I've given up.
I called the butcher today and put our three goats on the schedule.
When I called the butcher, a really nice, sweet lady answered. I had been expecting someone who sounded like Lothar of the Hill People.
She said, "Can I help you?"
I said sheepishly (Pun intended. Sheep are not goats but I'm using it.), "I've got three dairy goats that..."
I was at a loss. What do I say to a butcher? Do I have to tell her why I'm sending them away? Does she want the back story? Was she going to tell me that dairy goats are not worth the cost? Was she going to yell at me because I had no idea what I'm doing.
She said, "Okay. Three goats. That's not a problem for us. In fact, we specialize in butchering animals for small farms."
"Great." I say. "So look, I have no idea what I'm doing. We just moved to this property and decided to raise goats. So I got these dairy goats and I was going to milk them. But, the thing is, I just don't like them. They're such a pain in the ass that we decided we should eat them instead."
You know what she did?
She laughed.
I knew I had called the right place.
The goats are scheduled to be sausaged (I love that spell check doesn't recognize the verb form of sausage) in a few weeks. Apparently you can't get same day butchering. Plus, it's a very busy season since it's right before Thanksgiving and Christmas. I guess lots of people want goat for Christmas. Just kidding. They butcher other things like pigs and cows.
One cool thing about this place is that it's a certified humane slaughter house. They make sure all animals are healthy and are very careful about how they treat the animals. They never deprive them of water and if they have to stay overnight, they require farmers to bring feed for them. Just a little something we do to make sure we're good stewards of the things God has given to us.
That said, I have to say that the goats are so obnoxious. They stand in their food trough, most recently pulling the food trough down, along with a fence plank. They escaped, of course. Walking up to the garden, of course. In the middle of co-op, of course. When three boys and a teacher were out on a listening walk, of course. I will never have goats again. They're ridiculously high maintenance.
The last time I was in their pen, to fix the broken plank, Luke stood on his hind legs and came down with his hooves on my shoulder. They're very pushy.
In church I heard the reading of how Christ is going to separate the sheep from the goats. The sheep get to go to heaven. You know where that leaves the goats, don't you?
If goats are your thing, God bless you. You're a better farmer than I.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
School
Never thought I'd say this - Home education has been an absolute joy this year. I LOVE IT.
Will and I are reading historical fiction and using it to study history, literature and religion. BAM. His Grandma is tutoring him in Math via Skype. DOUBLE BAM. He's getting grammar and handwriting practice. BAM. And he's got co-op, science, and lots and lots of time outdoors. It's A-MAY-ZING.
He's so happy.
The littles are speeding right along - all learning to read. The BOB books are super fun and I highly recommend www.starfall.com for supplimental phonics and reading time. I'm not opposed to making learning fun. In fact, I think it's good, in general, that learning be slightly more fun than cleaning one's room.
Let me say that I'm not the kind of mom who has kids who put on war paint and inact famous battle scenes in history. I know moms who do that and I have mad respect for them. I did it last year with my littles and they remember it fondly but it's super time consuming. This year we're doing more Montessori homeschooling things.
Montessori homeschooling is also A-MAY-ZING. You teach your preschoolers practical life skills like sweeping the floor. It's so awesome because then, when they decide to spit corn bread onto the floor, you just have to say, "Honey, please sweep up that corn bread." And they DO - happily. That's right, TWO miracles.
I love Maria Montessori. And I love homeschooling my kids *this year.
*Terms subject to change. Void where prohibited. Statement only valid for one year.
Will and I are reading historical fiction and using it to study history, literature and religion. BAM. His Grandma is tutoring him in Math via Skype. DOUBLE BAM. He's getting grammar and handwriting practice. BAM. And he's got co-op, science, and lots and lots of time outdoors. It's A-MAY-ZING.
He's so happy.
The littles are speeding right along - all learning to read. The BOB books are super fun and I highly recommend www.starfall.com for supplimental phonics and reading time. I'm not opposed to making learning fun. In fact, I think it's good, in general, that learning be slightly more fun than cleaning one's room.
Let me say that I'm not the kind of mom who has kids who put on war paint and inact famous battle scenes in history. I know moms who do that and I have mad respect for them. I did it last year with my littles and they remember it fondly but it's super time consuming. This year we're doing more Montessori homeschooling things.
Montessori homeschooling is also A-MAY-ZING. You teach your preschoolers practical life skills like sweeping the floor. It's so awesome because then, when they decide to spit corn bread onto the floor, you just have to say, "Honey, please sweep up that corn bread." And they DO - happily. That's right, TWO miracles.
I love Maria Montessori. And I love homeschooling my kids *this year.
*Terms subject to change. Void where prohibited. Statement only valid for one year.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Preparing for Fall
I planted a Fall garden in early August. First, I've got to give myself a pat on the back for getting those seeds planted. Now, by some accounts an August planting is a little late. By others, it's fine. The spaghetti squash was growing like... a weed and we were so excited. It looked like it was going to be a bountiful squash harvest.
Then I went away for 10 days.
I came home to a squashless garden. The spaghetti squash was gone - vines rotted and brown. Fruit of the vine crushed and eaten through with bugs. Heartbroken, I pulled the vines out and considered starting over... but it's mid September. I doubt there is time.
The rest of the squash fared no better. Our pumpkins are in the final throes of death and if they could, they'd probably be coughing up blood. The mini pumpkins were crushed and bug eaten. There never were any full sized pumpkins. Our Hubbard and butternut squash never even germinated. And the patty pan squash that had been so prolific this Summer had rotted and died. It was flourishing before we left.
The only clue to this squash genocide was a cloudy, patchy growth that powered every squash plant in the garden. It spread from the spaghetti squash and over to the pumpkins at the far end of the garden. I can't tell if it spread by wind or by pollination or by me but spread it did. We had little yellow and black spotted bugs all over the place too. Not to mention a herd of grasshoppers that did a number on our awesome Dragon Tongue Bean bushes.
Organic gardening is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for the lazy or for those who like to go on vacation.
The only thing I've put up so far this year were several jars of strawberry jam - Strawberries from Costco, not our garden. Nothing from the garden.
Thank goodness we weren't counting on the harvest to get us through the winter. Did I mention that I really don't have much of a green thumb?
Then I went away for 10 days.
I came home to a squashless garden. The spaghetti squash was gone - vines rotted and brown. Fruit of the vine crushed and eaten through with bugs. Heartbroken, I pulled the vines out and considered starting over... but it's mid September. I doubt there is time.
The rest of the squash fared no better. Our pumpkins are in the final throes of death and if they could, they'd probably be coughing up blood. The mini pumpkins were crushed and bug eaten. There never were any full sized pumpkins. Our Hubbard and butternut squash never even germinated. And the patty pan squash that had been so prolific this Summer had rotted and died. It was flourishing before we left.
The only clue to this squash genocide was a cloudy, patchy growth that powered every squash plant in the garden. It spread from the spaghetti squash and over to the pumpkins at the far end of the garden. I can't tell if it spread by wind or by pollination or by me but spread it did. We had little yellow and black spotted bugs all over the place too. Not to mention a herd of grasshoppers that did a number on our awesome Dragon Tongue Bean bushes.
Organic gardening is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for the lazy or for those who like to go on vacation.
The only thing I've put up so far this year were several jars of strawberry jam - Strawberries from Costco, not our garden. Nothing from the garden.
Thank goodness we weren't counting on the harvest to get us through the winter. Did I mention that I really don't have much of a green thumb?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Flashbacks
I'm watching a rerun of Glee, the Madonna episode. It's part hysterically funny, part really, really sad and part moving. Moving because you know how it is when some music stirs up memories. When Finn and Rachel started singing "Open Your Heart" I thought immediately of youth group. "Open Your Heart" was the song they played every Wednesday night before starting. My best friend at the time was a Madonna fan, fanatic really, but what 15 year old girl wasn't back then.
It is sobering to remember the mundane things we did together, listening to music, watching "Nightmare on Elm Street," and talking about boys. It's sobering because I recently found out that she finally succeeded in committing suicide.
Life was a long road for her. I was the friend on the sidelines of her drama. She had a tumultuous family life. I can hardly wrap my head around it now, all these years later.
So many memories wrapped up in that friendship. Her name was Mary. She was beautiful and talked of being discovered. She wanted to model. She even took head shots and sent them to agencies. It never happened for her.
She dated before I did, way before I did. We did a Science fair project on statistics together in 7th grade. Her mother made the best meatloaf and mashed potatoes. We paged through volumes of YM, Teen and Bride - picking out wedding dresses, prom dresses, hair styles. Hot pink was in and so were black lace gloves without fingers. She had all the stylish clothes - like the monokini my mom said was indecent - and so did her mom. They both wore makeup. My mom and I didn't. Mary was glamorous and fun-loving. She was carefree and reckless. I was the cautious, anxious, worry-wart.
Mary's mother divorced Mary's father when Mary was a baby. Mary told me that her dad had once kidnapped her. What an incredible life. Mary's mom smoked. She worked late. She dated guys that were the kind of guys you don't necessarily want your teenage daughter around. I remember once, at the house with the pool, Mary poured marbles all over her floor and her bed before we left. She told me she did it because she had told her mom to stay out of the room with her "stupid boyfriend." She called all of her mom's boyfriends that. She said they liked to sneak up to her room to lay on her bed and look out the skylight.
It was strange. Things like that didn't happen in my world. I never had to break my mother's cigarettes and flush them down the toilet. My mom never had more than a sip of alcohol until she was 65 years old. My mom and dad are still married. I never owned designer clothes or lived in a house with a pool. I never had my own bathroom. Mary had all of that and yet, she had so little.
Mary's life was different. The first time she tried to take her life she was 15, I think. She spent time in the psych ward of the hospital. They released her and a few months later she tried again. In the midst of all of this, she would call me crying, sometimes drunk, just wanted me to listen to her and tell her that I loved her, that I cared about her.
When she got pregnant on purpose, I felt hope for her for the first time. I thought, as she did, that a baby would give her meaning and purpose in life. She was overjoyed when she called me with the news. I was sad that she had made the decision to get pregnant but I was only 15 too and I was so happy that she was happy. All of that joy was swept quietly, brutally away with a quick trip to the clinic housed, ironically, in an old school. Her mother, you see, had gotten pregnant too and her mother was too young to be a grandmother. Mary's baby, her very wanted baby, was erased.
Mary changed after that. She became sadder and quieter. We never talked about what had happened but the reality was that we really only talked a few more times. She told me she was too tired. That life was too hard. She stopped returning my calls and dropped off the face of the earth. I prayed for her every night. I prayed that she would have peace and be reconciled with her mother. One night,after praying a rosary every night for her for a year, I had a sense that my prayers were answered. It wasn't until a few years later that I saw proof in a newspaper article. There was a picture showing Mary, smiling that beautiful smile, resting her head on her mother's shoulder.
I was sad to learn recently that Mary had succeeded in taking her own life. My parents ran into her mom who shared the news with them. I have no details of when it happened, only that it did. It was a shock because I had hoped she was out of the woods. I have no idea where she is buried. I wish I did because I would like to say goodbye. I would like to place a flower by her name and tell her that I miss her and that I wish life had been better for her. I think about her every time I hear a Madonna song and I pray for her and her family.
May God have mercy on her soul.
It is sobering to remember the mundane things we did together, listening to music, watching "Nightmare on Elm Street," and talking about boys. It's sobering because I recently found out that she finally succeeded in committing suicide.
Life was a long road for her. I was the friend on the sidelines of her drama. She had a tumultuous family life. I can hardly wrap my head around it now, all these years later.
So many memories wrapped up in that friendship. Her name was Mary. She was beautiful and talked of being discovered. She wanted to model. She even took head shots and sent them to agencies. It never happened for her.
She dated before I did, way before I did. We did a Science fair project on statistics together in 7th grade. Her mother made the best meatloaf and mashed potatoes. We paged through volumes of YM, Teen and Bride - picking out wedding dresses, prom dresses, hair styles. Hot pink was in and so were black lace gloves without fingers. She had all the stylish clothes - like the monokini my mom said was indecent - and so did her mom. They both wore makeup. My mom and I didn't. Mary was glamorous and fun-loving. She was carefree and reckless. I was the cautious, anxious, worry-wart.
Mary's mother divorced Mary's father when Mary was a baby. Mary told me that her dad had once kidnapped her. What an incredible life. Mary's mom smoked. She worked late. She dated guys that were the kind of guys you don't necessarily want your teenage daughter around. I remember once, at the house with the pool, Mary poured marbles all over her floor and her bed before we left. She told me she did it because she had told her mom to stay out of the room with her "stupid boyfriend." She called all of her mom's boyfriends that. She said they liked to sneak up to her room to lay on her bed and look out the skylight.
It was strange. Things like that didn't happen in my world. I never had to break my mother's cigarettes and flush them down the toilet. My mom never had more than a sip of alcohol until she was 65 years old. My mom and dad are still married. I never owned designer clothes or lived in a house with a pool. I never had my own bathroom. Mary had all of that and yet, she had so little.
Mary's life was different. The first time she tried to take her life she was 15, I think. She spent time in the psych ward of the hospital. They released her and a few months later she tried again. In the midst of all of this, she would call me crying, sometimes drunk, just wanted me to listen to her and tell her that I loved her, that I cared about her.
When she got pregnant on purpose, I felt hope for her for the first time. I thought, as she did, that a baby would give her meaning and purpose in life. She was overjoyed when she called me with the news. I was sad that she had made the decision to get pregnant but I was only 15 too and I was so happy that she was happy. All of that joy was swept quietly, brutally away with a quick trip to the clinic housed, ironically, in an old school. Her mother, you see, had gotten pregnant too and her mother was too young to be a grandmother. Mary's baby, her very wanted baby, was erased.
Mary changed after that. She became sadder and quieter. We never talked about what had happened but the reality was that we really only talked a few more times. She told me she was too tired. That life was too hard. She stopped returning my calls and dropped off the face of the earth. I prayed for her every night. I prayed that she would have peace and be reconciled with her mother. One night,after praying a rosary every night for her for a year, I had a sense that my prayers were answered. It wasn't until a few years later that I saw proof in a newspaper article. There was a picture showing Mary, smiling that beautiful smile, resting her head on her mother's shoulder.
I was sad to learn recently that Mary had succeeded in taking her own life. My parents ran into her mom who shared the news with them. I have no details of when it happened, only that it did. It was a shock because I had hoped she was out of the woods. I have no idea where she is buried. I wish I did because I would like to say goodbye. I would like to place a flower by her name and tell her that I miss her and that I wish life had been better for her. I think about her every time I hear a Madonna song and I pray for her and her family.
May God have mercy on her soul.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Never Say Never
Things continue to turn on their ear this Summer. I'm writing this while watching black and white reruns of The Twilight Zone so having life turned on its ear seems... well, normal.
Our goats are out in their new pasture. They got too rambunctious to keep taking on walks with the kids and we couldn't keep them in their small pen indefinitely. Dh and Will with some help from Mr. Cubby fixed the fencing in our back pasture. There were some post fences that they goats could easily slip through and DH stapled heavy gauge wire fencing to it.
Alas, it didn't contain them. When you read that goats are difficult to contain, let me tell you, believe it. We think they were slithering under one of our gates.
The first call from our neighbor went unnoticed since DH doesn't always check his voice mail. Apparently the goats escaped on Sunday evening and went over to visit the cows in his pasture. Our neighbor led them back with a dog leash and we were none the wiser, until DH checked his voice mail two days later.
The following day, there was another call. The neighbor (again, though for us it was the first time we had heard there was a problem) said our tiny goat herd was headed for the main road.
And, yes, it was raining.
I took off running, shouting at my oldest over my shoulder, who unfortunately suffers from real occasional hearing loss. His response to me was, "WHAT??" Fortunately Mr. Cubby, second in command, heard me and repeated the instructions.
I ran as I have not ran since my first and only 5K some 12 years ago. I ran through the ten acre field next door with grass so high it brushed my shoulder in some places. The rain picked up, of course. I sloshed on through the field watching the main road though the trees on my left. No flashes of white. No bleating. No goats. The field ended abruptly at a gravel road. Still no goats.
Water dripped into my face. My shirt was heavy and clung to me but not in the way wet t-shirts hang on co-eds in Florida bars. I yelled, "Daisy,' feeling like a complete idiot. What does one normally do when one loses a goat? How does a goatherd deal with this problem. I have no staff. I have no goat whistle. No electric goat prod (but wow I should totally get one of those!)
I ran down the gravel road past our neighbors who called. I ran past more houses. Nothing. Not a goat in sight. Normally, when they're wet and feeling put upon by the weather, they complain. They bleat and bleat and you can hear them from far off. The silence made me wonder if they had become part of someone's plans for shashlik.
Then, as I jogged back toward the main road, my neighbor popped her head out of her front door. "They're in my garage."
Embarrassment.
Our goats were in our neighbor's garage. I ran down her long driveway and the automatic door slowly opened to reveal a pristine SUV and three wet goats calmly chewing their cud. They were not happy to see me. Rather impressed by their new digs, they, well, dug in. Lacking hooks, crooks, and electric goat prods, I tried to lure Luke out into the open with some goat pellets but they quickly dissolved in the rain. Even if they hadn't dissolved, I doubt he would have been tempted to leave the confines of his comfortable shelter.
So I did what any suburban mom turned farm girl would do; I grabbed Luke's head where his jawbone connects to his skull and I pulled. He planted. I pulled harder. He tried to shake me off. I held fast and pulled him forward slowly out of the garage. Luke reacted to the rain like it carried an electric current. He bucked. When that didn't work, lowered his head to butt me. But I had lucked into a superb goat wrestling hold that he could not break.
Daisy and Bo followed us curiously toward the garage opening. They eyed the gray sky and then the warm, dry garage and then their unfortunate brother, Luke. They seemed content to watch the show and showed no interest in getting involved in our little parade.
Anxiety set in. What if I could only get one goat out at a time? What if I had to lead each goat to the pasture walking backwards through a driveway, a 10 acre field and then through my own lot into the goat pen? What if my neighbor shut her garage in the meantime and I had to go back, ring her doorbell and tell her what a completely hopeless city girl I am and ask her if I could please get my other two goats?
I backed half-way down the driveway before the two ladies decided to follow us. It was slow and tedious but once the goats were all together the pace picked up. Luke continued to try to buck my hold. Finally, after we had put enough distance between us and the garage, I let him go. The herd went back to their pen.
Goats can escape through much smaller spaces than you might think. And they really don't like rain.
Speaking of small spaces and things being turned on ear, I'm homeschooling again this year. It does feel a little like I'm heading back into the Twilight Zone. We shall see.
Our goats are out in their new pasture. They got too rambunctious to keep taking on walks with the kids and we couldn't keep them in their small pen indefinitely. Dh and Will with some help from Mr. Cubby fixed the fencing in our back pasture. There were some post fences that they goats could easily slip through and DH stapled heavy gauge wire fencing to it.
Alas, it didn't contain them. When you read that goats are difficult to contain, let me tell you, believe it. We think they were slithering under one of our gates.
The first call from our neighbor went unnoticed since DH doesn't always check his voice mail. Apparently the goats escaped on Sunday evening and went over to visit the cows in his pasture. Our neighbor led them back with a dog leash and we were none the wiser, until DH checked his voice mail two days later.
The following day, there was another call. The neighbor (again, though for us it was the first time we had heard there was a problem) said our tiny goat herd was headed for the main road.
And, yes, it was raining.
I took off running, shouting at my oldest over my shoulder, who unfortunately suffers from real occasional hearing loss. His response to me was, "WHAT??" Fortunately Mr. Cubby, second in command, heard me and repeated the instructions.
I ran as I have not ran since my first and only 5K some 12 years ago. I ran through the ten acre field next door with grass so high it brushed my shoulder in some places. The rain picked up, of course. I sloshed on through the field watching the main road though the trees on my left. No flashes of white. No bleating. No goats. The field ended abruptly at a gravel road. Still no goats.
Water dripped into my face. My shirt was heavy and clung to me but not in the way wet t-shirts hang on co-eds in Florida bars. I yelled, "Daisy,' feeling like a complete idiot. What does one normally do when one loses a goat? How does a goatherd deal with this problem. I have no staff. I have no goat whistle. No electric goat prod (but wow I should totally get one of those!)
I ran down the gravel road past our neighbors who called. I ran past more houses. Nothing. Not a goat in sight. Normally, when they're wet and feeling put upon by the weather, they complain. They bleat and bleat and you can hear them from far off. The silence made me wonder if they had become part of someone's plans for shashlik.
Then, as I jogged back toward the main road, my neighbor popped her head out of her front door. "They're in my garage."
Embarrassment.
Our goats were in our neighbor's garage. I ran down her long driveway and the automatic door slowly opened to reveal a pristine SUV and three wet goats calmly chewing their cud. They were not happy to see me. Rather impressed by their new digs, they, well, dug in. Lacking hooks, crooks, and electric goat prods, I tried to lure Luke out into the open with some goat pellets but they quickly dissolved in the rain. Even if they hadn't dissolved, I doubt he would have been tempted to leave the confines of his comfortable shelter.
So I did what any suburban mom turned farm girl would do; I grabbed Luke's head where his jawbone connects to his skull and I pulled. He planted. I pulled harder. He tried to shake me off. I held fast and pulled him forward slowly out of the garage. Luke reacted to the rain like it carried an electric current. He bucked. When that didn't work, lowered his head to butt me. But I had lucked into a superb goat wrestling hold that he could not break.
Daisy and Bo followed us curiously toward the garage opening. They eyed the gray sky and then the warm, dry garage and then their unfortunate brother, Luke. They seemed content to watch the show and showed no interest in getting involved in our little parade.
Anxiety set in. What if I could only get one goat out at a time? What if I had to lead each goat to the pasture walking backwards through a driveway, a 10 acre field and then through my own lot into the goat pen? What if my neighbor shut her garage in the meantime and I had to go back, ring her doorbell and tell her what a completely hopeless city girl I am and ask her if I could please get my other two goats?
I backed half-way down the driveway before the two ladies decided to follow us. It was slow and tedious but once the goats were all together the pace picked up. Luke continued to try to buck my hold. Finally, after we had put enough distance between us and the garage, I let him go. The herd went back to their pen.
Goats can escape through much smaller spaces than you might think. And they really don't like rain.
Speaking of small spaces and things being turned on ear, I'm homeschooling again this year. It does feel a little like I'm heading back into the Twilight Zone. We shall see.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Broken by Summer Break
We've been in the throes of summer break for roughly 168 hours. My oldest has spent 150 of those hours fighting, arguing and complaining.
I find myself having frequent out of body experiences due to the stress. I envision Calgon commercials. I try to envision myself sitting on a mountain top dispensing wisdom to other mothers in crisis - trying to take something useful away from this with me. I think the only thing I'll end up with is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I just had Mommy Talk (tm) with my oldest. I thought I was going to get a lot of Mommy Points (tm) today. He started complaining when I asked him to GET DRESSED. (Oh the injustice!!!) It's the 7th day in a row he's thrown a snit when asked to get dressed. (This is only one of seventy snits he throws each day for various things he's asked to do).
I put a show on for the littles and Will went with me to the porch swing. I thought, we'll talk rationally on the porch swing. I'll treat him the way I'd treat an adult - having a conversation with him, giving feedback, blah, blah. I will use the time with him to call him out and remind him that I'm not fooled by his bullshit. He needs to be reminded that I know what's going on in his head because he lets some really scary things rattle around inside that head of his.
Spending about 25 minutes in lecture mode, I emerged energized and happy. I had shared my wisdom with him. He was going to change and be happier. (Because honestly, the biggest heartbreak for me is seeing him dwelling on his unhappiness every moment of the day. How truly sad I am for him and for this choice he is making. It's pretty frightening too because I know that this thought pattern is just what the devil will use to make his adolescence a living hell). But onward -
Thirty seconds after my brilliant talk was over, my middle son, Mr. Cubby emerged from the house. The show had ended and he announced he was going to check the chicken eggs. A complaining groan issued immediately from Will's body. I quickly dismissed it as an old habit dying hard. I knew my last 25 minutes had not been spent in vain. Woo hoo. They could work TOGETHER gathering the eggs. Will now understood that I loved him just the same as I loved his brother so now, being equal in my eyes, they would live in harmony.
Red flags flew all over the place in the next 67 seconds. I told Will to go and work together with Mr. Cubby. Will bolted from his seat next to me and shoved his feet into his muck boots while Cubby was still trying to carefully tuck his feet into his boots. Will leaped from the porch steps and hit the sidewalk at a run.
"Come on, Cubby," he shouted. "Let's feed my rabbit first."
Mr. Cubby to his credit, is used to living with Will and his pathological need to be first and to micromanage every moment of the day and so Cubby followed as quickly as he could without complaint. I heard them in the rabbit house and things seemed fine enough. Then their voices faded as the two made their way to the chicken house. I listened for what I was now sure was inevitable.
And then it happened.
Mr. Cubby yelled the angriest yell he could muster. "Will. Stop. It." I was crushed - even though I knew what was coming I still hoped Will would control himself. Shortly after Will emerged from the chicken house with a triumphant spring in his step. Mr. Cubby followed in tears.
The two of them stepped up to me on the porch for judgement.
I have to stop at this point and explain what happened for those who don't have pathological children. Will loves to prove me wrong. He loves to be right at the expense of me and his dad. Sometimes he's open to love and tries really hard to do the right thing. Sometimes these talks I have with him are productive. But as often as they are productive, they fail. So now, I had two boys standing in front of me and Will's mission had been accomplished. I had just told him that I loved him as much as Cubby. He went to the chicken house as a "helper" and emerged as the bossy pants bully who gathered all the eggs himself and chose which eggs to give to his little brother. He didn't let Cubby have any say in what happened. Will led when he was supposed to follow and he led very selfishly.
And he stood before me now wanting me to "prove it." He wanted me to prove my love for him by letting him keep the egg he had bullied his brother out of. He wanted me to prove that I would chose him no matter what.
So what is a mother to do? It would seem that I couldn't win. Pick Cubby, Will is proven right. Pick Will, Cubby is once again the victim of manipulation and injustice.
So what did I do? I just sat and rocked and thought. In the silence, Will spoke up as he does, and gave a defense. Cubby countered angrily. I asked Will if he thought what had happened was fair. He said yes. I just looked at him. Then, in a huff, he traded eggs with his brother.
The heartbreak here was that he did it in a huff. There was no conversion today. He understood what he was called to do but his heart is still too hard. The bickering continues.
A mother who is a home educator (homeschool mom), emailed a group I'm in with the top 10 reasons to homeschool. Her final point was in bold. "To have the children home where they belong." I'm pretty sure, in her eyes, there are no exceptions to this. I think she's very much of the mindset that children should be home no matter what. But as I survey the current toxic environment of my home, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there are some children who need to spend time away from home. If for no other reason then to allow their siblings the freedom to know it is possible to live a life free of manipulation, anger, and mistrust.
I had high hopes that this summer wouldn't be a mandatory Summer Camp summer but it's looking like we're going to have to go that route to keep Will's influence to a minimum.
I find myself having frequent out of body experiences due to the stress. I envision Calgon commercials. I try to envision myself sitting on a mountain top dispensing wisdom to other mothers in crisis - trying to take something useful away from this with me. I think the only thing I'll end up with is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I just had Mommy Talk (tm) with my oldest. I thought I was going to get a lot of Mommy Points (tm) today. He started complaining when I asked him to GET DRESSED. (Oh the injustice!!!) It's the 7th day in a row he's thrown a snit when asked to get dressed. (This is only one of seventy snits he throws each day for various things he's asked to do).
I put a show on for the littles and Will went with me to the porch swing. I thought, we'll talk rationally on the porch swing. I'll treat him the way I'd treat an adult - having a conversation with him, giving feedback, blah, blah. I will use the time with him to call him out and remind him that I'm not fooled by his bullshit. He needs to be reminded that I know what's going on in his head because he lets some really scary things rattle around inside that head of his.
Spending about 25 minutes in lecture mode, I emerged energized and happy. I had shared my wisdom with him. He was going to change and be happier. (Because honestly, the biggest heartbreak for me is seeing him dwelling on his unhappiness every moment of the day. How truly sad I am for him and for this choice he is making. It's pretty frightening too because I know that this thought pattern is just what the devil will use to make his adolescence a living hell). But onward -
Thirty seconds after my brilliant talk was over, my middle son, Mr. Cubby emerged from the house. The show had ended and he announced he was going to check the chicken eggs. A complaining groan issued immediately from Will's body. I quickly dismissed it as an old habit dying hard. I knew my last 25 minutes had not been spent in vain. Woo hoo. They could work TOGETHER gathering the eggs. Will now understood that I loved him just the same as I loved his brother so now, being equal in my eyes, they would live in harmony.
Red flags flew all over the place in the next 67 seconds. I told Will to go and work together with Mr. Cubby. Will bolted from his seat next to me and shoved his feet into his muck boots while Cubby was still trying to carefully tuck his feet into his boots. Will leaped from the porch steps and hit the sidewalk at a run.
"Come on, Cubby," he shouted. "Let's feed my rabbit first."
Mr. Cubby to his credit, is used to living with Will and his pathological need to be first and to micromanage every moment of the day and so Cubby followed as quickly as he could without complaint. I heard them in the rabbit house and things seemed fine enough. Then their voices faded as the two made their way to the chicken house. I listened for what I was now sure was inevitable.
And then it happened.
Mr. Cubby yelled the angriest yell he could muster. "Will. Stop. It." I was crushed - even though I knew what was coming I still hoped Will would control himself. Shortly after Will emerged from the chicken house with a triumphant spring in his step. Mr. Cubby followed in tears.
The two of them stepped up to me on the porch for judgement.
I have to stop at this point and explain what happened for those who don't have pathological children. Will loves to prove me wrong. He loves to be right at the expense of me and his dad. Sometimes he's open to love and tries really hard to do the right thing. Sometimes these talks I have with him are productive. But as often as they are productive, they fail. So now, I had two boys standing in front of me and Will's mission had been accomplished. I had just told him that I loved him as much as Cubby. He went to the chicken house as a "helper" and emerged as the bossy pants bully who gathered all the eggs himself and chose which eggs to give to his little brother. He didn't let Cubby have any say in what happened. Will led when he was supposed to follow and he led very selfishly.
And he stood before me now wanting me to "prove it." He wanted me to prove my love for him by letting him keep the egg he had bullied his brother out of. He wanted me to prove that I would chose him no matter what.
So what is a mother to do? It would seem that I couldn't win. Pick Cubby, Will is proven right. Pick Will, Cubby is once again the victim of manipulation and injustice.
So what did I do? I just sat and rocked and thought. In the silence, Will spoke up as he does, and gave a defense. Cubby countered angrily. I asked Will if he thought what had happened was fair. He said yes. I just looked at him. Then, in a huff, he traded eggs with his brother.
The heartbreak here was that he did it in a huff. There was no conversion today. He understood what he was called to do but his heart is still too hard. The bickering continues.
A mother who is a home educator (homeschool mom), emailed a group I'm in with the top 10 reasons to homeschool. Her final point was in bold. "To have the children home where they belong." I'm pretty sure, in her eyes, there are no exceptions to this. I think she's very much of the mindset that children should be home no matter what. But as I survey the current toxic environment of my home, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there are some children who need to spend time away from home. If for no other reason then to allow their siblings the freedom to know it is possible to live a life free of manipulation, anger, and mistrust.
I had high hopes that this summer wouldn't be a mandatory Summer Camp summer but it's looking like we're going to have to go that route to keep Will's influence to a minimum.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
How To / Not To With Fly Paper
I'm cringing as I write this. My poor, poor chickens. This is my first How To/ Not To installment. Unfortunately, I think this will be a regular part of my blog.
It's no secret that City Dog (a.k.a Your Next Kill Will Be Your Last) enjoys the hunt. A lesser known fact is that he's a wasteful hunter. He does nothing with his kill. His last kill was yesterday. He took down two turkeys and one hen. It was bad. The chickens were terrorized. They don't need the stress and there was a lot of it.
More stress today. On the heels of this massacre, I notice the flies were getting really bad in the chicken coop. It has been hotter than August and bugs just love the ripe smell our chickens produce.
So I bought fly paper.
Seemed like a good idea at the time.
I hung it in the chicken coop way up high, out of the reach of the chickens. How exciting it was to think that soon our coop would be fly-free. Reducing the fly population would be a great thing. Why didn't more people do this, I wondered. It's so easy.
A-hem. Right.
At chicken bedtime, DH called out to me that a chicken was stuck.... in the fly paper. Oh for the love...!!! He didn't want to pull the paper off because he was afraid to hurt the chicken. I took the chicken, that was kicking frantically and had one wing stuck to its body, and explained that hurting was inevitable. What we wanted to avoid was breaking the wing. The chicken could take a few missing feathers. It would have to.
Carefully, holding the chicken under my left arm, I pulled two pieces of fly paper and countless feathers off the poor chicken. It look some doing. Gently pull the paper off in the direction the feathers grow. If you pull in the opposite direction of the feathers, you risk breaking feathers and I can't imagine that is good for the chicken.
Fly paper is disgustingly sticky and gooey. It sticks and sticks and sticks. I recommend having someone close by who can remove the fly paper from your own hand if there is more than one piece stuck to an animal.
Lesson learned.
Incidentally, the chicken is recovering well and doesn't seem at all phased by her bald spots.
It's no secret that City Dog (a.k.a Your Next Kill Will Be Your Last) enjoys the hunt. A lesser known fact is that he's a wasteful hunter. He does nothing with his kill. His last kill was yesterday. He took down two turkeys and one hen. It was bad. The chickens were terrorized. They don't need the stress and there was a lot of it.
More stress today. On the heels of this massacre, I notice the flies were getting really bad in the chicken coop. It has been hotter than August and bugs just love the ripe smell our chickens produce.
So I bought fly paper.
Seemed like a good idea at the time.
I hung it in the chicken coop way up high, out of the reach of the chickens. How exciting it was to think that soon our coop would be fly-free. Reducing the fly population would be a great thing. Why didn't more people do this, I wondered. It's so easy.
A-hem. Right.
At chicken bedtime, DH called out to me that a chicken was stuck.... in the fly paper. Oh for the love...!!! He didn't want to pull the paper off because he was afraid to hurt the chicken. I took the chicken, that was kicking frantically and had one wing stuck to its body, and explained that hurting was inevitable. What we wanted to avoid was breaking the wing. The chicken could take a few missing feathers. It would have to.
Carefully, holding the chicken under my left arm, I pulled two pieces of fly paper and countless feathers off the poor chicken. It look some doing. Gently pull the paper off in the direction the feathers grow. If you pull in the opposite direction of the feathers, you risk breaking feathers and I can't imagine that is good for the chicken.
Fly paper is disgustingly sticky and gooey. It sticks and sticks and sticks. I recommend having someone close by who can remove the fly paper from your own hand if there is more than one piece stuck to an animal.
Lesson learned.
Incidentally, the chicken is recovering well and doesn't seem at all phased by her bald spots.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Garden Update
There is a slight, ever so slight, greenish tinge to my thumbs. The impossible has happened. This garden that I'm STILL digging, is producing plants. It's amazing.
The tomatoes are heirlooms but I don't know what kind they are. The kids like to stick the id tabs in their ears and then group all the tabs together in one area. So it's anyone's guess.
I thought all the cherry tomato plants were dead. I left the baby plants outside in the frost on more than one occasion and killed a whole bunch of them. Anyway, all it took was a heat wave and BAM, the cherry tomato plants took off. It's so cool. They don't have flowers yet but the big tomatoes do.
The peppers aren't impressing me. They're just not growing very quickly. I think they need a motivational speaker. Maybe if I plant some hot peppers?
Dragon Tongue Bush Beans came up today. The kids love these too and were looking for signs of dragons on the plants. I didn't have the heart to tell them... The watermelons are up and getting bigger by the day. We spotted cucumber leaves too. Popcorn and rainbow corn are planted (non GMO) and some summer squash. The second round of radishes are sprouting. Our raspberries are covered in leaves and have flower buds. And our lettuce, spinach and Swiss chard is ready to eat.
I'm a little worried about our potatoes. I have no idea what I'm doing. Two days ago I attempted to mound the dirt around the plant leaves but it rained and the rain washed the dirt away. I'm going to try again. We might not get potatoes this year. I'm okay with that.
I forgot about our peas... twice. I left the seed packs outside in the rain (oops). The pea seeds mixed with some flower seeds and some flax and broccoli. I spent about 45 minutes after the rainstorm, sorting seeds into piles in our wagon because the wagon was handy. Then my darling husband came by with the lawn mower and dumped the wagon out into the grass. So then I spent another hour picking pea seeds out of the grass. I felt like Cinderella, when she had to pick lentils out of the fireplace. I could have just bought a new pack of seeds but it was the principle of the matter.
I'm really getting off into a tangent. Didn't know planting peas was so chaotic, did you? Well it is here.
My point is that the peas were forgotten along the fence and when I found them, they had been nearly strangled by weeds and were dying of thirst. I fixed all that and now they're a bright green and have sweet white flowers. I think it will be worth it in the end but I did lose several plants to neglect.
Next year I'm going to make a pea tepee. My mom did that when I was a kid. I remember sitting inside the tepee pulling peas off the vines and eating them. What a tricky awesome way to get kids to eat veggies.
I'm proud of the plants because I grew them from seed. Nothing from the Home Depot nursery this year.
The tomatoes are heirlooms but I don't know what kind they are. The kids like to stick the id tabs in their ears and then group all the tabs together in one area. So it's anyone's guess.
I thought all the cherry tomato plants were dead. I left the baby plants outside in the frost on more than one occasion and killed a whole bunch of them. Anyway, all it took was a heat wave and BAM, the cherry tomato plants took off. It's so cool. They don't have flowers yet but the big tomatoes do.
The peppers aren't impressing me. They're just not growing very quickly. I think they need a motivational speaker. Maybe if I plant some hot peppers?
Dragon Tongue Bush Beans came up today. The kids love these too and were looking for signs of dragons on the plants. I didn't have the heart to tell them... The watermelons are up and getting bigger by the day. We spotted cucumber leaves too. Popcorn and rainbow corn are planted (non GMO) and some summer squash. The second round of radishes are sprouting. Our raspberries are covered in leaves and have flower buds. And our lettuce, spinach and Swiss chard is ready to eat.
I'm a little worried about our potatoes. I have no idea what I'm doing. Two days ago I attempted to mound the dirt around the plant leaves but it rained and the rain washed the dirt away. I'm going to try again. We might not get potatoes this year. I'm okay with that.
I forgot about our peas... twice. I left the seed packs outside in the rain (oops). The pea seeds mixed with some flower seeds and some flax and broccoli. I spent about 45 minutes after the rainstorm, sorting seeds into piles in our wagon because the wagon was handy. Then my darling husband came by with the lawn mower and dumped the wagon out into the grass. So then I spent another hour picking pea seeds out of the grass. I felt like Cinderella, when she had to pick lentils out of the fireplace. I could have just bought a new pack of seeds but it was the principle of the matter.
I'm really getting off into a tangent. Didn't know planting peas was so chaotic, did you? Well it is here.
My point is that the peas were forgotten along the fence and when I found them, they had been nearly strangled by weeds and were dying of thirst. I fixed all that and now they're a bright green and have sweet white flowers. I think it will be worth it in the end but I did lose several plants to neglect.
Next year I'm going to make a pea tepee. My mom did that when I was a kid. I remember sitting inside the tepee pulling peas off the vines and eating them. What a tricky awesome way to get kids to eat veggies.
I'm proud of the plants because I grew them from seed. Nothing from the Home Depot nursery this year.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Meet Daisy
As I led my poisoned goat down our hill with bribes of oak leaves, I found myself wondering if Laura Ingalls Wilder ever did what I was doing. I don't think they ever had a goat. They were more sensible, limited their farm to a cow, chickens, a pig and some horses.
I was lulled into a false sense of security before we brought Daisy home. We have a fully fenced pasture but the pasture was fenced for horses, which, I have learned, is an important detail in the "are you prepared for a goat" checklist. Goats are notorious escape artists. They can climb, wiggle and jump through all kinds of enclosures. I've read that to really keep them in, you need fence as high as a deer fence and as strong as a fence for bulls. Or you can systematically remove all poisonous plants from the environment and pray for the best. We've done neither.
I'm working on re-fencing a small pasture but I'm doing it alone and it's time consuming, especially when you take into account the three littles who like to play hide and seek in our run-in, that is literally falling apart. It's so falling apart, the goat actually got stuck in it and couldn't climb out. You have to understand that this goat can climb nearly anything, including the "rock wall" on our swing set. Mr. Cubby told me the story later, after they had rescued her. I'm not sure how two three year olds and a four year old managed to rescue a baby goat but I didn't want to pry. They didn't get tetanus so it was worth it.
Daisy is a Saanen/ La Mancha dairy goat. She's white and has freaky eyes with rectangular pupils and tiny, tiny ears. We bottle feed her. She's 8 weeks old and could be weened but bottle feeding her is supposed to make her more tame... we'll see. People I know have bets places on how many more months she'll continue to survive on our little farm, and this was before they had heard about her eating our azaleas. I think that as long as we can keep her contained she'll be fine.
I was lulled into a false sense of security before we brought Daisy home. We have a fully fenced pasture but the pasture was fenced for horses, which, I have learned, is an important detail in the "are you prepared for a goat" checklist. Goats are notorious escape artists. They can climb, wiggle and jump through all kinds of enclosures. I've read that to really keep them in, you need fence as high as a deer fence and as strong as a fence for bulls. Or you can systematically remove all poisonous plants from the environment and pray for the best. We've done neither.
I'm working on re-fencing a small pasture but I'm doing it alone and it's time consuming, especially when you take into account the three littles who like to play hide and seek in our run-in, that is literally falling apart. It's so falling apart, the goat actually got stuck in it and couldn't climb out. You have to understand that this goat can climb nearly anything, including the "rock wall" on our swing set. Mr. Cubby told me the story later, after they had rescued her. I'm not sure how two three year olds and a four year old managed to rescue a baby goat but I didn't want to pry. They didn't get tetanus so it was worth it.
Daisy is a Saanen/ La Mancha dairy goat. She's white and has freaky eyes with rectangular pupils and tiny, tiny ears. We bottle feed her. She's 8 weeks old and could be weened but bottle feeding her is supposed to make her more tame... we'll see. People I know have bets places on how many more months she'll continue to survive on our little farm, and this was before they had heard about her eating our azaleas. I think that as long as we can keep her contained she'll be fine.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Mom vs Mouse
I wanted to restart a blog and call it City Mom/ Country Mom but I don't have the energy to reregister and start over so I'm just continuing, afterall, it's all under the auspices of motherhood. It's just now I'm in the country, at long last.
Today I spent the better part of my morning vaccuuming my minivan. Moms in the DC metro area will all attest to the fact that we spend more time in our car than in our home. This is due, in part, to the tragic type-A moms that have overrun this once gentele Southern area and in part due to the horrendous traffic. Kids eat meals, change outfits, and do homework while enroute to the next activity. From sunrise until well after sunset.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to my minihome and found the tell tale signs of mouse infestation. (I know what this is because once month after moving into our Little House in the Country, we had a mouse problem). Signs of a mouse problem include shredded paper and poo. The more poo, the bigger the problem.
My car had been empty of people for about 12 hours. I have no idea if the mouse had been joy-riding with us to taekwondo the night before or if he had hopped in for an early morning snack of Wendy's french fries.
Let me explain that I am absolutely astonished that I haven't had a mouse infestation before now. Our four kids liter the car with chocolate milk bottles, chicken nuggets, goldfish, animal crackers, M&M's, french fries - and that's just what I found on the floor the day I discovered the mouse infestation. It's truly gross. And I normally clean the car out once a month but since we had just moved and were remodeling our kitchen, I just hasn't gotten around to it.
Alas.
So yesterday, I smeared some organic peanut butter on a mousetrap and put it in the car on the floor on the driver's side. As evening fell and there was still no mouse, I moved the trap to the passenger side thinking that maybe there was more to be explored from that side. This morning, I checked the trap and I could swear I was suddenly in a cartoon. I was Tom and the mouse was Jerry, mocking me, by carefully licking out ALL the peanut butter from the trap WITHOUT springing it. Mind you, I could hardly get any peanut butter on the little trap lever without setting it off and somehow that mouse, managed to lick it clean.
So my eyes bugged out of my head and steam came out of my ears. I'm pretty sure my face turned red and I had a thought balloon of me chasing the mouse with a mallot and smashing it to pieces.
I re-peanut buttered the trap and set it in the car again. Through out this entire mouse incident, mind you, our car is not drivable. So I'm driving our old beater farm truck around. It's an Isuzu Trooper with 200,000 miles on it. You can hear it coming three miles away and by the time it has covered those three miles it's used five gallons of gas.
But I digress.
Fortunately, second time was a charm. The following morning, I walked to the swagga wagon and the mouse had been iced. It's a lovely thing - a dead mouse. The kids were excited until they saw it and proclaimed it to be a "baby mouse" and called us mean for killing it. Trying to reason with preschoolers is impossible. If it looks small, it must be a baby ergo, the mouse was a baby.
I don't want to think about what will happen when we serve their pet rooster for dinner.
Today I spent the better part of my morning vaccuuming my minivan. Moms in the DC metro area will all attest to the fact that we spend more time in our car than in our home. This is due, in part, to the tragic type-A moms that have overrun this once gentele Southern area and in part due to the horrendous traffic. Kids eat meals, change outfits, and do homework while enroute to the next activity. From sunrise until well after sunset.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to my minihome and found the tell tale signs of mouse infestation. (I know what this is because once month after moving into our Little House in the Country, we had a mouse problem). Signs of a mouse problem include shredded paper and poo. The more poo, the bigger the problem.
My car had been empty of people for about 12 hours. I have no idea if the mouse had been joy-riding with us to taekwondo the night before or if he had hopped in for an early morning snack of Wendy's french fries.
Let me explain that I am absolutely astonished that I haven't had a mouse infestation before now. Our four kids liter the car with chocolate milk bottles, chicken nuggets, goldfish, animal crackers, M&M's, french fries - and that's just what I found on the floor the day I discovered the mouse infestation. It's truly gross. And I normally clean the car out once a month but since we had just moved and were remodeling our kitchen, I just hasn't gotten around to it.
Alas.
So yesterday, I smeared some organic peanut butter on a mousetrap and put it in the car on the floor on the driver's side. As evening fell and there was still no mouse, I moved the trap to the passenger side thinking that maybe there was more to be explored from that side. This morning, I checked the trap and I could swear I was suddenly in a cartoon. I was Tom and the mouse was Jerry, mocking me, by carefully licking out ALL the peanut butter from the trap WITHOUT springing it. Mind you, I could hardly get any peanut butter on the little trap lever without setting it off and somehow that mouse, managed to lick it clean.
So my eyes bugged out of my head and steam came out of my ears. I'm pretty sure my face turned red and I had a thought balloon of me chasing the mouse with a mallot and smashing it to pieces.
I re-peanut buttered the trap and set it in the car again. Through out this entire mouse incident, mind you, our car is not drivable. So I'm driving our old beater farm truck around. It's an Isuzu Trooper with 200,000 miles on it. You can hear it coming three miles away and by the time it has covered those three miles it's used five gallons of gas.
But I digress.
Fortunately, second time was a charm. The following morning, I walked to the swagga wagon and the mouse had been iced. It's a lovely thing - a dead mouse. The kids were excited until they saw it and proclaimed it to be a "baby mouse" and called us mean for killing it. Trying to reason with preschoolers is impossible. If it looks small, it must be a baby ergo, the mouse was a baby.
I don't want to think about what will happen when we serve their pet rooster for dinner.
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