“his name is Fuzzy!”

Living on our little farm, I have been blessed to witness my children’s love affair with animals. Other than a few snails found in the cat food, or the wolf spiders that stalk our swimming pool, my kids have a genuine affection for all of the hairy, furry, feathery, slimy and scaly creatures we are privy to on our land. Not only do my children love to witness, hold, and pet these critters, but they want to have them. As in, keep them. Inside my home.

My babies all grew up being licked and loved by two crazy dogs much bigger than their teeter-toddling selves. So it seemed natural that as the kids got older we would take the next step in pet ownership: we bought a gold fish. Things were running pretty smoothly at that point. The kids were responsible for feeding the fish and I was responsible for feeding the dogs. It was simple really. Then, on a cool and cloudy day when I was minding my own business, I discovered a very sick black kitten squeaking piteously under my van. Following equally pitiful squeals from my daughter, “Mama, pwease, pwease can we keep the kitty?” we decided to at least nurse the poor thing back to health. One week later and one bottle of eye drops down, much to the delight of my very responsible four-year-old daughter Brooklynn, we owned our first farm cat. Six months later, our kitten had kittens.

Watching our cat grow round and, for lack of a better word, leisurely, was great fun for us. We remembered seeing a large gray tomcat around the property a month or so back and guessed why our formerly playful, romping kitty was suddenly more interested in lounging on our porch steps. A gentle palpation of Miss Blacky’s belly confirmed our suspicions. We called our vet that very day in order to schedule for the post-pregnancy spaying, and our ultimate lesson in animal husbandry had begun.    

Four healthy kittens were delivered in the wee hours of a Friday morning, on a full moon. I remember this only because I had gone to a Harry Potter premiere with a friend that evening, and had arrived back home at 3am to see Miss Blacky standing in front of the garage meowing strangely. Her belly felt especially heavy as I picked her up and I could feel her little ones writhing around in there like earth worms fresh from the soil. I locked her in the garage that night and woke the following morning to the sweetest little peeps coming from the far corner of the garage. I found four squeaky clean kittens, sleek and talking, with one stillborn disturbingly silent and frozen beside them.

As a self-professed dog person, I have come to adore our cats. We still have Mama Cat, as we so fondly call her now, and a couple of her babies. Squirtle and Summer found a new home at a farm one town over, while Little Blacky and Nala continue to roam our property as if they own the place. Mama Cat thinks she is an indoor cat, though she has never spent more than fifteen minutes in the house. My allergies are not conducive to indoor cats and I also prefer to find her dead presents (moles, birds and the like) outside rather than inside.

So in the blink of an eye, our home became a little farm. In the past three years we have experimented with many different pets. We currently have two dogs, three cats, several chickens, a horse, a bunny and various snakes, lizards, turtles and pond minnows found on our property. We had ducks a couple of years ago, but have definitively decided we will never try that again. A Jurassic-sized turtle in our pond picked them off one by one, and I made the executive decision that that circle of life need not be repeated for three small children and a mother with a soft heart. (See my blog post from April 2012 love and lost: our duck hell http://www.todayisagooddayformarshmallows.blogspot.com/2012_04_10_archive.html

This spring we welcomed our first bunny onto our farm. His name is Carlos, and he has taught me the delight of rabbit ownership. Best bunny ever. He jumps around our screened porch from pillow to pillow, eating carrot bits from my daughter’s hands. Mama Cat naps next to the bunny hutch each afternoon, which only seems fitting since they are the two most docile and sweet natured pets that we own. The fact that they both belong to my daughter, the most sweet-natured person I know, also seems appropriate.

Toads hop in our garden, barn swallows nest in the barnyard, and a cute little bird family has set up shop in our fern outside the front door. Even with dogs barking, cats stalking from the roof, and the constant slamming of the screen door as people come and go, the little bird family seems happy enough. When I find myself lounging on my porch, surrounded by this menagerie of pets, loud cacophony of nature, and peaceful laziness of safe animals playing, I realize that this is exactly what I had hoped for when we bought this land. On a daily basis I find nests built with hair from Daisy Girl’s mane, collect fresh chicken eggs for our breakfast, and always have a dog or kitten willing to rest a tired head on my lap. It cannot get any better than this.

Here’s the zinger: when you open your arms and your home to so many animals, and consequently wind up with so many pets, there is bound to be the bit of wildlife that comes home to you that you wish had not. You know the type: slyly held in your kid’s hand or stuffed into their pocket, sneaked in when you are not looking. It is the critter you could have done without. Well... his name was Fuzzy.

It was seven in the morning on a school day, and I was in the shower. My husband was seeing to the last few minutes of breakfast with the kids before I was to pack them in the minivan and take them to school. As I was applying my conditioner I heard the bathroom door fly open with a bang and Brooklynn proudly announced with a happy screech, “Mommy!! His name is Fuzzy!!”

What?!?

I pull the shower curtain aside to find my daughter gripping one of my kitchen Tupperware containers. Inside is a ratty, grey fieldmouse. It seems that on her way out to feed her kitties that morning, Brooklynn heard squeaks of terror coming from the bushes that line the front porch. To her utter dismay she found her cat Nala with a little grey mouse in his mouth, playing with the mouse like a kid plays with a lollipop. Screaming bloody murder, she rushed to her daddy and insisted he save the mouse. He obliged. Then he put the mouse in a kitchen container, handed it to my daughter, and left for work.

From my position in the shower, hair conditioner still in the palm of my hand, I answer her, “Brooklynn...did you say Daddy just left for work?! After handing you a potentially disease carrying rodent to deliver to your mother in the shower?! I thought so.”

Needless to say, Fuzzy (as he was so lovingly referred to due to his disheveled and quite frankly nasty appearance) was dropped off a mile from our home. We found a quiet little spot in the woods with some shady trees, a little stream, and some pretty wildflowers growing nearby, which seemed the perfect place for a mother to convince her three children to offload an unwanted fieldmouse. Of course we still look for him when we find ourselves on that walking trail. He will forever be remembered as part of our farm family, whether he resides here or not.

“Homegrown kids” I call them. Kids who know that their breakfast eggs do not come from a Styrofoam container at a drive-thru; Kids who know that the cats need to be fed rain or shine, on warm or bitter cold mornings, whether you are sick in bed or not; Kids who know the songs of nature as well as they know the Top 40. Giving them these experiences is not without stress or hard work. In fact, it can be extremely stressful and is mostly hard work. No one wake up with the sun and wants to muck a horse stall. Yet our love for these animals endures and the wish for more never ends.

Today I received a letter from my son, Tristan. It read, “Dear Mom, I really want to have a bearded dragon for a pet...”

And so the fun continues.

sneak peek

The first thing I want to do is formally welcome all my new readers. The number of blog hits on my webpage doubled between January and today, even while I took a break from mommy blogging. Tracking where you have come from these past six months has been fun and educational.  It assured me that I still have my Top Mommy Blog status, www.topmommyblogs.com which is very important to me, and it also showed me what topics you are most interested in reading about: crazy farm fun and motherhood anxiety.

As with everything else in this great big beautiful world, motherhood is messy. It is equal parts stress and joy, frustration and love. Therefore, while brainstorming my next Big Book Project I discovered that I actually have two projects in the works.

The first, with witty charm and plenty of sunshine, will be called Homegrown Kids. This book will be a compilation of essays focusing on the pure joy I find sharing my life with three fun and lovely children and the crazy adventures we have on our little hobby farm. Brandon and I have chosen to raise our children with  an emphasis on healthy homegrown or locally grown food, animal husbandry, and downtime spent leisurely on our pond, in our porch, on biking trails and around a campfire. Just this morning my children found a baby red-bellied water snake, a rock lizard, a garden toad, and three disgustingly huge tomato horn worms in our backyard. In just thirty minutes. My “homegrown kids” are also videogame junkies and snack food fanatics. This book will hopefully set the record straight as to how we manage to live honoring both realities and also might explain how and why we choose to ”live like Aunt Jemima,” to quote a friend.

My other book project is near and dear to my heart in a very different way. Today Is a Good Day for Chardonnay - A Mother’s Admission, will be a painstakingly honest memoir about my struggles suffering with stress illness. Mine is a life where Xanax has become a reality; as has yoga, meditation, long walks, and the occasional glass of wine when nothing else works. My own health issues are complicated by the fact that although my children are lovely they are also terrible sometimes.  Yes, I said terrible. They bicker non-stop, commonly get physical with each other, and are obsessive compulsive over electronics. This is in direct contradiction to their mother’s desire to have a happy home, so you can imagine that conflict arises from time to time. I am acutely aware that 99.9999% of you can relate to these stresses, some of you are hardwired to find peace in the chaos, while the amygdala housed within my brain tends to head straight toward despair or anger. That complicates things.

So why do I feel the need to share the nitty gritty with you? Because in my heart of hearts I believe that no one wants to read about the perfect family. But everyone wants to know that the imperfect family can still be very, very happy.  Our kids antagonize each other endlessly while swearing their love and devotion to each other in the same breath. My husband and I have many differences of opinion and differing abilities to stay calm, yet we share similar hopes and dreams for the future and a deep desire to see this marriage through. I will cover it all. Unless my hubby deems it Too. Much. Information. Oh yes, I give him editing rights. That is part of the “seeing this marriage through” bit.

So to make this easy for you all future blog posts will be tagged either Homegrown Kids or Chardonnay, to guide you should you prefer one topic over another. Please keep in mind that although you may not suffer from a psychosomatic pain syndrome, most of us moms deal with stress in one way or another. I will cover topics both specific and broad. And although you may have never dreamed of wanting to muck barn stalls or grow your own summer vegetables, there will be much to laugh over and enjoy in my twenty-two pet farm-related posts.  

And remember, if you enjoy my blogs please share them with your friends.

Happy reading & God Bless,

Kristi

 

Cheesy-sausage legs? Hell no.

We are fourteen days into the New Year. That means we are fourteen days into our New Year’s resolutions. Some of us are making incredible changes, while others of us are fourteen days into failing to make changes at all. As my political lean goes, so go my resolution successes. I’m a moderate.

As I drive through town I notice that every gym parking lot is bursting with cars (not mine), and at the grocery store yesterday I was shocked to find the spinach and leafy greens shelf almost empty. Never ever have I seen that before. Like ever. (A shout out to Taylor Swift here, from my daughter.)

Ninety percent of Americans make resolutions for the New Year, while only thirty percent are still working on them come May. We all do it differently. Some of us set specific goals such as no late night eating, while others favor to-do lists to jumpstart spring cleaning or household projects. Regardless, our resolutions are all in the flavor of having a fresh start.   

I find that the New Year feels like the ultimate cleansing shower.  I begin by officially forgiving myself of the bad habits I fell into, leaving my pre-frontal cortex’s dry-erase board wiped clean. It is similar to the feeling I get after visiting my priest for the Sacrament of Reconciliation. It is definitely a “Yippee!” moment.

In addition to a sort of exfoliating shower, I begin the New Year with a stiff drink laden with bold hopes and dreams for the coming year. My goals this year are two-fold. Some are on an energetic level, or spiritual level. They are food for my soul. Others are purely physical in nature, and will inevitably give me a run for my money.

I decided not to be too overzealous this year with my resolutions.  In years past I would categorize my goals for the year, listing financial, spiritual, health-related , family, and personal goals. I even prioritized within the categories. It looked really nice and covered the gamut of things I wanted for my life but it felt very unforgiving. It was too black and white, with hard edges and tall cliffs to fall from. In the end I found it scary and repulsive.  So this year I am in a forgiving mood and decided to list only a couple of things that will greatly improve the general health and happiness in our home.  

I came across this quote the other day and have decided to make it my mantra for 2013: “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”  Thomton Wilder said it, and I am going to live it. So first I decided that my heart is not conscious of anything other than survival when I am pursuing high intensity, strenuous physical exercise. So this year, for my physical goals, I have decided to embrace some of my innate comforts. Slow, long, mindfulness exercise such as yoga, meditation, long walks, and farm chores are on my list. I am leaving triathlons to my husband.

As for seeing and appreciating the treasures around me I am looking closely at my precious little family and making goals for more ease and enjoyment out of each day. “Less on our plates” is a physical goal referring to ice-cream portion sizes, while it also encompasses the goal for our family’s calendar. Fewer afterschool activities will leave more time for cuddles with Brooklynn at bedtime, and testosterone-rich activities such as boxing and wrestling for my boys. Daddy gets to referee.  

Another resolution for the New Year involves my hubby. After seeing the movie This Is 40 together over the holidays, we have decided to bring the fun back. Tree climbing, skeet shooting, and trail riding are a few of the ideas we came up with to enjoy each other sans kids. Spending time together uninterrupted by Star Wars conversations will be good for us, I think.

So that is it. New Year, new fun, and happiness in abundance. Oh, and I am swearing off cheese and sausage because I ate so much of it in Wisconsin at Christmas time that I’m afraid my legs might begin looking like cheese and sausage. And no one wants that to happen in 2013.