In May, I am joining a group of bloggers who will be trying out things from Pinterest and posting the results on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
If anyone else would like to participate, you can read all about it on Mindee’s blog.
Thanks!
I’ll be back later today with a “W” post. Although I have NO idea what “W” will be for . . .
Here’s to hoping that something “W”-ish will happen in the next couple of hours!
***
I was a stupid new mom.
You might think I am a stupid old mom, too, but keep that to yourself. I had no idea what was coming when my daughter was born.I had no clue what the meaning of the word “tired” was, until she came along.This child completely had her days and nights mixed up.
She was up ALL NIGHT LONG.
And each day I was growing more and more deliriously tired.
My mom called me one afternoon: “Hi! How’s it going over there?”
“Horrible!” I snapped. “I got 1 1/2 hours of sleep. I am never having any more kids. Never. Why do people do this again? Are they STUPID?”
Never having any more kids. Ha!
I began to loathe the Lumberjack each night around 10pm.
He would happily brush his teeth and then come into the living room where I was imprisoned by this fussy and very awake newborn.
“Goodnight!” he would smile.
Oh. I would just want to throw my Boppy pillow at him.
He made it sound so easy.
Goodnight.
“Hope we’re not too loud for you.” I would say.
“Nope!”
And off he would go . . . to bed . . . to sleep . . . for 8 hours solid.
Traitor.
He would stumble out of the bedroom at 6am, and there I would be, either nursing or rocking the child, and fuming that I had not EVEN been to bed yet.
And then HE would take a nice, long, hot, uninterrupted shower, get dressed and head off to work with adults.
And there I would still be.
On the couch.
With a baby.
No shower.
No sleep.
No adults.
Not dressed.
And the most annoying part was that people kept making comments to me like:
“Your poor husband. He is so tired. He needs more sleep.”
What?!
Yes.
Let’s feel bad for the guy who gets 8 hours of sleep and gets to LEAVE.
Never mind the tired new mom.
Remember her?
The gal who had to spend 22 hours in labor before giving birth to this screaming creature?
The same gal who now has to breastfeed (and she HATES breastfeeding) around the clock?
Remember her?
Anyone?
Please.
I did not like this new arrangement in life. I found it quite unfair.
So, I told him we needed a new arrangement.
He agreed and said that he would go to bed at 10pm and then if at 2am, I was still up, we would switch.
Fine, I said.
So, that is what I did.
At 2am, I went and woke him up.
And on that night, I discovered something about my Lumberjack that I had not yet known in our 2 1/2 years of marriage:
The Lumberjack is INSANE.
It’s 2 am and his turn.
I wake him up.
He does not understand what is going on.
He does not know where he is.
He might not even be sure of who I am.
He makes weird grunting noises, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.
I do not find this cute.
I attempt to wake him up again:
“Hello! You said you would take her at 2am so I could sleep!”
“HHHMMMPPPHHHH.”
He dramatically threw all the blankets off of himself and stomped out of the room, and then he went into the bathroom.
And just sat on the toilet.
With the toilet lid down.
Fully clothed.
Just sat there.
“Ahem! Can you take her?”
Still sitting.
The baby was extremely fussy at this point in the evening.
Knowing what I know now, the child just needed to be laid down in her crib, cry for 2.5 minutes, and she would be off to lala land.
But I was a stupid new mom and was sure she needed to be held every second of every cry.
So, while Mr. Lumberjack was taking a moment to “reflect” while sitting on a toilet, I was trying everything I could think of to calm the baby down.
Finally, LJ let’s out a big sigh, and walks over to me:
“Give her to me,” he says in a very sassy voice.
This was also new to me.
Now I hear it often: LJ’s too tired and insane SASSY voice.
It is quite annoying.
But I have come to realize, that if he is using the sassy voice, it isn’t the real LJ.
It is the insane LJ.
And I should just ignore it and let him go back to sleep. Because he truly is not himself.
And he will not remember one bit of this the next day.
He’s not a bad guy.
He’s actually quite wonderful. And handsome, I might add.
He’s just insane in the middle of the night.
“What are you going to do with her?” I am not sure of this new, sassy husband of mine.
“Fix her.”
“How?”
“Just give her to me.”
“I want to know what you are going to do first.”
“Give me the super glue.”
“Are you serious?”
“Huh?”
“You can’t superglue a baby!”
“She’ll stop crying, won’t she?”
It is at this point that I now fear for my child’s life.
He snatches her from me and says,
“Go get some sleep.”
Right.
I watch him for awhile.
He lays down on the couch with her on his chest.
She is furious.
He begins to hum extremely loudly and just kind of move her up and down with his arm.
And then he falls asleep . . . while she is flailing and screaming.
I am not okay with this. This is not safe.
So, I go and wake him up:
“You are doing this wrong! You can’t sleep with her awake on top of you! What if she falls?”
He finds me to be quite annoying at this hour.
He is mad that I am up and he is up.
Somebody needs to be asleep.
So, he banished me to our room.
For the life of me, I could not go to sleep.
You can understand why, can’t you?
Well, about 30 minutes later, he came back into the room, alone, and got into bed.
“Where is the baby?”
“You know where she is.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes.”
“No. Where is she?”
“Where she always is!” the sassy voice was very much back.
“And where is that!?” this poor newborn was sleeping somewhere new every night: bassinet, swing, car seat, crib, wherever. We just wanted sleep!
“Uh!” he is quite annoyed with me. And sassy. “She is in the vent.”
At this news, I jump out of bed and frantically search the house to find my precious baby who I mistakenly left in the care of her insane father.
Checked the swing: no baby.
Checked the car seat: no baby.
Checked the bassinet: no baby.
Checked the vent: no baby.
Checked the crib: sleeping baby!
Kind of sad that an insane, sassy father can get a newborn to sleep in her crib in the middle of the night . . . something I could not accomplish yet as a stupid, new mom.
From then on, I did not ask the Lumberjack to help me in the middle of the night.
I did not ask him to help with each subsequent child, either.
Our marriage would never survive it.
But when he is awake and alert, he is very loving, very helpful, and very attentive.
And not one bit sassy . . . most of the time.
Fortunately, we don’t live near “people.”
So, it was no surprise to me to see Little Dude outside chasing loose chickens, wearing just a shirt, his underpants, and rubber boots.
Pants. Who needs them?
Chasing chickens. It’s the boys’ new favorite pastime. Did you know chickens dig holes and sneak under fences? Because I have nothing better to do than run around filling holes with dirt.
Did you know that filling in holes with dirt makes a gal ueber sweaty?
Ask me how I know.
Little Dude is one with the animals. He will oft sneak into the coop, forgoing pants of course, and visit the chickens.
Word on the street is the rooster did not appreciate his visit and kicked Little Dude in the hiney.
Roosters. Not ones to be messed with.
In OTHER animal news (have you heard? we have a zoo), Peter the kitten is still alive. I have declared it a rule that Little Dude may not hold Peter without adult supervision.
Sure. Peter looks calm. But inside he is screaming:
“Save me! Oh, the horror! The horror!”
***
“B” left this comment and I thought it was time for a little step back in time:
Did you and David have any of these discussions before you married (she is referring to the fact that David “takes care of turkeys” and I can’t hardly stand the thought of meat anymore)….how long did you date?
Did you know he wanted to be the farmer in the dell? Do your children know that little ditty? Do they think it is your family?
Well, dear readers. The David of today is not the same David of yesteryear. Here are some fun facts about the David I dated:
1) He went to tanning salons. For to tan.
2) He highlighted his hair. Actually, he had ME highlight his hair. And my grandmother walked into the kitchen while I was playing beauty parlor with my fiance and grumbled:
“I didn’t know my granddaughter was marrying a sissy.”
True story.
3) He thought it was “uncool” to listen to country music.
4) We planned day trips to the nearest Old Navy . . . which was 3 hours away at that time. And we both loved to shop there.
5) We also shopped at The Gap and Abercrombie and Fitch. Now, we shop and feed and farm stores. So, yeah. Be jealous of that.
6) He did not hunt.
7) He did not drive a truck.
8) He owned nothing Carhartt.
9) He took swing dance class with me in college.
10) His ebay username contained the name “JCrew” in it. Because he was such a fan. Of JCrew.
I know none of you will believe any of this. But I speak the truth.
We dated for two years before we wed.
So, yeah. That’s why I am generally in a state of confusion over here.
And, because I am so good at remembering this, let’s do a COW.
Deb wrote this after I posted on David’s reckless free chicken spree, when we were not yet ready for chickens.
Good gravy, Taylor.
I mean, really.
I hope that man knows how lucky he is.
Holla, Deb! Holla!
I showed it to David. He seemed unimpressed. But I think it should be framed.
Yes. Yes, I do.
PS-He knows. Trust me. No sane woman would have moved to Ruralville. And the locals know exactly what I am talking about.
PPS-Lest there be any confusion, I love my husband a great deal. And although I oft joke about my life, I am very lucky and blessed.
Later, dudes.
Thank you to everyone who is praying for Kendra and who left kind messages for her last week. Please continue to pray for her, and especially her four children who are without mom and dad right now and are getting anxious. My friend, Angela, who introduced me to Kendra, has posted an update on Kendra’s health. Angela is in touch with the family and has more information that I do.
Thank you!
Tom is not nice . . . not a “kindred spirit,” if you will. He is a terrifying and ferocious beast with an odd, blue head. And I like him not.
On Friday, the girls came into the house and happily announced that Tom (the turkey of course . . . please, try to keep up) had turned a new leaf.
Sweet Pea: Mom! He didn’t even yell at us! He just sat there and let us get the eggs!
Me: Huh? Maybe he just needed time to get used to us?
So, we were full of warm fuzzies for our new-found friend, Tom. Although, to be fair, if someone were to call from The Craigslist, I would have made them quite the deal right then and there.
Over our camping trip, the girls shared this exciting news with my parents.
Me: David! Did I tell you? The turkey was nice today!
David: Yeah. I think his legs are broken.
Me and the girls: *gasp!* Oh, no!
Because, remember? He was our new friend. For five minutes.
Well, folks. Tom was fat. He was a certain type of turkey that was bred for his large-ness. Turns out they are so heavy, they can no longer reproduce naturally and the only way to get babies is to take them to a vet for a little “artificial insemination.”
And who has time for that nonsense?
But, anyways. Tom’s girth ended up being his demise and his legs could no longer handle it.
Ok, even though I loathed Tom, isn’t that kind of sad? Poor Tom. So, my husband left the camp site and, allow me to put this delicately, “took care of Tom.”
I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m married to someone who “takes care of things.” Oh, to live in the city.
Tom is in our freezer, now adding turkey to the list of foods I cannot stomach to eat any longer.
Folks, country life is killing me. I can’t hardly eat meat anymore. I was a fan of chicken, but now I have chickens. And they are so . . . winged.
I was ok with eggs. But, oh the poo-poo on the eggs.
David was making a joke about getting a cow.
Me: A beef cow or a dairy cow?
David: Beef.
Me: Oh, good. I’m not ready to give up milk yet. It’s my only source of protein these days.
Oh! And my main man is taking all the rabbit poop and dumping it in the garden site because, apparently, rabbit poop makes your vegetables sing.
So, now I can’t eat stuff out of my garden.
I’m just going to live off of Cheetos or something.
***
Camping.
Camping was fun and lovely. We totally don’t “rough it,” so please don’t feel too badly for me. We went to a site where we could just plug our trailers in. Plus, while David went home to “take care of Tom” (shudder), the rest of us went to a nearby town to do a little shopping!
Camping shopping! Try it! It’s all the rage!
We even popped some corn and watched a DVD in my parents’ trailer. So, yeah. Not so rough.
Here are some pictures of our trip. You know. To delight you.
Sweet Pea and my mother.
David, Daisy Mae, and Little Dude.
Me: David. Could you please try and attempt to look like you somewhat enjoy your life?
Is anyone else surprised that I actually got him to look somewhat pleasant?
Daisy Mae and I
My parents.
One of our many attempts to get a decent family photo.
As you can see, it was a gorgeous weekend.
***
And, finally, I would like to leave you with the following convo between my mother and I. My purpose in sharing this with you is to show you my roots and to give you a better understanding as to why I sometimes have a hard time with the country life and all the glory it entails.
Me: I want to get rid of our rooster.
Mom: Why?
Me: I’m a bit weirded out by the whole fertilized eggs thing.
Mom: That makes no sense to me.
Me: Well, since there is a rooster, the eggs are fertilized.
Mom: Don’t get it.
So, now I get to try and explain the birds and bees to mother. Which is an odd turn of events, don’t you think? Plus, I have four children running around, so I need to put things “delicately.”
Me: Well, mom . . . the rooster . . . he’s the boy . . . ?
Mom: Ok?
Me: So, if we let a hen sit on that egg for awhile it will turn into a baby.
Mom: And wouldn’t that always happen?
Me: No. You need the rooster . . .
Mom: Are you telling me that hens lay eggs no matter what?!
Me: Yes! They will lay an egg with or without a rooster.
Mom: I did not know that!
Me: So, if you don’t have a rooster, you won’t get a baby chicken.
Mom: Huh!?
And there you have it. A little glimpse into why I am that way that I am.
Happy Monday!
I HAVE to go camping this weekend. And blogging is generally frowned upon when one is trying to “rough it” out in the wilderness. Although I am totes bringing my hair dryer, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
Let us all sing praises of thanksgiving that my husband, David Maliblahblah, bought a trailer with a generator. And don’t judge me for bringing a hairdryer. Its probably going to be about 40 degrees tomorrow morning and a gal can’t have wet hair whilst being in the 40 degree weather. And don’t judge me for showering either. Or bringing my coffee pot.
Not everyone can “rough it” like we can.
I know what you are thinking. “Taylor! How exactly will you be ‘roughing it?'”
Well. My curling iron shall be left behind. Feel badly for me.
The astute reader might recall that we had to go camping last April for my dad’s birthday. I wrote about it in a post aptly named:
As if I could not be any more creative with the titles of my posts.
The astute reader might also recall that we had some trouble last year with getting our trailer hauled out of the spring muck. Well, we had the same problem this year.
So. This was my husband’s plan.
Little Dude: Dad? Why does mother always insist on photographing things?
David: Because she is insane, son.
So, I have to drive the truck, which is of course, towing the trailer, and the bulldozer has to tow the truck. Its like a train. Yes. A redneck, hillbilly, camping-fun train.
I spend the entire time praying for my life. I do not enjoy this Tom Foolery that my husband seems to always get us in. But the trailer is out of the mud and I am supposed to be packing it. But here I am, drinking coffee and blogging.
I’m a little concerned as to how we shall camp in the future with our newly-founded farm. Because, oh!, did I tell you? David brought home NINE MORE CHICKENS last night. I think he needs to see a professional. I’m like Dr. Doolittle over here. I think we have about 40 rabbits, 33 chickens, 2 dogs, 2 goldfish, 1 kitten, and two turkeys.
Yes. Tom is still with us.
Unfortunately, we are not getting bombarded with interested Craigslist-callers as I had originally anticipated.
I don’t think I really even like animals. Yet, here I am. Running my own zoo.
Let’s talk about the kitten, shall we? Oh, and FYI: The “R” in ridiculous was for how ridiculous life is and the “S” is for Sweet as in, oh the kitten is so sweet.
Yes. My girls oft steal my camera and take no less than 4.2 million photographs. And, yes. Sweet Pea is feigning sleep. But she is such a good actress, I bet you couldn’t tell. And, no. Sweet Pea does not believe in using pillowcases. I wash my hands of it.
Handsome Dude was so excited that cat was a boy. He promptly named him “Peter.”
Why? I cannot be certain.
I think Peter fears for his life. And rightly so. I’ve decided we need round-the clock babysitters for Peter. Because I think Little Dude shall kill him. Little Dude is not gentle, folks. But we are surviving. Peter is still alive. And the girls are learning to do their schoolwork with a kitten on their laps.
Before I go on my FREEZING camping trip, I shall leave you with a little pop quiz.
Please. Try to contain your excitement.
Which of the following did my boys do?
A) Stuff the kitten in a toy “pet carrier” and accidentally drop it down the stairs?
B) Give the kitten a haircut.
C) Take kitten food and scatter it all over my bed to try and give the kitten a snack.
D) All of the above.
Yes. Let us all be concerned for the safety of the kitten.
This is Mrs. Dr. Dolittle signing off, hoping everyone is jealous of her upcoming camping trip.
Later.
One such friend is Kendra. She and I have been visiting each other’s blogs for over two years now. She, like me, homeschools four children, although she seems to have things a bit more under control that I do. She also shares many wonderful recipes and has a warm, kind heart.
Kendra is now fighting for her life. I have copied this from an update I received from someone else:
“On Sunday, April 15th, Kendra had an adverse reaction to a medication.
She is now in a hospital far, far away from her four children, fighting hard to recover.
Will you join me in praying for my friend? I am going to print this post out and mail it to her. If any of you would like to leave a comment of encouragement or a verse for her, I am sure she would appreciate it.
Before I go, I wanted to share with you something that Kendra wrote when she was a contributing author for a website called Those with Young.
(this is being posted with permission by the owner of Those with Young)
Recently, I found myself getting grumpy and out of sorts over mundane tasks. and chores around my home.
I was wiping a very sticky table down for the 147th time that day. Well, maybe the 5th time, but who’s counting…
In the midst of my grumpiness, I realized the history of that table was something that should bring me joy.
My husband and I bought that table in the early years of our marriage. I wanted a small 4 seater. He wanted a 6 seater. His reason was, “One day we are going to fill those chairs.”
I laughed at him.
A few years later, I was told we would never conceive children “on our own”. That table became a sore spot for me. I prayed to fill just one more seat at the table. I begged, cried, and eventually bent to God’s will. I thought the table would seat 2 forever.
13 years (and 4 children) after we bought that table, it had become a sore spot because it was always a mess. It was full, overflowing to be precise, and it was always sticky, chunky, and a plain ol’ disaster.
Then, I realized that table should be a source of praise for me. Each time I clean the sticky chunks off of the table, I need to offer praises and thanks for two things: 1- the children that make the sticky mess and 2- the food that the children use to make that sticky mess.
It humbled me to address my grumbling spirit and put it to rights.
I found these verses:
2 Kings 25:28-30 (NIV)
He spoke kindly to him and gave him a seat of honor higher than those of the other kings who were with him in Babylon. 29So Jehoiachin put aside his prison clothes and for the rest of his life ate regularly at the king’s table. 30Day by day the king gave Jehoiachin a regular allowance as long as he lived.
Now, I am not in prison, but I was treating my table as if it were a punishment. I want to be like Jehoiachin and put aside my grumbling. I am eating a table provided by, and filled to overflowing by THE KING. For that, I am going to choose to be thankful. My “allowance” is the joy that God has given my heart, should I choose to accept thankfulness over grumpiness…
…even when I have to figure out how to wipe crayon, glue, syrup, and dried rice off of the top of the table!!
Is there a spot in your home that brings you grief?
Please join me this week as I travel around the home, trying to find Joy in the items/places I see each and every mundane day.
And his name is Tom.
Please. Stop gushing over my super-awesome multi-colored chicken coop. Quite frankly, its getting a tad embarrassing.
Tom sits in the doorway of the chicken coop and makes all sorts of noise if ever we try to come and gather eggs. I don’t speak “turkey,” but I am pretty sure he is gobbling threats such as:
“I am going to peck out your eyes!”
“Take one more step and I will kill you!”
“I will poop on your toes if you try and open this door again!”
I don’t like Tom.
I mean, really. His head is blue. What’s up with that?
Well, I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure. I am not going near Tom. I send the girls to do the egg gathering. And, of course, they come back and whine:
“But, Mom! That turkey is soooo scary!”
And I look calmly at them and LIE:
“No, he’s just a turkey. You will be just fine. Now run along like good girls and get the eggs.”
I know, I know. Mother of the Year.
But there is NO WAY I am going near that turkey. Did I mention he was ugly? He’s got like some long dangly thing from his beak. I like him not. We have him on The Craigslist, but I’m ready to pay someone to take him away. Because, did I mention I loathe him?
In other news, we are still hard at work fencing our property and getting ready for a garden. My body is so sore from all this manual labor. It’s hard work keeping up with David, you know?
Me: Do you want me to get the 4-wheeler and and dump that trailer full of sticks? I can get Daisy Mae to help me?
David: No. But how about you just help Daisy Mae.
Daisy Mae is a stud. I cannot tell a lie. I have no idea how to work that 4-wheeler machine and she knows all about it.
She starts it for me.
She reminds me where the brakes are.
She helps me figure out how to put it in reverse.
She’s not scared to actually accelerate.
Daisy Mae: Mom. Will you just let me drive it?
It’s for the best.
So, she drives the 4-wheeler and I stay close by. We have to take trailers-full of sticks down to some big pile. The sticks will sit in the pile until Jesus returns. But they are being moved, nonetheless, because this is what my husband tells me to do and who knows what goes on in that head of his?
So we, and of course, by “we” I mean Daisy Mae, get the trailer to the dumping spot and then we have to unhitch the trailer.
I know, I know. I can barely understand what’s going on to even type this out.
Guess who has to unhitch the trailer?
Daisy Mae.
Guess who figure out the best way to tilt the trailer to dump this sticks?
Daisy Mae.
Guess who is able to back the 4-wheeler up to the hitch-thingie-ma-bob?
Daisy Mae.
Not me.
I decided it was time to do my fair share, so I told her that I would hitch the trailer back up. And yes. I just said “hitch.” Next time, I am totes wearing my flannel shirt. It will make my husband swoon, I just know it.
So, I got the hitch all hitched up and told Daisy Mae to go ahead and pull the trailer back up the hill.
And the trailer promptly fell off the hitch.
Daisy Mae (*sighs patiently*): Mom! We’ve been through this. You need to make the holes line up here.
Me: Um . . . show me again?
Daisy Mae: Oh, I’ll just do it. Step back.
And she did it. And in about two months, I shall no longer have a purpose in this family.
But things are just so scary for me.
Driving 4-wheelers!
Sexing Rabbits! (that’s not as naughty as it sounds)
Dealing with my arch-enemy, Tom!
I mean, I am really not cut out for this life. There is a dead goldfish floating in a mason jar about ten feet from me right now.
And I am too scared to open it and flush it down the toilet.
It’s been there for, oh, about two days.
Help!
In other exciting farm and ranch news, we are apparently getting an 8-week old kitten tonight.
Because that’s exactly what we need.
More animals.
