Ah, such an idyllic life

A couple of weeks ago I was heading out to do the nighttime feeding (of all creatures great and small) when I heard my mother-in-law calling to me from her yard. "One of your horses is out!" I looked up in alarm, naturally. Surely if one was out the rest would be close behind. Luckily, it was Tyrone, the big Tennessee Walker that has no use for boundaries. As much as the others may want to follow his lead sometimes, very few ever do. I think they are stopped by one of two things; either they know Ty can simply leap tall fences in a single bound (and they can't so much or are too lazy), or they don't want to be caught following the low man on the totem pole anywhere - brilliant escape plan or not. So there stood the big beast calmly trimming our ever-so-patient neighbors' perfect lawn. (The soccer-field neighbor, not the not-so-nices' obviously) Apparently it was just too much for him to be in a nearly grass-less existence with all that tantalizing green so close. The fence line that separates our yards is simply ancient - it consists of cedar posts, some cedar rails, and a LOT of wire animal fencing. We haven't replaced anything there yet and it's weak spots are significant. My mother-in-law said she watched Ty pushing his head further and further through the fence, stretching his lips out to nibble the grass until she heard a crack. He broke the top rail, stood there for a minute and then stepped right over into their yard. The other horses were tearing around, rearing up, kicking, and generally just having a great time seeing one of their own on the outside, unaccompanied. The youngest mare, who is slightly less-than-graceful at times literally fell and slid at least twice (that I saw). 'All riled up' is the term that comes to mind. If any one of them had broken free anywhere - let alone in a field of grass - they would be nearly impossible to catch single-handedly. Tyrone, however, is that kid that's just not like the others.

It's not just the fact that his ears are a bit donkey-ish, it's not his fault, just his breed. I swear if he could talk his voice would come out sounding just like Eeyore's. Very sweet, but maybe a little dopey. So he just stood and waited for me to get almost up to his neck and then began to meander away with Izzy bolting around his feet yapping.

When we were almost to the back end of our neighbor's property, and passing our hay barn a white flash flew in front of us. It seriously took me a minute to figure out what it was, and then it dawned on me - Bunny the flying goat. I never knew she could jump through the space between the animal fencing and the barb-wire on the backside of her pen. In fact, I don't she realized it until that moment. She does this to herself no less than once every other day:

Then I have to spend an agonizing five minutes or so trying to get her head twisted just the right way to get her head and horns back through the fence - all so she can jubilantly ram me with her new-found freedom.


So, really, who knew?



And so, Ty kept meandering, Izzy kept yapping, I kept walking, and Bunny followed us all - except for the break she took every 30 seconds or so to stop and stand in front of me, or head-butt my thigh, or chase Izzy. (Why do we have a goat again? Oh yeah, it's cute. Almost forgot.) Ty rambled all the way out of their yard onto the covered canal where he turned South, and where at least it's fenced off at the end of our property. I breathed a sigh of relief. If he would have turned the other direction we could have been in for a long walk, and who knows what other random farm animals we would have picked up. He came to a rolling stop at the fence and let me halter him and lead him back all the way through our neighbors' yard, onto the street, around through my mother-in-law's yard, and finally back where we started. Remember, this me leading a horse whose back I literally can't see over, circled by a loud and annoying goat, chased by a yapping, jumping Terrier that suddenly thinks she's herding sheep. My only consolation is that (to the best of my knowledge) no one captured this twisted-pied-piper scene on tape. And this is where the story should end, except it doesn't. Because apparently I'm slow.

Back in the pasture I lost hold of the rope when I was latching the gate behind us - and Ty once again meandered off. Dragging his lead rope. Not a good thing. About that time he realized how excited all the other horses were and he decided to take a victory lap around the pasture. Not that big of a deal, really. UNTIL Bunny decided to play interference. Every time I got close to catching the little (big) twit Bunny was suddenly in front of me head-butting me or jumping sideways in the way only a goat (or a moron) would. Sideways, seriously. Finally I had to grab her and drag her off (making ridiculous choking noises, the big faker) just to get to my original mark.

In the end everyone was returned to their proper place. I even fed them.

Babies Come From Heaven

Baby Max

Back in the day when I was thinking about someday being a 'mom', I only thought about the little kid mom-issues. Didn't sound too hard. Diapers, play-dates, Kool-Aid - nothing I couldn't handle. I never for a second approached the thought of my kids needing 'the talk'. (The first whopper of a step on the way to being a teenager, ugh.) Suddenly that seems to be an issue. Grey, who will be six this month has asked me repeatedly over the last week, "Sooo, how exactly do babies get in the mommies' tummies?". First I told him that Heavenly Father puts them there when he's ready to send down a new child. He squinted his eyes, furrowed his brow and said, "No, how exactly?". Great. I'm SO not getting into 'how exactly' with a kindergartner! Then, a feeling of relief overcame me as I realized I didn't ever have to tell him about the birds and the bees - this must be my reward for having only boys. I pawned the whole thing off on 'daddy', who told him to ask again in a couple of years. (Which means, of course, he'll keep pestering me about it until he moves on to some other mystery. Meanwhile, Max, who wouldn't dare ask that question if his life depended on it, has sat through each of Grey's little interrogations as silent as a stone. I'm thinking we got 'the talk' when were in, what, fourth grade? I hear so much about kids 'growing up' faster now with the onslaught of information that is constantly thrown at us all. Does that mean the point on the timeline where he actually needs in on that fun discussion has been moved to sooner than later? I mean, I'm pretty sure he still believes in Santa Claus; surely he can't be ready for this. Tyler is no more excited to sit down with him when the time comes. After all, his dad simply gave him a book titled "Now that You're Twelve", told him to read it and ask him if he had any questions. Right. "Um, Dad, I have a question about page six. . .". He was fourteen at the time, by the way. It didn't matter that his parents kept him out of the sex-ed program at school. His friends and brothers had already filled him in on all the gory details long before. So, he doesn't really have a good 'talk' to base his off of! I can't say I'm anywhere near being ready to have my little 'angels' knowing all there is to know. . . but how much time do we have left? A year? Two?

Do they make something for that?

On Saturday Nick was a infuriatingly small eater - with the exception of breakfast. His nutrition for the day looked something like this:

Breakfast - 1/2 grapefruit and Four (count them, FOUR) bowls of Cocoa Puffs. (P.S. I know I'm an evil mother for providing 'treats' for breakfast. I'm over it, now you have to be too.) He was very proud of himself for drinking the milk in his bowl after EACH bowl of cereal. I'm thinking it's not such an impressive feat when the milk is chocolate instead of cheerio-flavored.
After-breakfast-snack - Batman Fruit snack that he snuck out of the pantry. We can only hope he stopped at one. He's become as adept at hiding the wrappers as he is at getting the snacks off the high shelves.
Lunch - Ham and Cheese Sandwich. . . except that it sat, untouched, on the counter until I decided it was too gross to force him to eat it . . . and I threw it away.
After-non-eaten-lunch-snack - Chocolate Chip Cookie he snuck from the cookie jar.
Warm Drink after being outside in the slush - Swiss Miss Cocoa with 'smarsmehwos'.
Dinner - (would have been. . .) Beef Chow Mien and Green Salad.

By the time Max and I had finished eating and Grey was within a bite or two of being excused Nick hadn't taken a single bite. I decided to take action and feed him myself. He was really pretty willing to take the first bite after I bribed him with extra story time if he hurried. Bite in, head turns (towards Grey luckily for me), and all the chocolate goodness of the day came spewing out. Grey didn't get hit but he grabbed his mouth and ran out of the room trying to avoid being the next contestant in the barf-o-rama.
AND . . . dinner's over! Who wants a bath?

SO, while I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the mess, I couldn't help thinking (as I always do on these occasions) about ALL the things we mothers clean up. Most of the messes are a direct result of bringing our own little human monsters home from the hospital. I get that. BUT if you would have told me just how many diapers I would change; how many accidents I would wish the diapers had held in; how many times I would strip dripping sheets from little beds; how many types of partly digested food I would mop up from various surfaces, I have to wonder if I would have been ready to procreate. Now, I'm down to 'it's nasty, but I've seen worse, and where are my puke-mopping-rubber-gloves?'. Before kids, I would have likely been the first one out the door just based on the smell factor alone. What has happened to me, and HOW? Some parts of motherhood just aren't pretty. At least the miracles don't stop when that first cry begins - somehow, if we let it, motherhood molds us into real mothers. Over time our weak girl-arms can outlast the strongest of men as we rock our babies for hours upon end; our wills bend to accommodate the needs of our little ones; our hearts grow and soften; and last, but not least, we clean up the rottenest of messes without running for relief, or tossing our own cookies.

The Capture

Okay, so it wasn't actually a capture. Remember two posts ago when Foghorn got out? Remember that? Well, I really did jump up from the computer to get him. As I slipped my boots on I yelled to the boys (you know, the ones that had JUST come running in to tell me the rooster was a.w.o.l.) to come help me catch the little sneak. No one came rushing out behind me though. I figured they were putting their shoes back on, and so I ran - so bravely, into the face of danger. No sign of the culprit. I knew all I had to do was listen for a minute though, he can't seem to help himself - he crows MORE when he is out of the chicken yard for some reason. Possibly a death wish. Sure enough, seconds later I heard him crowing loudly from the neighbors back yard. . .good thing the neighbor is my mother-in-law. Foghorn had escaped from the chicken yard (where he had clean water), gone through the horses' corral (past a water trough. . .full of water), past the goat (still more water), and squeezed through a hole in the fence of said mother-in-law's yard to get a drink from the dog's water dish. When I got there he was crowing, then he took a drink, crowed again, etc. until he saw me. He hunkered down low to the ground, and I swear he scratched at the cement like a bull ready to charge. Then he was off. If you have never seen a chicken run you must, by any means possible, find a way to see it. A. They are faster than you would ever imagine. B. It's so hysterical to watch them cruising at the speed of light, yet waddling at the same time it makes it almost impossible to give a good chase. I managed though. I even got one good picture of him booking across the corral. (yes, I brought my camera to catch the rooster. . . kind of thought I would be taking pictures of the boys chasing him around - very funny.)

By the time we were both back to the chicken yard back-up had finally arrived. It just wasn't what I was expecting (and I promise it was wearing clothes when I left the house).

While Nicky did bring his car and a plastic dolphin to help with the

capture I decided he would be most useful holding my camera while I tried to corner Mr. Leghorn. His photography speaks for itself.

He kept saying 'Ah see yo weg, no, Ah see mah weg!' And then the glorious moment evidently about the time of this pic, "Ah see mah ton!"

A final Nick's eye-view.

And, no. I didn't catch the blasted rooster. But Tyler did...the next day.