Funny Farm

When Cows Attack

2012-02-15T11:46:00.003-05:00

Brynn is in love with the cattle next door.

My horse Chance is not.

He expressed serious reservations when the Black Angus moved into the nearby pasture, beside the hay field where we frequently ride. The first few outings, I hugged the fence furthest from the black pack, spiraling out in larger circles until Chance would pass them with minimal reservations.

And then something unfortunate occurred.

While fox hunting through a pasture populated by cattle, several of the cows bum-rushed the horses. Everyone scattered. Chance and I followed the bulk of the field and, once safe, we slowed down.

But then a stealth cow -- an attack angus -- darted out behind a stand of trees and barreled toward us. Chance ran backwards and sideways but the cow closed the distance.

As I like to tell the story, the cow T-boned Chance. But that's not accurate. Actually, the cow kissed his flank before it gave up the chase. But it rattled us.

At home I tried to convince Chance that his condemnation of all Black Angus bordered on discrimination. Still, he cast a wary eye on the herd. One day while riding we stopped to talk to Chet, who pulled over in his car. A pickup crawled up the drive behind him.

It was a power company vehicle but the cattle assumed it was the feed truck. They stopped grazing and stampeded toward us. Chance's head flew up and he blasted one tense snort -- giving me a moment to plug my feet back in the stirrups -- before he plunged backwards and sideways. Across the entire field.

Clearly Chance will never possess cowpony guile. But I'd like to assimilate him back into agricultural life. Improve equine-bovine relations.

And if you cows would minimize the humping when we're nearby, it would really help!

Up Chuck

2012-02-14T00:59:00.001-05:00

Sunday night, 7 pm. I'm pooled on the couch in the fireplace room. Immobile. Nursing a Chuck E. Cheese hangover.

Chuck E Cheese hangover [noun] -- the disagreeable physical and emotional aftereffects from visiting said establishment such as: grimy, sticky, clamminess of skin; uncleanliness; headache; anger and moodiness; loathsome thoughts related to children.

Far more scathing reports dissect the hell that is Chuck E Cheese. I'll just say that stepping inside is both a form of torture and a testament to a parent's love. Because as much as you hate Chuck E Cheese, your kids adore it.

Visiting is like venturing into a trendy nightclub. It's mobbed, overheated, dirty and incredibly noisy. And there's a wait to get in the door.

Especially on a winter weekend. The line winds around the building, parents clutching a birthday gift while shoving their kids towards the first set of glass doors -- everyone jostling to escape the frigid wind.

Inside a bouncer funnels the crowd into a single file line and stamps hands.

Each adult and associated kids are stamped with a number -- a mystery number visible only under a black light. It's a system to ensure that "everyone who arrives together leaves together." But I wonder if the parents are branded to prevent them from sneaking out without their charges. A twist on the old "dine-and-ditch" -- instead of leaving without paying, you leave a kid instead.

Past the velvet ropes the Mouse House is busting at the seams with every walk of life. Short people, tall people. Fat, thin, toothless, botoxed, bleached, bald, tattooed, big haired. Soccer mom-types and camera-wielding dads. Grandparents, godparents, uncles and aunts.

The interior is purple and bright and there's blaring carnivalesque music muffled by buzzing, ringing token-fed rides and games. And of course, lots of kids screaming.

Kids screaming with glee. Screaming in frustration or screaming in despair. Screaming just to scream.

I check my watch. It's been 15 minutes since I've last spotted Cayden and Hadley. I scan the army of kids streaming between the arcade games and inside the giant hamster habitrail overhead, but it's impossible. They've melted into the mass. So I focus on Brynn, who's lurking around the tot games. She loiters until she spies a child feeding a token into a machine and then she moves in -- elbowing the kid to the side and grabbing the joystick or control buttons. I should curtail this conniving behavior but it's entertaining -- watching a 20-month-old hassle older kids. So I spy from a distance.

Until a goofy giddy voice booms over the din and everyone crams their kids into long tables for pizza and cake and singing. Cayden and Hadley are seated with their friends and while I see them, I can't reach them. There are too many parents jammed in every nook and cranny of space.

The meal is a blur. There's a flurry of food served and scarfed, a rendition of "Happy Birthday" with an awkward pause to insert any kid's name, and a guy in a rodent costume who works the room by alternately thrilling or positively terrifying the kids. Then it's back to the arcade and game section for round two.

After two hours it's finally time to go and I corral the kids and their shoes and coats and my coat and the car keys and my cell phone... we're on the verge of a meltdown. I'm sweaty from holding Brynn like a football under my arm. Hadley's overheated and begging for water. Cayden's amped up.

We're being herded out while they clear the table for the next birthday party when I run back to retrieve the diaper bag.

"Oh, is this yours?" a fathers asks, holding up the bag.
"Thanks," I say gratefully.
"And....this?" he says. Amidst the used plates and discarded forks and napkins, nestled between the remnants of the cake, is a ziplock baggie.

A baggie that appears to contain urine. The father looks repulsed and reluctant to handle it.

"It's not pee, it's apple sauce,"I say. I could explain that Brynn's apple sauce container had leaked in the bag -- and what remained was this watery run-off. Even better, I could have thrown it out, had a trash can been in reach.

But there wasn't so I couldn't, and in a moment of defeat I left the bag on the table for the waitress to find.

I felt a little guilt for planting this confusion, but already the hangover was setting up shop. I had to get away and shed myself of these kids. I was desperate. The waitress could handle apple sauce masquerading as pee. I noticed that she wore rubber gloves when she served the kids their pizza and cake. Obviously she's handled worse.

Boots

2012-02-10T13:04:00.000-05:00

Hot pink cowboy boots.

They were like a car wreck. I didn't want to see them, but I couldn't look away. Amidst the shelf of children's rain boots, and brown and tan western boots, and black paddock shoes, the pepto-bismol boots looked grossly out of place.

I spotted them at a trade show. I'd already bought plenty of practical gear -- riding gloves, a riding jacket and some clothes for the kids. But I kept passing those infernal pink boots. And as much as the nauseating hue turned my stomach... as much I loathed the glitzy stars that flickered with each step...

...I knew that Hadley would love them. I handed over my credit card.

Maybe they won't fit. Maybe they'll give her blisters, maybe she'll hate them, I thought when the package arrived. But as I lifted the cardboard lid, Hadley's eyes lit up. She looked like Indiana Jones recovering the holy grail.

She slipped her feet inside and did a little dance.

After that I stalled her for a couple of days. When it snowed I told her that it would be a shame to get her new boots wet. And then it was the mud. You don't want to get them muddy, I cautioned. Reluctantly, she wore sneakers.

But this morning she dismissed my lame claims about frost and mud. She was wearing the boots, dammit.

"But today is pajama day," I reminded her. "You're supposed to wear pajamas to school today."

"So?"

"So you can't wear pajamas with cowboy boots!"

"Why not?"

Because the boots are ridiculous enough without pjs, I wanted to say. Because you'll look like a freak.

But I couldn't say that. Besides, this is Hadley. Fashion-forward Hadley. She doesn't care.

At school she got out of the car, slung her tote bag over her pajama-clad shoulder, and marched up the sidewalk.

Boots blazing.

The Tooth Fairy

2012-02-08T13:00:00.000-05:00

I had plenty of time to prepare for the Tooth Fairy's rookie run. Back in January Cayden alerted us to his first loose tooth. By last week the tooth had slumped over, resting at a jaunty angle against its pearly-white neighbor.

Still I didn't give it much thought until Monday night when our babysitter plucked out the tooth with a napkin. Suddenly the Tooth Fairy had to deliver.

"What's the going rate for a tooth?" I queried friends on Facebook.

But I didn't post this question until late night. After dinner and bath and bringing in the horses. I was tired and ready for bed.

So after hitting "refresh" on my laptop and receiving no immediate answer, I retrieved the ziplock baggie from under Cayden's pillow. I removed the tooth and put a $2 bill in its place.

The two dollar bill came from Martin; exact origins unknown. But I thought it'd be cool.

Well, you'd think I'd slipped a gold brick under Cayden's pillow or promised him a BMW at 16.

"Two dollars!" my mom said incredulously. "I asked my colleagues and most of them give their kids 25 or 50 cents a tooth!"

"Two dollars!" someone wrote on Facebook. "I got 25 cents and then a dollar for my final tooth."

"A dollar," most people replied. "That's the rate in our house."

Well, to all you 50-centers or dollar-a-tooth advocates, I have something to say:

You're either cheap or old.

I got 50 cents for my teeth and that was back in the '70s.

Factor in inflation and two quarters in 1976 jumps to $1.98 in modern times. I'm not too far off.

In the end it doesn't matter if I gave the kid $2 or $10 or even $20. Cayden has Martin's absent minded attention span. They both put down their money and wander off. Once that happens, I swoop in. Consider your money forfeited and reinvested into the bank of Me.

I'm tight-fisted with money; unfortunately I'm less attentive about saving teeth.

On that fateful night of the Tooth Fairy's visit, she first swallowed an Ambien to help her sleep. Now she hasn't the foggiest idea where she stashed that tooth.

Call Screener

2012-02-02T15:31:00.000-05:00

Ever since a wiring short fricasseed our home phone system, we've been tethered to a single, corded phone. One cheap, fake-rotary styled device with a short cord that -- when taut -- yanks the phone to the floor with a terrific crash.

We have a voicemail function through the phone company, but we aren't alerted to any new messages. And we don't have caller ID.

But we do have something better.

When the phone prattles with its metallic jangling ring, it triggers a thunderous response. The thump of bare feet on hardwood floor. Thump-thump-thump. A pause and then a wary, "hulllllo?"

If you've ever dialed a friend or coworker and been greeted with a chirpy child, then you've been down this road before. You may get the kid who's awed by answering the phone -- the silent, heavy breather. Or you're looped into a circuitous conversation.

"I'm four years old!"

"Oh, that's nice. Is your mommie home?"

"I'm four years old!"

In all likelihood if you're conversing with a pre-schooler, it's going to be irritating.

And that's my goal: irritation. I never answer the home phone. Because those who know me, call my cell. Those who want money call the house.

Every so often a neighbor or relative will ring the "bat phone," as we call it. And if Hadley's met you she'll probably let you through.

But if you're the Fraternal Order of Police, the Race for the Cure or any other fundraising arm, good luck getting past my call screener. She talks on the phone in much the same way that she cuts Martin's hair: she'll play along for a while before calling it quits. "Ok, call back later -- bye!" she'll sing out, settling the receiver back in its cradle with a satisfying "click."

Pig Pen

2012-01-26T16:38:00.000-05:00

Twenty-three days.

Chance spent exactly 23 days on injured reserve after a mystery object (probably corn stalk stubble) pierced the soft flesh of his coronary band while we were fox hunting.

About a week ago my vet deemed him rideable. But the ugly, craggy wound made me balk. What started as a tiny blemish widened, creeping across the front of his foot.

Then this week the creep ceased and I realized that if I waited for the wound to heal, Chance would flounder for months. So I retrieved my saddle, still spotted with mud from hunting, and zipped on my chaps. I hooked a halter and lead over my shoulder.

Horses are intuitive... they sense when something's up. Before I lifted the latch on the gate, Chance knew the jig was up. But instead of fleeing he stopped, dropped and rolled.

As if the clods clinging to his coat would chase me back in the house.

I peeled off his blanket -- revealing the only unspoiled real estate on his frame -- and plunked the saddle on his back.

Unfortunately, 23 days of inactivity + 23 new cattle, does not a smooth ride make. As Chance and I trotted Chet's hay field, the neighboring black angus galumphed across their pasture, mashing along the fence to get a closer look. Chance's head shot up like a periscope and the stare-off commenced. Mesmerized, the cattle gazed intently and Chance returned the behavior, refusing to turn his back on the herd.

It was not a pretty ride. But Chance's foot held and I stayed in the saddle. Only one of us walked away muddy.

Spotted

2012-01-25T11:14:00.000-05:00

We can always tell when someone's hunting by the river. Long before the first thundering booms waft from the woods, the deer emerge. They commute up the trails and congregate in our pasture or the neighbor's.

I'm no deer expert but from what I've seen, deer prefer to loiter in the woods. In an open field they glide across, snatching a bite or two before moving on. Rarely do they park.

But when someone's hunting, that's exactly what they do. They remind me of kids clustered around home base in a game of tag. Apparently the deer have identified the demilitarized zone.

Eventually they choose a direction and depart single file, with a graceful bounding stride over the fence.

About a month ago I spied this piebald, daunted by the neighbor's fence. She wasn't injured but lacked natural athleticism.

According to one website, piebald (oddly enough, not called skewbald) is a genetic condition affecting less than 1 percent of the white deer population. With it comes other possible defects like short legs or an arched spine. Clearly "Spotty" is afflicted with some abnormality because she balked at the fence line.

She remained trapped in there alone for 20 minutes, utterly vexed by the fencing. But eventually -- spurred by fear from the sounds of a gleeful, shrieking kid -- she frantically squeezed between a wider fence board and bound away with her awkward short stride.

Since then my neighbor Liz has spotted her and snapped much better photos. Spotty's markings are pretty cool and we'll probably see her again if she steers clear of the road. She successfully dodged Maryland's 2011-2012 hunting season.

pix by Liz Zander

Winter Chores

2012-01-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

"What a mild winter," everyone says. No frigid chill or permafrost ground. Even now the grass looks November green.

But when I'm standing in a field, the wind burning my cheeks and cutting through my jeans, it's doesn't seem that mild.

I hunker down and wish that I'd wish worn thermal underwear.

I wish I'd worn smart-wool socks.

I hope a sheep doesn't poop on me.

"They're not going to poop on you, they're going to poop on me," Martin says, peering at a hoof.

I slide into the handling chute and wedge myself between the sheep who are crammed so tightly, they look like a package of marshmallows squashed in a grocery cart.

Martin and I are embarking on a chore we should've tackled in the summer: trimming the sheeps' hooves. One of them appeared to be lame.

Not only are we dealing with lousy weather and wily sheep, we have no idea what we're doing.

An instructional website on hoof trimming shows a handler standing the sheep on its hind legs or sitting it down for a trim. But the sheep in the photos are wiry and small -- not like ours that look bloated cotton balls. They outweigh me by 75 pounds. Martin trims them like a farrier shoeing a horse.

Unfortunately, sheep hooves lack the distinctive "cut here" delineation of finger nails. When I search the web I find only a handful of sites and the first sums up my frustration: "There are not many sources of written information on hoof trimming..."

Last summer when Martin bought the trimmers (which look like gardening shears) the guy at Southern States was equally helpful. "You wanna trim a bit but not too much," he cautioned. "Every four to six months."

"That often?" Martin asks. "We've had our for three years and never trimmed them."

"Gosh," the man said. "Then you may want to put them down."

The neglect isn't entirely our fault. The sheep were supposed to be loaner models... borrowed to train Maisie. But then the owner died and by default we inherited them.

The wind whips up, chapping my cheeks but my legs are pretty warm...compressed by the sheep. Like an undertow they carry me around the pen as they dodge Martin.

Martin wades in, snagging each hoof and tentatively paring it away. Eventually everyone's done but Blackie. He so jammed under the rest of the herd, he's almost invisible. Martin dives for him and the entire mass sloshes around the pen, threatening to burst the boards.

"We'll let Blackie go," Martin finally says. "I don't think he's too bad."

Good enough for me. I'm ready to go back inside. I'll be out again in April.

Newbies on the block

2012-01-17T23:28:00.000-05:00

There's an old saying that, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Well when your neighbors are cattle, those words really ring true.

I didn't pay much attention to the convoy of pickup trucks in the neighbor's field, huddled in a circle like campers around a fire. The pasture once held horses but it's been vacant for months. And given the fence's wobbly state, I thought the neighbor was shoring up the posts for future horse use. But the newly-installed barbed wire, stretched taut in three strands, suggested otherwise.

By Saturday afternoon a whole passel of cattle were clustered in the corner. Twenty-two Black Angus and a single ginger-white Hereford. They hovered at the top end of the field but gamely approached as we gawked along the fence.

I told the kids that this herd of coal-black cattle might be next year's burgers. But I don't think the message registered.

A curious lot

Number 3 proved the boldest of the bunch.

Right now the herd's a pretty cool landmark on our neighborhood stroll, but I'm not sure how smitten we'll be in July -- when the flies are beastly and the cow pies plentiful. We'll all be coated in repellent.

Brynn was most taken by the new arrivals. I tried to explain the danger of barbed wire in terms understandable to a 20 month old. While doing so, I inadvertently punctured my thumb on a razor-sharp barb and a bubble of blood welled up. That, she understood.

Today's Lesson: Don't Name Wild Animals

2012-01-13T13:52:00.000-05:00

I'm accustomed to one kid or another besting the alarm in the morning... creeping up in the darkness to utter a buzzer-beating declaration like, "The toilet's stopped up but don't worry, I fixed it."

We haven't had many of these lately since Hadley -- our resident early-riser -- discovered how to operate the remote control. Cartoon Network keeps her quiet, and my alarm and snooze button are back in business.

But not this morning. Today Cayden padded in and leaned up to my head so I wouldn't miss a word. "Hey Mom, I was watching tv in the basement and I saw Blackie and I petted him."

Apparently Cayden got the jump on the black snake that winters in our basement. Blackie isn't used to the flood of lights so early in the morning, so he slithered back up the wall by the play area and crawled back into the foundation crevice. But not before Cayden caught up with him.

"Martin, are you hearing this?" I said, sitting up in bed.

"Cayden, just because we call that snake 'Blackie' doesn't mean he's a pet. He's a wild animal."

"I know Dad. I didn't say he was a pet. I said I petted him. And not his head, only his tail."

Well hey, that's reassuring. Thanks kid, no need for the snooze button this morning.

Blackie keeps to himself, but in spring sheds his skin in the cellar.

It's a house plant

2012-01-13T00:08:00.000-05:00

We can't invite anyone over for the foreseeable future. I've issued a temporary ban on visitors entering our house.

Not because of our germy kids, or my pneumonia. Not because the family room is a strewn with toys and stuffed animals and puzzle pieces.

No, I just don't want someone to wander in and discover our dirty little secret:

...our Christmas tree is still up.

We appear poised to receive Santa at any minute. Ornaments adorn the tree, the stockings dangle beside the fireplace and the advent calendar crowds the mantle, right beside the Santa snow globe.

I've never been one to hang on to Christmas. We've always booted the tree out on January 2nd. And the nutcracker, the googly-eyed reindeer candles and our kitchy snowmen figurines hide out in the attic.

But this year I've rebelled.

The fireplace room is our private oasis. It escapes the lava-like spread of clutter, and the wooden pocket doors keep the blaring tv, the blaring kids and blaring dog at bay. And with a crackling roaring fire and our perfectly plump and symmetrical douglas fir, the room is positively cozy. More than cozy, it's calming. Better than a glass of wine. (correction: enhanced with a glass of wine.)

Sure, Christmas is last year's footnote. We're already thinking about spring break and summer vacation.

Which is why I'm disassociating the tree with Christmas. Instead, I think of it as a house plant.

A really big house plant... with shiny baubles and twinkly white lights.

A pharmacologic existence

2012-01-11T12:19:00.000-05:00

Antibiotics. Anti-inflammatories. Antihistamines. Antiseptics. Prescription pain-relievers. Steroids. Corticosteroids. Oral suspensions (shake well). Topical ointments. Intramuscular injectables. Capsules. Tablets dissolved in water, mixed with applesauce. Nebulized inhalants. Drawing salves, best administered with gloves to keep your nails clean. And pills. Lots of pills.

In the last 10 days, you name it and we've injected it, swallowed it, applied it, soaked it or wrapped it.

It started after Christmas. One kid got sick and we all fell like dominos. It began as a run-of-the-mill cold, barely medication-worthy. But then we hit a rough patch.

While fox hunting on New Year's Day and galloping about, Chance cut his coronary band (that's the soft skin at the bottom of the leg, where hoof growth begins). It looked superficial and I took care of him when I got home.

But the next day he was in serious pain. Three-legged lame. The vet shot him up with antibiotics and anti-inflammatories and left me an arsenal of meds, cautioning me on the risk of bone infection. The syringes were cartoonishly big and each day I'd stick the needle in his neck, jam some paste down his throat, mask 28 pills in applesauce, soak his foot, and then cover the wound in wrap and duct tape.

The shots and the pills Chance could take. It was the order of stall rest -- total confinement -- that turned my horse into a raging lunatic. Borderline dangerous. And I was flying solo because Martin was on the floor, imitating a corpse.

When Martin's back goes out, it really goes out. For two days he lay like a felled tree, buffered by couch pillows. He hobbled around with a sawed-off broom handle.

The days stretched out-- mucking stalls, feeding animals, treating Chance, microwaving pizza, medicating kids, medicating Martin, bathing kids, mucking stalls again, scrounging in the dryer for clean clothes.... I started each morning before dawn and capped the night in the same place: sitting on a deworming bucket in Chance's stall, watching my cold breaths and the steam simmering over the stew of his soaking foot, hot water and Epsom salts.

Eventually Martin crawled to the doctor. He got better. Hadley regained her health and Chance dodged the spread of infection and is sound again. Only Brynn evaded recovery. Despite weeks of antibiotics and steroids, despite a normal chest xray and a normal culture, her terrible cough and runny nose confound her doctors. We live on the verge of hospital admittance.

And that little cold that I ignored... it stuck around. The cough worsened and migrated south, setting up shop in my lungs. I have walking pneumonia.

You've probably heard of sick parents -- too busy to see the doctor -- who finish off their kids' medications. Well, it's sort of like that. Chance's double-strength tablets of Sulfamethoxazole and Trimethoprim -- that's a fancy way of saying "Bactrim." And thanks to Brynn, I know what Bactrim is. Thanks to Chance, I've got a 500-count bottle.

Chance needed 28 tabs a day. One twice a day will do me just fine. Hold the apple sauce.

Dog Walk

2011-12-28T20:21:00.000-05:00

This morning Martin said that he'd walk the dog.

Up the driveway that's a 20-minute jaunt. With dawdling kids, 30 minutes tops.

So off they went around 8:30 am. Martin with the chuckit (a tennis ball hurling device); the dog and her ball; Hadley, atop Bugsy; and Cayden, armed with his Nerf N-Strike Recon Dart-Blaster.

They returned. Two hours later.

The kids burst into the kitchen, naked from the waist down. ("The river was wet!" Cayden reported.)

Apparently they walked up the driveway, then cut through the woods, crossed the ridge, followed the berry trail, across the creek and down the muddy river slope. At one point Bugsy leapt across a rain-filled gully; the kids were riding tandem and miraculously managed to stay aboard.

And then they all climbed a deer stand by the river.

"All of you climbed the tree stand?" I asked. "What did you do with the pony?"

"I tied him to a tree," Martin said simply.

I'm glad that everyone survived the pilgrimage. The dog was exercised, the kids had fun. And it cost me only a load of laundry.

But Martin, let me pass along a piece of advice if there's a repeat performance: avoid tying a horse -- even one as saintly as Bugs -- to some sad sapling by the river.

The pony...and the tree..might not be there when you return.

Craigslist

2011-12-27T16:46:00.000-05:00

For Sale: one 4-year-old girlie-girl, in excellent condition.

Current owner recommends that buyer have extensive background in fashion, makeup, and hair, and sufficient funds to support frequent wardrobe changes. Interest in shopping and "doing" hair, a plus.

Will consider trade for tomboy of same age. Experience in stall mucking preferred.

If interested, please contact me privately.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-22T19:57:00.000-05:00

Although it's been replaced by the politically-correct term "happy holidays," I'm gonna say it anyway:

Merry Christmas. From our crew.

photo by Liz Zander

Lost and Found

2011-12-21T15:25:00.003-05:00

Not a week goes by where I don't lose my wallet, cell phone, keys or sunglasses. Inevitably I launch an exhaustive but futile search. Retracing my steps, combing through that pigsty on wheels and gutting the couch, before realizing that my phone/wallet/glasses are gone forever.

These episodes progress in five phases that take anywhere from 30 minutes to two days. The item disappears and I experience:

Phase 1: loss
Phase 2: frustration
Phase 3: panic
Phase 4: hopelessness
Phase 5: recovery

Usually Martin discovers my phone or wallet wedged under a stack of mail or in the car.

But I'm convinced that the kids are to blame. Not for stealing stuff but sapping us of all sensible thoughts. I'm not even sure that they are kids. I think they might be tiny, trollish aliens that subsist on brain cells -- silently feeding and sustaining themselves on our cranial contents.

And when they've sucked the marrow from the bone, they target us directly.

Ten days ago Martin's iphone evaporated. Poof! It was gone.

Hadley was the prime suspect -- last seen with the victim. We questioned her, we searched the other two and scoured the house. But it's like it never existed.

I imagine that the house swallowed it. Hadley dangled it by thumb and index finger over our home's gaping jaws and it gulped it down, with a satisfying belch.

I have new respect for the power of the alien-trolls.

They're also decent thieves. A weekend ago we were in the car, returning from a family hiking trip, when I noticed a steady jingling from the backseat. Sort of like that incessant Salvation Army bell-ringer at the grocery store.

But this was no charity volunteer. It was Brynn toying with a set of keys. Someone else's keys. Including a car and house key.

I don't know where she nabbed them, but I suspect that they came from the state park's parking lot, where several other hikers had left their cars.

Since the exact origins were unknown... and we were exhausted and almost home... we kept the keys. No doubt someone had to call for back-up house keys to retrieve back-up car keys.

But that's old news. Martin bought a new iphone and is keeping it on a tight leash. As for the mystery car keys, they're gone again.

The house ate them.

Shopping Suggestions

2011-12-20T10:18:00.002-05:00

I don't ask Martin what he'd like for Christmas. Because I know the answer:

"You could get me a new alarm clock radio. I need one. And camping equipment is always good... Or an army truck. I'd love a cool army truck."

An army truck.

He sounds a little bit like a normal person who asks for a sports car.

But as much as you'd like a sports car, you don't seriously think you're going to get one.

Martin, however, is trying to plant the seed for an army truck -- lay the foundation for a 2.5 ton military vehicle that fits 16 troops -- in the same way that he paved the way for our gator.

Which I did buy as a surprise several years ago.

Christmas morning with my Dad, 2005

But an army truck? What the hell are we going to do with an army truck? And where would we'd park it?

"I've already figured that out," he says. "Up the road at that farm where they park all those tractor trailers. We'll just ask to leave it there."

"Martin, we are not buying an army truck."

I punch the words with some finality.

But I know that if he's plotted where to park it, then he's actually pondered the possibility of having one. (Which seemed unimaginable to me. But google "army trucks for sale." They are definitely out there.)

Occasionally and without warning, Martin offers the benefits of owning a military cargo truck. "When we host our river tubing trip, we'd all be able to ride down to the river together..."

Well Martin, treat this blog entry as my signed, bound affidavit on the subject. On Christmas Day there will not be a vehicle tucked behind the silo to discover when you fill the water trough.

Go rummage around under the tree. You'll find some socks and an alarm clock radio.

The Hay Field

2011-12-08T10:17:00.001-05:00

There's a big hay field, not far from our farm, that we simply call "the ridge." It's a long sloping stretch of land, occupied by no one and traveled by wildlife and trail riders.

In the summer it grows rangy grass, stooped under the weight of seed heads. Three times a year farmers give the field a crew cut. Machinery crawls along the windrows, belching out giant round bales. A few always break free, careening down the hill to rest and rot in the brambled creek.

On the ridge there's a rutted track, cut by hay wagons. It's a riding trail and a gator thoroughfare on Maisie recovery missions. We either zig-zag along the folds, flushing deer from the woods or straddle the ridge, jouncing over ruts.

Sometimes we park on the ridge and set the kids free. They can wander as far and fast as they want. The first time I tried this, Cayden was 18 months old. As he ran away, he looked over his shoulder, astonished when I didn't reel him in. Eventually he dashed down the slope out of sight.

And that's the beauty of this field. It's the safest place in the world. There are no cars, no roads, no horses. No electric fence, no strangers, no craggy rocks. Just a long stretch of wavy green capped by sky.

At the bottom of the ridge

One especially fine summer day, the five of us were gatoring home after the pool. We had already stripped the kids naked of their bathing suits and were talking dinner. But it was nice out and Martin turned the gator through the woods toward the ridge. At the top we propped our feet on the dash, pulled out some beers, and turned up the radio...which was set to classical.

I can't imagine what the neighbors thought. I'm sure the sound of Mozart blaring from the field drew them to their windows. And there they saw the two of us -- wrapped in bath towels, drinking beer --while buck-naked kids trickled down the slope, tracing deer-tramped trails.

Now it's too cold and blustery to streak along the ridge. The neighbors are probably relieved. But as the furnace gobbles oil and I constantly holler, "be quiet and find something to do," I crave a warm day. And the chance to let the kids run out of sight.

Stashing Santa Loot

2011-12-06T12:11:00.001-05:00

Last year Cayden -- our resident environmentalist and animal expert -- questioned Santa and his gravity-challenged reindeer.

This year his doubt has only deepened.

Why would anyone live in a hostile climate like the North Pole? How do reindeer fly without wings? Wouldn't it be faster to take a plane? And how does Santa reach every house in the world when it takes 16 hours just to get to Australia?

The kid is killing me. I suspect that schoolmates are further poisoning the Santa well.

The only thing that I can do is Sell, Sell, Sell this mythical story. And change the subject.

I realize that this is my final year of lackadaisical present stashing -- stockpiling gifts in the darkest corner of the attic. Just in case, I blockaded the door with a heavy box of magazines.

But as early as next year, The Boy will be on the hunt.

My mother was a fabulous stasher of Santa gifts. I was about 8 years old when my best friend Judy, injected doubt in the Santa bubble. In December, when my parents scotch-taped the advent calendar to the fridge, Judy and I launched a massive, exhaustive search. Like cops with a search warrant, we combed through closet shelves, using a ruler to probe behind Dad's slide carousels. We rode the wobbly attic boards, suspended over cotton-candy insulation, to paw through luggage. We rooted behind the hot-water heat in the basement.

We never found a scrap of evidence. Not even a swatch of wrapping paper.

A couple years ago I asked Mom to reveal the secret to her success. Apparently her motto was "things best hidden are disguised in plain sight."

I was in arm's reach of Santa's bounty every time I fiddled with my parents' clock radio. Their bed frame included a shelf/headboard -- which was actually a hollowed-out storage space. Probably for quilts and blankets. Because the surface was constantly stocked with stained coffee mugs and newspaper inserts, I hadn't the faintest clue that the shelf top was hinged.

Unfortunately, I don't own any hollow furniture so I plan to conceal Christmas presents in the horse trailer -- specifically, in the "neck" of the gooseneck. Reaching the space is awkward and holds no allure for the kids.

That's my best spot until someone proffers a better idea. Suggested locales that you or your parents used to squirrel away the Santa stash? Brag away here!

Release the troll

2011-11-30T14:05:00.001-05:00

"We've officially outgrown our car," I think as I shut the back hatch, locking our friend, Mike, in the trunk.

You want to go out to eat with our whole family and come along in the car?

Then you're riding in trunk. That's how we roll.

It's not as bad as it sounds. We have a mid-sized SUV -- a Toyota Highlander -- and there are windows in the way-back. We would never cram a friend in a dark, claustrophobic trunk, like a corpse or a bag of golf clubs.

Beside, Maisie rides in the trunk area all the time and she doesn't seem to mind.

Not that she has a choice. She was booted to the back when Brynn arrived.

In the days of my Honda civic, Little Zippy, Maisie once tried to stow away.

We bought the Highlander six years ago. Pre-Cayden and in our "oh-my-god-we're-gonna-be-parents" mode. At the time we were freaked out by one car seat and the passenger it would carry.

The thought of three(!) back then seemed as plausible as a ticket to the moon.

But now here we are; no closer to the moon but with a row of car seats that interlock like Legos. According to seatbelt laws, we're at max capacity with two people in the front and three kids in back.

Which is why we seat our friends in the trunk. We've even coined a term for this particular passenger. The Trunk Monkey.

Or "Trunk Troll," if you prefer.

I've volunteered to be trunk troll and it's not too bad. I recline and press my feet against the glass. It's hard to hear the radio or conversation beyond the din of kids, so I usually nap. But sometimes I sit up and catch the eye of a passing driver, who does a double take and probably thinks: "Holy cow, I think I just saw a trunk troll!"

People unabashedly stare when we arrive at a restaurant or an event. Martin and I emerge from the front, the kids spill out the back, and finally we pop the hatch to let the trunk monkey uncrumple his legs and crawl out.

I know that our trunk troll tradition cannot continue. In the future we'll need to safely carry the kids' friends.

And adults, too...who are less inclined to travel in the cargo hold.

Junk Mail

2011-11-29T21:00:00.001-05:00

It's no secret that magazines and publishing companies acquire mailing lists to bombard potential subscribers through direct mail marketing. Renting lists and exchanging consumer information is big business, especially among the publishing industry.

But I'm intrigued: who sold my name and address to Dairy Goat Journal?

What on earth did I buy to wind up on this mailing list?

For once I glanced at the flyer before pitching it.

A special offer only for those who think dairy goats are delightful... Dairy Goat Journal isn't just an investment in your caprine friends....

Caprine? I had to look that one up. (adjective; of or pertaining to goats)

...Dairy Goat Journal might become your favorite family magazine simply because it's interesting and enjoyable!

Boy, that's tempting. And at $14.97 a year, it's affordable. But somehow I don't see myself curled up with the kids to read features such as "Diapers for Doelings" or "The Mechanics for Improving Butterfat."

For the time being I'll stick to the mainstream, educational publications. Like People Magazine.

"Yea, I don't do that."

2011-11-16T20:12:00.001-05:00

"Remind me again, why am I cleaning this thing?" Martin asks as he scrapes the murky layer of sludge from our no-longer-self-cleaning oven.

I wrinkle my nose at the greasy sponge in his hand.

"Yea, I don't do the oven," I say flatly.

Martin and I have a relatively equal division of labor that hovers around stereotypical gender lines. I typically tackle the laundry, he usually takes out the trash. But truthfully, on any given day we share most tasks from changing diapers to mucking stalls.

There are, however, a couple of chores we simply won't "do." Martin refuses to clean out the cars. The brake pedal can be jammed under a mound of Red Bull cans and he'll just kick them out of the way.

I refuse to fill the water troughs. When the horses are down to dregs, I'll dash into Martin's office sounding the alarm. If he's on the phone I wave my hands as if the house is on fire. Horses need water!! I'll frantically scrawl on a piece of paper.

As if I'm unable to water them myself.

We've both tried to reform one another. So far my sarcastic barbs -- "I see that your dirty clothes lost their battle to reach the hamper" -- go ignored.

And for years Martin's begged me to cut his hair. Please, just cut it, it'll take two seconds...

"Yea, I don't do that," I say. "I don't do hair."

"You do the horses' hair..."

"I trim their whiskers--"

"It's the same thing! Just use their clippers!"

Last summer Martin tried a new tactic: he bought his own trimmers, which look just like the ones we already have in the barn. I still won't do it.

Fortunately he's found a willing assistant. Someone who gamely clutches the clippers and plows on through. Someone who sees no errors in even the most half-hearted attempt:

Hadley.

She regularly cuts his hair.

Until she loses interest and leaves the live clippers chattering on the bathroom tiles. And walks away.

So if you happen to see Martin dragging a garden hose between barn and field, and you notice his ill-shapen, asymmetric haircut... have pity on him.

His barber has only been potty trained for a year.

Carriage House Beautification

2011-11-15T12:33:00.007-05:00

Hello, everyone. I want to thank the tens of thousands of faithful readers who've mourned my blogging absence and begged me to resume writing.

Your prayers have been answered. I'm back, after 13 long days.

So much has happened -- a stack of blog-worthy stories, which I'll sum up as follows:

We thought that we were going to buy another house and sell our own. But then it turned out that we aren't and we're not.

There you go, two weeks of drama -- cleaning, contracts and chaos -- condensed into two sentences.

Now let's move on to the carriage house.

I don't know why it's called the carriage house since there's no door remotely wide enough to accommodate a carriage. Horseless or otherwise. But it's always been called that. Perhaps because "carriage house" sounds cooler than "tool shed."

In 2004 we referred to it as the garage, because there wasn't a TV reality show called "Carriage House Takeover." But Discovery Channel was set to air a half-hour long show featuring a host and cast of characters who tackle cluttered garages, smash the contents, and converted the spaces into hip hangouts like a music studio, an Italian wine cellar, a man cave and a bird caller's paradise (seriously, that was an episode).

A friend tipped me off that Discovery was trolling for suitable spaces. Via email, I pitched a plan to convert our "garage" into a ride-up bar. A production assistant scouted the site and voila, we were slated for Garage Takeover.

Filming took place over three days in August with a flurry of construction and activity. We tripped over lighting tripods and wires that snaked across the lawn. On camera Martin served as comic relief, gamely drinking the contents of a nasty bottle unearthed in demolition. On day 2, he piloted a mammoth trenching machine and immediately severed the carriage house power line.

After 72 hours of filming and construction, the crew revealed the finished product, packed up their van and bellied up to the bar.

But that was in '04. This summer I noticed that the bar had suffered our mild neglect and too much attention from insects, weather and wildlife. So we invested in major repairs, recently completed. (Sorry kids, Santa's sack is going to be light this Christmas.)

Unfortunately Garage Takeover photos predate this laptop, and the episode never made its stamp on the internet. But I took a few exterior "before" pixs a few weeks ago, seen in this blog post. And below are the after photos. (My regular camera is on injured reserve so these are via my iphone, hence the mediocre quality.)

If you're around, stop by for a drink!

What Snow?

2011-11-02T15:54:00.004-04:00

Today, it's 62 degrees outside. Almost tee-shirt weather in the sun.

It's hard to believe that Saturday, we were blanketed in snow.

But here's evidence: a great shot of Sugarloaf over the weekend.

(Photo by Liz Zander)

Kittens be gone!

2011-11-01T14:35:00.000-04:00

From roadside tree hollow to new home. The last two kittens packed their bags on Sunday.

Thanks to those who spread the word... and those who took them!

Here Comes Cold

2011-10-28T11:26:00.004-04:00

circa August

The days of taking a dip in the driveway are over. We put the covers on the potholes. Threw the boots in the cellar to collect spiders.

Ker-splunking suspended til next year.

No more of this.

If the forecasters are right, our murky puddles will turn to frozen mud.

And tomorrow, maybe on to this.

A Bum Rap

2011-10-26T22:43:00.000-04:00

"The mechanic called about your car," Martin announced. "Your axle's bent."

Lately, the Toyota's required moderate repairs.

"Ok, whatever," I said.

"Jo, the axle's bent."

"I heard you."

"And you know the great thing about this? The mechanic thinks that I did it. He wanted an explanation -- from me!"

"Maybe you did do it," I said.

"I barely drive that car."

"Maybe my mom did it."

"Jo, I've seen you drive. You're a maniac."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

But I knew what Martin was thinking.

A few years back, I wreck one car in Romania -- one lousy rental -- and I'm responsible for every hiccup in our fleet.

And Romania wasn't my fault.

We rented the car in Hungary but were deep in Transylvania when Martin asked me to pull over in a field so he could pee. We hadn't seen pavement in hours and were progressing slowly, swerving potholes and horse-drawn carts, while avoiding head-on collisions.

Rush hour

Passing opportunities were rare. I'd just squeezed past a priest, pottering along. Squinting I spied his car's approach, a dusty tail swishing behind.

"Come on, come on," I said impatiently.

I wasn't letting this priest cripple our journey for countless kilometers. The straight stretch would soon turn to ribbon. We needed to cut across the the field and pick up the road. Cut him off.

So, it wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault that our hunk of rented junk couldn't clear the roadside ditch. I thought that if I floored it, we'd sail over the gap.

Dukes of Hazzard style.

Instead the car's nose rammed the ditch. Our heads kissed the roof. The steering fought me until the wheels found the road ruts.

Martin stared at me, his mouth open in astonishment. I looked ahead.

But the car didn't sound good. It was sort of... moaning, and sluggish. I pulled back into the field.

Beep, beep! The priest waved merrily out the window as he passed.

Apparently, the front of our car crumpled against the tires. Thanks to Martin, a crowbar and the car's cheapo design, Martin pried the tires free.

But the car bore a boxer's broken nose. And I learned my lessons.

Don't ever rent a car in Hungary.

Don't screw with God.

And tell Martin to hold it.

Happier times for our Hungarian rental

Okay, I'll admit to one footnote on an otherwise stellar driving record. But I haven't the foggiest clue what happened to my car's axle.

And I don't know what happened to the blade on the lawn mower.

But it's bent, too.

Absolute Home Essentials

2011-10-25T15:31:00.000-04:00

We are not in close proximity to a corner grocer. Or a corner. And in 24 hours I've learned that we should stock the following items at all times:

Cat litter
Kitten food

Because you never know when some schmuck is going to dump a bunch of hungry, helpless kittens by the side of the road.

Over the years we've taken in the wayward kitten who's lost his way -- or has been booted out of a moving car. And so we are at capacity. Homes needed for these little guys; details to come. (And thanks to neighbor Liz for sharing her kitty litter stock at night.)

I've also discovered that no house should be without:

Hydrogen Peroxide
Baking Soda
Dishwashing soap

Because you never know when your dog will be sprayed in the face by a skunk.

But if your dog does get sprayed, it'll be at 10:45 pm, when you've been sitting on the couch watching Monday night football, and snarfing down candy for trick-or-treaters (purchased though we don't get trick-or-treaters) -- when you should have brought in the horses three hours earlier.

Standing in the barn I called the dog who'd suddenly disappeared and she ran in shaking her head, showering my jeans in a frothy white foam. It took a good 15 or 20 seconds for my nose hairs to singe off and my brain to make the connection.

My friend Hunter once said that fresh skunk on a dog smells nothing like the fleeting whiff you pass on the road. She was right.

I don't mind the faint odor of skunk. It reminds me of sleep-away camp where skunks burrowed beneath our cabins. They were practically tame and never sprayed anything, but there was a vague muskiness about them.

Maisie's odor was NOTHING like summer camp. The fumes billowing off her body smelled like a thousand rotting cloves of garlic. And the task of scrubbing her only intensified the smell. As I write this -- the day after -- she is tethered in front of the barn. We're separated by a window pane and 100 feet.

But I still smell her.

Moleing

2011-10-25T00:02:00.000-04:00

Last week I caught Olive perched on a pasture fence post.

She was not watching the grass grow.

Frog, our green-eyed, gray striped cat, is the Capo commander of our feline mob. Historically, she's knocked off a slew of species -- from cricket to corn snake. But Olive is a killing machine as well.

I'm not sure if Olive nabbed a mole, but one of the cats did last Friday. The mole head was strategically placed, Godfather-style, up against the door mat by Martin's office.

I discovered it one footfall too late.

Fortunate Fortune

2011-10-20T16:31:00.001-04:00

Fortune cookies once offered a generic prophecy, some vanilla wisdom.

Your patience will be rewarded in the future.

The time is right to make good friends. That sort of thing.

Apparently those days are over. Now the cookie tells you how it is. It doesn't mince words.

Cayden pulled this little winner last night:

So glad it's just a recreational pastime and not an addiction. He told me that he can quit whenever he wants...

The Tell-Tale Bite

2011-10-18T14:20:00.000-04:00

Oh Christ, we've got mice, I thought as I reached for the granola bar stashed in the car console.

The torn wrapper bore the tell-tale signs of tugging teeth. When I peeled it open, the chewy blueberry granola bar looked nibbled upon.

When you live near a field, there's bound to be field mice. And sometime in the winter months they're going to take a stab at the house. It's typically when the days stay cold. The barn offers a steady supply of grain (horses are sloppy eaters) but there's no beating the warmth inside.

In the past we've taken a proactive approach with a pest control company. And any critters who best that barrier are dinner for Blackie, the black snake that winters downstairs.

So the granola bar troubled me. Mice in October? That's not even pre-season.

As soon as I got home, I opened the cupboard and scrutinized the cereal boxes for evidence. But they were nibble-free. Next, I checked the granola bar box. That was clean too. Finally I pulled everything out and looked for droppings.

There wasn't the faintest hint of an interloper.

And that's when I realized: we don't have mice.

We have kids.

That morning I loaded up the kids and then ran back in the house. At best it was thirty seconds. And those vultures struck.

My prime suspect is Cayden. He tears things open with his teeth.

But I'm glad it's him. He doesn't leave anything but teeth marks.

A Gripe

2011-10-14T11:51:00.000-04:00

Newsflash: it's never going to stop raining.

Ever.

And if I'm wrong and the tap finally squeaks off, we'll be mired in ankle-deep mud for the next month.

In the meantime, hey thanks rain, for exposing every sagging gutter, every gap in the flashing, every bullet hole in the barn roof (the latter, a former owner's solution to the pigeon problem in the hay loft).

Martin says that I complain beyond the average American's allotment. And one day while I issued my latest grievance, he offered this to me:

And I laughed and tabled my complaints. For at least 10 minutes.

But now I must lodge another objection. I wanted to photograph my gift from Martin so I stashed the gum on my desk -- a supposed no-fly zone for the kids. But when I came back with a camera, I found this:

Little scavengers.... I'm tossing them out in the rain.

Filling the dumpster and other joys

2011-10-13T15:39:00.000-04:00

A few friends and family have asked me, "How do you guys juggle everything? Kids, farm and animals?"

Well, we don't. We take care of the bare minimum and shrug off the rest.

Over the summer life started falling apart at the seams. The grass grew too tall, the girth of the manure pile expanded and dirty clothes perpetually clogged the cellar stairs near the washer. We ignored doctor appointments and parts fell off the car.

Most nights Martin and I ordered pizza, deposited the kids by the TV and collapsed. All the while the grass kept growing and the horses kept pooping.

So I quit my job about a month ago. Since then, I've been tackling the mundane chores and triaging the worst cases of neglect. I've fired up the lawn mower, put the car in the shop, the kids in the shop, mended fences and paid bills.

And while Martin's working and the kids are away, I've dumped massive amounts of junk in the trash. Pitched countless toy parts, boxed up give-away items, heaved dust-coated furniture from the hay loft. I'm on a mission to shed the clutter from Martin's Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond binges.

Throwing out things is utterly cathartic and liberating. And quite addictive. There's a strong impulse to throw everything out.

Martin knows something's up. I've been quietly ferrying boxes to my Mom's house. And our dumpster is stuffed to the gills. Last week I barely lassoed the lids over the bulging heap. Tuesday I peered out the window, awaiting the growling trash truck that would gobble the load and let me start over again.

When I'm not feeding the dumpster, I'm spending money I'm not making any more.

I've got a contractor to replace rotted windows, overhaul the deck and fix the carriage house (aka, "the bar"), which has fallen victim to weather, insects and rot. It started as a "hey let's fix the leaky roof." Now we've got a full-blown restoration and improvement project.

When it's done, the carriage house will look better than the house. Which is good news. We might be living there after I'm done throwing everything out.

Parents of the Year Strike Again

2011-10-10T20:56:00.000-04:00

On Saturday Martin and I arrived at two conclusions:

1. Cayden is allergic to horses.
2. And we have no idea how to use an epinephrine autoinjector, also called an "EpiPen."

We were killing time Saturday morning, waiting for our friend Mike, when I fetched Bugsy the Perfect Pony from the field. We stood in the front yard while I yelled for the kids. They didn't respond so I tugged on Bugsy's reins. He stepped gingerly on the brick stoop and moved up onto the front porch.

He would have walked right into the house and down the hallway but I noticed that his tiny, unshod hooves were marring the porch wood. So I nudged the pony off as the kids spilled out the door.

Both Hadley and Cayden -- barefoot, bareback and violating every rule of safe riding -- hoped aboard and off we went. Around the riding ring to our favorite tree where the kids slid off and played tag. Bugsy was home base.

The Perfect Pony looked content and interested in the kids. Despite the fact that I feed him daily and ply him with treats, he regarded me with a suspicious gaze and ears tipped back. It's clear that he likes children but I am not to be trusted.

Back at the porch Cayden was wheezing and coughing. And since I've noticed a similar display after riding (and he hadn't eaten anything suspect) I thought that he's probably allergic to horses.

Mike was still not there, so Martin and I started talking about the EpiPen. (Yes, I'm trying to pin this on Mike.)

First of all, the product name is far too friendly. EpiPen sounds like something you might stock in your desk at work. As in, "Hey Jim, I need to correct this document... can I borrow your EpiPen?"

Considering what this contraption does, it should be called the "Medical Battery Operated Nail Gun." M-BONG for short.

Cayden's coughing and wheezing wasn't the worse we've seen from him, but we pulled out the EpiPen box and read the piss-poor directions. They offered the following guidance: Use for emergency treatment of severe allergic reactions.

So Martin tried to figure it out. He removed the cap, studied the flat top and tapped it innocuously against Cayden's thigh. That was fine until the force of his practice jabs triggered the device and we heard a firm "ffftp."

I didn't know what had happened until Cayden started crying so hard he couldn't breathe. Fortunately when he flinched and jumped away from the needle's release, the medicine wasn't delivered. Martin held up the pen, revealing a thick -- and bent -- protruding needle, while I put pressure on the Boy's bleeding leg.

I will say this: the EpiPen cured his allergy attack. The shock of pain replaced coughing with crying.

And we learned how to use the EpiPen in the event that we really need it.

And for now we have a temporary, new threat in our arsenal against bad behavior: "Final warning: if you don't knock that off, I'm going to get the EpiPen...."

Probably not it's intended use. But it has cut down on misconduct. And when the Boy's allergies really kick in, he wards us off with a hand and says, "I'm Ok, I'm Ok. Just get me a Benadryl."

This Morning

2011-10-06T10:00:00.000-04:00

My interpretation of Brynn's expression and unintelligible babble at 7:53 am:
I'm ready to go and that goddamn* bus is late again...

*I imagine that Brynn will swear when she finally talks.

And while this photo is 100% candid -- snapped with my iphone -- the 5 Hour Energy drink has long been empty. Brynn plucked it from the car floor debris this morning.

And yes, she's got an Albert Einstein bed-head. That's typical. In the morning we only have time to drag the kids out of bed, rummage around their mouths with a toothbrush, and cram their appendages into clothing. Then we're out the door.

Vacation, the Final Chapter

2011-09-28T14:38:00.000-04:00

Martin and I have been back from vacation for 10 days, but I still think longingly about it. The highlights:

....watching the sun set over the beach, while some random guy beside me pulls out a pipe and tokes up.

....strolling through Golden Gate Park and snapping photos. Until some scruffy girl sticks her mug in front of the lens and asks: "ya need weed?"

...weaving through the shops and bars in Haight-Ashbury, inhaling that sweet marijuana haze.

Only the first two are true. I made that last one up.

Come on folks..... roving potheads? That's not a vacation highlight.

Truthfully the chart topper in our seven-day, kidless, stinkbug-free, luxury-West Coast jaunt, had to be The Vineyards.

Three days, immersed in picture perfect Sonoma Valley.

Neither of us are true wine connoisseurs, but who cares? It's sunny, it's beautiful, it's 10 am, time to start sampling vino!

We played the part and faked some basic knowledge about flavor and spices. Tannin and acidity. (Martin's recycled catch phrase after a sip: "Well, it's buttery. And I'm sensing some nuttiness...").

But almost better than the tastings were the settings. No vineyard looked the same as the one next door. There was a tasting room on a hill, a tasting room in a hill, lush landscaped gardens, renovated homes and lavish manors and mills. All devoted to grape growth and consumption.

Cave dwelling

"What does it take to get some service here?"

"Well, it's buttery...."

Both of us quickly learned to deposit less savory wines in the dump bucket or risk getting sloshed. And that worked well until day three when we stopped at a vineyard known for sparkling wines. I liked all of them.

A lot.

And just about the time that my head started buzzing, my cell phone did too. It was a text message from work:

Colleague: Do we have a contact for this group?

Me: I don't care! I'm drunk!!

Colleague: ha ha, you're no good. Put on your thinking cap and get back to me tomorrow:)

Me: Never! You'll never take me alive!

Colleague: Ha ha...

Me: Everyone! Listen to me! Drink more wine!!

I continued along this vein until my cell signal started flagging. Maybe the phone sensed a user error.

Hey Martin! Guess who!

Looking back, I harbor no guilt for my fleeting but boozy demeanor.

I was on vacation, for pete's sake.

And quite conveniently, I happened to have quit my job before this trip.

But that's another blog entry.

For the time being, I'll hang on to the holiday memories. Even though there's no shirking real life. Now when Martin says, "I'm sensing some nuttiness," he's talking about the kids.

Not a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

I said 'tapas,' not 'topless'

2011-09-20T15:51:00.001-04:00

We should have known better, watching San Francisco's cable cars grind by, billowing with tourists. There were so many camera-brandishing sightseers, they virtually tumbled off the sides. All of them destined for Fisherman's Wharf.

I don't know why, but we followed. We could have headed straight for Haight-Ashbury. Instead we plodded to the Wharf.

And what did I get for it?

Scared to death by a homeless guy. (see post script below)

He might not have been homeless, but he did a damn good job of dressing like one.

His busking shtick involved squatting behind a handful of tree branches and jumping out, growling at passersby.

Frankly, he was scary enough without the tree branch....

It didn't matter that the greenery didn't hide him, or that he peered overhead to see people approaching, or that a mess of wilted branches on a concrete walkway looks pretty suspicious.

While gabbing away I practically had a heart attack when he leapt out and snarled at me.

But my almost-coronary collapse was entertaining to Martin. Worth a dollar for creativity.

The tourists who weren't at the Wharf were loitering on Lombard Street, watching cars drop down like pinballs in the curves. (Admittedly, it's a beautiful street).

Instead of cursing the throngs, we embraced them. Martin put in extra effort by edging into other people's photos.

I think he blended in:

Hmm...which one is not like the others?

Later that evening, we asked some guy to recommend a restaurant with tapas but when we stepped out of the cab, I was sure that the guy heard "topless." Wall to wall strip clubs.

Also home to Little Italy. Go figure.

We never found tapas but this particular Italian restaurant (see below) was so good, we ignored the beckoning doormen at the topless clubs and ate there the second night. If you're in San Fran, check it out.

Post script: At least one reader emailed me to mention that she'd been scared by the same homeless-looking guy about five years ago. Apparently the "Bushman" is a SF institution who's been operating for as many as 30 years. Long enough to earn a beloved following, and chock up a few citations and legal dustups.

Vacation Continued; Hotel Upgrade

2011-09-20T00:01:00.001-04:00

After we spent the first couple nights of our vacation "luxury camping" -- sleeping in a canvas cabin and sharing a communal bathroom -- Martin promised that we'd relocate to posher digs. I really didn't mind the tent too much, but I was ready to exchange the bathhouse hike for lavish living.

Fortunately, once we crossed this...

We swapped out this...

for this.

The B&B was simply called "The Farmhouse." But it was unlike any farmhouse that I'd ever stayed in. Check out the fireplace which warmed both the bedroom and the private deck outside.

The room was palatial but tastefully decorated. Comfortable and luxurious but not ostentatious. After three nights, and possibly the tastiest meal I've ever consumed, Martin had to pry my hands off the door knob at checkout. I wanted to throw a Hadley-sized temper tantrum but instead quietly whined and dragged my feet until housekeeping gave me a funny look.

I finally retreated to the car, but not before filling my pockets with lots of fancy soap that was available at the reception area. Guests were encouraged to cut off a bar sized wedge from the soap slab. I left a few slivers but otherwise hijacked the whole soap.

So when I'm sudsing at home, smelling the lavender aroma, I'll think about that luxurious Farmhouse, the bed, the soaking tub... while I'm picking stinkbugs out of the drain in my ratty old farmhouse.

Back-In-Time Berry Stop

2011-09-16T23:11:00.000-04:00

There are plenty of pick-your-own farm stands along the Pacific Coast Highway between Santa Cruz and San Francisco.

But I doubt many have the vintage feel of Swanton Berry Farm.

I wish I could say that we discovered this place by ourselves, but the travel book gets credit for this find.

Once we walked in the door, I wanted to stay all day.

Swanton's is chocked full of antiques and old books, photos and games that look like they've been crammed on the shelves for 50 or 100 years. But the girl brewing tea admitted that she's been trolling flea markets and yard sales to stock the sitting area. A lot of the puzzles and books have been propped against the white-washed walls within the last year or so.

In the end, who cares if the vintage look is fabricated or legit? I was ready to shrug off my bag, settle in a chair and sink my teeth into strawberries and pie.

As for the collection of '60s board games and puzzles? The communal sitting area made anything modern -- aside from a digital camera -- seem flat-out criminal.

Flash cards...not exactly a barrel of fun, but these dated back to 1958

But the best part was the cashier, or the lack-there-of. Though they sell shirts, kitchen goods and heaps of baked goods, the whole place operates on the honor system.

It doesn't get much more vintage than that.

Vacation: Beach, Big Trees, and the Bunny Man

2011-09-13T13:49:00.000-04:00

Do you know what this guy's doing? Then you probably know the state I'm in....

Saturday morning at the airport Martin and I stared nervously at one another.

"I forgot something, I know it," I said, patting my back pockets. "Phone, wallet, camera..."

"I feel the same way," Martin said. "Something's missing. We're traveling too light."

After peering into our bags and fishing around for nothing in particular, we finally realized what was missing: three kids and all of their crap. We've forgotten what it's like to travel light.

Five hours in the air and we touched down in San Francisco, our destination and jumping-off point for several days in the Sonoma Valley wine region.

But first off, we'd head south and spend two nights in a cabin near the Big Basin Redwoods State Park.

Okay, we weren't staying in a "cabin." More like a "tent cabin" -- a piece of canvas, framed out with 2x4s, barely wide enough to house a full-sized bed. The tent came with electricity: two tiny reading lights clamped overhead, and an electric blanket.

The first night we huddled under the covers and listened to the revelry of a wedding reception while skunks scuttled beneath our tent. But by day two, the place had grown on us. We hiked the redwood forest and the second evening -- buoyed by a cooler of booze -- we commandeered the camp jacuzzi and staked out chairs in front of the fire pit. The next morning we woke to birds twittering and the distant crash of breaking waves.

Our very first afternoon, in a quest for a new camera battery (which died immediately on arrival) we stumbled on Santa Cruz, a lively town teeming with hippies, hitchhikers, homeless and high-end stores. Parents pushing baby strollers, dreadlocked teens flopped down on the sidewalk reading, and retired beachcombers muttering about global warming. Martin and I pawed through trinkets at a flea market, thumbed through vinyl records(!) in a music store, and I drifted into a blissful, literary coma in the best bookstore ever.

On the sidewalks we wove between street performers beating bongo drums, wrestling balloons into elaborate hats and singing off-key a cappella. My favorite was a disheveled, leathery guy that resembled the Nick Nolte mug shot. He happily belted out Christmas carols while his large pet bunny (neither caged nor tethered) sat beside him. A few children gathered around him - likely drawn to the bunny, not to his rendition of "Oh Come, All Ye Faithful."

(Sorry, no photos of the Bunny Man. You'll just have to do with sunset shots as we ventured back to our tent in the woods.)

Surprise Revealed

2011-09-08T16:13:00.000-04:00

Many months ago Martin asked me how I wanted to celebrate my 40th birthday.

"I don't. I want to go somewhere far away and pretend it never happened."

So Martin's been plotting for a getaway -- just the two of us. And in the last few weeks, he's been dropping hints about passports, a long journey and a place I've never been before.

As our departure day has drawn closer, the hints have kept coming. But I've learned next to nothing and haven't the foggiest idea how to pack.

This week after stringing together his cryptic clues ("we're going somewhere without electricity") and his vague packing advice ("no, nothing for the beach, it's weather like here, but cooler"), I concluded that we were staying somewhere that might look like this:

Or maybe like this:

Or this:

And I was not happy. In fact, I was ready to kill Martin.

We've been married nearly 13 years, together for 17, and this is the type of trip he plans? For my birthday-we're-not-celebrating-birthday trip?

You only turn 40 once... not that I want to remember it. I certainly don't want to forget it while staying somewhere remote and chilly without electricity.

I've been quietly seething all week. And growing a little despondent and anxious over packing for the dreaded vacation.

Which is probably why Martin asked me today, "Do you want to know where we're going?"

"Yes, I do," I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Positive!"

It turns out that some hints were a ruse to throw me off track. We do not need passports. We are not destined for some outward bound jaunt.

We are spending two nights in a dwelling without electricity. But it's not a rustic hut in the South American jungle.

More details to come. But Martin lives to see another day. And I was able to start packing and check the weather forecast for our destination: sunny and warm.

We'll finally crawl out of the four-day deluge and this sponge of a house...

Maisie's Oral Fixation Part 2

2011-09-02T13:44:00.000-04:00

I'm traveling in Tennessee for the next few days but will be back bloggin' next week. Enjoy your Labor Day weekend!

In the meantime, I leave with you with more crazy dog photos. If you missed the first round, see "Maisie's got issues."

And yes, that is a snack-size can of Del Monte mixed fruit pieces. Below, more random debris snatched from the passenger seat.

The Dumb Plant Survives

2011-08-28T13:46:00.000-04:00

Most homeowners in our neck of the woods spent yesterday prepping their properties for Hurricane Irene: corralling lawn furniture, bringing in precious plants, and filling shopping carts with batteries, bottled water and twinkies.

We didn't stock up on food or bring anything inside. As for plants, I actually threw our only house plant out into the hurricane.

I hoped that no one would notice as I dragged the 5-foot-high monstrosity out the mudroom. I planned to heave it into the dumpster, but the pot was so heavy, I left it on the deck.

"Why is the plant outside?" Cayden asked.

"I'm throwing it away," I said.

"You're what?" Martin asked. "We've had that plant for 12 years, through two house moves, and now you're putting it in the path of the storm?"

"Yup."

We were newlyweds when our housekeeper gave us this plant. Well, she gave us part of her plant -- a transplant -- a Brazilian dumb cane. At the time we lived in a big empty house and anything -- even a spindly, stalky houseplant -- was a welcome addition.

By dumb luck, the dumb cane survived, even after the housekeeper retired and no one bothered to water or prune it. Over time it grew more stalky and spindly. Eventually someone propped it up with a sawed-off broom stick. (Now that really added to its appeal.)

Despite all efforts to neglect the plant to death, it survived and thrived.

But not too long ago, the kids banged into it. And one particularly windy day when the windows were open, the main stalk doubled over. Last week I hid the plant behind the china cabinet because Brynn kept shoving fistfuls of soil into her mouth. Enough was enough.

"If it survives the hurricane," Martin announced, "the plant stays."

I hoped for a twister.

Martin and the dumbcane brave the elements

It was pretty easy to track the storm last night, even without the incessant TV news reporters pointing out puddles and panning their cameras over pitch-dark beaches. When the brunt of the storm came from the south-east, rain seeped through the window molding in the fireplace room. We put down towels. In the morning, the rain blew in from the west, leaking through the porch roof. We put down pots and pans. I was relieved when it finally stopped raining inside. I didn't care about the plant.

Which, I'm sorry to say, did survive the hurricane. It's a little more bent, more wobbly, but is holding fast to its broom handle.

I'm hoping that Martin and I can compromise. It's already out the door. I'm willing to give up the dumpster if he'll agree to foster the dumb cane in his office.

Don't Rock the Aquifer!

2011-08-24T19:24:00.000-04:00

Plan on hosting an end-of-summer party for your best friends and favorite family?
Are you grasping for that signature drink?

Thinking Cosmos?
So yesterday.

Appletini?
Yawn.

Gin and tonic?
Nice try, gramps.

No, you want to set the trend and dish up something they'll ALL be talking about.

Something like this:

Jo's secret recipe:

1. Order up one 5.8 earthquake.
2. Shake ground vigorously -- 20 to 30 seconds should do it.
3. Commence panic. (If you're at the office, flee building, and stand in parking lot staring dumbly at coworkers. Then drive home.)
4. If you're already home, turn on the tap. Bathe children, if you have any handy. When the water turns a golden, tangerine hue, you're ready to serve!

Don't worry if it comes out looking like this:

...It'll still look like this in the glass. Sun-kissed, all-natural goodness. No artificial colors or flavors. Savory silt! (note: run the tap a little longer for two-toned beverages.)

Guaranteed, this drink will be the cover shot on Real Simple. You heard it here first.

Warning: do not make drinks in advance, otherwise your silt water might look something like this. Eww!

In the path of destruction

2011-08-24T07:18:00.001-04:00

On Tuesday at 1:51 pm, a powerful, 5.8-magnitude earthquake ripped through the East Coast. Martin was eating lunch, watching Sport Center when the disaster struck. I was picking up school supplies and driving back to work. The kids were... well, doing whatever it is that kids do.

The shaking and rumbling lasted only 20 seconds.

But the devastation will linger far longer.

The mighty wrath of the quaker ripped at the silo roof, chewed it up and spit it out.

And the violent shudders shook the house, to the very fiber of its being.

Oh the devastation! The humanity! The terrifying force and senseless wrath of nature! In just 30 seconds our world was turned upside down by an unforeseen disaster the likes of which has never--

--ah, forget it.

The silo's been banged up since we bought the place. It's always looked that way.

And the kitchen devastation? I think that's due to another natural disaster: Martin's mid-day slovenliness.

Kidding aside, we are experiencing at least one post-quake oddity. When I bathed the kids last night, I was impressed that the new Spongebob Squarepants Tangerine-smelling bubble bath kicked off such a strong orange hue. The kids looked like they were bathing in a vat of Tang.

But then I went downstairs to fill the dog's water dish and realized that Spongebob had nothing to do with our tang-colored water. The water from every tap bears an earthen hue. And bits of sediment have settled at the bottom of the toilet bowls.

How long is this going to last?

Maybe it's not so wise to mock Mother Nature...

Follow up: We are not the only recipients of the Tang-water. Apparently the earthquake damaged the edge of the aquifer, causing silt to enter the groundwater and quite a few neighbors have cloudy orange water this morning. It should clear up in a few days but it'll clog the traps and filters that catch silt and sediment in our water supply. What fun!

Light Show

2011-08-19T00:51:00.000-04:00

I've blogged about torrential summer rain that spills over the sills and down the living room wall. Raging wind that threatens to peel off the roof. Thunder that drives Maisie to pen her last will and testament.

But I've never seen a lightning show like the one tonight.

Again, storms skirt the farm. At 10 pm, I gaze up through the pergola lattice at clear sky, stars and passing planes.

But behind the silo and barn, the most magnificent lightning show takes the stage. It's so flashy and unremitting, it's beyond words.

Martin and I try to count the seconds between flashes -- bursting one over the next -- but we can't get past "One Mississippi, two--" before it starts again.

It's the light from dozens of paparazzi cameras, chasing the celebrity sneaking away from a club.

It's a kid yanking the pull chain on the attic's bare bulb. On-off, on-off, on-off.

It's the big finish on the 4th of July, but someone's holding up a blanket, obscuring the view.

Lightning straddles the thunderheads, momentarily illuminating a mushroom storm cloud, the cupolas over the Mouse House, and the fake owl meant to scare the pigeons from the barn roof. And then every 20th or 30th flash, lightning appears below the cloud line -- trickling veiny tendrils to the horizon.

There's almost no thunder and the air is dry and cool, not moisture-laden. But an hour later, the sky emits a guttural growl. I close my laptop and retreat indoors.

It's headed our way.

Dive Bombed

2011-08-18T16:22:00.000-04:00

It's end of summer which means that the days are shorter, the katydids have tuned up....

...and we have to run the gauntlet into the house. Through the mudroom and past the dive bombers.

At nightfall, they're easy to pick out. They cast shadows on the walls and hover in the doorway. I hesitate on the deck and look longingly at the kitchen door. Then I take a breath, and charge through the mudroom, hunched over like I'm trying to tie my shoe while I run. There's the fumble for the knob, I give the door a swift kick (it sticks in the humidity ) and hurl myself to safety of the kitchen.

Then I remember my cell phone's in the car.

Years ago, when I first saw the bombers buzzing our mudroom, I dubbed them African bees -- because everthing's bigger in Africa. Actually, they're really called "cicada killers" or "cicada killer wasps."

Anything with "killer" in its name can't be good. Frankly, they should be called Big-ass-scary-stinging-creatures, because they look like this:

They emerge from ground burrows -- tiny dark holes that pock-mark the lawn -- fly about, paralyze their prey, and ultimately, end their lives in the mudroom light fixture. I don't know why they prefer this sconce over others, but by autumn, the bulb is snuffed out by the mosh pit of wasp bodies. They're so determined to seek this light, they crawl through the dog-door to reach it.

For a while, I didn't mind the cicada killers. I categorized them with carpenter bees: leave them alone and they're harmless.

Then a carpenter bee stung me. Apparently he was trapped in our mailbox, and he was ticked off about it. So he parked himself on the DirecTV bill and waited for a hand to exact his vengence. The sting to my palm burned like hell.

Apparently, the cicada killer's is painful as well, says Martin, who had one crawl under his shirt. It stung the bejesus out of his back.

So now we don't walk, we run into the house, ducking like we're fleeing bombs in a war zone. Still, we try to act cool around the kids.

Yesterday morning Cayden announced, "Hey, there's a bee in my shoe!" Martin dumped it out and I told The Boy not to worry. They're just like carpenter bees -- they don't sting.

Often.

Martha's Vineyard Recap

2011-08-17T22:14:00.000-04:00

A family beach vacation is like a clock pendulum that swings back and forth between "this is totally exhausting," and "I want to bottle this moment."

It's an awful lot of kids charging along the sand, piling into the car, careening around the house... and everyone prepping food, eating food, buying food, opening wine, drinking wine, buying wine...

One morning I tried to bury myself in a book and discovered Brynn, chugging Martin's can of Red Bull, pale pink droplets still dangling from her chin.

Despite the chaos, it was great to spend time with family and tug ourselves free from farm life. We soaked up Martha's Vineyard -- scoping out fresh veggies and taste-testing jams at the farm market, shopping in town, hanging out on the beach, tucking into lobsters at sunset, and swapping stories with family and friends.

Flowers for sale

Among the sun and fun, we couldn't escape a few stressful moments. Hadley wandered off -- once from the house and a day later, at the farm market. Brynn seemed hell-bent on hurling herself down the steep, stone staircase on the hillside near the house. And Cayden suffered a full-blown allergy attack after Hadley fed him a nut-laced chocolate cluster. Miles from a pharmacy, we double-dosed him with Claritin and bathed him. But he screamed as welts sprouted on his legs and back. Ultimately, Martin submerged Cayden in the ocean; the salt water shocked the itch out of him.

But enough about these less savory memories. I'd rather think about the slam of the screen door, the rumble of waves at night, the twinkling lights of Cuttyhunk Island, the flickering fireworks above the tree line, and the parade of sailboats visible from our bedroom window.

Below, pictures from the week. For starters, the house:

Our house on the hill

Dining room and part of the living room

Ye old kitchen

One of four bedrooms

Other Vineyard snaps:

Local residents cropping green

Our little beach, visible atop the beach stairs

Silliness beach-side

Strolling among farm market stands

The general store

A little rock wall, built on the beach

Beating the waves

Just plain beat!

Beach Week

2011-08-12T09:39:00.000-04:00

People say that there's never a vacation with kids, just a change of scenery.

Last Thursday evening we were poised to migrate from farm to beach, and we hadn't packed a thing. Not one bag. At 10 pm, after work and softball, I guided the car up the dark drive. I deposited my softball glove on the kitchen table and sized up Martin. He looked weary. Like he'd been beaten by little children.

"So," I sighed. "How do you want to do this? Do you want to start packing or do you want to clean the barn?"

Twenty hours later Martin handed over the ferry ticket. We'd made it -- prepped the farm, packed the car by 3:30 am; driven 509 miles; skirted New York traffic, slogged through Connecticut crawl; survived screaming kids and DVD skirmishes; and nearly ran out of gas ("I'm never listening to you ever again when you say 'just one more exit,'" Martin said when we fueled up)

But we made the miss-it-and-you'll-be-sorry ferry to Martha's Vineyard. With 45 minutes to spare.

"Wow, we could have slept nearly an hour more," I said.

Across Vineyard Sound the rental house awaited. It reportedly came with an ocean view, but because we booked so late and this was one of the only houses left, we assumed it would be a dump.

But it's availability was due to its location. It's at the furthest tip of the island, a healthy drive from the most basic general store. And it's an old home -- about 90 years old -- furnished with worn couches and thin rugs.

But it's big and bright and impossibly charming, with an open living room marked by white columns and an old kitchen with a porcelain sink. It sits on a bluff with acres of land and the porch and the windows offer sweeping views of the ocean. Narrow thicket trails laden with beach plumbs lead to the sand. I don't know if this beach has a name but Cayden named it Cambria Beach.

Like any old house, this one has aches. A quick glance and I can rattle off a dozen repairs. But this house comes with something that we lack at home: a handyman on-call.

We met Charlie as we unpacked the car. He was running through the kitchen after fixing the toilet. The screen door slammed behind him. "My dinner's waiting," he grumbled as he climbed into his truck.

Since then we've seen Charlie almost every day. When the toilet broke again. When Martin splintered a step on the shared stairs to the beach. (The longtime residents next door were appalled. "It wasn't this way yesterday!" they said, staring hard at me. Martin had disappeared. "I have no idea what happened," I said solemnly.)

A tree branch fell across the driveway. A skunk burrowed beneath the critter-proof trash receptacle. I've tried to coax Charlie out of his gruff silence, peppering him with questions, but he ignores me. I asked about the house and the pristine, secret tennis court nested in overgrowth. I ask him about his family, if he likes to fish. I even tried to bribe him with a beer. The only nugget he offered up is that he's new to the island.

"Moved here in '92."

"Charlie, that's nearly 20 years."

"Yup."

Fortunately, I've got a few more chances to take a crack at Charlie. The kitchen sink is jerry-rigged with rubber bands to staunch a leak.

The Rare Glint of Green

2011-08-03T13:07:00.002-04:00

We've done something to anger the rain gods.

It could be me. I commit countless sins every day. I hurl trash from my car... well, I throw out my apple core. I drive aggressively, I tailgate. I make snide remarks to friends and coworkers -- often to their faces.

Maybe it's Martin and his obsession with horrible TV shows. I've threatened to divorce him or cut off his head with a cleaver, the next time that I see "Burn Notice," or any dopey show from the USA Network on TV.

Maybe we've let the kids pee outside too many times.

Whatever the reason, the rain gods are not pleased. Each time a storm comes our way, swallowing up the ridge near the river -- a sure-fire, close-the-windows, here-comes-the-wet, text message from nature -- the roving rain swings to the north, or slithers down the river, west of us.

After weeks of nature's snub, we're left with brown-yellow dead grass that's sharper than gravel on bare feet. The only hint of color comes from Martin's mowing weeks ago -- in the days when grass still grew -- when the mower blades chewed up and spit out all sorts of toys belched from the car or dropped from little hands. Glimmers of yellow, blue and red scattered here and there.

When I glimpsed the bright green, I assumed it was just another mangled toy, until it moved and revealed itself as the coolest caterpillar to wander our parched piece of earth.

Due to its colors and markings, we assumed it was poisonous (we still let the kids pass it around) but after a careful scouring of the web, I learned that it's harmless, just bright and cheerful.

Behold, the white-lined sphinx caterpillar. It looks like a slug that swallowed glow-in-the-dark paint and fought a red sharpie.

We're at War, Here

2011-08-01T07:33:00.001-04:00

I hate to use trite cliches.

But living with little kids is like going into battle.

Fighting enemy forces day after day...

in a war...

that you'll never win.

Here on the good-guy side, the troops are worn out, fatigued, and losing hope of a victory. Yesterday, I came this close to hoisting the white flag.

Rations were dwindling. No food and no energy to replenish supplies.

Martin and I were outnumbered, and calls for reinforcements have been ignored for weeks. (Hey, thanks Obama and Congress for hijacking Mom every weekend with the debt ceiling debate!)

We were out of food, out of reinforcements, sleep deprived and wounded from stepping on toys. But still we hung on.

And each time the enemy sensed we were gaining ground, they'd unleash their secret weapon:

Brynn.

She'd scale the stairs and, with a smirk, threaten to step off the top. All the while, those Frankenstein stitches in her forehead taunted us in a sing-song voice: "You better come get me....I've already split my head open once... and if you're not careful, I'll do it againnnn......"

Sunday at 11 am, I thought that the best thing I could do was rest. Take a quick nap, recharge the batteries and come back swinging. I put the secret weapon in her crib and planned to hide in my bed. But that thumping downstairs...what was that thumping?

Hadley was in the kitchen, eating a huge stack of Chips-ahoy cookies. Cookies at 11 am. The thumping was Martin, who was stuck in the fireplace room; Cayden had pulled the wooden pocket doors off the runners and Martin was trapped inside.

I knew I shouldn't leave a man down. Never leave a soldier behind! But I crept up behind the Barbarian, and palmed two cookies (I was hungry, too). Then I ran up to the bedroom and shut the door.

Postscript: The good-guys reclaimed lost ground -- we cleaned the house and bought groceries. Even replenished beer supplies. But the kids still shelled the house. They broke one of the kitchen tiles.

How in the hell did they do that? I suspect that they overturned a kitchen stool.

But I'll never know.

The enemy never talks.

One Summer's Day

2011-07-29T11:33:00.001-04:00

While I plod through the workday -- fielding emails, drafting press releases, shuffling from one meeting to another...

While Martin triages twice as many emails, silences his phone, and clacks away at his keyboard....

While Hadley's clocking in another nine hours at daycare....

While Brynn is toddling about and nursing her sutured head...

Cayden is basking in the unbridled joy of summer camp. This week is his first taste.

The day camp is situated on a former dairy farm, on a sprawling 115 acres. Modern ammenties glimmer in the sun -- a basketball court, a hockey rink and a pool -- but the property's former life is evident. The bank barn is converted into an art and crafts studio, and the weathered outbuildings serve as camp offices, shady lunch stations and a camp store. It's a mix of broad, green fields and thick blanketed folds of forest and creek beds.

When I pick up Cayden one afternoon this week, he looks tired and tan and happy. His hair is spiked with sweat. He reeks of chlorine and sun block. What did you do, I ask. His day goes something like this:

Go swimming
Practice archery
Play soccer
Eat lunch
Hike in the woods; search for tadpoles and crayfish
Swim again
Arts and crafts
Ride the zip-line
Eat rice krispie treats; drink gatorade
Climb a rock wall
Go fishing
Head home

He tells me about his search for sasquatch (I saw his footprint in the woods!), about his counselor, Rocky, a 20-something guy who sports a mohawk. He talks about the camp olympics and the red team's quest to earn the "badge of awesomeness."

Back at home I shake my computer awake while Cayden tucks a tub of pretzels under his arm and collapses by the TV. I dive back into work, but every so often the Boy wanders in to ask a question. Sun block wafts in his wake and momentarily I smell and see his day...

...plunging in the pool, casting his fishing line and thundering down the hockey court.

Not camp related but summery, just the same

Stop the Drama Train, I Wanna Get Off

2011-07-27T23:40:00.000-04:00

I didn't feel the need to report this week's numerous pediatrician visits and doctor dramas with my dad. Neither funny, nor farmy.

But a kid's first official ER visit? That's newsworthy.

I really thought that Cayden would be our first victim. He's the eldest and the most active -- heck, he's been jetting down a zip-line at summer camp, for pete's sake. He was a shoe-in for x-rays or lacerations.

But the long-shot finished first; Brynn gets the prize.

Not only did she clock in the first ER visit, she earned extra points for mimicking an injury much like one that I suffered in the early 1970s: Brynn and I will both sport a scar, smack between our eyes.

Today while I was at work, Brynn apparently fell on top of a door jam and gashed open her forehead. It was a deep wound... when I saw her, it looked like a gruesome third eye.

Poor lighting, but you get the gist of it....

In the emergency room I called my mother, who'd traveled down a similar road in 1974 when I -- at age 3 -- brained myself at daycare, and gashed open my forehead. Today she not only consoled me, she offered valuable advice:

Do not defer to the ER doctor; demand to see a plastic surgeon.

Within 45 minutes, ER discharged us and we drove to a plastic surgeon's clinic; he repaired the wound internally, then sutured the open skin. It constituted 10 minutes of torture, but Baby Brynn was patched up.

Bruised and battered but repaired.

When we arrived home, I thought we were free of drama, but as I unloaded Brynn and Hadley, and met Martin, who emerged from his office, there was no sign of Cayden. Martin had retrieved him from camp at 3:30, but hadn't seen him in 2 hours.

We searched everywhere for him -- I screamed his name as my hysteria level rose. Just as I mulled over the worst scenarios and planned to call the cops, I found him. He was asleep in the barn, curled up on the church pew along the wall, atop of a pile of horse blankets. He's a hard sleeper and with the drone of the stall fans, he hadn't heard my screams.

As I shook him awake, I lectured him about talking to strangers, leaving the house, and sleeping on church pews. Then I herded the kids into the house.

And I poured myself a big glass of wine.

Don't Lie to Me...

2011-07-27T12:12:00.000-04:00

"Hadley, you're not supposed to be playing around in the gator."

"I wasn't."

"Hadley, I know you were messing around with it..."

"No I wasn't."

"Hadley, don't lie to me. I know what you're up to."

"It wasn't me. It was.... Cayden. He did it."

Call it intuition. For some reason, I just wasn't convinced...

Farewell Faithful Cleats

2011-07-24T17:42:00.001-04:00

When I got these softball cleats, Ronald Reagan was president. The valley girl look was in style and Born in the USA was album of the year. Shoulder pads were all the rage. I watched Miami Vice on Friday nights, and my parents were thinking about replacing our Betamax with a VHS.

Back then I earned an allowance and I couldn't afford my own clothes or shoes. I'm almost certain that Dad took me shopping; we went to Herman's -- a sporting goods store that's now long gone.

These Nikes carried me through middle school -- my first years of serious softball. And two years of JV and varsity in high school. I remember driving our stick-shift Volvo station wagon and struggling to find the friction point on the clutch with those cleats.

When I shed my braces at 17, I discovered that cleats and a softball jersey (with the name of my dad's law firm or my mom's office team) got me into bars. Without a fake ID. After evening games I'd file in with my team, settle into the booth and brandish my mug. Those cleats click-clacked across countless bar floors, sticky from beer.

I played on the grassy lush expanse by the Washington monument where teams jockeyed for real estate and dodged camera-clad tourists. I played on shabby fields in rundown neighborhoods where sliding into second meant picking glass shards and pebbles out of your shins.

In college my glove and cleats made the Volvo pilgrimage from home to school with my entire summer/winter wardrobe, a cheap halogen lamp and a bean bag chair. Through a transfer in college and grad school.

Since then I've continued to play ball with them, every May through August, despite obvious advances in athletic gear. I'm sentimental. And superstitious. I thought that if I replaced my cleats, I'd guarantee a torn ligament or broken ankle.

But last Thursday night, my stride felt slow and mushy, as if my heel was stuck to the ground. And it was; the nubby, cleated sole had separated from the shoe.

To be honest, the cleats actually fell apart the previous week. I tried to crazy glue them back in place.

But on this night I accepted the passing of my 26 year old shoes. I tugged off my cleats and my sweaty socks and ran barefoot into right-center field. At bat, I dug my toes into the fine dirt nestled around the plate.

I felt light and fast and liberated.

Back In Time

2011-07-20T23:49:00.001-04:00

We are by no means living "off the grid." Not even close. But we are creeping back in time, in the nook and crannies of everyday life.

It's not just the hand-cranked ice cream... which, by the way, is a grueling test of endurance, patience and brute force. Each time I pack that wooden pail, brace my knee against the edge, and grit my teeth, I think, I'm not going to make it. This is too hard, I quit. Then 12 minutes of cranking later, voila, glorious ice cream.

But it's not just dessert.

One evening last week, Martin caught me lying stomach-down on the hallway runner... swinging my legs back and forth, and twisting a lock of hair around my finger. I was on the phone.

It's the only home phone that hasn't fried, thanks to thunderstorms and the un-repaired short in our line. It's a corded phone that roosts in the kitchen.

Perhaps a corded phone doesn't sound too radical. But think about it: When were you last tethered to one spot by a phone?

At times it's impossibly annoying. Sometimes while raiding the fridge, the phone bungees off the counter and crashes to the floor. And when I'm on, I can't leave the kitchen to help with the kids or do any chores.

On the other hand, I can't leave the kitchen to help with the kids or do any chores. And the short leash limits the length of my conversations.

And on an entirely different topic, we're taking another step back in time. Starting this week, our milk and yogurt will be home-delivered by a local dairy.

It's not totally '50s living -- orders are placed online -- but the milk comes in glass bottles. And we're not aiming for nostalgia. We're shooting for convenience. And taste. Whether it's due to the milk itself or the bottling, it tastes better than store-bought.

A couple of weeks ago we checked out the dairy and the cows responsible for our milk. We stopped by in the afternoon when it was time to feed the calves. The baby cows, as I call them. They were voracious eaters...

...so voracious, they sucked the milk off each other's tongues.

Afterwards we sampled the product in ice cream form.

It was Hadley-approved but it won't be part of our weekly delivery.

For the time being, the hand-crank is still in business.

I miss the gravel eating days

2011-07-18T22:45:00.001-04:00

Ever since Brynn turned 1, she's shifted her priorities from crawling to walking, and from playing with toys to eating them. We've officially entered the choking hazard phase. And it's new territory for us.

Cayden never did this. He was the only kid who appreciated a good pacifier. The one kid who stuck to foodstuff only intended for human consumption.

enthusiastic cheerio consumer

Hadley, on the other hand, ate everything and anything. Acceptable menu entrees: stink bugs, sand, dog food and kitty litter. She even ate poison ivy. To this day she's got an iron gut. She's a shoe-in for the next generation of Survivor Island.

Hadley at 13 months: so much to eat, so little time...

Then there's Brynn. Her motto: "When in doubt, insert it in your mouth." She's the choking hazard queen, blessed with two siblings who continually feed her addiction by repopulating the floor with hundreds of small, shiny toys.

As if that's not stressful enough, she comes with one more thrill factor:

She has a hair-trigger vomit reflex.

Medical experts call it a gag reflex, but these people have never been soaked in semi-digested baby squash, yogurt and formula, prompted by a half-swallowed sticker off the floor.

The other night, while Martin gathered up toys and gardening tools before a scary, war-of-the-worlds summer storm threatened to rip the roof off, I tailed Brynn demanding, "What's in your mouth? Open your mouth!"

She gave me this blank look as if to say, "I'd tell you, but my mouth is full right now...."

I pinched her cheeks, popped her lips open and fished around. She lobbed a threatening gag and I retreated. But that night I successfully recovered from her jaws:

A bright green bead (origins unknown)

A gray and red lego, snapped together

A bright yellow bullet from a nerf gun.

"Brynn, why can't you eat gravel like your sister did?" I yelled, pulling a Chuck E. Cheese token from her mouth. That's the moment when I turned my back and she upended the dog dish on herself and the floor.

Thank god, it was just water.

Post script: Tonight Brynn broadened her palate to sample the all-natural. During the short walk from the pool to the gator she managed to pluck up a wasps' nest and pop it in her mouth.

Fortunately, the nest had been vacated.

A handy, bite-sized snack....

Pop Quiz

2011-07-14T10:59:00.000-04:00

Here's a Thursday math quiz for all you brainiacs out there:

Question: How far must a plastic jug of milk fall in order to split open?

Answer: If you guessed, "The approximate distance between a 3-year-old's arm and the grocery store floor," then you win!

Bonus question: How far will a gallon of milk spread across the floor upon impact?

Answer: this is a trick question. Because the magazine rack and checkout conveyor belt slow the milk's progress, causing it to pool. But if you guessed "about the length of the checkout line and under the candy store rack," then you get a gold star!

Poultry Epiphany

2011-07-12T23:45:00.001-04:00

For a while I've been obsessed with having chickens.

Or the thought of having chickens.

I pictured a cute, little squat hen house where Hadley could mosey out at dawn and gather fresh farm eggs.

But then I realized that we don't have a hen house and we'd have to build one. And take care of the chickens.

Not to mention that we don't even eat that many eggs. And what we need, we can get from friends who already have chickens. Or in a pinch, I can drive up the road, across the river, and place $2 in a basket... in the fridge... in the corner of a machine shed -- and pick up a dozen farm-fresh eggs. Anytime that I want.

That marked the end of my chicken obsession.

Now I want turkeys.

Monday evening Martin and I grabbed the kids' bathing suits and towels, fired up the gator, and everyone piled in. The plan: a quick chlorine dip before the brewing thunderstorm hit. I also planned to pick blackberries, per Chet's offer ("pick 'em because they're coming out," he said. He's replacing them with raspberries that don't have prickly branches and seedy fruit.)

But then the clouds moved in. Fast. By the time the gator spit gravel up the drive, we'd scrapped plans for the pool.

And that damn dog had run to the river again.

"Just let me out by the blackberries," I told Martin, "and you guys get the dog." He didn't even stop. He lifted his foot off the gas and I jumped out. In the dusty residue I could make out Cayden in the back of the gator, clutching the sides.

I stood there swatting gnats and wending my arms through brambles to reach the plumpest fruit -- which happened to be out of reach. So I circled the bushes, plucking and picking. It was ominously quiet... just the occasional rumble of thunder. And the gobble-gobble-gobble! of turkeys.

Chet's neighbors have a slew of animals -- you can hear the rooster from our house -- but this is the first time that I'd heard turkeys. They sounded off after each ripple of thunder. I don't know if the weather triggered their calls but with each sky-bound grumble they unleashed cartoonish, Woody Woodpecker-like calls.

Their gobbles were oddly comforting as the storm approached. But not as comforting as the return of my ride: the distant hum of the gator and Maisie's maniacal yarping. Just as the first fat drops fell.

The next day I googled "caring for turkeys." But eventually, my interest waned.

Who needs more dependents?

What I really need is a sound machine with a "gobble" option.

Sixth Sense

2011-07-11T21:37:00.000-04:00

Call it a hunch but even Brynn knows.

When I need a loaf of bread, I buy a loaf of bread.

But Martin's Red Bull run is never...

... just a Red Bull run.

Convenience store jaunts with Martin come with benefits.

How does she know that Cayden -- who raced out the door and jumped in the car -- will gorge on candy and mini powdered donuts?

Trust me, she knows.

Maisie's Got Issues

2011-07-07T23:14:00.003-04:00

Everyone in our family has issues.

Martin glops peanut butter and ranch dressing on his ramen noodles.

And he cuts what little hair he has with horse clippers.

I'm phobic about using anything new. It took me months to turn on my new ipod and a half year to plug in my first kindle.

And then there's Maisie.

Maisie is not a fan of thunder. The first burble and she assumes the "we're gonna die" position behind the toilet.

She also likes to hang onto to something when she's riding in the car. Crack open the car door and she leaps in, grabs the first thing she sees, and refuses to relinquish it.

I think it's her way of justifying her presence. As in, "I'm busy holding this so I need to be here....Hey you over there. Don't look at me. Just drive."

Her preferred item to clutch? It's based solely on convenience...or the filth and clutter level in the car. If it's in reach, it's fair game.

Nothing is too small.

Or too large.

She didn't eat this granola bar. She just hung onto it.

She left tooth marks in the trim of my Coach wallet...

And in this crocodile too.

Her selection isn't always appreciated by other occupants in the vehicle....

Relax Hadley. Maisie's not going to chew your dollie's arm off.

She just has issues.

Post Script: For those of you who think that these scenes were staged with props -- in an effort to snap some cute pixs -- I assure you that these were everyday occurrences, captured with my iphone. Many of these items, such as the $10 bill, were resting in the center console, in easy reach.

I would not mar my wallet for the sake of this silly blog...

Summer Snap

2011-07-07T11:18:00.000-04:00

I harvested these berries from our garden last week. The blueberries are not especially prolific but they're easy pickings; just pluck them off their stubby branches. The raspberries however, dwell in the shaded tangle of grapevine leaves and prickly vines, so they require a hunt-and-seek approach. I either squat down or bend at the waist and look upside down... then thread my hand between the prickles and aim for the bright red berries, leaving the whitish-pinkish ones to ripen.

The result? A tumbler full of fresh fruit. I resisted the urge to tip the glass to my mouth. Instead, I deposited my bounty into the rusted ice cream cannister and cranked out a fabulous batch of berry ice cream....

...which didn't stick around long enough for a photo. But trust me...it was so good....

The Traveling Pants

2011-07-05T10:22:00.000-04:00

Last week I took some time off of work. Three delicious days to kick around the farm, ride my horse and catch up on chores.

I engaged in some idle distractions. I picked raspberries from our bush and cranked out some killer ice cream. I pickled cucumbers for the first time. Swam in the neighbor's pool and read a book on the front porch.

But I also chipped away at all sorts of tasks around the farm. I scrubbed algae scum from the water troughs. Cleaned out a maggoty trash can in the barn (gross). Hosed off the gator after Cayden slathered it in sun block. Hauled off the recycling, inventoried hay, mucked and bedded stalls. Gathered toy bits hacked to pieces by the lawn mower.

And all the while I wore the same pair of jeans.

I didn't plan this out. After the first day, in a hurry to shower, I left my jeans puddled on the floor. The belt still wedged in the loops.

The next morning, the jeans beckoned me. It was too easy to slip them on again.

By day three I wore them with pride. My dirty jeans made a statement. They symbolized the growing distance between clean, civilized life in the office and my days now. Each grubby stain, each dusty smear represented progress. I was working hard, hoisting, heaving, hauling.

I didn't bother changing when it was time to get the kids. I even wore my jeans to a store in town. With paddock boots and spurs.

"Look at my jeans," I said to Martin. "I've been wearing them for three days! Look how dirty they are!" I added with pride.

"Yea...." Martin said, surveying them. Then he wrinkled his nose. "Your jeans.... stink."

"That's the smell of progress! Hard work--"

"No, they just smell. Like manure."

And with that, I retired 72 hours of grimy denim with a double rinse cycle. And a heaping scoop of oxyclean.

Verboten Until 2021

2011-07-01T06:59:00.000-04:00

Hadley's shrieks are audible on the back porch, warbling from the car. Not the cries of pain or fear, just hearty bawling fueled by despair.

I peer at Hadley, who's collapsed in her car seat, sobbing uncontrollably. Cayden's paging through a dino book. "What's wrong?" I ask.

Hadley raises her tear streaked face and wails: "EVERYBODY'S RUINING MY LIFE!"

Okay kid, first of all, you're 3 years old.

You don't have a life yet.

And secondly, can you be a little more specific?

Why don't you check back with us when you're a teenager. Then it'll probably be true.

Most likely, you'll be ruining my life as well.

Don't Touch

2011-06-28T14:38:00.000-04:00

"Don't touch my stuff!"

That's a daily declarative to the kids. Along with "Put that down!" and "Stay out of my office!"

If I could, I'd record these directives and they'd be emitted each time a sensor was tripped. I'm constantly warning the older kids. And Martin.

...who also feels the need to nose around that which does not belong to him.

Martin called me last week to proclaim the following:

"That thing you left on your chair doesn't work."

Right away, I knew the "thing" in question. A free grooming tool that I'd picked up at a trade show. A horse grooming tool from a horse trade show. I left it in my office at home, along with some treats and double-end snaps -- a pile of supplies bound for the barn.

"That thing you got doesn't work that well," he flatly said again.

"It didn't work? Did you try it on your sheep?" (We have Katahdin sheep and their hair falls out in wooley clumps.) "I'm not surprised it didn't work on the sheep. Their hair is coarse."

"No, I tried it on myself."

"On yourself? What, on your face?"

"No! Well... yes. I tried it on my arm. And then on my face. But it didn't cut very well."

"Martin, it didn't cut because it's a shedding blade. A battery operated shedding blade."

"I don't know what that means."

"Shedding is when an animal loses his haircoat, like when Maisie's winter coat comes out and--"

"--you're not actually explaining shedding to me? I know what shedding means."

"Well then what are you doing?! That thing is supposed to help remove horse hair. It's not going to cut that fur on your face!"

Please Andis, manufacturer of companion animal grooming products: I know that the packaging appears obvious...the horse photo and the slogan "perfect for all horse breeds"....But please, if it's battery operated, if it's remotely mechanical in nature, then some oafish guy is going to pick it up and try it on himself.

In the future, consider revising product literature to include disclaimer: not intended for shaggy goatee-bearing husband who might be enticed by "vibrating action blade button!" and "reduces shedding by 90 percent!"

Long Live Nitwit!

2011-06-23T00:48:00.000-04:00

When I was a little kid, deeply entrenched in my stuffed animal collecting years, Mom handed down a penguin. You can have him, she said. Not a big deal. He was a gift from a friend I met before I got married, she added with a dismissive wave.

But the penguin was the only stuffed animal that Mom had kept, the only one she'd passed along to me. So I treated him differently. Unlike the other animals populating my bedroom, I gave him a name.

In a moment of first grader narcissism, I named him after myself. I called him Nitwit.

My Dad often called me Nitwit... albeit, with affection. As in, Hey Nitwit, come 're! (And people think that "Hadley the Barbarian" is offensive....)

Nitwit wasn't some cheap, rag-tag, carnival prize. He was a "Steiff" -- a high-quality, high-priced German toy company -- and he stood stoutly, flippers at his side, with a distant, googley look in his glassy eyes.

I hauled him everywhere -- on trips, shopping excursions and sleep-over parties. Poor Nitwit was subjected to numerous surgical procedures. While Mom tried on clothes in department stores, I collected pins from the dressing room floors and plunged them into Nitwit's plush mohair abdomen, twisting and turning them to reach his imaginary liver and kidneys. Sometimes he needed multiple operations and I jabbed his belly, flippers and stubby legs, all at once. "Okay," Mom would say, collecting a few outfits to buy. "Time to go. Take those pins out of Nitwit."

In exchange for his surgical sacrifices, Nitwit earned everlasting life. He wasn't thrown out when I left for college or stuffed into attic storage. Today, he sits atop the highest shelf in the kids' room, well out of their reach.

Time and wear have turned his once-white belly a dingy gray, and stuffing pokes out of his felt beak. In recent years, I've given him only a fleeting thought.

That is, until Martin called me last week.

There's a new penguin movie out, Martin announced. It's called Mr. Popper's Penguins.
Yea?
And Jim Carrey's in it.
So what?
One of the penguins is called Nitwit.

I was silent, stunned. Wow, I finally said. In awe, I pondered the odds. Then I grew suspicious, as if someone had stolen my idea. And finally greedy, speculating how I could capitalize on this information.

But then I googled Mr. Popper's Penguins, and discovered that Martin was close, but not quite right. The penguin in the movie is called Nimrod. Not Nitwit.

I'm partly disappointeed and partly relieved. Nitwit will never get the fame he deserves. He won't live in perpetuity on DVD. On the other hand, he'll never be mass-marketed. And never wind up as a plastic toy, boxed with fries and nuggets. And I'm happy for that.

Nitwit's always been a class act.

Turtle Hell

2011-06-22T13:43:00.000-04:00

Ignore the fact that this particular fella happens to be a box turtle.

Not even a box turtle wants to be trapped in a box while shrieking children grope you.

This is turtle hell.

Martin was shuttling the kids home the other night when he spied this turtle, stalled in the road. He scooped him up and popped him in the truck. It was the right thing to do; the odds of survival aren't very good during rush hour.

"Turquoise," as Hadley quickly named him/her, acted like a turtle on speed; he motored around Martin's feet, shot under the seats, and all over the truck's nether regions -- undaunted by swinging toddler legs and happy meal fall-out.

At home when he wasn't careening off the walls of his cardboard enclosure, Turquoise was manhandled by Cayden, who insisted on picking him up, putting him down and picking him up again. Turquoise was extremely tolerant of this practice. Or scared witless. He didn't bite or threaten a nip, but he frequently took cover in his domed shell.

Alls well that ends well, of course. Even with a name and three enthusiastic caretakers, we kept Turquoise for a whopping 30 minutes. Then we turned him loose by the river, far from callous drivers and crushing wheels. After a jarring gator ride and one final round of manhandling, Turquoise was set free on a sand bar. He launched himself into the water and never looked back.

Another happy participant in our turtle relocation plan.

Reminiscent of George's send-off, two years ago

Ice Cream-Off: Final Results

2011-06-16T11:43:00.000-04:00

The challenge: create homemade ice cream.
The challengers: Martin's new electric ice cream maker vs. my '60s era hand-crank tub (if you missed the lead-up, see ice cream entry last week).

First, some words of advice--

Do not wage an ice cream war with three young kids underfoot.
In particular, do not attempt contest at 7 pm Sunday night, when said kids have not eaten dinner.
You can never buy enough ice.

"You never buy enough ice," Martin said, as he casually dumped the only store-bought bag into his gargantuan ice cream vat, and around the canister of ingredients. Not two minutes in and already, I was losing.

I coaxed our fridge to release ground ice through the cup dispenser. It angrily spit ice shards at me, gurgled a bit, then flung out some more.

In theory Martin and I started on level ground. I whipped up two batches of the same recipe (ingredients and directions below).

Prepping the ingredients which were heated, then chilled for several hours

But I didn't notice that my old-school canister offered half the capacity of Martin's, and the recipe was tailored for his machine. For my version I dumped part of the sugar/salt/milk/egg concoction down the drain and the rest into my rusted canister. Then added half the recommended heavy cream and vanilla extract.

Earlier that day, I located rock salt, labeled as solar salt. "Same thing," said the guy at the hardware store. "But it's more coarse, so I'd crush it into smaller pieces."

As the sun set, I pulverized a bag of solar salt with a rubber mallet. Martin scooped a cup of crushed salt and drizzled it over his ice, then repeated. He plugged the machine into an extension cord outside and it hummed to life.

Firing up Martin's master mixer

The old ice cream maker, minus the crank

I centered my canister and mix in the old wooden tub and mimicked Martin's ice/salt layering. Then I fixed the crank on top, securing it with the rusty bolt on the side. Finally I turned the handle.

"Is it done?" Cayden asked, after I forced the crank through three squeaky rotations. "How much longer?"

I smiled grimly, knelt down in the grass, and cranked away.

losing strength....

Someone mentioned that it would take 20 minutes of cranking. Ninety seconds in and I was struggling. I took several breaks to grab Brynn before she fell off the deck, to grab Brynn when she fell from the slide, to get more ice, more salt. Any excuse to rest my hand. With each break, I imagined my progress melting away.

All the while, I listened to that damn electric ice cream maker, steadily whirling. Taunting me. I estimated that it rotated four times to each one of mine. Not to mention my stops and starts. I'd been cranking for 8 minutes and was hot and sweaty; the machine had spun twice as long and showed no fatigue. Occasionally, Martin prodded the ice with a long bbq fork, like a steak on the grill.

Sweat loosened my grip on the wooden handle and the crank smelled of wet metal. Martin was listening to Bob Marley. The electric ice cream machine hummed along.

Success!

After 11 or 12 minutes I couldn't crank any longer. Literally, the handle wouldn't budge. I loosened the bolt and removed the crank. In the fading light I surveyed the canister full of thick, creamy vanilla ice cream, still bearing the swirls of the paddle.

"Oh my god," I shouted. "It worked!"

After 25 minutes, we unplugged Martin's electric machine and opened it, revealing ice cream....

...with the consistency of pea soup.

The kids were supposed to serve as official taste testers. They failed miserably. Cayden wanted me to win; I could have served cat food and he'd swear it was the best. Hadley shoveled in my ice cream, drank down Martin's and asked for more of both.

Martin conceded that the hand cranked version clearly won. It was virtually indistinguishable from Breyer's and while I struggled and sweat, it took a fraction of the time.

Baby Brynn cast the final vote. Two days later, we fed her the remaining spoonfuls of hand-cranked vanilla. When she wanted more, we offered her the electrically manufactured ice cream, which had firmed up in the freezer.

She spit it out and cried.

Martin's electric mix, straight from the machine

The winning entry, out of the old canister

Ingredients:

3 cups sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt

5 cups milk

6 eggs, beaten

4 1/2 cups heavy cream

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

*(for a smaller canister, reduce all measurements by half)

Directions:

1. In saucepan, combine sugar, salt and milk

2. Cook over medium heat, stirring until mixture is steaming; then reduce heat

3. Beat eggs and slowly whisk half of the mixture into the eggs; pour back into saucepan

4. Cook over medium-low heat until slightly thick (3 minutes)

5. Remove, chill for several hours

6. When ready to mix, add heavy cream and vanilla extract

7. Pour into canister, line with ice and salt and get cranking!

Sac Town

2011-06-14T23:47:00.000-04:00

On the road and back again. Destination: Sacramento.

This trip did not yield a stack of photos that smacked of local flavor like my jaunt to East Texas. But in defense of central Cal, it didn't get a fair shake. In Texas, I kicked up dust and spit gravel on back country roads; in Sacramento I shuffled between a weary hotel and the Western States Horse Expo.

Western States was decidedly... Western.

And decidedly Californian.

I do love California's quirky "we-sell-booze-anywhere" laws. I always forget until I'm hunting down dental floss in a drug store and run smack into a wall of glittering bourbon bottles.

This time around I was shopping for shampoo and snack bars in Walmart when I stumbled on acres of alcohol.

It turns out that Walmart really does roll back prices.

At checkout, I couldn't help but snap a photo of the OceanSpray combo pack "juice for kids/vodka for Mom & Dad." It gives new meaning to the family pack.

Ice Cream Wars

2011-06-08T00:09:00.000-04:00

Before I begin, let's get this out of the way:

I'm no whiz in the kitchen.

I'm a repeat offender in the oven fire category. I haven't the foggiest idea what the difference is between bake and broil. (Not that it matters when our oven knobs are worn away.)

But I'm not completely inept. I can make lasagna, pan fry vegetables. I can grill...things. And with a packet of soup and olive oil, I bake (or broil) a mean chicken breast.

This year, however, I've been heart-set on whipping up ice cream. From scratch.

"I need an ice cream maker," I announced, trolling the internet. "I want to make homemade ice cream."

"Ok," Martin said, commandeering my laptop. "How about this one?" He flashed onto Amazon's appliance page and clicked on a link.

"No, not that kind," I said with disdain. "That's one you plug in. I want a real ice cream maker. One you have to hand crank."

"Why can't it be electric?"

"Because that's cheating."

"Why is it cheating?"

"It just is. You gotta sweat for your ice cream. It tastes better when you feel the burn!"

Martin glanced around. "Like we need another project around here. You're writing to-do lists on scraps of paper and telling me that you're overwhelmed. Now you want to hand crank ice cream?"

"I know what you're doing," I interrupted. "You're lobbying for another gadget. Another victim for the appliance graveyard. We'll put it downstairs with the bread maker, that cuisinart thing, the crock pot, the George Foreman grill--"

"I never bought a George Foreman grill..."

"But you wanted to."

"I know," Martin said, gazing off with a dreamy expression.

Ultimately, we reached a compromise. I ordered a $30 electric ice cream maker from Amazon and, after lurking on ebay for a few days (Wow, I see the addiction to ebay...), I landed a crank-it-yourself ice cream maker. I think it's a late '50s or early '60s model, with minimal rust and a new paddle (Note: I reserve the right to withhold the amount of my final bid on the grounds that my husband might read this.)

"We're having an ice cream making contest," I announced. "And you kids are going to be the judges."

"I vote for you, Mom!" Cayden announced. "You win."

"Nice," Martin said. "Your henchman's in your corner."

"Nope," I told the Kid. "It's going to be based on a blind taste test. To see which ice cream is the best."

I was ready for war. Let the games begin!

But first, some hurtles. I'd be hunting down elusive essentials such as rock salt, and following a recipe in a manner that sounded suspiciously like cooking....

To be continued...

Update: Results posted next week when I'm back from a biz trip.

Martin, have fun with the kids. See To-Do list on kitchen table.

Just kidding.

Well, not really.

Check table.

The Gummy Bear Trail

2011-06-03T16:13:00.000-04:00

When riding out on the trails, it's never wise to follow the same route time and again. Horses are creatures of habit and when they know they're homebound, they might want to hustle home.

But we don't worry much about Bugsy kicking it into overdrive. He's not going to tarnish the halo over his forelock.

Which is good. Since Hadley's still learning and I have to lead, our trail riding choices are limited.

Every so often, we head out the back field, on a search-and-recovery mission for runaway Maisie. And once we walked over to the big barn next door while they were holding a dressage show. That day the horses, already hopped up and edgy, found the mere sight of a spotted pony and a tutu-clad 3-year-old... positively terrifying.

Most of the time though, we mosey up to my neighbor Liz's barn. It's the perfect distance. And, we like to raid her treat jar.

The journey isn't always easy. If I've got Brynn, I push her in the stroller -- trying not to let her roll off the pitched gravel drive -- while dragging Bugsy and Hadley behind me. Meanwhile, Maisie nips at the pony's heels.

Then it's up a steep hill, straining to push the stroller through the high grass, with the pony striding beside. Then across Chet's lawn (please, Bugsy, don't drop a bomb), around the vegetable garden, and past Liz's house to her barn.

In the tackroom, she stores a jar of peppermint treats for her horses. I know where it's stashed; Bugsy always snarfs down a few. And lately, Liz has been stocking candy for Hadley as well. Sometimes we replenish the supply, but mostly we stuff our faces and head home.

About a week ago, after a trek up the hill, we discovered that the peppermint stash was drained. I glanced around, just in case I'd missed a stray horse treat, but the shelves were bare. Bugsy pricked his ears and looked expectantly.

"Sorry, Bugs, there's only real candy."

When he heard the rustle of plastic, he nosed my elbow.

"Want to try one?" I asked.

Bugsy likes gummy bears just fine.

Light in the Night

2011-06-01T22:55:00.000-04:00

The seasonal weather around here might waffle -- with freaky snowstorms, simmering-hot spring days or cold summer nights -- but the bugs are always on time. Punctual to the day.

Most nights -- once the kids are tied to their beds --Martin and I walk the dog up the darkened driveway. This past week we've taken in the glittery flashes over the hay field. Thousands of lightning bugs courting one another.

I checked to see when I last wrote about this. Last year, June 2nd. The fireflies are right on cue.

But a few nights ago, while peering into the dark in search of blinking bugs, I spotted one in the grass, right where the hay field ends and the lawn begins. A blue tinge among blades of grass.

Fireflies flash in blue? I mulled this over in my head. Not possible.

I looked at the spot again, flashing red. I blinked and it appeared in blue. Then green again.

"What the hell kind of firefly is that?" I shouted at Martin, feeling a little panicked and freaked out.

"I saw that the other night," he said. "It's a flashing ball. I can't believe it's still there."

A rubber bouncy-ball.

I parted the grass to expose the clear orb -- no larger than a strawberry -- flashing red, blue and green. Then switching to strobe-light mode like a zany Christmas tree, before cycling back to a steady tri-color sequence.

Martin recognized the ball -- a free trinket from a trade show -- that had been passed to the kids. They'd either lost it or bounced it from the gator as we zipped up the drive.

I tried to unearth the ball but it was firmly planted in the earth -- obviously run-over and countersunk by a tractor. I tried to scrape away the dirt but I needed a spade or a shovel to free it. Wedged in, it dutifully flashed away.

In my anthropocentric way I imagined the ants, caterpillars and grasshoppers, marveling over this strange space-age, flashing sphere. I imagined a few cautious bugs hiding among the thick grass while others basked in the light: "Hey Harold, I told you that Close Encounters was more than just a movie! There's advanced life out there!"

An insect-sized UFO might not sound blog-worthy. What's notable is that the darn ball is still flashing. Night after night, I prepare for its absence. It's a cheap rubber ball. A trinket that came with a pen and a lanyard. It should have fizzled out.

But just when I think I've walked far enough, gravel crunching beneath my shoes, there it is. A single, colorful beacon among the glimmer of fireflies.

Amidst acre on acre of green blanketed in black.

Brynn Versus A Double Stuf Oreo

2011-05-31T22:46:00.000-04:00

I'm pretty sure the Oreo won.

Or abandoned ship on the left shoulder.

Happy 1rst birthday, Kid.

The Crawfish Tale

2011-05-25T11:33:00.000-04:00

Lately, we've been getting rain. A lot of it.

I think it might have rained 105 days in a row.

Okay, perhaps that's a Hungarian exaggeration, but trust me. We've gotten a lot of rain.

A pond has sprung up in the back field and the driveway looks like a murky river. It's so bad, in fact, that aquatic life resides in our potholes.

Like this fella that Martin found while walking the dog down the drive.

Now, I haven't the foggiest idea how a crawfish found his way to our gravel drive. We're at least a mile and a half from the river -- that's a marathon in crustaceans' strides.

It's possible that a bird scooped him up as a snack and then dropped him mid-flight, and he landed in the pothole. Possible, but pretty random and farfetched. All that I know is that he arrived alive and pinching.

We relocated him to a pickle jar and offered him some sustenance: stinkbugs and salami -- both of which are plentiful in our house. He turned up his nose (doubtful that he has a nose), but was otherwise content in his pickle jar.

And then we put him to work. It was off to daycare for show-and-tell (no doubt a traumatic visit that included a lot of shrieking and jar shaking). But there was a reward: he won his freedom by the river.

The trails were too soft and squishy for the gator, so at dusk, I loaded up the kids and drove to the closest parking lot/boat launch. It was nearly dark and I worried that we'd be slogging through a swampy bog to the river's edge. But the river came to us; it had crested the banks and flooded the long trail, covering the sandbar. The water was just 6 feet shy of the car park.

Since I've never seen crawfish in our river, I was surprised to find a sign with a crawfish diagram greeting us on arrival... explaining how to slice its head off.

Cayden eyed the sign with concern. What does it say? Does it say we have to kill the crawfish? What's invasive mean?

I looked at Cayden, and the sign, and the illegal, pickle jar-dwelling crawfish.

It says...it says...I stammered....that this crawfish should be...

... really happy living here, I said, ducking into the brush when a car slowed for a look.

I nudged Cayden and he lowered the jar and tipped it sideways. The cray scuttled into the water and settled by some rocks and decaying leaves submerged below. He looked happy.

As happy as an invasive crustacean can be.

Happy Hour

2011-05-23T19:00:00.000-04:00

The neighbor's hay field is tall and green with heavy, seeded shoots.

We are well past the days of losing the dog's tennis balls out there.

Now we're losing kids.

On Friday night we stuffed the Boy full of allergy medication and turned the kids loose outside. They scattered like field mice in the grass.

And disappeared. Melted away in the wavy, hilly field.

We called them back, kindly at first, and then we hollered.

"Stop collecting ticks!" I shouted, "And stomping on the hay field!"

Finally they emerged....

...and picked their way along the gravel drive.

The scene looked a little like a lemonade commercial -- a carefree, almost-summer, sunset stroll along a wheel-worn path.

Technically, Martin and I were drinking lemonade -- an alcoholically infused version. And the photos captured our pleasant, balmy evening.

But beyond the lens, the scene was less serene....

...thanks to the roving critters off-camera.

The Border Collie, manically herding us.

The slew of barn cats, sparring and squabbling along the drive.

The Boy, who was hell-bent on wading into every stagnant, algae-ridden puddle.

And then there was Brynn, clutching her stroller for dear life while Hadley pushed her along the rutted drive, on a journey that rivaled Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

After narrowly missing a few spectacular crashes with the stroller into the drainage ditch, Martin pulled Hadley's driving privileges.

Had was devastated to relinquish responsibility....

Martin took over baby management. And the stroller, which doubled as a traveling receptacle for empties...

...of which there were a few...

Mandatory Slow Down

2011-05-19T14:54:00.002-04:00

A few nights ago, after rushing through the work day, then racing to grab groceries and the kids -- so I could rush home and make dinner -- the Big Rig forced me to slow down.

I can't fault our pickup truck. Unlike my insolent, ungrateful car, the Big Rig happily roars down the road on fumes. And it kindly informs me how many miles are left on the tank.

But even Big Rig has its limits. And when the display read "6 miles to empty," I sighed and steered into the gritty little gas station that constitutes our town.

There, the truck took a long, slow draw on the pump -- 39.5 gallons of diesel, to be exact.

It took some time.

"Still fillin',' the girl behind the counter said when I offered my credit card. I grabbed a Diet Coke, read the tattered cork board advertisements, and offered my card once again.

"It's still goin'," she grinned. So I shoved the door open and leaned up against the railing outside. It was late -- nearly 7 pm -- and the commuter traffic had tapered off. The sun set past the trees and there was nothing to watch, except a ladened freight train, trundling on the bridge over the road. The tracks groaned and screeched under the weight of each car, brimming with mounds of glittery coal.

And there was something about that train's methodical pace, car after car lumbering and swaying -- with a soft "whump-whump" -- that made me forget about my mad dash home and the chores that awaited. I even forgot the pricey gulp of diesel, consumed by the truck. I forgot the kids rocketing around in the back seat.

I propped a foot on the railing, and watched the train roll on.

Texas

2011-05-16T21:30:00.003-04:00

As I draft this I'm airborne, with Dallas 600 miles in my wake. Supposedly, we're cruising over Memphis and the flooded Mississippi River, but all I see below are clumps of clouds that look like curdled milk in the faded light.

East Texas. How do I sum it up?

Long stretches of empty road, baptist churches, friendly people, RV sales lots, gun stores, barbed wire, fast food-clustered towns, ramshackle houses, cattle swishing flies, and sprawling ranches marked by grand entrances.

Of course there's a lot more to Texas, but I'll sum up my days with these snapshots. (To you blog-emailers, these photos might be too big for you. If so, visit www.joannemeszoly.com.)

Iconic Texas...

A simple place to eat with an even simpler name:

Health food: be sure to eat your veggies.

Educational opportunities:

One FM (farm to market) route after another:

No credit cards at this gas pump:

Not particularly noteworthy, but this place made me salivate for a beer:

Spreading the word of God...

....to a captive audience.

Back to Reality

2011-05-10T01:00:00.000-04:00

So what's going on in the news? Any developments in the Middle East? Updates on the economy? Clean up efforts after the tornados?

I've been out of the loop for days, living in a censored land. A censored world, really.

Disney World.

If you've never visited The Magic Kingdom, then you might not know that the Great House of Mouse is much more than a multi-venue theme park. It's hotels, condos, residential communities, conference centers, restaurants, stores, transportation, communication...

....all encapsulated in a giant climate-controlled, mood tempered, mouse-eared bubble...

...called Orlando.

I attended a conference down there and it was impossible to miss the "happiest place on earth" messaging.

On everything, from the bus service -- which piped in splashy videos of kids frolicking with Mickey and clutching Cinderella -- to the beaming faces of the waitresses, store managers, even the landscapers and pool cleaners (Actually at Disney, landscaping and pool skimming are conducted under the cloak of darkness, creating the image that pools and gardens are miraculously maintenance free.)

"Have a magical day!" the lady at the front desk sang out, as she handed me my key card and delivered a gleeful grin. Like every other person on Disney property, who's permanently plastered with a smile. Because everyone is happy. Happy, dammit.

And you're happy too because you're staying at a Disney hotel, dining on Disney cuisine and drinking a $3 bottle of Disney water. You ride the Disney bus to the overpriced Disney restaurant. Want to watch TV?

Your choices are local news, Fox news, ESPN (advertising, commandeered by guess who), and every single Disney kid's channel. In addition to Disney informercials, plugging Disney's Animal Kingdom. Hollywood Studios. Disney Typhoon Lagoon. Disney's Blizzard Beach.

Four days of this and I was desperate to board the Magical Express, watch the video of Disney attractions I'd catch next time, and return to the real world of unruly bushes, overflowing trash cans and grumpy, grouchy people.

And news. I've got two days to catch up on the world's events before I plunge into obscurity.

A different land, removed from civilization.

East Texas.

It's the Final Meltdown...

2011-05-03T18:53:00.000-04:00

We're embarking on another round of survival mode. I'm hitting the road for 10 days, with a 48-hour rest midway through -- to lock and reload my suitcase -- at which point Martin will disappear for a couple days.

One of us will always be around to hold down the fort, except for one morning when we're calling in reinforcements: a coworker of mine will cover for two hours. Martin's plane will be touching down at one airport while I'll be getting frisked by TSA about 60 miles away.

In preparation for a stress-infused week and a half, we've stockpiled laundry and food reserves. Amassed diapers from Costco. Hastily mowed the grass, banked bedding in the horses' stalls, and checked our stash of cat and dog food.

Still, we're falling apart.

On Sunday afternoon I came home from the grocery store with bags of pre-made meals. The house was a wreck. Couch pillows on the floor, popsicle sticks under the coffee table, uneaten baby puff snacks speckling the rug. Toys everywhere.

"Holy cow, what happened?" I asked.

That was all Martin needed to launch into a random tirade...infused with personal experience.

"I get so tired of these parents who complain about how tired they are! Because they're shuttling their kids to soccer games. Soccer games! You can read a book at a soccer game. They don't know tired! Tired is when you're so exhausted, you pass out on the couch and you only wake up when your kid gags on a toy and throws up on you! That's tired!"

"Why are you sleeping and letting the baby choke on toys?"

"It wasn't a toy. It was a sticker. But still! These people!"

Fortunately, Martin and I normally take turns flipping out. Rarely do we lose our cool simultaneously. And somehow, we'll muscle through. We've done it before. But it ain't pretty. And this time we're already behind the ball. We've tapped into the clean clothes and food reserves, well before D day (departure day). The car's in the shop. One kid's sick. The dog is encrusted in mud. My horse lost a shoe. The stinkbugs are hosting a family reunion upstairs.

We're about a day away from complete disarray.

So, if you happen to stop by the next 10 days, bring food and laundry detergent. And some bug spray.

Definitely booze. We'll need it.

Not My Words

2011-05-02T16:30:00.000-04:00

As the Boy and the Barbarian snarfed down Frosted Flakes this morning and gazed at grainy stills of Bin Laden, mixed with celebratory scenes on TV, I felt compelled to explain.

I summed up 10 years in a sentence and a half, muttered as I pulled apart our remote control-swallowing couch.... which on this particular morning, had binged on my cell phone as well.

"This bad guy named bin Laden, who hurt a lot of people, got killed. So people are happy."

"Who?" Cayden asked.

"Bin Laden."

"Nimrod??"

Close enough.

Drink in Spring

2011-04-30T00:25:00.000-04:00

We've officially emerged from hibernation.

Shed our winter coats, kicked off the blankets and crawled out of the cellar. (Those crazy, drenching storms factored into that final step as water seeped in the basement, chasing us to higher ground).

Saturated ground or not, it was time to venture out. On a particularly warm evening last week, we wandered up the drive and turned right -- right into the neighboring hay field. Armed with a few drinks, a bag of pretzels and Bob Marley on the radio, we commandeered the field and watched the sunset.The kids, temporarily stunned by the lack of mind candy (hey, where's the tv??) actually resorted to entertaining themselves -- namely, treating Martin like a mobile jungle gym. (He attempted to flee but they hunted him down.)

If you can stretch out in a cool, dry patch of spring grass and drink in the sun, I highly recommend it. It's quite relaxing...if you escape the pouncing little people.

A Rant: You know you're old when....

2011-04-26T17:27:00.001-04:00

I'm officially old.

Carolyn, my coworker, had to explain Facebook to me.

Okay, not "explain" it. I know what "It" is.

I've seen "The Social Network," for Christsakes. And I'm ON Facebook.

But the whole posting thing...your wall versus the news feed versus your profile. Those kinds of details. Carolyn patiently walked me through it.... like a preschool teacher explaining where to put the glue, the scissors and the construction paper.

Holy cow, I'm officially a dinosaur. Cayden will be thrilled.

And now that I've thrown that out, I'll go a little further, at the risk of sounding like the old guy on 60 Minutes. You know -- that guy who talks about the rising price of oranges, and wonders why people buy water when it's free from the tap. That guy who's mystified by phones and other technology. Andy Rooney.

(Great, I've just aged myself another 5 years by naming someone from 60 Minutes.)

At the risk of sounding like a 92 year old, I have to ask:

Who has the time to read all of this garbage on facebook? Much less write it? These random thoughts about nothing! About what you just ate. About what your kid just said. Go outside, people. Do something. Then keep it to yourself!

Actually, strike that.

I blog about my kids, and about mulch and sheep balls. So let me rephrase: read my blog, then go on Facebook and tell everyone about it.

THEN go do something and keep it to yourself!

Carolyn mentioned that facebook is her only form of communication with some friends. I get that. And at work, I sometimes need facebook for work-related stuff. But I always forget my password.

So I use another coworker's username and password, which she once shared with me. So now I get on as her. Which is creepy. Because I'm lurking on there, as a different person.

And it's so tempting -- when facebook asks what's on your mind -- to write something utterly inappropriate and out of character for her. I want to rave out and insult all of her friends. Or simply declare: Jo is great. There is no one more talented, funny or modest than Jo!

Easter Diva

2011-04-25T01:28:00.000-04:00

For a family Easter dinner on Saturday night, I let Hadley wear an over-the-top dress.

A hand-me-down, floor length, white gown layered in ruffles and tulle. With three lavender flowers and cascading ribbons in the front, and a thick sash in the back. Hadley looked liked the flower girl who hadn't been told that the wedding had been called off.

Had didn't own shoes that were remotely nice enough for this dress, so we brought her to dinner barefoot. With a white bow clipped in her hair.

What's the harm in letting her dress up? I thought.

The next day, Easter morning, she wanted to wear the dress again. On our muddy, grass-stainable farm. Not a chance. That thing is dry clean only.

"Sorry Hadley, you'll have to wear one of your summer dresses from last year," I said.

And that's when the diva lost it. At 8 am she threw a monster hissy fit. She screamed and cried and collapsed in a puddle on he floor.

"I can't wear last year's dress! I NEED A NEW DRESS!" she wailed inconsolably.

"I'm actually sleeping here," a voice muttered from the top bunk.

"Sorry Cayden, I didn't even know you were up there," I said. "Hadley! Go cry in the hallway, your brother's trying to sleep. And pull it together! You like these dresses!"

Who is this kid? I thought. She can't be mine. Thirty six years ago my Mom waged a similar battle. Only she was trying to get a 3 year old into a dress. I hated dressing up and refused to wear anything but boy clothes. Jeans and tee shirts. My winter jackets always came from the boys' section of the store. There's a photo of me in pink corduroys, smiling in my father's arms. "That's the closest we could get to a dress for church," my Mom recalls. "Pink pants."

Now I've got a kid who's freaks out from the mere thought of last year's fashion.

In the end Hadley begrudgingly put on a sundress from last summer. I reassured her that she looked cute. But when I tried to clip the white bow in her hair, she ducked out of reach.

"Not that bow," she said flatly, with teenager disdain. "That bow is too fancy for this dress."

Lock up your children: Mulch Maniac on the loose!

2011-04-21T22:56:00.000-04:00

This is the fateful time of year when Martin runs amok with mulch.

Yes, mulch can help to suppress weeds. And it provides plants with nutrients, and helps to hold in moisture. And it's aesthetically pleasing.

When used SPARINGLY.

In Martin's world, every meal would be accompanied with ranch dressing, the mandatory dress code would be a tee shirt and cargo pants, and any stationary object outdoors would be outlined in an earthy ring.

The trees and bushes on our farm? They're goners. Fifty pounds for each of you. I'm just waiting for the day when Chitty is buried in a halo of compost or wood chips. And the telephone pole, the dumpster, the deck chairs....

Sometimes I wonder what feeds this obsession. Is there an ulterior motive? Does all this landscaping mean less mowing? Is it a color blind thing? Does brown mulch looks like green grass?

Who knows. Just heed my cautionary words: if you happen to stop by, keep shuffling those feet. Or you might become a pawn in Martin's mulching manifesto.

Blackie Returns

2011-04-21T02:38:00.000-04:00

Cayden, the wanna-be Crocodile Hunter, made a great find a few days ago.

Blackie is back on the scene.

Head shot of Blackie's former self

No, not Blackie the Sheep. Blackie the Snake (yes, we lack originality.)

Snake skin proportions

In past years we've briefly spied Blackie or at least stumbled on signs of his presence: bits of moulted skin. But this week Cayden discovered "Blackie's endoskeleton!" as he put it. In on perfectly preserved piece, from the thinest tip of his tail to the eye holes on his head. The whole enchilada. And now, we can confirm that we share our house with a 5-foot-long, free-roaming black snake.

And that's another worthy detail. Cayden's find was not the result of a puddle splunking or earthworm collection efforts. The Boy spotted the skin in the cellar, draped over a pipe above the kids' drawing easel.

That's right, Blackie lives in the vicinity of kids' play area. Fortunately he's very low profile. Rather hermit-like. And our agreement: we respect his privacy and he quickly dispatches with any field mice who dare to sneak inside. In the last five years, this system has functioned quite well.

I guess that Blackie's earned a spot on the blog's cast of characters.

Blackie, or one of his cousins, years ago, by the barn

April showers bring...

2011-04-18T04:21:00.000-04:00

....mounds of mud and puddles aplenty. Puddles that beckon children like a jingling ice cream truck.

Saturday was punctuated by rain and wind and more rain. Relentless, driving downpours that turned both pastures into temporary lakeland.

But late in the afternoon the waterworks tapered, the wind simmered, and we emerged from hiding.

Hadley was passed out on the couch so Martin shouldered Brynn and we proceeded up the drive with Cayden.

I thought the Boy would jump at the chance to bathe in every murky puddle but he responded to a higher calling: the need to rescue every earthworm stranded on the drive and arrange temporary transport in a pickle jar. And I mean every earthworm...

Of course no perambulation is complete without a convoy of cats. They were undaunted by the next wave of weather sneaking up from behind.

Martin looked a little more concerned....

We ushered everyone inside -- after releasing the worms in their new habitat -- with a few moments to spare. Just in time for the next stormy wave.

Newsworthy

2011-04-16T17:15:00.000-04:00

This morning I didn't wake to birds singing, the dog barking, or a kid's impossibly thunderous footsteps. I woke to the distinct drone of a hovering helicopter. (A real one, not the toy that I flew into Hadley's hair.)

A chopper overhead? Big deal. I tapped the snooze button and rolled over.

But when the alarm sounded again, the drone was still there. If anything, louder.

medevac helicopter, 5 years ago

Although we live in rurality (Chill out, spell check -- it's a word)... helicopters are not unknown. Get really banged up, and you're flying to the hospital. A few years ago a big medevac helicopter landed about 100 yards from the horses. (It was unimaginably loud.) EMTs responded to a nasty car accident about a mile away. It was summertime and the pilot didn't want to tear up the corn crops. The hay field was the closest clearing.

This particular helicopter was not a medevac. And it hung in the sky, as though suspended by a puppet string.

"How far away do you think it is? A quarter-mile? A half?" I asked Martin. We were walking the dog and watching above.

"Maybe a half-mile. It's the channel 5 chopper."

"How do you know that? It doesn't say channel 5."

"I just know."

"Well, it's not an accident. There's no sirens."

"Maybe it's a hostage situation."

We speculated about who we knew, and who'd be crazy enough to hold someone at gun point.

It's not a hostage situation, I finally decided. "When it's a hostage situation they circle the property and film different angles."

"Yea, you're right."

"But it's something big. They've been up there a half hour. Imagine the cost for that."

After another 10 minutes the helicopter reluctantly moved off, retreating toward town.

Inside, Hadley howled when Martin switched off the Disney channel and turned on the news.

On Channel 5 some goofy guy was gushing over movie reviews. Then they showed another goofy guy spinning on the floor -- apparently in celebration of the international soul festival. Finally they cut to traffic.

And there we were. Our road. On live TV.

Except that it looked like any swath of payment. Double yellow lines and asphalt sandwiched between unruly grass. Still, we recognized it. We were newsworthy. But for what?

Not a spectacular car crash. Or a hostage stand-off. Not even something outlandish, like an overturned Ben & Jerry's truck.

The story? A pole had fallen across the road. Traffic was being diverted.

The helicopter camera zoomed in on two repair trucks, the pole and a few workers milling about. And that was it.

Fifteen seconds of fame for an oversized stick.

Then back real news. Sleeping air traffic controllers, metro budget cuts and the latest loser on American Idol.

Postscript: I heard it on good authority, from a neighbor, who heard from Joe the UPS driver that "some dumbass hit the pole" and knocked it over. (Colorful adjective, courtesy of the neighbor, but it sounds about right to me.)

Quiet comes at a price

2011-04-14T15:50:00.000-04:00

When the Boy is outdoors and off the radar for too long, there are a few potential reasons why:

he's physically transporting the kittens from barn to house and back to the barn again,
he's digging a huge hole beneath our wisteria bush because a rock resembles a dinosaur skull,
he's wandering the neighbor's hay field, in search of dino tracks,
or the magnetism of mud has proven too strong...

In this case, mud won out. The only surprise? He's still clothed. Most days, extended time in the wild mandates nakedness.

Go figure.

Water logged

2011-04-13T10:14:00.000-04:00

The scene: the farm, 8:30 am. Clouds unleash every ounce of water vapor from their grasp.

And we're late. Really late. Martin and I herd the kids out the door, while juggling their lunches, their books, jackets, the baby and her bottles, and my work bag and gym clothes. Hunched under the pelting rain, we half run, half tip-toe across the grass, trying to spare our shoes complete saturation. But then we stop, surveying the moat that's formed around the car.

Determined to avoid the drowned-rat look at work, I leap over the standing water and dive into the driver's seat, dragging my gym back and lunches behind me. Martin works from home; he can load the kids.

Just then there's a blip of light -- a camera flash. It can't be lightning, I think. Morning lightning? But then it comes -- a quaking, thunderous boom. Standing beside the car, Hadley bursts into tears. Martin, who's soaked and turned against the wind, cracks open the back door and yells at Hadley, "Get in! Get in!" Just then the dog sees the opportunity to save herself from the thunder and impending end of the world. An open spot on the Titanic lifeboat. She launches her wet, muddy body into the backseat.

Take the scene above and repeat. Martin hauls the dog out, and shouts for Hadley to get in. Reluctant to forge the moat, Hadley hesitates. Martin reaches to help her and Maisie springs into the car. Martin yanks Maisie out and holds her down and yells at Hadley to get in. He releases the dog to help the kid and Maisie jumps in again. Then he hauls her out....

Finally the door slams. The backseat is packed to capacity with dripping kids -- Brynn in her bucket baby seat, Cayden wedged in the middle and Hadley on the end. I put the car in reverse, then notice the dog. She's jammed between the seats and the kids' feet, huddled down in that "you don't see me" posture.

I roll down the window, letting the wind and rain in, surrendering to the drowned rat club. "Martin! Get this damn dog out of the car!"

I officially decree that if we ever move, the next house we own will have a bigger kitchen, a bathtub capable of holding more than a puddle of water....

And an attached garage.

Blackie Shoots Blanks

2011-04-10T14:28:00.000-04:00

Blackie assumes the position

For as long as I can recall, Martin has pined for more sheep. Much the way some mothers wish for more children.

Actually, let me interrupt this post and ask Martin "why" he wants more sheep...

I'll be right back.

"I don't know why... it would be cool to see Maisie herd more sheep... Because I like to collect things. Flashlights, old fridges... and sheep."

About a year ago in response to his pleas, I told Martin that if he and Maisie displayed legitimate, controlled, sheep herding -- if Maisie could drive the flock away and bring them back -- he could get more sheep. The key word: control. Running the sheep at warp speed, until they huddled around his legs in dispair, didn't count.

We've disputed what constitues warp speed and control, but I've stood my ground, and we've held steady at five head.

Then Martin stumbled on a loop hole.

Last fall we were deworming the herd in a small pen. As usual, Martin wrestled each one free from the sheep cube they'd created in a corner. Then we pried open their jaws and I jammed the dewormer in with a sheep-sized oral syringe. (Let me say that the sheep do not appreciate parasite prevention efforts.)

As a rule, we start with the most docile beasts and work our way down to Blackie, the most evasive and difficult to wrangle. Blackie always burrows beneath the others, hiding his head and waving his rump in the air. It was this trademark move that led Martin to make a startling announcement:

"Oh my God, Blackie has balls!"

I freed the other sheep that I held in a head-lock and peered at Blackie's backside. Yup, he was clearly well-endowed.

How had we'd missed this? All of our sheep were supposed to be ewes or wethers -- castrated males. Somehow, Blackie has slipped past the emasculator's squeeze.

Martin mumbled something about letting nature take its course and quickly retreated to the house to knit little cloven hooved booties. I planned a vet call, but life got complicated. And sheep balls slipped my mind.

Blackie acted ram-like -- head-butting the other sheep -- but spring rolled around with no little lambs. And frankly, we've owned Blackie and his "mates" for years with no change in number.

Which leads me to believe that Blackie's shooting blanks. Much to Martin's dismay.

It's hard to tell if sheep commonly suffer performance problems. I googled "sheep impotence." But most of the websites had nothing to do with livestock.

Who knows what Blackie's deficiency might be?

But I'm glad for it.

"What if I burped so hard I broke the planet?"

2011-04-05T00:35:00.000-04:00

Cayden is a 39 pound, blond-haired, blue-eyed question. Everything that comes from his mouth is either a dinosaur factoid.... "Allosaurus lived in the Jurassic period, but Coelophysis lived in the Triassic period..."

....or a question. Sometimes he's barely awake in the morning and, muffled by covers, he mumbles:

"What if I could build a snowman in a minute?"

Questions like the this one, or his burp-busting query, are easy. I can tell the truth or invent a crazy, mythical reply.

It's the real questions that stump me.

"What's the smallest planet?"

"How far are we from the sun?"

"Why is the earth round?"

These are Dad questions.

Growing up, my father was a real science geek. He soaked up astronomy. He wrote a story entitled "Mars or Bust," won science fairs, and later bet my grandfather, in 1960, that man would walk on the moon before the decade was up. (My grandfather was dubious; Dad won with five months to spare.)

Over the years my father read up on physics, history, international relations, mechanics, law -- and everything in between. By the time I appeared on the scene, he could field any question I lobbed his way. I'm not saying he was a genius. But in the pre-internet world, he was a living, breathing Wikipedia. And in elementary and junior high, he saved me numerous trips to the encyclopedia stack.

Now when Cayden peppers me with questions, I'm wistful for Dad. And sad that with dementia, he's missing out. He would have loved Cayden's questions and his scientific thirst.

Last weekend while Martin and Hadley were out, I strapped Brynn in the baby backpack, and with Cayden, walked up the drive. I thought he'd drag his feet but Cayden practically sprinted to the neighbors' house. Weighted by a bobble-headed baby, I couldn't keep up, but he waited for me hillside, beside the pool. It was brisk and windy, but the sun blazed a field of green to our farm. From a distance, the barn, silo and house looked storybook perfect.

We paused on the hill and I showed Cayden north, south, east and west, and pointed out the weather front's typical north-west path. Warned him about the freak, but violent storms from the south. Taught him how to test the direction of the wind. Noted the hawks circling overhead and the deer trails into the woods.

It wasn't much. No great lessons in physics or astronomy.

Still, Dad would have liked it.

Mathematical Equine-ation

2011-04-04T00:00:00.000-04:00

Simple math:

Spooky warmblood (horse) has not been ridden in several months. Barely tolerates rider while crazy Border Collie runs up and down side of neighbor's riding ring, darting between flower boxes beside outdoor ring.

Complex math:

Random six-year-old girl clad in hot-pink polar fleece, streaks across riding ring -- in pursuit of manic Border Collie.

Warmblood horse spooks and shies at running girl. Horse places head between front legs and bucks violently, while rider hangs on for dear life.

This causes Border Collie to run faster -- more manically-- in response to horse's irresponsible behavior.

This causes girl in hot-pink fleece to run faster after dog.

Which causes spooking horse to run faster, in fear of girl and dog.

Which causes dog to run faster in response to horse.

Which causes girl to run faster in pursuit of dog.

Repeat several times, until horse and rider surrender to fatigue. Dog and girl collapse, panting, beside ring.

PS: Many hours later, dramatic tendrils of lightening streak the sky. An out-of-season thunderstorm skirts the northern ridge above our farm, offering wonderful light show. Break out the popcorn, prop up feet and enjoy. In bathroom, from behind toilet, manic Border Collie makes the following prediction: "It's the end of the world. We're all going to die. This time, I mean it."

"Just do it."

2011-03-31T00:46:00.000-04:00

Martin: "I don't have time for this. Do you want me to do it or not?"

Jo: "Yes, I want you to do it!"

Martin: "Well then stop moving around!"

Jo: "I can't help it. I'm scared."

Martin: "Just stand still."

Jo: "I need a moment. I need to prepare myself."

Martin: "What's there to prepare for? Just look at the ceiling. And stop moving."

Jo: "Okay, I'm ready.... well -- wait. Not yet. Just wait."

Martin: "Jo....come on, honey. Let's just get this done."

Jo: "Okay, I'm ready. Go."

Martin: "Jesus Christ, you closed your eyes again!!"

Jo: "Well you get too close with that thing!"

Martin: "This is like dealing with a mental patient!"

And so it goes. Loop this banter into a two-minute feed and this is the scene that plays out morning, evening, and late-night, in an often failed attempt to administer eye drops. After three days, my bout with pink eye is almost history. But's it's been a painful road. For Martin.

I try to cooperate. Open my eyes in Betty Boop-style. But inevitably, eyeball preservation kicks in and I duck at the last minute. Or squeeze my lids shut. What can I say? I've got issues. I can't even open my eyes underwater.

Fortunately, these antics are drawing to a close. Either my eyes will clear up. Or Martin will throttle me.

Another kid embraces the dance gene

2011-03-29T21:00:00.000-04:00

While we're triaging sick kids (all three are down for the count), I'm posting this video from a couple of weeks ago -- from the Martin school of baby feeding.

Apparently there's no suppressing Brynn's mood to jam. And she digs the Black Eyed Peas, though she's clearly perplexed by Hadley's gyrations.

And if you stick it out through the entire 1 minute and 52 seconds (or scroll forward), you'll earn a sneak peek at Martin's moves. Let's just say this: the end of this clip explains a lot.

As always, here's the link for those who receive the blog via email:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVJlTwLQI4U

Welcome to hell

2011-03-28T19:13:00.000-04:00

6:45 pm, shuffling into the kitchen. Greeted by a broken sugar bowl with apology note from the housekeeper.

"I'm thirsty," Hadley says, lying down on the floor.

"Hadley, that's not a normal reaction to thirst," Martin remarks.

So Hadley gets to her feet and projectile vomits all over the floor.

"I'm still thirsty!" she wails, before another round of puke erupts.

I shuffle the Barbarian into the bathroom while Martin roots around for cleaning supplies. He pops open the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink and discovers a leaky pipe. A leak that's so magnificent, it's rotted out the floor below.

Well, we have been putting off the plumber -- who should have fixed the leaky radiator in our bedroom. And then there's the bathroom sink... yesterday, Hadley bashed her stool into the drain pipe. The pipe, already weakened by our hard water, burst open. So now we've got the plumber's trifecta.

As for the puking preschooler? We cleaned her up and plunked her next to the baby, who's plagued with pink eye--

--and kindly passed her conjunctivitis along to me. She looks forward to sharing her oozing eyes with the rest of the family.

Happy Monday, everyone.

"Are You OK?"

2011-03-25T10:20:00.000-04:00

Are you OK? the subject of the email reads. It's from my mom.

Left message on your voice mail after home phone rang incessantly with no pickup or voice mail. Is Brynn ok?

Yes, I'm fine, I reply. We're all fine. Everyone except for the phone.

This is not the first time that I've blogged on this subject. My last rave-out over phones: April 21, 2010. Less than a year ago.

I'll spare you the meandering tale of our disposable telephone system and refrain from posting a tome about how we replace our phones every four to six months. In summary: a technician from the phone company thinks that the line, when installed, "probably wasn't ever grounded right."

When was that? The Depression era? During the Korean War? When Nixon took office? Who knows? More importantly, who cares?

Certainly not the phone company. The service technician dispatched to the scene gave Martin a dismissive shrug. He restored phone service, packed up his truck and left.

But here's the rub. Whenever there's a clapper of a storm, a downed tree, or some other freaky act of nature -- ZAPPO! -- a surge of electricity fricassees our telephones into oblivion. If there's a downed line, a company that I'll call...."Merizon," repairs it, but the phones themselves cease to operate.

Ain't technology great?

I wish I could say that we squeezed a year of life from our current telephones....that they dated back to my April 2010 blog. But Santa brought these phones at Christmas. So the three devices that should transmitt sound are inoperable after just 90 days.

Last night, disgusted by this diagnosis, I hurled the phones into the abyss of kids' toys. Literally threw them across the room. At least they're getting some use. Had and Cayden "call" one another from different parts of the house. Though they have to shout to be heard.

So, to our friends who've called and been met with an endless chorus of rings, now you know the score.

I can't believe I'm reverting to the same graphic that I pilfered last April. But this time I mean it. We're done buying multiple phones for various rooms. I'm building a new communication system... immune to electrical surges.