2.25.2012

Certificates

We received some pretty exciting "certificates" around here over the past few days.

After nearly two years, Sam is officially done with speech therapy.  We are so thankful and so proud of him.
Sam was voted "Student of the Month" for February.  His class nominates a fellow student who best represents the character trait of the month.  February was Fairness and they choose Sam.  We are so proud of him.  My heart swelled and my eyes stung as I blinked back tears when his teacher told me that he had been chosen.  I asked her what trait they were recognizing and she told me "fairness, but Sam could win for any of the traits, really."  
And the winner of the most original name given to a stuffed animal goes to my middle love, Jack Standley.  We welcomed Grumpy Tigerbell into our family after he took a trip to Build-a-Bear with Landry and Ally.  Originality, baby.  He's the champion.

2.22.2012

A Prolapse, Cutting the Cord and Bobby Brown

I experienced a first the other day.  Sadly, it was a bad first.  A cattle prolapse.  Don't know what that is?  A prolapse is defined as "an abnormal repositioning of a body part from its normal anatom­ical position."  In layman's terms, a body part falls out of the cow.  In this case, her uterus.  Sadly, it happens.  Thankfully, we haven't had one happen to any of our cows.  It was so sad.  The poor Mama had just given birth when the prolapse occurred.  Unfortunately, the kids are the ones who discovered her.  The Lees were here and all the kids were running wild at the barn.  Sam, Cannon and Cade ran into the chicken barn and seconds later, ran out yelling all sorts of nonsense. 

It went something like this, "A cow.  Oh, no!  Her head's been eaten off.  A coyote got her!  I'm serious, Lala!  Her head is just, just gone!"

Me, being the naive ranch hand I am, assumed that indeed the boys had discovered a cow that was now headless thanks to a run in with a coyote.

Joe, being the smart, experienced ranch hand, immediately said, "Show me where boys."  And as he turned to follow them, I heard him mumble, "I sure hope she hasn't prolapsed."    Sure enough after following them into the chicken barn and looking out one of the windows into the small lot across from the barn, we saw her.  I had heard of a prolapse, but had never seen one first hand.  Let's just say, it's something I could have gone my whole life without seeing.  

It was so sad and my child-bearing self, ached for that poor first time Mama.  It was clear to see why the boys thought she had been beheaded by a coyote.  She was laying with her head down, her bottom towards us.  And in all honesty, her back did look like her front had been beheaded.  Her insides were laying in a heaping mess underneath her and when the poor girl tried to walk, it drug along the ground.  I watched her twitch and kick at the mangled mess hanging from her and I winced when Joe explained to me that she was still contracting and didn't understand what was happening.  She was trying to deliver what was hanging from her body.  At first we thought she hadn't calved yet, but soon we saw the large black calf, brand new, still wet and trembling, laying nearby.  I took a picture but I'll spare you the sight.  It was bad.  Really bad.

Jody got home minutes later and moved the calf to a stall of the barn.  The bull calf was very big, which is likely the cause of the rupture.  Everyone was anxious to give him a quick rub.
Joe called the vet and we all headed home.  There was nothing to be done until the vet came to stitch her up.  This involves cleaning the uterus really well to prevent infection and pushing it back inside her before stitching her up. Her calf bearing days would be over and the goal was only to help her survive, hoping she'd be able to raise her first calf, the only one she'd ever have.


Jody headed back down to meet the vet after dinner and said he'd be home shortly.  Two hours passed before he stepped inside my house like this.
I documented all this nastiness for two reasons:

1.  To show off my mad stain removing skills.  After initially vowing to throw his blood stained clothes straight into the burn barrel, I made it my mission to get make his shirt and jeans spotless.  Spotless and sanitized.  I applied an insane amount of stain remover ran the sanitize option on the machine twice.   Four hours later, the clothes emerged squeaky clean and germ free.  Stain removal is my thing.

2.  Most importantly, I took these pictures for proof.  Proof that my husband did, indeed, hold a cow's very large uterus for an hour and a half while the vet tried to sew her up.  Not only did he hold the bloody uterus, he caught it the two times it fell back out of her body during the procedure.  He left their incident covered in blood and matter, sweaty and shaking from sheer exhaustion.  He stood in the kitchen barely able to stand and didn't walk right for two days.  Why does this matter?  Because this is the same man who couldn't cut the cord of any of our three boys in the delivery room because he thought it was gross.  His stomach couldn't take it.  "He just couldn't do it,"  he told me.  And I believed him.  Especially after he nearly passed out during Sam's birth.  Yes, I was pushing with all my might, unsure of what to expect next (seeing as it was my first time) and the next thing I knew, all attention quickly diverted from me and I heard my doctor yelling, "Sit him down!  Sit him down!  Ok, put your head between your legs!  Just breath.  Keep your head down and breath!"  My doctor and nurse had to coach my husband out of passing out.  And when he was able to stand again, they kept his mind preoccupied by asking him all about birthing cows and pigs.  And he gladly began a nice, long discussion on all the ins and outs of birthing farm animals.   While I pushed.  And gave birth.  A part of me even felt sorry for him.  My big, masculine husband weak in the knees over childbirth.  It was even a little endearing.  Until he marched into the house covered in blood from holding a cow's over sized, bloody uterus with his bare hands.  He owes me. Big time.

Oh, I should tell you what Jody named the calf.  Bobby Brown.  Yes, after that Bobby Brown.  All the news coverage over Whitney's death (which I was glued to and so saddened by) was a little fresh in his mind, I guess.  "Too soon?" he asked. "Um, ya' think?" I answered.  Unfortunately, the Mama cow died the next morning and the calf is being bottle fed twice a day.  Will loves the little thing and talks about "Bobby Brown Cow" all the time so there's no changing his name.  I really hope Bobby Brown Cow is off the bottle and out of the barn stall before Sam's class visits in April for a field trip.  I have no desire to introduce him to his classmates and their parents.

2.19.2012

Hanging Around

Having boys means...
discovering orangutans hanging from a cabinet door is nothing out of the ordinary.

2.17.2012

My Life in iPhone Pics

Found him like this in the office.  Part of me was proud.  The other part of me was disturbed that he thought he'd be there long enough to need somewhere to rest his legs.
"Mama, look at my couch."  
Friendly faceoff.
One of the famous Standley/Lee sleepovers.  Don't be fooled by the appearance of calm children.  It is an act.
Angry Indian.
Happy Indian.
Frontiersman.  With their trusted pup.
Cannon, the dog whisperer.  Sayler fell into a trance in his lap.  I'm hoping he can use his powers on Will as needed.
This is what happens when I leave Jody in charge.  Sam and Cannon wrestling.
Up next: Cade and Sam.
Pay no attention to the cheering redneck in the corner.  He is "coaching."
Cade broke out his secret weapon...the chicken wing.
Ok, this is becoming a little much. This is where I begin yelling for them to stop immediately.
They didn't listen.  Imagine that.
Wrestlemania in the playroom.  Snow White in the bunk beds.  There's something for everybody here.

On a side note, shortly after taking this picture, Landry taught a class on Back Scratching 101.  Yes, there's a right and a wrong way to do it.  She instructed me on her preferred scratching speed, grabbed my hand and showed me the proper way to bend my fingers and explained to me how I'd know when she was really asleep and when I was allowed to stop.  An hour later, she was finally asleep and I was quite certain I'd never be able to use my right hand again.  She told me her Mama scratches her back every night.  Allyson, I have three words for you.  Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.  Take my advice, buy one of those wooden back scratchers for your nightly duty.  You'll thank me later.
Why I never answer the phone...
Exhibit A: Both phones were missing for over 24 hours.  I found them buried under pants in Jack's drawer.  Which was, I should add, the only place I didn't look.
My workout routine.  Drag a forty pound child who refuses to let go of your leg through the house.  Unfortunately I only feel the burn on one side of my body.
I saved the best for last...

While shopping at Walmart, nothing says I belong here more than noticing a large wod of gum in your baby's hair twenty minutes into your trip.  And I thought those people staring at me were admiring my handsome boy.  Um, no. It was my first gum in the hair incident.  After three boys.  A first.  Maybe if it had happened with Sam or even Jack, I'd have handled it differently.  I'm sure I'd have spent hours holding ice on it, refusing to cut that sweet hair without a fight.  But this was my third child.  I don't have time for all that.  I'm just trying to survive, folks.  I pushed my cart straight over to the office supplies, found a pair of scissors, removed them from the package and cut the hunk of gum out of his hair.  I assessed the damage, fluffed his hair to hide the gap I'd just created, stuffed the hair/gum mess in a wipe and dropped it in my purse and tossed the scissors in my cart. (Because even though I could have slid them back in the package and returned them to the shelf, I felt buying them was the right thing to do.  And, maybe, I needed a new pair anyway.)   I turned my cart around and headed to the milk aisle.  Without missing a beat.  That's what having three boys will do for you.  You become a master at rolling with it.  I'm a grand champion.

2.14.2012

Valentine's Day in Pictures

Flowers for Sam's teachers...
(He died of embarrassment at the mere thought of walking in school carrying flowers for his teachers.  Which led to me carrying in two heavy vases while balancing Will on my hip and a very shy Jack, who wrapped his entire body around my right leg.)
Heart shaped cinnamon rolls for my little sweeties...
(Another attempt to make memories by this ridiculously sentimental Mama.) 
(My domestic bliss was short-lived as I was bluntly informed by my oldest two that my creation looked like a butt, not a heart.  Note to self: give those two ingrates a lecture on perspective.)
Kindergartners passing out their valentines...
(This took a long time.  And to speed things up, I may have passed out nearly all of Sam's cards.)
(I may have "helped" several of his classmates too, by grabbing handfuls of theirs to pass out too.)
Love Juice...
(Labels created by: me.  Ink used by my cheap printer: a lot.   My effort noticed by: two kids and one adult. )
Snacks.
(My contribution?  The oreo cakesters rolled in sprinkles that took minutes to make.  I chose to spend my time printing labels and meticulously sticking them to the plastic drinks.  Note to self: focus on the food next time.)
Sleeping little boy...
(You know, the one who refuses to nap at home on a comfy bed in a quiet room.   But he'll sleep like a champ, contorted in a stroller in a room full of loud kindergarteners?  Lesson learned, bud.  You're in control.  I get it.)
Sam helping lead the class in their pre-snack song...
(Cue the embarrassment.  Singing in front of the class with your smiling Mama watching on?  Forget about it.  He was mortified.)  
Eating their snack...
(Sam, look to your right, sweetie.  That's your classmate's mom who has pulled up a chair to sit at the table beside her son.  I would love to have pulled up one of those mini seats beside you too, buddy.  But I didn't. Because I love you.  And you would have died.  You're welcome.) 
Group pictures with Mrs. Morris...
(Those two in the back who refused to sit by their teacher in front of their Mama's?   We've got you figured out.  We know you're both in love with her.  The whole "hard to get" act?  Nice try.)
My sweet, middle son...
(He didn't want his picture taken.  I obliged.  And then I told him to look quick at the spider on my camera.  Surprised/startled/frightened look?  Yes, but I showed him who's boss.)
Sweet Landry taking care of Will...
(Is she too young to babysit for me a few days a week?  I kid.  I kid.)
A special little valentine from my oldest...
(So sweet, Sam.  I love it.  But I still haven't forgotten the whole butt cinnamon roll incident.   That will require unsolicited hugs, long conversations about how much you love and appreciate me and hand-picked flowers.  In that order. )

2.13.2012

If

If you let a pig out of his pen and allow him to "explore" your backyard, you'll be amazed at his "rooting skills."
Time it takes for Spot destroy a flower bed: 43 seconds.
If you are blessed with "country" boys, they will surely ask you if they can make a mud hole for their pig to enjoy while she's frolicking in the back yard.
If the temperature is above sixty degrees, they will insist on "working" without their shirt on.
If your pig is only accustomed to rooting around the dry ground in the pen she shares with a dog, your pig may find the mud unamusing.
If that happens, your children may feel the need to "demonstrate" how to properly play in the wet mess they created.  You know, if the pig doesn't understand and all.
If she still seems uninterested, your boys may "need to make it a little muddier" so the pig will "like it a little better."
If this fails, a little more "demonstrating" may be required. 
If you have a puppy nearby, they may throw her in the mud too, in hopes that she will "show the pig what to do."
If your puppy has a listening problem and a clear case of canine ADHD, asking her for help may not work out as planned.
Amount of time Sayler showed interest in the muddy play land: 3.7 seconds.
If your first born has a stubborn streak (like his Daddy's, I might add), he  may refuse to call it quits, even when every one else has lost interest.
If he is determined to make good use of the mud hole he's created, your washing machine will pay the price.
If your middle child is the recipient of a flying mud pie to the face (courtesy of his older brother), the meltdown of the century may occur.
If your over zealous first born flashes you a smile, you may forgive him.  
That is, until you are forced to scrub the mud out of his ears and nostrils while he tells you all the ways you are "washing him the wrong way."
If I could find a lock for our water spigots, my life would be so much easier.
Of this I am sure.