We Need It To Freeze

So I know I'm being cursed by most of you, and judging from most of the Facebook status updates, we all have been enjoying the warmer (read: freaky) Illinois weather (I had three kids sleeping at once yesterday...can I get a high five??), however, right now, Joe kind of needs it to freeze up a bit.

I'm wincing just writing that.

I heard your groans. I felt your confused looks.

So, here's why:
Joe is in the midst of getting ready for calving season. Just a few more weeks and we'll have babies, babies, babies all over the place. That requires a lot of work...big shock. It requires him to move cattle around, prepping areas for them that will be out of the elements in case someone goes early (Elements, what elements? It was 60 degrees and sunny yesterday!). And, if you were ever an expectant mother, you will remember that towards the end, you require a little more sustenance for you and your unborn child. No, he's not delivering ice cream and pickles, or in my case, Peanut M&Ms and Diet Coke (it's amazing my kids came out without M&M stamped on their foreheads), he's feeding hay he baled this summer, along with a little feed, carefully measured and mixed to the cows out on stalks. Both of these tasks require using the chore tractor, and if it's frozen, when one needs to get out onto the rough corn stalk ground, it's a little bumpy, but there's no damage of sinking into the ground.

However, if it's 60 degrees during the day, and then frosty and not frozen the next morning, things can get a little sticky.

So, as much as I have loved having warmer weather, and have even browsed through the new spring arrivals (but not purchased...remember, I'm SAVING) on nordstrom.com, we kind of need it to freeze.

I'll eat my words and be complaining about the 75 feet of snow we'll get because of this post.

Regardless of whether you need it to freeze, or if this lovely weather is helping your January mood, know that there is always some one who needs something different than what is currently on the literal radar screen. Ahhh...fickle farming!!

Happy Saturday!

When a Resolution Really Takes

Okay, so it’s New Year’s Day, and instead of working out, clipping coupons, cleaning out my closet and donating all the unwanteds to the needy, we spent our day with another family Christmas, eating gluttonously (thanks to my mom and southern cookin’ aunt), and putting up shelves to house our embarrassing amount of toys received this Christmas.

Sigh.

So, there’s always tomorrow to start my resolutions, right? Well, not really. You see, I’m not a big resolution kind of gal. I’m already an exerciser, already an organizer, already a pretty decent eater…sounds like I’m pretty awesome, huh? Well, I’m not…I stink at saving money, lose my patience way too much, and worry about what other people are doing more than the average Joe…or my Farmer Joe.

I’m digressing.

Anyway, one year, ten years ago, I made a resolution. I was no where near where I am today: geographically, emotionally, spiritually. I was exhausted, frustrated, emotionally spent and basically unhappy with my decisions. I had a good job, but was unsettled. I felt like I needed something bigger, and had already sent resumes and applications to schools in Chicago, hoping that a move to the city would make me feel bigger in a place where I felt really small.

In short, I was grasping at straws.

So, in one last effort to figure out who I was as Emily the Adult, I made a resolution: to go to a church, because, that’s what you do when you’re feeling lost, right?  I was babysitting on New Year’s Day (see how pathetic my social life was?) and picked a church out of the phone book that had a later in the morning Sunday service (really high criteria, huh?).

That next Sunday, I took a deep breath, got in my car and went to this place that was billed as a contemporary, comfortable environment. I didn’t care if they charmed snakes at that point, I needed to be fed through my heart and needed to hear some good music and a message that made me think.

The Resolution Stars must have aligned that day, because I really did hear good music and a great message, but ironically walked in directly behind Joe and his friend, who invited me to sit with them (even though I had already gone out with Joe a few times and had not done a really great job of calling him back…oops.). The guys even invited me to the church’s Newcomer’s Lunch that day, and sitting at that table, I could feel myself loosening up, relaxing, trusting that this was a place where I could fit in. Joe and I hit it off and from then on, the rest is history, our history: we found our faith strengthened there, and consequently were married in that church, baptized our first baby there, and cried when we left to move here. I miss it every New Year’s Day.

Talk about a resolution that took!

Resolutions are chances, however, and I despise the way that our culture places so much emphasis on how you should make a resolution based on what our culture deems important at that second. Nobody in the marketing world will tell you that what you’re making is the wrong one. I believe that resolutions are all about timing, and because I haven’t made one in ten years, I think I’m about due for a good one. That, and I have ridden the success train of 2002’s resolution a little bit too long.

Bummer.

My point of this post is to wish you all a happy new year, in a roundabout way, but to let you know that I have gotten back on the resolution bandwagon, and would like kept accountable for them by you, my dear stalkers…I mean, readers. Like my one 10 years ago, I was held accountable, by the guy whom I eventually married, and to God…so those are big shoes to fill.

So, friends, please hold me to these. I resolve in 2012 to coupon….I know, I know… GROAN!!!! But, I have to. I have to learn to value our dollar, as we come closer to our financial goals, as well as closer every year to a kid in college (no, Anna is not some freaky kid genius, but it’s coming, I need to get more interested in saving for Anna than Ann Taylor). I am the shopper of the family, and I might as well be a good one, a saving one, one that can be savvy as well as sophisticated.

Secondly, I resolve to make this blog more user friendly, prettier, and more interactive. I’m not sure how…but that’s why I have a year, right? That, and a new iPad!!! I realize I’m late to that iParty, but that’s okay…I’m a country folk, right? Aren’t we supposed to pull out Polaroids from our bib overall pockets instead of Instagram photos on our iPads??

Anyway, thanks. Thanks for reading. Thanks for responding, and thanks in advance for keeping me on track.

Happy 2012.

Questionable Mud

So I have a question:

Do you ever wonder what's on the seam of your husband's jeans? Do you ever ponder what you're putting into the washing machine? Do you ever tell your daughter not to walk on the carpet for fear that cow manure will come off of her coveralls?

I do.

I know, I know...I'm one of the lucky ones!

Seriously, though, I have a lot of questionable dirt that comes through my house. A LOT. From the front entryway floor, where various sizes of Northerners are housed with various amounts of mucky, muddy stuff on them, to the to top of the entryway's benches (the ones I bought because Better Homes and Gardens said so) where there are random yellow chore gloves, the flannel ones with red cuffs, which are lying in the sun, baking because this entryway is mostly glass, and emitting a lovely, warm, poop-ish smell.

Nice, huh?

Then there's the back entryway, the "mudroom" as the Bible...I mean BHG would call it. Atop an antique dresser (read: found in a shed, used as a changing table 21 years ago for my cousin, and now in my back entryway and the dog chewed the legs...I call it "distressed."), you will find various clothing covered, smeared, speckled, or just splattered with what looks like mud, but could be something else. Joe believes that work clothes have multiple wears, regardless of where he's been (that's not true...sometimes they do from his back directly to the washing machine), because he'll just get them dirty anyway.

True, and those preaching to conserve the earth's water are applauding Joe's conservation efforts. However, they smell.

The great thing about my questionable mud is that 1) I do not ever question it, and always consider it dirty and throw it in the laundry and 2) it truly makes my mud room a mud room. In this month's issue of Better Homes and Gardens, there are several glossy pictures of different family's mudrooms. They are complete with white built-in cabinetry, farmhouse style sinks, cubbies and nooks and hooks and baskets for all the gear you could think of. Folding stations house glass urns of laundry soap. Hampers are pieces of art, woven baskets that match the trim color to perfection. Words like "Laundry" and "Wash" are sculpted out of wood and hung atop the drying station. Even Fido the dog has a built-in doggie dish and pull out bed.

This is awesome.

However, this is completely ridiculous for me to even ever consider having in my house,with my life, and my family's occupation.

While I would love to have a larger, spacious, cubbie-fied mud room, for now, I would love to send in a picture of a true mud room, sans the doggie dish and sculpted words, but with the mud and the dog hair and soiled jeans. Words like "Wash" and "Laundry" need not be hung atop my washing machine. Duh. The clothes and their smell, piled usually not in the hamper tell me just by their looks that they need to be laundered.

I do have a hard working back porch, the problem...well, not the problem, the good thing, is that I have a hardworking family that helps put the mud room on the map. The mud isn't a source of annoyance, but a badge of honor. Anna earned her mud today by working all day, complete with aiding during a cattle emergency while she worked alongside her dad. Joe's chore gloves are dirty from feeding the heifers that will soon give birth, giving them strength during the last weeks of their pregnancy. The dog hair is from the dog that, although she barks all night, is a loyal companion and will scare away any UPS man who tries to deliver ANYTHING to us. Ugh.

So, BHG, come out to my house if you want a "before," or just a picture of a real mud room...and while you're at it, could you take a look at my questionable mud on Joe's pants? You probably have a remedy for that stain in your archives.

The Power of Marketing

Well, it's been awhile, my friends.

Gotta love the Christmas Craziness that has been ensuing and sucking up all my free minutes. Is anyone else out there  momentarily hysterical here and there? I have moments when I think I have it all together, and then I start to freak out.

I'm digressing.

So, here's the deal for today: marketing. Now, we are a society of information overload, over-stimulation, instant gratification and excess...and I fall into those traps a lot, but I try to be somewhat savvy when I'm being marketed a product that I am going to consume into my body, read: food.

So, on our last trip to Chicago, Joe and I were out to lunch for a high dollar hamburger. We enjoy a high dollar hamburger. I love that something I whip up for a quick meal is deemed fancy. I love that ketchup at these joints comes in a little pot...it's so cute.

I'm digressing again.

Here's the deal with the high dollar hamburger, while it's delicious and on a fancy bun, the marketing is what makes it "the meal of the minute." Our burgers were supposedly from beef that was locally grown. I like that phrase, but I was in downtown Chicago. Where is beef locally grown on State Street? Where are the steers grazing in a lovely pasture on the Eisenhower Expressway?

So, this almost seemed like false marketing. Well, not false, but the wording was incorrect. While it was promoting a great thing, and something I believe in, the phrase, "locally grown," was not necessarily correct. I consider locally grown as something like the salsa I received from our church's Christian Education Coordinator. The only thing in there that wasn't from her garden was the salt.

That's locally grown as well as impressive.

So, I guess I'm being picky, and that's okay, because I'm entitled. Anyway, my suggestion to this bistro as well as the world is to be careful with what they word and market. Locally grown is going to become a white noise phrase, just as sustainable has become. Do we really, really know what sustainable means, and why is it truly important, again?  I guess my beef (pardon the pun) with this is that, yet again, folks are relying on buzz words, rather than the truth. Maybe there's a beef farm just minutes from the Palmer House Hilton, and I will apologize profusely for this rant, but I just wish that restaurants, grocery stores, and the like would focus more on putting a face and a name to a product rather than just a buzz word.

So, when you're out having a high dollar hamburger, and they are bragging about their beef, please ask another question. Ask from WHOM the beef was acquired. Ask if those farmers ever come in and enjoy the fruits of their labor at this restaurant, because if the Palmer House Bistro (or whatever it's called) wants to use some Webel Beef for its fancy schmancy hamburger, I will 1) remember the name of the establishment and 2) will gladly put our picture on the menu.

I do have cute kids.

Hiccups in Plans

So it's Saturday, and we've got an action packed few days ahead of us.  Birthday parties near and far, church duties, basketball games, and the regular chores to always be completed. Like non-farm families, we have to plan and plan again, and some times there are hiccups to deal with.

However, unlike non-farm families, not only did the rescheduling of the first grade basketball game cause a snafu in our timing of birthday party appearances, it also created timing issues for chores.

I realize other families have parents that work during the weekends, so I'm not asking for sympathy, however, because farming, like parenting, is a 24/7, 365 day-a-year gig, we can't just be willy-nilly with our plans. Thankfully, I'm a planner, so this works, but it becomes a source of frustration, as we cannot just show up at events with a moment's notice. There are plans to be made, chores to be completed for the survival of animals and, in the planting and harvesting seasons, positive outcome of the life of our crops.

Thus, our participation in extra-curricular activities is limited. Joe is not around to help shuttle kids here and there, and I hardly have the energy to make dinner at night, let alone four kids in the car to go to a basketball practice in town. Did I mention this practice is for SIX YEAR OLDS??? It's not that important to us, I guess, to make sure that our kids are in everything, all the time.


Don't get me wrong, I, of course, want my daughters and son to be talented, well-rounded kids, but participation in an extensive program at the age of six is not necessary to their survival or future careers. This parenting philosophy is backed up by the fact that our life is one big extra-curricular activity. Rarely are my kids left with nothing to do around here. Joe's job provides them chores, learning opportunities, fresh air, and exercise. That is awesome.

However, we like our kids to be involved (at an age appropriate rate) and deem it important to fulfill our commitments when we're in an activity.

But, we're not able to shuffle around when the game is cancelled and rescheduled...we have too many kids, cattle and crops to make our life as flexible as a 9 to 5er family.

Sigh.

So, we're here, on a Saturday morning, with a tearful child who is unable to participate in her basketball game, as it overlaps with a more important activity, a husband who could have stayed out and completed his chores, instead of just completing the necessary ones, and three other kids who are blissfully oblivious to how life on the farm complicates their future participation in activities.

But, really, who cares? What's more important? A first grade basketball time or bonus time spent together, all in the house, together on a cold Saturday morning?

In my Norman Rockwell picture, I would say the latter of the two, but by hearing the current bickering between the kids, I vote for the activity! Oh well...maybe next Saturday!!

Picture Perfect

Tis the season for Christmas cards! Joe and I love to get them, and even some times argue over who gets to open the cards that day.

Anyway, since having the kids, we have tried to have a picture of them every year. Joe is the master of Christmas letters (even sending one when he was a single dude!), but I always loved picture Christmas cards. So, if you're one of the lucky ones on our list...you get BOTH!!

Lucky you.

Anyway, I am so fortunate to have a very dear friend who also happens to be a photographer and who my kids also happen to LOVE! Kara (of Kara Kamienski Photography) and I go way back...she knows stories from sorority functions that shouldn't be uttered and together went on to a road trip to a bowl game in Florida that included lost luggage, laryngitis, and lots and lots of ...fun? If you call not finding a hotel for hours and nearly dying in a plane crash fun. Anyway, she takes our pictures...she is the genius behind my blog's photography...she is my SAVIOR. However, upon having four children and a farmer husband, getting a picture perfect Christmas card picture is like expecting an uneventful, low-stress harvest.

Doesn't happen.

So, when I told her I needed a picture of us for the blog (since a lot of you have requested Jack to be on the mast head now...sheesh...details, details.) as well as a Christmas picture, she was happy to oblige. She lugs her kids and her stuff 35 minutes to my house after school and squeezes us in between bridal consultations and dinner. I love her.

It is a trick to get us all in a frame...let alone look good. It's even more of a trick to get us outside on a "farmy" scene for the blog.

So, we don't have a new blog picture yet, because while all of you fancy folks are out frolicking in the fall foliage, my husband is nowhere to be found, and unless I want to photoshop Joe into the picture, I don't get my fall background.

Kara came to us...God bless her, and we got a few really good ones.

Don't we look rested, un-stressed, and happy???

Anna, the farm girl

Amelia, our ham

Josie, our princess

Sweet Jack...not feeling so sweet.

 And some funny ones.

She does a mean "sprinkler."

And some that were just pathetic.

He's done.

So, during this season of writing your best letters to talk about your amazing lives and showcasing your beautiful families through the magic of modern photography (and photoshop), remember my family's wacky photo shoot...in our living room, at 5:00 at night, with four kids under six.

Merry Christmas!

Harvest Is Over, So Where ARE YOU???

I find myself asking this question at least twice a day.

Weeks ago, we made the announcement that Joe and the guys have finished harvest. I did a small dance, enjoyed nights with my guy helping out with homework and baths and running around, and then ...

poof.


Where is he?

Honestly, I thought I would be footloose and fancy free to traipse around, picking up kids when I could, spending hours at the gym or getting manicures or shopping or lunching with friends because my partner was back.

What world was I living in?

When have I ever traipsed?

When have I ever lunched with friends sans kids, since I had kids?

When did I get manicures?

Answer: NEVER.

However, like the hormones that allow you to forget the pain of childbirth, the excitement of uttering the words, "We're done!" makes you forget what life is truly like once the combine is in the shed. Yes, we did make our pilgrimage to Bass Pro Shop, which lead me to make a lot of smarty comments about "those" people who shop there(you know, the ones that actually wear shirts that say "General Lee 01" on them and really are looking for rods and reels), but find a plethora of North Face fleeces that I would love for someone else to buy me. Yes, we are having more meals together as a family, around a real table, while they're still hot. And yes, Joe helped me out today as I ran around in town, picking up Josie from preschool  ( I am trying to keep him from being aggravated with this post...it is the holiday season, and did I mention North Face?). However, why is it we're still falling asleep in a pair of heaps by 8:30? Why is it that he's still hustling and bustling, despite the colder temps and crops that are out?

Well, because there's colder temps and the crops are out, that's why. Because of these two factors, the cows are now out "on stalks" which means they're no longer on the pasture, rather tromping and eating around on the corn stalks. This also means that fence must be checked, and checked often because there's just a thin, "hot" wire between them and the neighbor's house. The change in season and flip of the calendar to December means we have about two months of honeymoon time until our calving season starts (oh joy). The mamas, new and old, have been preg-checked, which means checked if they are on track for the correct due dates or if they're "open," which means not pregnant, and off to the sale barn they go. Anyway, this checking has happened in three shifts with the vet, the vet tech, Joe, and a helper. So there goes my helper during nap time so I can sneak off to do x, y, or z...which are really not usually that important, but would be more fun/easy/convenient to do alone.

Anyway, harvest is done, so where is Farmer Joe? Thankfully, he's home at decent times, and is able this weekend to accompany me to another Field Mom event in Chicago. We might even have a dinner alone, since my mother in law and mom have come into help with babysitting...so what should I wear?

Maybe I should go shopping...

Now, where's Joe??