So here’s my story. About the one thing I did to be happier. Last week, as he normally does, Baby Will grabbed my iPhone and brought it over to me with a concerned look in his little brown eyes. I know what it meant because, well, I’m his Mama and I know these things. It’s
Remember that time you were pregnant, for your fourth time, and you felt pretty tuckered? And remember when it only took 14? 15? 16? (how many weeks am I again? does anyone even count the 4th time?) to grow out of your brand new wardrobe that you finally splurged on after weaning the last baby?
I’m not quite sure how it happened. And yet, here I am. Staring at small stacks of beautiful and fresh curriculum books. It makes me want to sharpen pencils. And, I don’t know, recite the Pledge of Allegiance or something. I’ve hinted very briefly at the fact, but today, I’m finally coming out. Y’all. We’re
I threw my hands and words up to heaven like a maniac. Lord, you don’t know what it’s like! Your son was obedient! You told him to go die on a cross and he listened. I’m asking mine to stop wiping poop on the walls and he can’t even manage that! I felt stupid as soon as
I swear, y’all. You cannot even make this stuff up. Farm life… home life… they continue to just leave me speechless. Ya, speechless. Or screaming. Either one. So take a walk with me down the lane, while we sip on some (potentially spiked) iced chai teas and I’ll tell you a story… While making our
Summer has a bit of magic that swirls around the fringes of complete insanity. Just when I think I’ll surely hole up and die of exhaustion, there are teeny moments of pure, well, magic that revive my soul enough to complete another task… another chore… another harvest. While I was snuggled up to Sally’s flank,
Oh man. You know those days? Those days? The days that, despite the biblical truths one knows and believes and loves, get the better of you? Y’all. I’m there. I’m theeeeere. My gang… my gang is cute as ever, aren’t they? You know what else they are? Agitating. Poopy. Fussy. Disobedience. And all-consuming. Like emotional leeches.
Today, I’m 29 years old. Twenty nine. Twizzledy to the nizzledy. (…that was gangster talk for ’29’). Yes, my dear friends, today is my date of birth. Twenty nine years ago today, my mother endured what can only be described as extreme pain to bring me into this world. Frankly, let’s face it, birthdays shouldn’t be about
I’d like to say I was better at this, but frankly, it’s a huge struggle for me. “This” begin okay with the mess of life, that is. Today, I begged a cleaning company to venture out to the farm to scrub only God knows what out of my showers and tubs. Then, I pleaded with
If I could sum up why it is we do everything we do… … the early morning milkings… …. the cleaning out of the chicken coop… … the tending, caring, and slaving over the garden beds… … the answer is actually quite clean and easy. It’s the food. We do what we do for the