will they remember their mom cussing each time a momma cow came after them?  

Will they remember the endless pasture picnics, the days their plates nearly blew away in the fierce winds?  Will they wish they had eaten more meals around the table I built them in the house?  

It seems many days our table is almost
exclusively used for schoolwork.

Will the kiddos recall pausing for paperwork and chasing down scale tickets or are those memories pushed aside and viewed simply as extra time when they played rock-paper-scissor and argued on who would back up the next truck?  

Will they lament because their jungle gym was covered in manure? 

Only time will tell.  I'm anxiously awaiting to hear someday what they recall. 

Smoke and Dirt

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that if you see our family in the flesh it is likely you will probably gather a slight whiff of branding iron smoke and our children will be covered in dirt.  

I so enjoy these times.  Everyone knows their place and what they need to do.  There is minimal talk, save for the times I shout out ear tag numbers to John to make sure we are on the same page as he gathers ear notches for me to run BVD tests later.  

We get to spread apart from one another and no one has to breathe my air, which is heavenly having come out of a pretty intense decade of raising tiny babies that often clung to me like spider monkeys.  

The girls need reminded fairly often to quiet down.  They have so much fun playing in boxes, climbing over old oxygen tanks and having sword fights with sorting sticks that they forget there is actual work to be done. 

I can always count on John to make hilarious comments about no longer needing a bath when we both get sprayed with slobber from a rambunctious calf.  

Kenyon is a solid worker and he always keeps the tub and alley way filled with calves.  He loves to talk numbers when we finish and recount how many were bulls, steers, etc.  

The husband runs his side of the chute and I run mine.  We don't talk unless I ask him to pause so I can refill a vaccine gun.  It seems like the wind is normally out of the totally wrong direction and the smoke from his branding iron fills my nostrils for several seconds with each calf.  We never argue during this time.  Processing calves is the one thing that we can do really well together and I always look forward to it.  

We don't have time (or a desire) for things like Saturday college football games or weekends at sporting tournaments which I've seen many families on social media document.  I'm glad they've found their niche in life.  This is definitely ours.  

This is a terrible attempt to photograph smoke in bright backlight.
My apologies.