A Simple Math Lesson

$4.99

+

= 3 hours of (relative) peace for Mom.

One of the disadvantages of living in the country (and 50 miles from a town with a stoplight) is that the kids don't have friends down the street or a library around the corner. We have plenty of chores to keep us busy, but sometimes we have to stretch our imaginations to come up with new recreation ideas. Chasing the chickens only lasts so long, and unlike our neighbor's five-year-old, my kids aren't thrilled with the idea of roping goats and dogs for fun.

Sometimes I like to surprise them with a special treat like a new game or outdoor toy. This week, we went to town for 4-H interviews (and parts and groceries - we must multi-task on our trips to town), so I browsed the clearance aisle of summer toys. I'm wary of the Slip-n-Slide. I already have one child in a cast, and I don't care to gamble.

This little fishy looked like a safer alternative. I should have known better. They soon had the slide and swings rigged up so they could splash into the water from greater hights. Luckily, no bones were broken, and the $4.99 was paid off - and then some - by the smiles I captured this afternoon.

Who knew that two inches of water could be so much fun?

A Sad Tale

Our camping location was the site where my family has been having a July 4 picnic for several generations. My grandpa remembers being there as a child, and nearly every July 4 of my lifetime has been spent in Sawmill Canyon in the Little Belt Mountains.

My kids look forward to the event with the same excitement I had as a child. They see their cousins, eat too much watermelon, and try to shovel in the homemade ice cream before it melts. My aunt takes them on nature walks. They roast hot dogs and marshmallows on the coals of a campfire.

And they fall off of trees and break limbs.

Their own limbs, not the tree limbs.

On Thursday night, our peaceful evening by the campfire was punctuated by a thud, a whimper, and a matter of fact statement: "I really didn't need for this to happen right now."

The person responsible for the thud, whimper, and statement was my ten-year-old. He fell from a tree and landed on his right side. He had some pain in his arm, but nothing was bleeding or protruding. I gave him a hug, some ice, and some Tylenol.

The next day, he was riding a four-wheeler and playing with his cousins.

The day after that, his arm was still slightly swollen, and I called the hospital to speak to a nurse. By that time, I had a hunch that it was broken. She advised me to splint it, ice it, and come to the doctor on Monday.

Meanwhile, I tried to prepare the boy for the reality of missing swimming lessons, which begin this week. He loves swimming. Our local pool opened last week, and he spent one afternoon there. Now he faces the reality of two weeks of watching his siblings take swimming lessons.


On a positive note, he loved seeing his x-rays.


His doctor masterfully handled the situation of an autistic boy with a broken arm.


And his cast glows in the dark.

Rules

I’ve been talking to my kids a lot these days about the importance of following rules.

Rules, I have tenderly explained, are made for good reason. They keep us safe. They protect us. They make sure we can live in an orderly manner.

The most frequently whined question in this house is “Why?” Even the two-year-old has caught on.

“Don’t pour your milk on the dog.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because the dog doesn’t need a milk bath, you need to be kind to animals, and milk costs $4 a gallon.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because the input costs of farming are becoming so outlandish that more and more dairy farmers are going out of business, which reduces the supply and thereby inflates the price. Add to that the rising costs of oil, our inability to drill new wells of our own, our growing dependence on foreign oil supplies, and the rising costs of transportation, and you have $4 a gallon milk.”

At this point, the toddler has dropped the milk cup and wandered away to throw the cat down the slide. This disregard for logical explanations is why I have abandoned my previous responses to the question “why,” which included a careful dissertation on the merits of obeying. Three more kids and a decade of eroded patience later, I have since resorted to “Because I said so!”
But it has struck me lately that some rules are just plain stupid. I’m not sure I want to teach my kids to blindly follow the rules when some of them are made to placate the demands of people who have no common sense or decency.

I think, in some ways, our society has become addicted to legislation. A couple hundred years ago, people lived without the benefit of a gargantuan government. Through the years, people realized that the government could provide certain benefits, such as public road systems and schools. These functions of government seemed to improve the society, so people looked for more ways that the government could be of service.

Eventually, the attitude of the people changed. Instead of appreciating government services, people began to demand them and become dependent upon them. They forgot that all those “free” services are not free at all; the more services provided, the more tax is collected to pay for them.

But now that the system is in place, it will not cease growing. Each generation expects more services, more benefits, and more rules to protect themselves. That’s why we have legislation introduced to ban certain foods to keep us from killing ourselves, to hire people based on color instead of ability, and to ban cutting down trees. We have created so many rules for our society that it takes several government agencies just to keep track of them all.

In some places, there are rules about how tall your grass can be, what kind of flowers you can plant, and what kind of car you can drive. I think most people want our government to be more diligent about protecting us from ourselves than about protecting us from outside threats to our country and freedom.

I went to the car dealership awhile back because I had received a notice in the mail that our vehicle was on a recall list. When I presented the card to the shop foreman, he chuckled and said he would take care of it in just a second. He procured a pair of scissors and snipped a leather loop the held the seatbelt in place near the seat.

“That’s it?” I asked incredulously.

“Yep,” he said. “Apparently someone got their finger stuck in it and got hurt, so they implemented a recall.”

Because people expect to be protected from such atrocities as stuck fingers, we have government recalls. We have voluntary company recalls to protect companies from getting sued by people who are now accustomed to being protected against their own stupidity. People expect Uncle Sam to be hovering around every corner, keeping them safe, fed, educated, housed, and medicated.

Rules and regulations are necessary in an orderly society. But teaching the kids to follow them “because I said so” is probably not going to work in today’s world. They need to know that we have to respect rules given by those in authority, but they also need the skills to recognize that some rules are just stupid. With some common sense, the Ten Commandments, and the Constitution, I believe our society would be better off than it is now with all the rules that have been legislated throughout the years.

Next time I answer the question “why,” I will try to keep my answer somewhere between a dissertation and the typical retort, “Because I’m your mother!” We need to equip our kids with the tools they will need to discern what is right and wrong in this world.

4-H Moms

In my mind, no one epitomizes motherhood more than a 4-H mom. If you ever want to see a mother’s love and dedication to her children in action, visit a county fair about a half an hour before the beef showmanship contest.

Along with my admiration for the 4-H moms is a fear of becoming one. I had successfully avoided the topic for years by changing the subject whenever someone asked me when our 10-year-old would be joining 4-H. I could dodge the topic with such skill that the inquiring person did not even realize what had happened.

But when Riley expressed interest in joining, I was unable to dodge. I was rendered excuseless. And I was struck with the cold fear that I would actually have to become a 4-H mom.

Apparently there are many 4-H moms. My sources tell me that there are 6.8 million 4-H members nationwide. Assuming that many of those 6.8 children have mothers, there are more than a few women who have embraced the idea of 4-H motherhood more readily than I have. In fact, I know a few 4-H moms. They are the women who look very frazzled during the third week in July and are barking directives such as, “Johnny, you have to get out of the pool NOW! Your 4-H interview is tomorrow, and you haven’t even started your record book yet!”

My reluctance is not a reflection of the 4-H program itself, which I know to be very beneficial to its members. When all those little voices recite, “I pledge: my Head to clearer thinking, my Heart to greater loyalty, my Hands to larger service, and my Health to better living, for my club, my community, my country and my world,” it cannot possibly be a bad thing.

I am a proponent of encouraging kids to tackle projects and responsibilities. I think seeing a project through from beginning to end is a valuable life lesson that the 4-H program successfully fosters in its members. The adult-youth partnerships and the community service components of the program are also benefits that my children could stand to reap.

In fact, I’m a big fan of 4-H. I think it’s a great idea that my kids become members.

Now I just need to find a good 4-H mom for them.

They’re going to need someone who can brightly encourage them to work on their record books as they go without nagging them and turning it into an episode of tearful tantrums. They will need someone adept at baking cookies for meetings, entertaining toddlers during said meetings, and “helping” to make those demonstration speech posters at the last minute.

The right person should be able to know how to trim a chicken, train a cat, give proper feed rations to a steer, and show a pig. She should know the secret to washing an animal and keeping it clean while it occupies a 10-square-foot pen in which it eats, drinks, and has nowhere to lay down except in the spot where it just dropped the results of the eating and drinking.

The kids’ new 4-H mom should be able to load and unload a calf and drive a pickup and stock trailer in town. She should also be able to back up the camper to the proper position and cheerfully pack enough clothes and food in said camper so that the family can live there happily for several days. She should enjoy using public showers and washing the 4-H child’s only white shirt in the sink.

The ideal mom should be creative and artistic, able to whip up clever display signs and slogans. She must also have a comforting shoulder for the child who is learning about a world in which there are winners and losers.

She should also be familiar with all 110 different 4-H program areas and know the nuances of each well enough that she can coach the child who chooses as his projects Advanced Visual Arts: Draw/Fiber/Sculpt, Sportfishing III, and Meat Goat I.

Since I am not likely to have many applicants for this unpaid and underappreciated position, I will likely have to tackle it myself. I will have to face my fears and recognize my weaknesses. I will have to ask questions, learn the rules, and give it my best shot. And in doing that, I will likely be teaching my kids the best lessons of all.

I Didn't Take My Camera

Today we moved cows, and I didn't take my camera.

Last time we moved cows, I dropped my camera and ran over it with the four wheeler. After dusting it off and realizing that it was unscathed, I vowed never to take it with me on such an excursion again.

It turns out that it was a good decision. Although the day was beautiful, the cows were shiny, the grass was green, and the scenery was breathtaking, I would not likely have captured any Kodak moments. Most of my time was spent looking at the not-so-shiny ends of the cows, which happened to be about eye level. The other problem was that the terrain on which I was riding required two hands and my full attention.

I also neglected to take my camera to the t-ball game to capture the thrill of the game and the filth of my two youngest children who mixed Sprite, orange soda, and dirt and then greased themselves with it. The sunscreen and bug spray cocktail with which I had doused them earlier in the day served as a nice foundation for the mud pie facials. Because I am the tired mother of four, I didn't even bother washing their hands before giving them their hamburgers. I figured (and was later proven right) that they would just drop the food in the dirt at some point, anyway.

Today I missed many photo opportunities. I also missed laundry opportunities, gardening opportunities, and floor scrubbing opportunities. Happily for me, tomorrow will soon be here, and those opportunities will once again present themselves. And I'll probably have my camera.

What Farmers Do For Fun

What do the area farmers do for a relaxing getaway?

Go drive tractors, of course.


We spent last Sunday afternoon at "Pioneer Power Days," where the events included the always-popular barrel race.


This event is unique in that it is difficult to ascertain who is having the most fun. The old?


Or the young?


We find that it's a great opportunity to teach our kids to appreciate how difficult farm work was just a generation or two ago.


They are amazed that wheels used to lack rubber.


They marvel that tractors didn't have air conditioners or stereos.


But mostly, they get to dream of what it's like behind the wheel.


They take it very seriously.


Girls drive tractors, too, you know.


The End.

A Portrait of Our Father's Day

Hallmark just hasn't figured out Father's Day

Choosing a Father’s Day gift and card is no simple task anymore.

I remember when we would make our fathers gifts and cards in school before we went on summer vacation. An empty jelly jar, some macaroni, a lot of Elmer’s glue and some gold spray paint, and presto! A handy little pen holder made just for Dad.

A piece of notebook paper folded in half made a perfect card. We just wrote “I love you” on the front and signed our name in the middle, underneath a drawing of a stickman with spiked hair holding the hand of a stickchild, and we had a card that was sure to melt our daddy’s heart.

I remember the joy and pride that went into making and giving those projects. I would watch carefully as my dad unwrapped the newest use for macaroni and tried to figure out what it was.
He would beam as he set it on the table, the gold spray paint rubbing off on his hands. He would even glue the pieces of macaroni back on when they fell on the table. Even though that man had no idea what the gift was supposed to be, the look on his face told me I had given him the best Father’s Day present he could have received.

As the years went by, the gifts became more sophisticated. New projects in school led to more interesting, and sometimes more useless, gifts.

For example, we learned the art of batik in art class, so my dad received a lovely purple and orange cloth. This time, I wasn’t even sure what it was supposed to be, but my dad liked it anyway.

He stuck with me during the wood burning phase, the leathercraft phase, and the tissue paper art phase. No matter how many useless gifts I bestowed upon them, he had a genuine word of thanks for each one.

In shop class, I crafted a small tool carrier with a handle in the middle. I was sure I had found the perfect gift, and my dad still uses that gift to this day. Never mind that it weighs so much that it’s nearly impossible to carry it around with tools in it. The hours of my time that went into the gift are what made it special.

At some point in high school, I stopped making my father gifts and cards. Instead, I would try to buy my dad something meaningful on his special day.

Even buying a card is no simple task. After weeding through the racks of cards for your stepfather, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, your nephew, your brother, your husband, your brother-in-law, your uncle, your son, your grandson, and your mother’s uncle’s cousin, you finally reach the section for your father. Just a plain, ordinary father.

None of the cards seem to fit the image of the perfect Father’s Day card, though. They seem either too sentimental or too crude. There is nothing on the racks quite like the cards I used to make with the stickmen drawn on them.

Choosing a gift is not simple, either.

Being a rancher, my father has little use for traditional Father’s Day gifts. He didn’t even wear a tie to his own wedding, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t secretly golf out in the pasture with all the gopher holes.

My attempts to find a meaningful gift for Dad in a store usually ended in failure. Dad received a gift he didn’t need or necessarily want, and it wasn’t really from the heart.

When I entered college, I had the perfect solution. I just sent a card, since everyone knows that college students are too poor to buy much more than the weekly supply of Ramen noodles.

Now that I have a job, though, I feel like I should compensate my dad for all the years of toil and turmoil it took to raise me. After all, this is the man who got whiplash while teaching me how to drive, chocked down my first attempts at cooking, and didn’t say a word when I slammed a motorcycle into the side of his house.

When I began shopping for that perfect Father’s Day gift to summarize all my feelings for my dad, I realized that I would never find that gift.

This year, I’m not going to give my dad a Father’s Day present. Instead, I’m going to ask him to dig back through his memories of being a father and pick out his favorite one.

It may be the memory of the camping trip that my dad took my brother and me on when we were in high school. It might be the times when the two of us worked livestock together when the rest of the family had left home. Maybe he will remember the high school and college graduations of his kids, the weddings, or the births of his grandchildren.

It might be the simple times he shared with us, like watching the cats, dogs and kids all piled on sleeping bags in the lawn during warm summer nights. Whichever memory he recalls, I’m sure it will bring a smile to his face similar to the one he had when I presented him with his annual Father’s Day mystery gift during my childhood.

That’s my gift to you, Dad. It’s the best gift I can ever give, and it comes from the heart.

Not Always Perfect

I was wondering last night if my blog posts made this life seem too idyllic.

I was wondering if my conviction that we are raising our kids in the best possible setting comes across as an air of superiority.


I was wondering if anyone "out there" thinks that this life is all about rainbows


and sunsets


and pretty scenery. Because sometimes it rains on our fishing trip to the river, and being trapped in a pickup with six people, four of whom are whiny and hungry, doesn't seem idyllic.


And sometimes, when I think maybe I have motherhood conquered and I'm becoming a pretty okay photographer, I capture a shot that I think will be "the one," and I get home and look at it and discover that my child has a filthy face and a paint chip from the aging wood stuck to her forehead.


I feel like I need to confess that we have an ugly cow.


Sometimes it is terribly dry, and the land is not so pretty. Sometimes it rains so much that it damages the crops. Cutworms destroyed some of our wheat, the price of fertilizer and fuel is causing some high blood pressure around here, and the dog keeps digging up holes in the yard.

Yesterday I spoke of fond summer memories on the farm, and they are pleasant to relive. However, I also remember my dad leaving the house with goggles covering his eyes so he could see through the blinding snowstorm to find the livestock and feed them in the 40 degree below zero temperatures. I remember grasshoppers descending on our crops and pastures and ravaging everything in their path. My childhood was not idyllic, either.


Country life is not always pretty or easy or idyllic. Sometimes I wonder if I have lost my focus and that my kids might be better off if their parents were living somewhere that guaranteed a steady wage, predictable hours, and a health insurance plan. Pizza Hut delivery would be alright, too.


We have four children who stand at the brink of considering careers in agriculture. Should we encourage them to go through that doorway? Should we pull them back?

I remain convicted that this is the best possible place to raise our particular kids. I am confident that they will be well prepared for life when they leave here. Their childhood, like mine, will not be idyllic. They will remember the calf they raised going to slaughter, and they will remember the kittens lost in the cold weather and the chickens lost to the raccoon. They will remember their parents worrying about the future and the hailstorm that left us looking over the destruction, speechless.

And they, like me, will also remember the sunsets and the rainbows. Will they come back to agriculture? I don't know, and I'm okay with that. But I am confident that they will know - and respect - the source of their food.

Summer

When my mind wanders to my childhood, it invariably settles in the summer memories. Those are the memories that come back not only in my mind’s eye, but in the other four senses as well.

Even today I can sometimes imagine that I hear the sound of hundreds of sheep mothering up at dusk, a sound that was both raucous and comforting. It is a sound I memorized during the countless summer nights my brother, sister, and I spent in sleeping bags in our front yard.


Our beds were usually empty in the hottest summer months; we opted for the cooler comfort of the outdoors, where we would try to stay awake long enough to see the last falling star. As the night grew colder, the animals would move in, and my parents would frequently find us covered by dogs and cats by early morning when the meadowlarks awakened us with their trills.

Summer was a time of isolation from the world. Since my parents were so busy with ranch work, we rarely left the place. My friends from school were forgotten until fall, which strengthened the bonds between my siblings and me. After all, you cannot afford to alienate your only playmates.

There was an occasional road trip to visit family or friends, which I recall by the feel of my sweaty bare legs stuck to the hot maroon vinyl in our station wagon and the sound of my brother’s whistling, which was maddeningly horrible.

As I grew, summertime developed into more than just a seemingly endless vacation from school. My responsibilities grew from simple chores like feeding bum lambs and helping with housework. My talents were utilized in the hayfields, where I walked all afternoon turning over bales with the dogs at my side, waiting eagerly to dive onto the mice that occasionally hid beneath the bales. I scoured the same hayfields searching for gopher holes. Sometimes I would pour poisoned oats next to the holes, but often I would set traps, as the reward was a buck a tail for every success.

The sweet smell of alfalfa elicits memories of my first solo trip on the swather. The corners looming in the distance inspired a feeling of terror as I tried desperately to remember the maneuvers required to turn the machine before it crashed through the fence. Within a half an hour, that cold feeling of terror was replaced by the squelching hot reality of the sun beating down on my back, bugs attacking my face, and the acres of uncut crop.

My summers also found me along the fence lines, where I learned that even an 80-pound girl can pound a steel post and stretch a wire taut. I learned to appreciate good fences after trying to remove wayward livestock from grain fields in July.

Noxious weeds became my enemies, and the fields of shooting stars became a source of joy.

I’m not sure when it happened. Maybe it was while I gazed across the flowering meadow, or perhaps while I read Zane Grey novels in the grain truck, chewing kernels of wheat into gum and waiting for the combine to come back around. But at some point during my summertime experiences, I realized my good fortune to live on a ranch, and knew I would not raise my children elsewhere.

Times are different now. It seems that kids are so overscheduled in the summer that they can hardly call summertime a vacation. My children are ages ten, seven, five, and two, and still we spend nine weeks of the summer in organized activities of some sort. I realize now that I will have to be cautious to ensure that my children do not perpetuate the problem of young people becoming disengaged from agriculture. After all, they won’t learn to love it unless they experience it, and summer is a perfect time to do just that.

Cheap Help

After a rain shower this morning, the sun broke out this afternoon, providing a beautiful day for moving the cows to another pasture. We gathered the help that was handy for the job, and we found that, as usual, you get what you pay for.


Scout: free, and worth every penny.


This was Riley's first time helping us, and he may be the first country kid to emerge from an experience moving cows without being hollered at by his parents.


This little helper didn't quite earn her pay today.


She fell asleep in her mama's arms on the ride home.


Her quote of the day: "I'm a cowgirl, Mama. I got boots."

Expressions

When you live in the middle of nowhere, you quickly learn that one of the only sources of entertainment available to you is watching the sporting events of small children.

The unfortunate reality of rural areas is that the population is plummeting. Fewer people are farming these days, and that means that collecting enough kids for a team is proving to be a difficult feat. As a result, my daughter's t-ball team travels to play teams that are 60, 80, and even 140 miles away.

That's a lot of miles to drive to watch a seven-year-old hit a ball off of a tee and scratch holes in the outfield with the toe of her shoe.

But it's one of the sacrifices we make in order to raise our children in the country.

Besides, it's all worthwhile when I look at the expressions on her face.


The anticipation. . .


The agony of watching a teammate drop the ball. . .


I'm not sure how to define this one. Either her nose was dripping or she saw a boy. Either way, she's a bit disgusted, but that quickly faded as she raced toward home.

I don't have a picture of that expression; she jumped into my arms just after crossing the home plate. It was worth the trip.

Stormy Weather

Awhile back, someone asked me to reveal my favorite time of day.

It took me a few weeks to decide. I used to be a morning person, popping out of bed in the morning with a sunny disposition and the kind of optimism that makes an aerobics instructor seem depressed.

That quality disappeared during the last decade along with my definable waist and my nightly eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. My mornings are now a blur as I fumble to fill the coffee pot while wearing a toddler and stirring oatmeal with my free hand.

My favorite time of day has shifted to the quiet of dusk when the children are tucked into bed and the demands of the day have diminished. Sometimes, like tonight, I slip out of the house and take a short walk through the grass before tackling the supper dishes.

Tonight's walk included a study of the clouds. We have been treated to a series of afternoon thunderstorms lately, and they make for some wild cloud formations to our west.





After taking in the scene, I realized I was humming the tune of "Stormy Weather," a song my grandma used to play on the piano. We spent several nights at our grandparents' house in the summertime, and after a day of fishing for rainbow trout with Grandpa, we would settle down in the evening and listen to Grandma play and sing.

Since I was the baby of the family, I had the extra privilege of being rocked in her arms as she sang every verse of "Bimbo." Unlike parents, grandmas seldom hurry through the bedtime routine; they don't skip chapters in books or verses to songs. They relish every moment because they know how swiftly the moments pass.

Toys

My children have no shortage of toys. They each have a bicycle or tricycle. They have a swing set, two slides, and a basketball hoop. As the children of a former English teacher, they have an adequate supply of books. Their craft supplies require their own storage unit. I have even converted our old log cabin into a playhouse for them, complete with dressers full of costumes and dress-up paraphernalia.

School is out. The aforementioned items are neglected. Their choice of amusement?




Whatever it takes to elicit a strong reaction from their mother.

Epilogue: the dog killed the snake. I love that dog.

Our Sunday Drive

The real title of this post is "We took the boat to the river so the kids could go fishing but the river is too high and it rained so we just drove around and took pictures from the pickup windows and wiped the raindrops off the camera lens."

While true, that title is not very catchy, so I simplified it a bit.

The alternative title would be "My husband thinks he is a better photographer than I am."

He might be right, but we don't need to discuss that now. Just look at the pretty pictures. It doesn't matter who took them. . . right?










We glimpsed the progress the winter wheat has made since the recent rain. Just one more reason why Sunday drives are good for the soul. Even if the last five miles entailed a cacophony of "I need a snack" and "Are we home yet?" and "Mooooooom, he pinched me on purpose!"

I'm pretty sure all of that was the result of my parents' curse that someday my children will act just like I did.

Whose Kid Is That?

Of all the decisions I have made throughout the years, I like to think that one of the wisest was choosing to rear my children in the country.

There are also many times that I doubt my wisdom.

One of the primary benefits I can usually cite for living rurally is that I can protect my kids from some of the harsher elements of urban life. It is that very protection, however, that can sometimes cause trouble when I take my sheltered children to town.

For instance, my youngest son does not know that he cannot run out into the street. He doesn’t even know what a street is. If he sees a tractor coming across the field, he knows that he needs to avoid it. But since we live well off the county road and rarely spend time anywhere with pavement, he is completely unaware that a street poses any danger to him.

Ignorance of traffic can be a benefit of sorts as well. I always try to obtain a window seat in busy restaurants because my sheltered children are fascinated with traffic. All the city kids in the place completely ignore the cars whizzing by their windows, but my kids sit quietly and stare out the window at the unfamiliar sight.

They are not always so well behaved in the city, though. When my oldest child was three, I was browsing through a clothing store when he suddenly disappeared. I was nearly frantic with worry until I saw a fellow customer jump back in alarm, stifling a scream. There, with his head poking out from a circular rack of dresses, was my son, playing an impromptu game of hide and seek.

I have also found that sheltering the kids in the country may not provide them with all the social skills they need as they encounter people in town. This point was proven when my child pointed at the checkout clerk and said, “Do you have a baby in your tummy, or are you just fat?”

At least that episode provided a teachable moment. Some skills are more difficult to teach, such as the concept that not everyone in a city is interested in who you are or what you are doing. My kids are used to a small-town grocery store in which everyone has known them since birth. They can happily rattle on to the clerk and the customers about their daily lives and accomplishments, and they always find a receptive audience.

Thus, when we are in a large department store, I find myself dragging my daughter away from strangers that she is trying to engage in conversation. She has no understanding of why they would not be interested in her full name, age, interests, and opinions.

Managing naïve and inquisitive country kids in the city can be an exhausting experience, and it is usually at that peak of exhaustion that I begin to question my wisdom in a) rearing the children in the country, and b) bringing such countrified children to the city to begin with. Such was the case one summer when my four-year-old daughter and I were waiting in the parking lot for the rest of the family to pick us up.

My daughter informed me that she had to go to the bathroom, and I was not about to re-enter the busy store that I had finally escaped with a cart full of items. I told her that she would have to wait a few minutes, and I continued to scan the horizon for her father.

When I turned to make sure she was still there with me, I saw the sight that no mother wants to see. There, squatting by a pencil-thin tree in full view of the world, was my half-naked daughter.

She was surprised at my gasp of horror. After all, her brother taught her that when you are outside and you have to go, you simply find a tree and do your business. It’s a lesson that his father passed down to him, and it’s one that is completely acceptable on the prairies of Montana.

In the largest city in the state, however, I believe it is generally frowned upon.

Although I attempted to explain that logic to my daughter, I’m afraid that the lesson was lost upon her happy little spirit.

At least the big city provides one amenity not found in rural areas: anonymity.

Just Busy

I was thinking that no one would notice if I just skipped a day of blogging.

I was mistaken.

After the third phone call from a concerned family member asking if I was okay, I decided I better blog tonight.

Yes, I am okay. I'm just busy. And tired. And busy.

The little ones have had colds, and the coughing and fevers have kept me up at night.

School is out, which means that everyone is scheduling activities this week. We have had 4-H work days, Vacation Bible School meetings, t-ball games, basketball camps, and slumber parties. I think I actually met myself on the county road yesterday morning.

Last week's rain has resulted in this week's explosion of weeds and grass requiring spraying and mowing. It finally quit freezing at night, so the flowers and the garden needed to be planted.

My intention was to plant the flowers and the garden as a family bonding experience, taking pictures of our progress throughout the day. My reality was that the toddler kept ripping plants out of the containers, shredding the roots, and the older kids were arguing about who would plant which seeds where. The wind blew most of the day, and by early this afternoon, everyone was tired and cranky. A brief hailstorm blew through, and we all retreated to the house.

I finished the garden alone, and I enjoyed it. I didn't take a single picture until I returned to the house. I thought that this photo summarized all of our feelings tonight.

It Must Be Summer

Here's a recap of my day:

* Moved cows to greener pastures

* Dropped off one child at basketball camp (which is really misleading since it's a two-hour event which doesn't involve camping at all)

* Picked up one child from basketball camp and dropped off another child at basketball camp

* Did a few loads of laundry

* Paid some bills

* Picked up one child from basketball camp

* Drove an hour with all four kids to a t-ball game where I coached first base because all the other moms were hiding in their vehicles because the "Real Feel" temperature registered somewhere between zero and freeze your tail off

* Thawed myself out while driving an hour home

* Narrowly missed hitting a porcupine, a few deer, a cat, and a cow on the road

* Giggled for four miles after the following exchange:

"Mom, what was that?"

"A deer. Oh, look, it's a whitetail!"

"A whitetail? I love them."

"Yes, they are pretty, aren't they?"

"They're delicious!"

You know you're a redneck mama when your daughter appreciates wildlife for its flavor.

It Takes Electricity to Run a Computer

I know I said I would post the answer to the Photo ID contest last night. I know I said I would share more pictures.

They're pretty neat pictures.

And I will share them.

Just as soon as my photo editing program stops burping and starts functioning again.

Two things happened yesterday. First, I decided to upgrade my photo editing program because I have been having problems with the old one. It seems it doesn't play well with Vista.

Secondly, just as I was about to sit down to upload those photos I promised you, the power flickered and died for the third time in 48 hours. By the time our heroic rural electric cooperative employees drove out here and braved the soggy weather to restore the power, it was well past my bedtime. If I was going to get my required five or six hours of sleep, I would have to forego the photo uploading.

Turns out that was a good decision, because when I attempted the upload this morning, my newly upgraded photo editing program burped. I'm trying to give it an antacid right now, but it may require more intensive treatment.

Meanwhile, for your entertainment, here are a few more phrases that people have googled and then, inexplicably, found themselves here.

"what to do when foster kids run away"
I would look for them. It might work better than sitting in front of the computer googling for them.

"toddler repeats phrase until a response is given"
Sorry, but this behavior is typical until the child reaches the teen years. It goes right along with whining, tantrums, lost mittens, cutting a sibling's hair with safety scissors, and cussing in front of your grandparents. It's a rite of passage in parenting. Just answer the child and get on with your day.

"should husband shave his legs"
I've gotta vote no on this one. But I'm not sure you should be soliciting others' opinions; it sounds like a personal issue to me.

"shaved my eyelashes"
Thanks for sharing. I'm hoping this is the end of the "shaving" queries.

"raising a cowboy"
If his mama wasn't successful, you won't be, either.

"kids racism its just not funny"
Well, sometimes it is.

"how to make my front yard look beautiful"
Trust me; you will not find the answer to that question on this blog. Coming soon: my pathetic attempts at landscaping.

"having another child when you have an autistic son"
It's a leap of faith, and I'm very thankful that we took that leap several times. The best thing we ever did for our oldest son was to give him siblings.

"funny photo manure pile"
I guess some people never overcome the bathroom humor stage.

"cute redneck girls"
I have two of them, and their daddy has a shotgun.

"root cellar pictures"
Funny you should ask. They should be uploading any minute day now.

Irony

I'm a fan of irony.

I can sit through an entire movie that is supposed to be a comedy without cracking a smile, but unexpected irony makes me laugh out loud.

When I opened up a package a few days ago, I certainly was not expecting to see this.



My doctor recently asked me to read the book The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan and let her know my thoughts from an agricultural perspective. I was slightly embarrassed that I had not yet read the book. It was published in April of 2006. Everyone else in the world has read it. It is logical to think that I, being a farmer's wife and an avid reader, would have picked it up.

For some reason, I had not. In fact, I have never read anything written by Michael Pollan. Or Barbara Kingsolver. Or anyone else besides the authors of autism behavioral technique manuals or parenting books.


In 2006, I was busy making Pooh Bear cakes and figuring out what had caused that rash on my three-year-old's cheeks.


I was nursing a baby. Frequently, by the looks of those cheeks.


I was sending my little girl off to kindergarten and admitting to myself that I must relinquish control over the wardrobe choices of my third-grade son.

I was not up to any kind of book with a title that included the word "dilemma." I had enough dilemmas of my own.

Now that my baby is (mostly) sleeping through the night, the birthdays are over until October, and my brain is almost fully functional again, I thought I would tackle Pollan's work, so I ordered it. While I haven't yet read it, I know that a basic premise of the book is that McDonald's food is not terribly healthy.

That's why I laughed out loud when, upon opening the package, I found a coupon for a free McDonald's sandwich on top of the book.

Pure irony.

And, knowing me, I'll probably read the book and then use the coupon anyway.