Tag Archives: farm living

When You Give a Toddler a Kitten

When you give a toddler a kitten, cuteness abounds. Even if you feel a little sorry for said kitten because she is definitely taking a fair amount of abuse all for the sake of teaching a small child how to treat her.

DSC_1601

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty…”

The sweet savor of victory! Even if Luxe resorts to pulling them out by one leg…or their throat. Whatever works!

DSC_1605

This is the girls’ little female kitten. Her name is Pippa.

DSC_1606-2

It appears that Pippa’s attempts to run at this point are futile. You shoulda’ tried that beFORE she caught you, honey.

And then there were two! Pounce is Pippa’s brother. He’s a glutton for punishment. He comes running anytime anyone comes outside. You would think he’d go running as soon as he saw who it was outside, but no… He’s obviously starving for love no matter what he has to endure to get it.

DSC_1612

I think Luxe has figured out that she can basically paralyze him with this style of choke-hold. I’ll be submitting this to Webster’s Dictionary when they need a visual representation of the word “mischievous. Pounce says, “Haaaaalllppp!!!” and Pippa’s look clearly says, “I hate my life.”

DSC_1616-2

But, just look at that little face. Such love and glee.

Thank you, Pounce and Pippa, for being so patient with a baby. Certain animals just seem to know.

Country Comes to Town

I needed to go to Wal-Mart yesterday and I needed to go badly. I wanted to make Southwestern Potato & Corn Chowder. I also needed to pick up some medicine for my poor, congested husband. He said he needed pills. Lots and lots of pills.

He didn’t really say that. That’s just what I say when I have a head cold. I hate, hate, HATE colds. Out of all the sicknesses, they seem to make me the most miserable. I used to be a teller and cold season is always the worst because you are pretty much guaranteed to get sick no matter how  obsessive-compulsive you are about washing your hands. It should be in the job description. I all but sprayed my co-workers with Lysol if they even so much as sneezed.

I digress. This is not the point of my post.

Anyhoo, I couldn’t find my keys and this would be nothing out of the norm in my daily life except for the fact that the farmer was the last one to drive my car. And he is notorious for always taking the key out of the ignition when he gets out. I, on the other hand, have grown very lax about this now that we’re in the country. I knew what had happened before I even called him: The keys were in his pocket…at the dairy farm.

I was angered.

After calling my sister who lives about 5 minutes away only to find out that she was in the city doing some Christmas shopping, I had to make a choice. Stay at home, not make potato and corn chowder, and fantasize about making the farmer eat celery and olives for supper. (Those are the two things I know he hates.) Or take this to town.

I lovingly refer to him as Roger. Trust me, with as many farming vehicles as my dad owns, we’ve taken to naming them to conserve words. The-92′-tan-Dodge gets a little old after a while. There is another truck I could have taken that would have been a little less of an adventure if I knew how to drive a stick-shift. Unfortunately, Roger is the only automatic vehicle my dad owns. The other unfortunate things are he’s a behemoth of a diesel truck that is very possibly on his last limb, the speedometer doesn’t work, the steering is quite loose, whether the brakes are going to work or not is always a surprise, I have no concept of where on the road I am at any given time, and he’s been known to start only if he wants to.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I really wanted to go to Wal-Mart. I loaded Peanut’s car seat up and said a little prayer as I backed out of the driveway. Something to the effect of “Lord, help us all. Me… and the people I encounter on the road. Let us all arrive safely at our destinations.” I made it into town after having to put all of my 120 pounds on the brakes a couple of times. At stop lights, I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. I wasn’t ashamed to be seen in Roger. No, no. I just knew people were laughing at how silly a girl like me looked driving this truck. And I knew how inept I felt was radiating from me.

Roger brought us safely back home and everyone was in shock and awe that I actually drove him to town. (I told no one that I was going to do this. I didn’t want them to talk me out of it.)  I’m a brave soul when I set my mind to do something. The whole experience of fear…fear…and some more fear was very humbling for this accidental country girl. Never again will I follow farm trucks so closely.The poor person inside probably doesn’t have a speedometer that works! And she is probably uneasy about the vehicle she’s driving and the fact that you’re on her tail is taking her already frazzled nerves to a new point of frazzled! (Not that this was my experience…I’m just very passionate about it.)

I also will make sure the farmer never takes my keys again. So I never have to take Roger to town again. Chalk this lesson up to new experiences that I don’t necessarily want to relive.

However, I’m pretty sure that I could now qualify to drive a semi.

 

Peanut, Sassy Boots, and a Farming Phobia

Yesterday, we went to the farm. My sister, Bailey, had been wanting to come down for a while, so I brought her with me. I warned her that it was barn cleaning day, so she must be a glutton for punishment. I’ll have some of that experience for you on a later date.

First, however, I must show you my precious little daughter in her cowgirl boots. She really thinks she’s hot stuff in these.

If you wanna’ see somebody that’s sassy and fiesty, here’s your girl. And the authority with which she carries herself when she’s got these boots on. Such purpose. Such confidence. Such promise. Yup…we don’t see any end in sight for what we’ve got coming. I could watch her all day on the farm, though. She loves it so much and her face is just so full of excitement about every new discovery. The amazing thing for me is the fact that there’s already a duality to this little girl. She’s tough as a boot, but so feminine in the things that she likes. Baby dolls, nail polish, purses, pretty clothes and cute shoes. But, like I said, you put these boots on her and she is a farm girl through and through.

I have to admit that amoung my many fears of becoming a farmer’s wife, I had one that even though I knew it was totally silly, I just couldn’t get it out of my head. The farmer always said that raising kids in the country and having them participate in all the work that goes into managing a dairy farm resulted in well-rounded, responsible, hard-working adults. Judging from his family, that’s completely true. And if I were promised all boys, I wouldn’t have a care that they were raised as little dairy farmers. But having girls was another story….

Here comes the city in me again that jumps to conclusions before I have enough hard evidence to know better.

 I was scared to raise girls on a dairy farm for fear that they would be “butchy.”

There. I said it. I’m all about honesty and I honestly want my daughters to be ladies and all I could envision was some backwoods, plaid-wearing, pig-tail sporting brute of a girl that got her kicks off wrestling cattle to the ground with her bare hands, giggin’ frogs, and showing every boy in the county that anything they could do, she could do better.

How was I ever going to relate to the kind of girl I thought the farmer’s “raising” would produce? Meanwhile, I was totally ignoring the fact that the farmer’s four sisters are not the least bit butchy, but very lady-like themselves. Not to mention all the other women I’ve met since we started doing this that can balance hard-work and femininity so gracefully.

I’m learning, everyone. Please be patient.

Now I know I don’t have anything to worry about. Peanut shows me every day that she’s a little girl that already knows how to get what she wants by being totally charming and sugary-sweet. I think she already knows that a little grin and an ornery gleam in her eye goes a long way with Daddy. I’m onto her. I know what she’s doing. These tactics used to work for me and they still do. (Don’t tell my secret.)

I just can’t wait to watch her continue to grow and evolve into who she’s meant to be. She’s extremely strong-willed just like her momma and I know that whatever she puts her mind to will get accomplished. Because she’ll know how to work and be a girl.

Hey, I wonder if a pair of heels would que Peanut to act like a total city girl? Something to definitely ponder…

Up for an experiment,

The Dairy Maid