Pretending to Farm

Patience Is a Virtue... Damn It!

When Hunky Husband is out of town, as he is today, farm chores lay precariously and solely on my shoulders. Through no fault of their own, the twins provide no help; the sun is still tucked behind Four Peaks when they board the bus to school. Granted I could wake them early, force them to don miners’ lights, and send them outdoors in 40-something degree darkness to throw hay flakes and scratch chickens, but that’s not my style. After all, pretend farming should be fun, right? Vampira, otherwise known as Jessica, offers no assistance either. Frankly, if it’s before 10 am, she scares me. One of these days she is going to master the look that kills and I will be as dead as Daffodil the Hamster whom I found this morning. Yes, we lost yet another animal, blimey.

One Pint-Sized Farmer, however, is more than eager to “help.” Unfortunately, his definition of helping involves riding in the feed cart, bogarting my farming equipment, and, in general, tripling the amount of time it takes to complete morning farm chores. But that’s okay.

He likes his version of helping, loves the animals and, since this is not an everyday occasion, I am typically a patient grandmother and enjoy watching him farm. Why I decided to blow that all to Hell this morning by bringing out my inner masochist and adding way more farm chores than needed to my agenda, I have no idea but this is what I did.

You see, the garage chicks were outgrowing their accommodations. Each time I went to their box to check on them in the past few days, shavings had been flung into their food and water, making partaking of either near impossible. I decided it was time, time to move the chicks outdoors to the hen house.

I grabbed an extra feeder, filled it with chick starter, and set it in the corner of the building. I chased, caught, and relocated our two Narragansett turkey hens, who had suddenly become interested in the new coop food, into the pen of misfit fowl. I set up a new water dispenser. I ran an industrial waterproof extension cord to the house-where-eggs-were-once-plentiful and set up the heat lamp for those finally-chilly nights. I put a small cage against the back wall in case the full-grown chickens decided to torment the babies and the young ones needed a panic room. As the final step before actually moving the chicks, I spread fresh white pine shavings on the floor of the hen house and in the panic cage, Anthony escorted me and “assisted” with every move, often requiring a break to kiss a chick (the boy is starting early) or to try to give his grandmother apoplexy by climbing on the motorcycles nearby the brooding cage. During each of my activities, he also needed lifting over the knee-high fence that prevents fowl escapees at the coop entrance gate. Heaven forbid he not follow me into and out of the chicken coop Every. Single. Lap.

By this time, I had almost forgotten the point of all this labor but then heard the peep-peep-peeping of our fast-growing chicks. Repeating the whole gate-lifting with full escort process, we moved the babies, one by one, until all ten of them were in their new home. Phew, 8:30 am and I was pooped, looking forward to a hot shower, and maybe a few moments of relaxation before I proceeded with my day.

And that’s when I found the dead hamster. Is it too early for a drink?

Or do I have to wait for this to happen?

Liver, Chopped Accordingly

Over the last year of the Pint’s residence with us, David has been griping off and on about being “chopped liver” to Anthony in comparison to Jessica and me. Lately, however, he has been a gloating fiend. Grampa is numero uno in Pint-sized eyes and, although he hasn’t emotionally abandoned the rest of us, we all know with whom he truly wants to spend his time.

Grampa and Anthony read together, swim together, and go to the playground together. They are a great buddy story in the making.

Joyfully sharing a club chair, they watch football together.

Showing great skill and precision, they practice synchronized drinking together. Hmmm... can one practice synchronized drinking alone? If this was an Olympic sport, these two would be serious contenders for the gold. For now though, Grampa and Pint will continue to practice on schedule each Sunday afternoon.

Very early this morning, after hearing a stirring Pint around 2 am, Grampa went to check on him in the bedroom he shares with Jessica. Upon seeing the man otherwise known as Hunky Husband, the Pint-Sized Fan slid out of bed with Jessica (she had brought him there to quiet him down and get him back to sleep) and ran toward Grampa.

“Take him,” Jessica grumpily remarked. “All he keeps saying is Grampa, Grampa, Grampa.”

Methinks someone else is feeling a bit liver-ish now.

Time to Wash the Laundry

Do you remember that old Dunkin Donuts commercial featuring the weary baker who got up well before the crack of dawn to go to work? He’d robotically go through the motions day in and day out, saying over and over in the most monotonous of monotonous voices, “Got to make the donuts.”

Now why this was an effective advertising gimmick, I don’t know or remember. Come on in, our employees are unenthusiastic and exhausted at work. It gives our donuts (which personally I think should be spelled doughnuts again) that extra not-so-secret delicious flavor of apathy mixed with a soupcon of fatigue. Yum!

By now, you are probably wondering why I am going on and on about the doughnut guy and this is the reason. I am the doughnut guy and have been for the last few days, the only difference being that, instead of putting in long hours making big fat arse creating pastries, I am folding mountains, or at least foothills of laundry.

How it got so bad I don’t know; well, actually I do. A laundry monster lived in Jessica’s closet. Every time he heard wind of me asking Jessica to do her laundry, he gobbled it all up and hid it in her closet under a sheet, just like he had done when I stopped doing her laundry in the first place. The result of this was that Jessica and Pint’s room looked acceptable and, until recently, I was none the wiser. That is until the monster ate one too many still-damp towels that had been thrown on the floor and exploded like that guy in the Monty Python movie. Clothes, sheets and towels came tumbling out of his former hideout/ demise location and suddenly, I, already behind on the laundry in general, started seriously contemplating arson in order to avoid washing, fluffing, and folding ten tons of soiled linens and wearables.

Since Thursday, and this is no exaggeration even though I am good at that, I have put in at least 12, read it and weep because I am, 12 hours of laundry time each day. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t go through this marathon and instead procrastinate as usual but a very nice lady/ranch hand named Elaine is coming to house-sit for four days and three nights so that we can go tent imbibing with the Camping Crowd/Stinky Cheese Girls/Book and Wine Club for Thanksgiving. I might be a suck-arse housekeeper when it comes to just us but someone else living in my home? Someone who might get attacked by the offspring of Jessica’s closet monster? I have to get the place in shape beyond its typical Universal Studios persona (looks good when you walk in but don’t go on the other side of that wall).

I think tomorrow I will have the laundry done and then the cleaning begins. Scrubbing bloodhounds' slobber, it’s not just for the Meem’s visits anymore.

And now your Pint-related chuckle of the week… yesterday morning as I was scooping dog poo with garbage bag in one hand and plastic grocery bag covering the hand that grabs the feces, Pint wanted to “help.” He jumped up and down chanting, “Scoop poo, scoop poo!” Acquiescing, I grabbed him another plastic grocery bag and into the yard we went. Pint became very unhappy that I was getting all the good poo so I grabbed a few logs-that-don’t-go-on-the-fire and put them in his bag for him. His mood brightened and he chirped, “Thank you!” and we went about our merry way like this until our job was complete. Here we bought the kid choo-choos when what really makes him happy is sh*t in a bag. This is really going to save on our Christmas budget.

Cheers!

Some Mornings...

You just want to crawl in a cupboard and take a nap.

Nevermind all the blankets that were in there, Pint. Just throw them on the floor. Oh, you did that already?

That's super. I'm sure everyone appreciates a little (a lot of) dog hair mixed in with their totally-unneeded-because-it-was-93-yesterday covers.

I think a re-folding and replacing lesson is in order. I'm sure he'll take to it like butter. He's such a compliant easy three year-old. Oh, and have I mentioned that bridge in Brooklyn I have for sale?

Who Needs Toys?

When Hunky Husband and I were first married, with a few exceptions, he was a terrible gift buyer. He bought things for me that he would like me to have rather than things that I would have liked, exercise equipment, lots of exercise equipment, and cheese graters, lots of cheese graters. Apparently, I was to make him a lot of deliciously cheesy dishes and then work their fat off with all the latest exercise gadgets.

As an aside, have I mentioned that, with the exception of walking, I really hate to exercise? Granted, there have been times in my life when I have gotten in really good shape, worked my tail off literally and figuratively, but eventually tired, again literally and figuratively, of the experience and the time it drained from my day. And am I the only one who thinks it is totally unfair that when one pauses their exercise regimen that one’s body doesn’t pause as well? It should stay in the same shape from the time that last Stairmaster step was taken until the masochistic urge to exercise once again rears it’s ugly but healthy head and then continue to improve. I mean really! With all the ridiculously funded research projects out there, you’d think they could set aside the time and money to work on this conundrum. Solve this flabby issue and the world would be a much prettier place, at least from the rear.

But I digress…

At this point, you are probably wondering where I am going with all this and I’ll tell you. I (we) have imitated early-marriage gift-giving David with the birthday present we purchased for Pint. Hint… we bought it (them) at Western Ranchman, not exactly the #1 toddler gift destination location. I’d be lying if I said I felt no guilt over this.

Despite our selfishness, Anthony likes his present just fine. He pets them and loves them as we provide supervision to prevent any Lenny impressions (Remember Of Mice and Men? Thinking of it still makes my throat constrict and my eyes tear up.) Until the babies grow large enough to hold their own in the great but now llama-protected outdoors, the four chicks, two Araucanas and two Barred Rocks, live in a cage in his bedroom and peep happy welcomes to their favorite Pint-Sized Farmer each time he ventures their way. Frankly, I can’t think of a better birthday present for the best three year-old in this house.

E = MC2

I don’t know what the rest of the world does upon adopting a very fluffy werebunny and bringing him home to bond with the rest of the family but we, weirdos that we are, well we go to the park.

It didn’t take long for Albert Bunnicula Einstein to display his inner rock star. Due to his my-that’s-a-huge-rabbit size and his overflowing fluffiness, he quickly formed a large and ever-changing fan base. Apparently, these Quarts wander the parks of Scottsdale looking for rabbits with whom to have their picture taken. Groupies.

Albert lapped up the attention. After traveling many confusing and bumpy hours in a cardboard box in the backseat of a Dodge Truck and sharing in the near-death experience with Robert and me off-roading in the Navajo Nation, he had more than a bunny’s share of pent-up frustration and was ready to blow off some steam.

He’s magic, this bunny.

He makes Frisbees levitate

And Pints swing.

He even has the power to soothe the angst-ridden teenager.

I think we’ll keep him.

Something in the Air Today, Hold On

The weather is teasing me as of late. On one hand, it has been another record-breaking summer full of broiling heat and very little rain. As of September 1, we had had 31 days over 110 degrees and the highest low in history, 91 wake-up-sunshine degrees. Yet, on the other hand, the morning temperatures are beginning to decline and I can sense just the slightest suggestion that autumn is trying to fight its way through. This morning it was a frigid 77 when I drove the boys to the bus stop. Be still my beating heart!

With the promise of fall comes an awakening of my soul and excitement for the months to come. Soon I will be able to receive as much ruminant therapy as my little heart desires, no matter the time of day. I will be able to give Charlotte her favorite treat of green grapes and gift the goats with a turning apple or ten. I will be able to knit wool items larger than socks or child-sized sweaters without my lap catching on fire. Once again, I will be able to dye roving, and God willing, spin that wool into one-of-a-kind yarn, full of the promise of what it will become. I am getting just a wee bit excited.

Speaking of knitting projects, I have my very first knitting commission, a Tasha Halloween costume! Apparently, we are not the only Backyardigans fans around. I designed the dress myself (after Tasha’s of course), a sleeveless deep orange a-line jumper decorated with pale orange slightly-variegated intarsia flowers. I checked and triple checked my math and agonized over colors, gauge, and needle size until I was as confident as someone of my ilk can be that the dress will not only fit and make a wonderful Halloween costume but also be a garment wearable throughout the fall and winter with the addition of a shirt underneath. As Pint’s Cowboy Tyrone sweater is complete other than a half a sleeve and the normal blocking, seaming, and neckline, I am just about ready to begin. Today will be the day.

Very few things nourish the soul like a sense of accomplishment and today I’ve reached my RDA. It’s a good thing, Martha.

Pintionary

Recently, we were worried about the Pint-Sized Farmer’s delayed speech and took him to the pediatrician to have him examined. Dr. Vo shared our concern and ordered advanced hearing tests and evaluations. This must have really ticked off the Pint-Sized Farmer because all of a sudden he is adding words to his vocabulary like I add yarn to my stash. Apparently, his words were just hidden and it took the threat of going to more doctors’ offices, those nasty places where people stick sharp needles in you, to get the words flowing.

Before he becomes too eloquent in his speech and loses all the charm of toddler speak, I think a good documentation of his favorite words is in order. Shall we begin?

Cow

Cows

Car

Car (sometimes a choo-choo but never a train, don’t even try to tell him it is a train, he will growl at you)

Ma

Ma

Ma

When asked to take something to Aunt Jessica, Gramma, Grampa, or even Aunt Karen during her visits, he knows who is who. He just likes calling us all Ma.

Bobert

Bobert (This pisses David the Teenager off to no end. When called Bobert, he folds his arms and refuses to speak to Anthony or even acknowledge his presence. I, however, think it is adorable.)

This is just a smattering of the cuteness which is the Pint-Sized Farmer. This stage flits fleetingly before our eyes and then is gone. I will endeavor to remember this the next time he Jackson Pollacks the walls. It’s all good, right?

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

My mother-in-law is an amazing person, hardworking, dedicated, loyal, and strong-willed. We haven’t always gotten along, perhaps because each of us has a difficult time budging when our minds are set, perhaps because we didn’t always “get” one another. Also, as she gave birth to near-perfection in the form of a boy named David, he deserved nothing short of the best, something I definitely was not.

My insecurities about this changed the way I acted with my in-laws, squelched the fun parts of me in fear of seeming inappropriate. To add fuel to the fire, once at a party shortly before we were married, a girl I have never been fond of pulled David aside, gestured my way with her chin, and told him he could do so much better. Maybe something deep inside of me always feared she was right and thought my mother-in-law felt the same.

Twenty odd years later, years full of anything and everything which bolster and try souls such as ours, I think we understand each other. We definitely love each other and that is a good thing, Martha.

Emotional spill complete. Someone send a Hazmat crew to clean it up, would ya’?

Now Carolyn is a woman of many skills and great enthusiasm to practice them. She is an expert seamstress and, more recently, has added embroidering to her repertoire. The Amazing Matt gifted her with a fancy-dancy sewing machine that does everything but the dishes and she has done her best to discover its full potential. She attends classes, reads books, and sews, sews, sews. She has given us embroidered bath towels, kitchen towels, and clothing. Recently, she has been working on her piece de resistance, a masterpiece of fabric, decorative stitching, and, at unbelievably her first attempt, quilting.

It’s a thing of beauty, the colors, the characters, the workmanship, and, guess what? It glows in the dark and came complete with flashlights to enhance the effect.

We have a new house duck!

And a frog

And a tiger among many others.

Look how she made the quilt ties into embroidered hearts.

And thoughtfully added his name to the top.

It’s too cool for school.

What does the Pint-Sized Farmer think? He likes it just fine (it’s nice and comfy to boot).

Thanks, Mom. I'm blessed to have you for a mother-in-law.

Yeehaw!

These are “The Backyardigans.” You have heard me speak of them before because, one, Pint really likes their show, and two, through his powers of telepathy, he told me he really truly wants to be Cowboy Tyrone, shown 2nd from the left, for Halloween.

I could tell you how much our entire weird family likes “The Backyardigans” as well and how, shhh don’t tell anyone, Hunky Husband and I as recently as last night watched their new DVD together just the two of us after Pint had been sleeping for at least two hours. Who can pass up Pablo in a nineteenth century professor costume searching for the gilded golden butterfly? I know I can’t.

But I digress.

Yesterday afternoon, Pint and I made the decision that is time to start on Cowboy Tyrone’s sweater. The yarn we bought for it calls for a size 7-8 needle which I can somewhat comfortably hold. The pattern, with the exception of some simple shaping, is mindless and can be knit whilst under the influence of pain medication. Beginning this sweater also gave me a chance to have fun with the Sweater Wizard software that I purchased last Christmas with my holiday booty and have not yet used to knit a pattern.

Pint is very excited about his Cowboy Tyrone sweater. He helped me wind the Cascade 220 royal blue into a ball and cherished the feeling of the Filatura di Crosa Luna orange against his skin. (By the way, if anyone has or knows of anyone who has this same yarn in olive green, please let me know. I may know someone, this friend let's say, who knitted a sweater completely except for two inches of shoulder. Oh, the shame of running out of discontinued yarn.)

Last night, we cast on using our Knitpicks options size 8 circulars in the blue. Cowboy Tyrone can’t wait to go riding the range. Yeehaw!