The Dark Side

It's official.  

My baby has crossed over to the dark side.

The dark side of boy hood.

The side where manners don't reside and tricks that involve grabbing body parts and making inappropriate noises are revered.

As if this household needed another dose of testosterone.

Don't misunderstand,  I love having boys.

But some days the testosterone circulating in this house is stifling.

Stifling.

The other night all three of the boys were in the tub together.

I walked away and returned to find my oldest two playing quietly.

And Will?

There he was, standing up, facing me with a firm hold on his you know what.

And he was doing a little dance, grinning from ear to ear and loudly singing, "Ning, nong!  Ning, nong!  Ni-ingggg,  no-onggg!"

And with out missing a beat, he spun around, stuck his bottom out and grabbed it in both hands.

And the boy who minutes earlier was my baby, used his hands to make his bottom talk to me.

"Wonk, wonk!  Wonk, wonk!  Wonk, wonk, wa, wonk wonk!"

Like I said, stifling.

The Rodeo

Last weekend we took the boys to see The World's Toughest Rodeo.  Robin and Kay joined us and the boys were thrilled to be going.  They got all dressed up in their cowboy attire and had a hard time waiting patiently for the bull riding events to begin.  They loved every minute of it and I must admit, I enjoyed myself too.  I love that my boys love cowboys.  I love that the announcer prayed before the event.  I love that they honored a local soldier as "the real hero of the night."  I love that the cowboys would drop to their knees after their ride and pray.  

What I didn't love was the intensity of the sport.  I covered my eyes a lot and held my breath through every ride.  I don't know how mothers can sit and watch their sons hanging on for dear life on the back of one of those wild animals.  I would need to be medicated.  Or sedated.  So I grin and bear it as I watch them play rodeo in the playroom, roping furniture and giving each other "bull rides" on their backs.  I encourage their cowboys dreams from the safety of our house.  But should they become serious in their intentions to "ride real mean bulls," I fully intend to break out my photographic proof as to why they should never consider such a crazy idea.

1.  Broken hands?  Jammed fingers?  Take your pick, boys.

2.  You are such handsome boys.  And I'm not just saying that 'cause I'm your Mama.  You really are.   And, baby, a face plant in the dirt may leave a mark on that handsome face.  Let's avoid that, please.

3.  Hello, torn groin muscle.  Nice to meet you.

4.  His foot is hung on the rope.  The rope that is attached to the bull.  Not good, boys.  Not good at all.

5.  Focus your attention to the gentleman on the right.  The one in the white shirt that is climbing over the railing.  This is gentleman is smart, son.  A chicken?  Maybe.  But smart none the less.

6.  In life, there's always a time to let go and a time to hold on.  This, boys, would be an appropriate time to let go.

7.  A bull's horns are dangerous.  You already know that.  Those horns will put your eye out.  And you have such beautiful big, brown eyes.  Let's keep it that way.

8.  This can't end good, boys.  Period.

9.  Two words.  Broken tailbone.  Do you really want to have to carry a pillow to sit on every where you go?

10.  Any sport that causes your legs to fly over your head like this is a bad idea.  Unless you're competing in a break dancing competition.  Which I hope to never witness you do either, by the way.

Now this is my speed, boys.  Mutton Bustin'.  Harmless, slow, fluffy sheep.  Helmets.  Face guard.  Where do we sign up?

The Coats

We knew there would always be reminders.  Reminders of him and all he means to us and this place.  A place he loved and tended with strong shoulders and calloused hands.  We see him in every tree he planted, every fence post that lines this farm, every rusted metal gate.  He farmed this land, working hard to grow crops and livestock but working harder to insure it would be the home of generations to come.  The grain bins.  The rustic old barn. The weathered shelters with shiny tin roofs.  The long concrete drive.  All of these things are him.  And all of these things will be constant reminders of him.  How blessed are we to have so many tangible memories to ?  Blessed. So very blessed.  And as bittersweet as all seeing all those things may be, they don't leave me shocked, frozen in sadness or grief. Maybe because I am so thankful that every inch of this farm is a gift to us from him.  A place to live and raise little boys that can run wild and free.  A place where children grow up nestled between grandparents and great grandparents, and aunts and uncles who adore them.  A place for Jody to raise cows and fulfill his passion.  A place for our children to make a home of their own one day.  Yes, the sadness of missing him is there, but so is the overwhelming gratitude I feel to him for his years of hard work.  Years of work that would become a gift to each of us, an expression of his love in the purest form.  These little reminders are gifts we are so blessed to enjoy each and every day we greet another morning from this place.  This place he made home.  

He is always here.  In tangible things and spoken words.  In memories Jody shares.  In all the questions Sam, who misses him so, asks us about him as he tries to hang on to his treasured memories of his Papa.  I expect all of these things and am often able to share stories of him with Sam and Jack with smiles, not tears.  Not because I'm not sad, but because the memories are so sweet and so good.  Every single one of them.  But something happened recently that left me speechless, overwhelmed with the grief and the missing.  Missing him, but missing who they were together more. We were all together, sharing a meal over the holidays at Papa's Place.  Pieces of him were everywhere.  In pictures.   In the softball trophies that line the shelves.  At the sink where he washed so many dishes as she cooked.  But it was what caught my eye behind the door, that took my breath away.

Two coats.  One big.  One small.  Neatly hanging side by side, as if they had just peeled them off upon returning from their late afternoon walk to the mailbox.  I walked over to them and as I looked at them closer, it quickly became apparent to me that they had been there quite a while.  I ran my hand along the dusty sleeves of the old, tattered, green Nutrena Feed coat he always wore. And then I gently took the little red coat off the wall. It, too, was covered in dust.  I wiped the dust from the hood with my hand before looking inside.  How had I forgotten this coat?  I am meticulous about carefully packing away and labeling the boys' clothes.  Nearly all of the clothes Will wears were first worn by Sam and Jack.  Sure, this coat was an inexpensive Target purchase, but it I certainly would have handed it down to Jack and Will.  Yet there it was.  Hanging there.  Forgotten.   

I looked inside to find the coat's size.  24 month.  Sam would have worn that size when he was 18 months old or so. Which meant it had been hanging there behind that door for over four years.  After one of their daily walks together, the two of them came inside, removed their coats and hung them behind the door.  How could they have known the last time they took them off that they would hang there, undisturbed for years?  I'm sure that walk wasn't their last walk. It was likely getting warmer outside and their walks wouldn't require a coat any longer.  I'm certain they shared many more morning hikes through the cow pasture and after dinner walks to the barn.  And in many ways, I am happy that I don't know when that last walk took place.  Because if I don't know, the memories of the two of them together, hand in hand, stepping in unison, speaking few words but saying so much, can live on forever.

It's a Good Thing

It's a good thing their superhero pajamas are a little roomy.

Especially when you decide to stuff them with toys to see how "big you can make yourself."

Hmmm, I wonder what he's attempting to do here...

And in case you're wondering, stuffing your pajamas with random objects always requires a wig.

Why, yes, we do own a Joe Dirt wig.  Doesn't everyone?

A Boy and His Bucket

Sisters

Sisters.

One widowed long ago.

One just lost the love of her life.

She used to always hold his hand.

Now she holds hers.

They have always been the best of friends.

And now, they are everything to each other. 

I am so thankful they have each other.

I am so thankful to have sisters of my own.

New Calves and Spot

We welcomed two new Hereford calves this week.  They are in the pasture beside our house and are the sweetest little things.   Things will certainly be getting busy around here in the next few weeks.  Our calving season will be in full swing by February and we will have a lot of sweet new babies to enjoy.

And in other news, it appears that Spot has a little bit of an attitude problem.  Needless to say, she's not quite ready to be taken out for a walk.  I am impressed with how fast she can make my children jump.  I'm considering bringing her inside in the mornings to help me wake Sam up for school. 

On a side note, Sayler shows no fear around Spot, growling at her and biting her legs.  Someone should probably break the news to her that she is a beagle, not a rottweiler.

Champion

Jack is taking hide and seek to a new level.

Modern Day Cowboy

Because you never know when you may need to hop of your horse and make a phone call...

Why is Laundry Detergent My Best Friend?

Because of these three rednecks.

What were these little angels doing as I was throwing trash away in our burn barrel?  Playing a fun new game my smart, creative boys invented all on their own.   That's my middle child chasing his older brother around with a stick.  Pretty innocent?  Not when the objective of the game is to dip the stick in a pile of fresh cow crap, run as hard as you can to catch your brother and fling the stinking mess all over his back.


See, honey, I told you the "sanitize" option on our over-priced washer would come in handy some day.    


Ironically, the only one who ended up with crap all over his back today was Will.  And since he trailed far behind his older brothers as they chased one another with the dirty stick, I'm fairly certain the mess that ended up all over his back was the result of his lightening speed.  His black boots give him Carl Lewis speed.  I only wish he'd speed around the piles instead of through them.  


Wishful thinking, I'm sure.

He Calls Me Maw Maw

Will.  My sweet, silly Will.  He talks all the time now.  And he has a few signature "sayings" that are all his.

1.  He calls me Maw Maw.  A lot.  As much as he calls me Mama, actually.  We have no idea where it came from but it sure makes us all smile.

2.  He answers "Daddy" to nearly every question we ask.

3.  He likes to say "Bye, Boo Boo" instead of a simple "Bye."  I'm pretty sure this came from me asking him to tell his Aunt Boo goodbye one day.  The phrase "Bye, Boo Boo" obviously stuck.

Keeping It Real-Office Edition

This is the current state of the office.  A disaster.  Unassembled car seats.  Containers full of old toys to donate.  A few Christmas toys.  Clothes.  4 pairs of boots.  Boxes full of stray items.  Outgrown clothes to pack away.  Christmas decorations that haven't made it to the storage barn yet. All these items tossed everywhere. The result of three little boys sneaking in and dumping out all the containers of stuff to be put away and donated.  And if the dumping out and pilfering through stuff wasn't enough, Will found a full bag of popcorn kernels for our popcorn machine and thought scattering popcorn kernels all over the floor was just what this situation needed.   The mess even spills out onto the porch.  I'll be spending my weekend in this war zone, sorting through piles and on my hands and knees picking up popcorn kernels.  I'm just hoping to make it out in time to take Sam to school on Monday.

Cow Versus Dog

Winner...Cow.