A Tiny Twinge

The other day as I was running down our road, I had the weirdest feeling. A tiny twinge of sadness. A wave of weirdness.

I had hit the point in my run where I was at the very end, the bitter end. Coming back after having twins has been hard, but this is not a post about running. I use landmarks on this particular route to keep me going. At the end of this one, actually every one as it's right before our house, I have the timber, the Price Pasture, the junk buildings and the big pasture and then I'm done. So, as I rounded the corner onto our gravel road, I started repeating: "Timber, Price's, Junk Buildings, Big One." If I can make it to the Big One, I'm home free.

Only as I repeated it a second time (no, I'm not OCD...just DYING), I had this twinge.

None of this is ours any more.

ouch.

I felt the twinge a little as I drove Anna to a lesson or practice or something in town, but ignored it. She noted the pasture's gate was open.

"They left it open, Mom."

"Mmmhmmm." I answered, oh so eloquently.

"But that doesn't matter to us, right?" she finished.

Silence.

"Nope. I guess it doesn't."

It's weird, friends, this not farming thing. I think maybe it's a little weirder to me, as I have been home bound for the past four months. Joe has his new job, which he loves and fits him well, and gets to work our show calves with Anna, so his farming itch is somewhat scratched.

Mine is not.

Did I just say that? Do I have a farming itch?

I guess so, and here's why. Farming is not just a job. It's a complete lifestyle. The whole package. It's your schedule, your bankroll, your identity, your circle of friends. You learn how to grow and how to understand death. You learn how to work really, really hard only to watch things fall apart thanks to nature. Those are stressful times, and ones that I don't miss, but my identity as this farm wife has shifted. Our address is the same. I'm essentially the same, but one year ago, everything, and I mean everything, was different.

So there's this twinge.

I'm not saying that I want things to be different, because we're in a good space, it's just a twinge. Weirdness. Strange feelings.

Plus, this has been a mild winter, so we haven't had the chance to rejoice that we're not choring in the subzero temperatures!

I still identify myself as a farm wife, farm mom and I have farm kids, but there's still this undercurrent of identity crisis that rears it's wonky head once in awhile.

I'm sure I'll get over it.

Remind me of this waxed-poetic post when Joe decides to buy more cows, okay?