Pumping

Then Shael and I came home (this is my sidenote in my rant; now I'm just plain complaining). The girls were amazing. Patient. Helpful. Sweet. Shael slept for about 23 hours a day the first week, which was unnerving. We had stayed longer in the hospital because his bilirubins were too high; he'd had a hard time nursing. Once we got home, he quite nursing altogether. It was a mess. Luckily, the hospital sends out a nurse for one home visit. That was immensely helpful. However, Shael still will not nurse. Breast feeding is extremely important to me, so I have been pumping around the clock during his 9 week life. I remember talking to my friend Kim years ago about breastfeeding- she had said that she would never breastfeed, because it made her think of the pigs on the farm. She said, "I will not suckle my children." Of all the reasons I've heard for women not breastfeeding, this is the one I respect most. Seriously. It's cut and dried, she's not blaming "this" or "that", she is simply stating it as a fact. I couldn't relate, but I respected it. Now, I totally GET IT. I can't go anywhere fun with the kids, like the zoo, because I need to pump at certain times. I can't go more than a few hours. Images of dairy cattle lining up outside the barn during milking time pop into my head. As I pull out the pumping contraption and hook up the equipment, I am transported into the dairy parlor I milked in as a teenager. I hook myself up much like I hooked those pathetic cows up. I feel like I should chew my cud while I wait through another boring 20 minutes of "milking". The only difference between milking myself and milking cows, is that I can rest assured that I will not be slapped across the face by a tail covered in cow poo. While this only happened to me once when I milked as a teen (I'm a fast learner), this is a positive in my comparison.

A Message from a Bitter Wife

Here we are! This is our first family picture after our little bundle of joy arrived. I would like for everyone to meet Shael Patrick Jacobson. He was 7lbs., 15oz. and 21 inches long. He was born on August 5th, 2011, and he is perfect in every way. Miraculously, Shawn was able to watch the birth via Skype. I got to watch Shawn gnaw his fingernails down to the quick, which annoyed me so much when he was home. Via Skype, it was adorable.

But here is the start of my rant: So often while I was pregnant, people would say to me, "Oh, you're husband will be able to watch the birth with Skype." I think they were trying to make me feel better. All it really did was make me feel like they were trying to reduce what I was going through. And furthermore, civilians never know what the heck they're talking about when it comes to military life, so I wish they would quit pretending that they do. Skype is not infallible. Internet connections are tenuous at best on good days, and that's just on my end. Our calls constantly get dropped. In Kuwait, internet can act up for endless reasons. If they have a sandstorm, communication can be down for days. When someone is hurt or killed, communication is completely blacked out and shut down (as it should be- I'm not complaining about that at all). If it's too hot, the computers will quit (and hello, it's the Middle East. It's HOT there. They air condition the rooms with computers, but generators quit all the time). Shawn could have been out on a mission when I went into labor, and wouldn't have known he was a father until he got back. All these details are to let you know that it truly was an amazing thing that Shawn was able to be "with" me for the birth of his first child, but it was not a given. Yes, I am grateful. I am also so grateful to my cousin, Megan. She was there (for realsies), and made sure Shawn could see, kept the computer out of the way and yet with good angles, took lots of pictures, and took care of the girls for me while I was in the hospital. It was an unbelievable experience. The staff was absolutely wonderful, and I would like to nominate my cousin, my favorite nurse, and my OB doctor for sainthood.

Now that we are all settling into more of a routine, I find that my deployment crazies are back into place. Granted, I have more "independent, normal" days than I do of the "pathetic" days, but it still happens. I still wonder what is up with my Mrs. Jekyll and Hyde. Some days I just can't go wrong, and life as a single mother of three is a breeze. I cook, I clean, I am amazing! Other days, I suck at life. I know it's normal- the other deployment wives complain about the same thing. But it's still frustrating. And I pray that I'm being somewhat consistent with my poor children. (You know what? While I'm at it, I would like to nominate them for sainthood, too. The Vatican won't mind.)

A huge part of what drives me crazy is all the "advice" I'm suddenly receiving. From EVERYONE. It's as if people think that I suddenly don't know how to parent because my husband is overseas. Newsflash people: this is my third child. Newsflash #2: I've been a single parent before. I know I can do this because I've done it- without your help. If I ask for advice, then by all means, start talking. If I don't ask for your advice, keep your pearls of parenting wisdom to yourself. I thought that all the comments would end with my pregnancy. I bit my tongue when every single day (no, I'm not exaggerating), someone commented on how HUGE I was, and asked me "how many were in there". Unless you're talking to the Octomom, a woman is not comparable to a dog who is pregnant with a litter of puppies. You don't talk to a woman in such a manner. I still don't understand how a pregnancy instantly makes a women any less deserving of common courtesy. How would you feel if the next time I saw you, I said, "Oh my gawd, you are HUMONGOUS!" How nice to have those extra pounds noticed, yes? Don't. Just don't. Tell the pregnant woman in your life, or the pregnant stranger, that she looks beautiful. You can stop talking after that.

So do me a favor; do ALL of us military spouses a favor- leave us alone. Don't tell us how lucky we are because your grandparents didn't have Skype when Grandpa was in WWII. We know. And we're sorry they went through that, we really are. But we don't have to count ourselves as "lucky" because our husbands are gone from our lives and our children's lives for a minimum of an entire year. To us, wondering if he will come back home alive or at least in one piece is not something we should be grateful for. We don't need to be told how fat we are, we don't need to be made to feel inadequate. Trust me, we feel fat and inadequate enough. Skype makes us look like we're 300 pounds, and our children constantly make us feel like we're failing. Some of the wives don't have children, but you can leave them alone, too. Don't tell her that "at least she doesn't have children" while her husband is deployed. That just means that she has more time alone at night to contemplate the welfare of her husband and how lonely she feels. She doesn't have someone to take care of, which assures that she needs to take care of herself. I know that sometimes you don't know what to say to someone who is going through a hard time, but I can tell you from experience that the most meaningful, comforting words that I have heard yet through this entire deployment were simply, "thank you."

Independent

This deployment stuff is getting easier and more difficult all at once. You know how you start to paint a picture in your head when you imagine something? I tell myself not to do that, because the final result ends up looking nothing like the reality that soon happens, but I just can't help it. One of the aspects I was looking forward to during this deployment, was being able to prove to Shawn that I'm capable. Nay, not just capable, but super capable- cape and everything! I envisioned hearing his voice on the phone, marveling at all that I had accomplished, while I nodded humbly, saying, "No big deal. It was easy, actually."

My first set of challenges came about a day after he was gone. The dishwasher wouldn't drain, and our deep freezer had come unplugged in one of my cleaning frenzies. I now had a freezer full of butchered chickens bleeding all over, about 30 jars of frozen goat milk gone bad, some soggy vegetables from the garden, and a defrosted 20 lb. turkey. It took some breathing, but I told myself not to go into hysterics. I unloaded the freezer and took it all out to the garbage, cursing under my breath and kicking random items along the way. By the time I hefted the last dripping, bloody chicken into the bin, I wondered if I was going to have a baby in the driveway next to the garbage can. The dishwasher perplexed me, and nothing I tried worked...except calling my father-in-law. I contemplated asking him to keep his maintenance "our little secret" and pretend I had fixed the appliance. No. I like to think I decided against this because I'm so honest, but it's mostly because Shawn would know that I would never step foot in our spider-laden basement to fix anything. I would hand wash dishes for the rest of my life before I would go turn off the water supply down in our own personal Hades.

Two days after that, I went to walk out the door, and the knob was locked. Except, our knob doesn't have a lock. That little thing in the middle that you twist? We've never had one- just a hole- and therefore there has never been a key for it. It never bothered us because we used the deadbolt if we ever felt the need to lock up. Now, suddenly, the knob is locked, and there is absolutely no way to unlock it. Olivia immediately grabbed some long skinny devices and said, "Let me see if I can manipulate the tumblers." What?! My nine year old knows how to "manipulate tumblers" and break in to places?? How does she even know what a tumbler is? Luckily, she couldn't unlock the door, or I would have felt severely inadequate. Now we use the only other door in the house, which is in my bedroom.

Another day goes by, and this time it's the vacuum. Our vacuum is very important, because I do not sweep. Ever. I am utterly revolted by hair, and will not deal with it in any fashion. Our house does not have carpet because of Genevieve's allergies, so I vacuum quite often. I know, I get told all the time that I'm making tons of extra work for myself, but this is how I do it. Anyways, I fire up the purple beast, and it only sucked half-heartedly. That won't do. I made sure the canister was empty (something that was traumatizing, because Shawn always empties the canister so that I don't have to touch the hair that comes out), and did other little tinkery things to it in hopes that I might accidentally fix whatever was wrong. After turning it on again and seeing that it still wasn't functioning... I quit. I sat on the floor and threw an adult tantrum. I was so angry that I couldn't fix this STUPID vacuum. Then I was angry because Shawn was gone, and this stuff is so easy for him! I got mad at him for leaving, I got mad at him for being such a natural at fixing stuff and making it look easy, and I got mad at him for not sending out magical vibes that would ensure all appliances were perfect before he left. I got mad at quite a long list of people for quite a long list of offenses before my meltdown was over. I realized I was still on the floor where I had thrown myself in my 32-year-old fury. I was not being independent. I picked myself up off the floor, and called a vacuum repairman.

Last but not least, I have had to buy a minivan without Shawn. This has been the ultimate test. I know absolutely nothing about cars, other than the fact that I'm going to have a baby in approximately 8 weeks and have no way to transport it. My mom's neighbor- a complete stranger- took me to a car dealership in Rochester that he has grown to respect, and tried to help me make sense of the prices, engine sizes, mileage, etc. I found a van that the girls and I really loved, but I was worried about the high mileage on it. I talked to a dealership in Roseville that sounded like they had an amazing van. I was very excited to buy it! My friend Shannon came with so that she could drive our old car home for us while I would drive the new van home. Then the plan was to bring her back to Rochester. Lots of driving, but necessary. My salesperson, who had sounded wonderful on the phone, turned out to be a total liar. People like her are who give used car salesmen a bad name. The van she pulled up was not the van she described on the phone or on the website. It had scratches, cracks, and dents all over it. However, was I being too picky? This van did have 30,000 less miles on it than the pristine one in Rochester. Were they just scratches and dents, or were they signs of deeper, structural damage? This is where knowing a thing or two about vehicles would have come in handy. Shannon had gone outside to call her husband for some quick advice, and the saleslady and owner of the car lot jumped at the opportunity to hustle me. The man quickly took over, spewing information and statistics meant to confuse me. They both hinted at my vanity since I was concerned about the cosmetics of the van. I tried explaining that I hadn't even known what color the van would be before I got here- how it looks was much less important than any future problems I may or may not have with the vehicle. I was getting frustrated, so I said, "You know what? I need a minute." To her credit, my salesperson left, but this Mr. Schmooze character simply stared at me- albeit silently- for a moment. Then, he jumped right into his pitch again. I was starting to get frustrated and angry. I repeated, "I just need some time." Then, I thought about how this guy wouldn't be treating me like this if Shawn were with me, and I burst into tears. Right in the car dealership. That's not embarrassing at all, let me tell you. However, one positive from a situation like this is that most men are utterly terrified of women's emotions, and this guy nearly tripped over his own chair trying to run away from me. That made me giggle while I cried, and this ensured the no one else in the entire building would come near me, because I was obviously crazy. Shannon came in and we left. The saleslady did ask what they could do to make me "feel better" about the van. Drop the price? Fix the dents? It occurred to me that hysterics may be a useful tool for women who were car-shopping on their own, but I was so past ever buying from this place. I told her there was nothing they could do, and I just wasn't comfortable here. I apologized for crying, and she said, "Well, you're pregnant." Someone has never been pregnant before. Shannon and I drove back to Rochester, laughing hysterically about the whole experience.

I did end up buying the van in Rochester, and you know what? I love it. The horrible experience in Roseville has now convinced me that I really am getting a good deal for my money. And you know what? I did it. Myself! So, maybe Shawn wouldn't have handled these situations the same way I did. My mental picture had me doing all these things like Shawn does them. Would Shawn have needed to call his dad over to fix the dishwasher? No. But ultimately, the dishwasher got fixed. Shawn would have had the freezer empty in ten trips, not forty, but I did get the freezer empty. Shawn would have sat on the floor so that he could better see what he was working on while fixing the vacuum, not because he flew into a seizure about it, but I am confident that the repairman will have my vacuum working soon. Shawn would never have brought his BFF to go car shopping with him, or had an emotional breakdown just because the salespeople pressured him; but I now have a van, and it's a good one. The girls and I are ecstatic about it. And you know what else? I got this text from Shawn after he heard that the sale was final: "Baby, I truly appreciate everything you do for me. I couldn't do this without you. I may be deployed but we are still a team, and I honestly think you have the harder job even if mine is more dangerous. You are the best wife I could hope for and a prize I will jealously guard!"

That makes it all worth it.

Perspectives

As I sit here, my husband deploys in 2 days. It will only be for training- we'll see him for a couple of days at the end of May before he ships out for Iraq- but it's still very final. Our life as we know it ends Friday. I knew this day was coming. This is part of what I signed up for when I agreed to marry Shawn. Furthermore, this is what I wanted- to be a military wife. But the last two months... wow. We've had some serious stuff going on, and I want to tell Uncle Sam, "You know what? Just kidding. I thought I could handle this, but I've changed my mind. You can't have him." Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. My husband can leave and go overseas, or go to jail for going AWOL. I guess there would be a bit more honor in telling people that Shawn is "deployed" versus "in prison". You all already know that I'm pregnant, and due August 6th. So, sadly enough, on top of the regular emotions that a wife experiences while facing a deployment, I have an extra flux of hormones. I imagine that I'm quite frightening to be around. Shawn will probably feel much safer once he arrives overseas. The other day, a pregnant acquaintance sent me a message on Facebook, telling me that she would be raising her baby, alone, too. She said that she knew we would make it. I was a little confused, because last I knew, she had a loving, doting husband of less than two years. I instant messaged her, and it turns out that he has already grown tired of marriage and is currently having an affair. She is now single, and devastated. One thing that she said during our conversation is, "At least Shawn is coming back." Sometimes, all it takes is one sentence to slap you back where you need to be. She wasn't chastising me, or looking for my pity; she simply wanted me to recognize that my situation could be a lot worse. Since then, I decided to take all my mournful, dramatic laments and find the bright side of them. This is the list I have come up with so far:

1. Dramatic Lament: I will miss Shawn's scent! His cologne, his deodorant, his skin...

Bright Side: No more noxious man gasses.

2. DL: He will probably miss the birth of our first child together!

BS: He won't witness me in the ugly throes of labor and delivery.

3. DL: I'll have to sleep alone for an entire year!

BS: No more elbows to the face, or knees to my ginormous belly. Also, please refer to the bright side of #1.

4. DL: I'm going to be bored and lonely at night!

BS: I can watch all the "Dancing With the Stars" that I want on Hulu.

5. DL: Who will make me eggs or get ice cream at 11:00pm simply because he thinks I might like some?

BS: No one. Maybe you'll quit gaining so much weight.

6. DL: Who will take out the trash, or open jars that are too tight?!

BS: Remember when you could survive without a man? You need some independence.

7. DL: Who will bring me caffeine in the mornings so that I can drag myself out of bed?!

BS: The 12-pack I buy in the beginning of the week will not disappear in one day. Genevieve will bring it to you in the mornings if she knows what's good for her.

This list grows by the day as little attacks of "Poor Me Syndrome" try to get the best of me. Ultimately, I know for a fact that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. Having daughters who are 9 and 6 years old may not seem helpful, but already they are doing what they can to be mommy's helpers, and are very proud of their roles. As a matter of fact, the other day as Genevieve wiped flat surfaces with a damp paper towel (her favorite chore in the world other than lining up our shoes in the hallway), she sighed and shook her head, saying, "I don't know what you would do without us." I don't know what I would do, either :)

Another factor contributing to frazzled nerves in this house is all of Genevieve's dermatological and allergy issues. The poor child has suffered so much lately for skin problems that would be a minor annoyance for most people. "Treatment" of her fragile epidermis has left her severely burned on two separate occasions. We've had to hold her down to peel tape off of her burns, which of course lifts off layers and layers of tender skin. Listening to her screams...it's enough to break a momma's heart. Luckily, big sister Olivia knew just what to do: she made a mix of pop and juice, stuck a straw in it, and called it a "Quiet-enator". I was frustrated, thinking that the last thing Genevieve needed was a straw in her face. However, with each scream, Genevieve would latch her mouth onto that straw and drink the special elixir. It worked wonders. Another time, when she screamed and yelled for me to blow on her wounds at the same time, she made a funny sound that the girls called her "Oprah scream". They dissolved into giggles and laughed for the rest of the bandaging session. It blew my mind. All it took was for Olivia to bring in a good attitude and some orange soda, and Genevieve practically had fun with the ordeal. I wonder, how on earth do parent's of seriously ill children do it? How can they possibly endure? I need to be grateful that Genevieve's problems lie only in her skin and allergies. I need to appreciate the consideration and ideas that Olivia brings to the table. I need to appreciate Genevieve's humor and awe of her big sister.

The last couple of months have been humbling. It is always a very painful experience when God decides I need some humbleness. About three months ago, we discussed some theology in the car, and I told Shawn and the girls that whenever I say, "God, I know I need to be humbled," some very trying experiences follow. Then I silently wondered..."wait, that didn't count, did it? It was just an example, not a true prayer request for humility." It counted. There have been many other difficulties that we have faced that I don't care to mention. We've lived. Most likely, we're stronger for it. When Friday comes and goes, we will tackle all of the new difficulties that come with a deployment, and we will become even stronger.

The Birds and the Bunnies...

That's Gay

Olivia knows what "gay" means. I asked her how she knows, and she replied, "Oh, you know, there's so much gossip in third grade." I didn't know, but I guess I do now. I asked her what gay meant, and she said that it was when two boys wanted to date, or... she rubbed the tips of her pointer fingers together and made a kissy sound. Although it took all I had to keep a straight face, I nodded as though she were wise. And truly, it helped that I was trying hard to remember when it was the last time I had seen that gesticulation for "make out". It made me feel old that I couldn't recall, but also surprisingly relevant that it was still being used by the kids these days. Olivia also told me that her friend has told her that the word "gay" is worse that saying the F word and "bull-crap" all at once. Pretty serious stuff. I clarified that the word itself is not bad at all, but that if you use it in the wrong way, it can be very hurtful (saying "that's gay" when you really mean "that's stupid"). I never thought I would use Saturday Night Live as a teaching tool, but it was appropriate for this moment. Satan was being interviewed on Weekend Update (SNL's faux news segment), and there were jokes about Westboro Baptist and how the devil was even appalled by these actions. Of course this led to discussions of Christianity, and how we are expected to treat people. I loved the talk, and was very proud of Olivia. Homosexuality was easy to talk about.

However... homosexuality in rabbits? Different story. Let me start at the beginning. We decided to raise rabbits for our own meat. We got a male and female pair from a man in St. Cloud. Of course, by now, you know me well enough to know that somehow, we had sought out a total nut-case to sell us our animals. That's how we roll. He showed me the genitalia of each bunny to prove they were different. I shrugged and said, "Looks the same to me." I don't know how a rabbit's vagina is supposed to look for crying out loud. Over the months, we had gotten all kinds of advice about how to make our rabbits mate. The male- white as snow- never showed any interest in the female, other than to occasionally snuggle. The latest pearl of wisdom we received was to separate the fluffy couple, which would make the male go crazy with desire once the two were re-united. We did this, keeping the female inside where she was exposed to more light and heat, which would make her prone to believing it was now spring. A month later, when Shawn brought the male into the house to join the female, he and the girls were beyond excited. They were going to get the rabbits to mate, which meant that soon, there would be babies!!! Growing up around animals and their mating seasons has apparently left me calloused to the miracle of conception. I could really care less about watching the bunnies get it on. Allowing Olivia and Genevieve to watch documentaries about their favorite animals had long ago exposed them to the actual sight of animals mating, and I had witnessed horses at a young age, so I wasn't too concerned about that. I chose to read back in the bedroom instead. Only a few moments later, Shawn called for me to come out to where they were gathered around the cage. I replied that, no thanks, I would really rather read. Shawn hurried into our bedroom, eyes wide, and in a desperate voice, said that he really needed my help with questions from the girls. I rose to join him, but wondered what sorts of questions the girls might have that they didn't already know. While we walked down the hallway, Shawn told me that Olivia had pointed to the female, cocked her head, and said, "Are those... testicles?" Shawn inspected, more to humor Olivia than anything, and gaped at the pair of balls that were now so obvious. He said that um, yes, those were testicles. The "female" immediately mounted the male and began to hump him at lightening speed. The girls promptly turned to Shawn with confused looks. Hence, his desperate calls for me. When I arrived upon the scene, the two males were frantically taking turns with each other, and the girls watched with wide eyes and mouths agape. Of course, they wanted to know why on earth the rabbits would still try to mate if they were both boys? I did my best to say that it was simply animal instinct, and that we should probably just go somewhere else and leave the guys alone for a bit. The original male rabbit had exhausted himself by now, and lay in the cage as though he were dead. Our trusty "female" was not yet depleted, and would mount any part of the other rabbit that could be obtained. The shoulder was attacked, and the girls giggled. Silly rabbit. Then, before I could push the girls away, the she-male began to rape the white rabbit's face. Another round of very difficult questions. It certainly did not help that Shawn was laughing so hard at the whole situation that he was experiencing trouble breathing. I glared at him and ushered the girls out of the room, leaving dear hubby bent over and coughing.

Now to make things more complicated, I am pregnant. Yes, this is a very joyous occasion for us! After trying for two years, Shawn and I had thought that perhaps he wasn't able to have children, or that maybe I was no longer able. We became certified for foster care, and were beyond excited for our first foster child to welcome. A sudden pregnancy has halted those plans, but we know we'll pick them up again. Olivia and Genevieve have now had to come to terms with the fact that Shawn and I have "mated". I cringe when I picture the rabbits, and wonder if they have that image still burned into their minds. I also can't help but wonder... do they wonder if that's how we went about the process? Not something I want to ponder. I really shouldn't be surprised that although my daughters were begging for a baby brother or sister previously, when we told them that I was pregnant, they burst into tears. I see many sessions of therapy in their futures. Some time has passed, and the girls now know that they will be getting a baby brother in the beginning of August. This has helped. They also know that in May, Shawn gets deployed for a year, and that makes them feel like very important helpers for mommy. I hope that a baby brother will help make up for some of the trauma!

Baby, it's cold outside.

Chores are much more difficult in this frigid weather. Our high for today is predicted to be 4 degrees, and tonight, it is expected to dip to -11. Fortunately, we have found a heated drinking bowl for the goats, with a metal coil on the outside of the cord so they can't chew through it. However, even the heated bowl will get a bit of frost on it, in temperatures like this. You would think that chores would be the same, just colder, during the winter. Not true. The animals seem to think that this is a good time to make things more difficult for me.

I'll start with Emma, our dog- she loves to "encourage" me. When it's time to milk, she'll stand in front of me and stare. If I don't respond immediately, she'll start to whine and lunge at me as though she is about to attack. Finally, I'll get exasperated enough with her to just go out and do what I need to do. I cannot get dressed quickly enough for her. She will consistently press her cold, wet, nose into my bare skin as I try to put on my clothes. I can't stand it. As obedient as Emma is, she will not stop doing this no matter how many times I scold her for it. When I'm dressed and ready, Emma also feels that I need to be told in what direction I need to be going. She will herd me out the door, down the steps, and all the way to the barn. It drives me bonkers to have her constantly nudging me. She doesn't do this in the summer, so I think that all the extra layers make her think that I am too fat to walk on my own, and a little bit of nose up my rear is necessary.

When I entered the barn in the warmer months, the goats would bleat and yell like the place was on fire. They knew that milking time meant grain. Now when I walk in, they stare at me. They remain huddled together on the ground, chewing their cud. I call to them, and they continue to stare. I enter their pen and wave my arms a few times, and they look at me like I'm stupid. Then they pretend as though I'm not there, and start finding things to look at on the ceiling. Right now, only Maple is giving milk, so I'll go wrestle her to her feet and hook her up to a lead rope. Socks follows us for the sole purpose of harassing me. As I begin to milk Maple, Maple will slowly start to lean into me until she is literally laying in my lap. She doesn't do this to Shawn or Olivia. It's quite frustrating. She and I have both learned that if I try to push her off of me, I end up flat on my back in manure. I find it much less humorous than the goats do. So, as I precariously balance myself and 75 lb. Maple while I maintain a squat position, I milk as quickly as I can. Socks sneaks up and pulls my hat over my eyes, or gets a grip on my pants and yanks me over; sometimes she practices doing both in quick succession. I'm so glad that goats can't laugh, or I would probably lose it.

Goats are not very sanitary creatures. Every day there are several helpings of turds in their water bowl. In my bowl cleaning experience, I have come to understand that scarves- while necessary to keep me warm- can be used against me. One day (as I was still recovering from an assault from the goats which landed me on my back), as I bent over to clean the poopy dish, my scarf fell straight into the murky contents. My first instinct was to jerk it out, which resulted in frigid brown water spraying all over my face. As I spit and sputtered with my eyes closed, Socks grabbed my soiled scarf and gave it a good pull. I spilled the milk all over myself, which quickly froze to my jacket. After I gained my composure, I brought the offensive water bowl outside to scrub it out. I grumbled and cursed the whole time, and once I finished, I found that since the bottom of the bowl holds the heated coils, there was gooey dung all over the arm of my coat. I now had poop covering every square inch of my winter attire. When I finally got inside the house, I was greeted with, "Mommy, you smell!"

I have been doing everything I can to bribe Shawn and Olivia to do the chores, and luckily, I seldom have to milk anymore. They know that I'm not just paranoid- the goats really do have it out for me. If they had opposable thumbs, I doubt I would ever sleep again.

How Quaint

My friends really enjoy my status updates on Facebook, and my blog entries on here because they think that the things we do are hilarious, in a "Isn't that quaint?" sort of way. And I have to agree. There are times when I am doing something, and it makes me think, "Awww! This is cute." For example, I absolutely love our wood-burning stove. It sits in our cozy, orange dining room, and I decorated around it with antique pots, cookie cutters, and and a bundt pan. I am a terrible decorator, but am quite pleased with this particular corner of our home. On top of the stove, we have an old teapot, and a cast-iron chicken that holds water to help keep the humidity up. Sometimes I put a cinnamon stick in there, or dried marigolds from our garden as a potpourri. It's all very quaint looking. In the evenings, the girls and I will sit at the dining table by the fire, so we can keep warm while I read to them. We drink hot chocolate or tea and go on booky adventures. How quaint!

Of course, some of the not-so-quaint aspects of this are things like having to unload truckloads of wood into the barn. I unloaded a few cords and stacked them myself, which I was quite proud of (just ask my husband- he heard me boast about it for days), but it was certainly hard work. Even that has a little appeal, kind of like, "I'm a real pioneer now!" Another drawback to wood heat is, by the time I get up in the morning to get the girls ready for school, all that remains of our fire is a couple of glowing embers. Our master bedroom is the furthest room from the fire, and boy is it hard to convince myself to get out from under the covers! Very chilly. I now wear slippers at all times, which I swore I would never do. I mean, who am I, my mother?! (When I finally confessed to my mom that I wear slippers daily- just like she does- she replied by saying, "Turning out like your mother is a bitch, isn't it?"). If I start wearing long underwear all the time, I'll be mortified. Anyways, when I finally get brave enough to throw back my covers and hastily put on my slippers, I scurry out to the stove to stoke the coals and put more wood on. The cats and I glean as much heat as we can, then I go to wake the girls. As they groggily come out of their slumbers, I put their clothes over the chairs at the dining table so that they can be warmed by the growing fire. When the girls get out of bed, we all get dressed around our stove, and once again, I am thinking, "How quaint is this?!" It makes getting bundled up and heading out to the barn for an armload of wood worth it.

My friends and family still think that us milking goats is the funniest thing they have ever heard of. My relatives additionally expresses their amazement at our lifestyle, claiming that I was the last person that they ever expected to do this. This always surprises me, since I was a farm girl that has always loved animals and the barn. (In fifth grade, I begged my parents to let me live in a tee-pee and live off the land like an Indian. My dad had to be all logical and ask me how I would survive the winter with an allergy to the cold.) My family explained that this is what doesn't add up to them- I was the tomboy, the jock, the "won't take any crap from anybody" kind of girl. To them, all of this is about the most domestic lifestyle they can imagine. I guess I don't see it that way sometimes. When I'm struggling to load the truck with heavy hay bales or cleaning the goat pen out, it all seems very un-feminine and not domestic. Then again, I consistently wear aprons and my small income comes from making and selling goat milk soap and crafts. I own the traditional "woman's role" in the house and do all of the (exceptional) cooking, (indifferent) cleaning, and (satisfactory) mending. Maybe I can see what they're saying.

After a year of living in this house, so much has changed. It went from being the perfect set for a horror film, to becoming a home. I have learned how to can, make much of our own food, milk a goat and make stuff out of it, and how to get a fire going (which is not easy, trust me). Olivia and Genevieve have gone a year without television in our home, and Shawn and I have been a year without cell phones. All of us have experienced a shift in our senses of humor. Shawn thinks it's funny when our new milker, Maple, gives him kisses on his cheek while he milks her, yet she stabs me in the ribs with her horns when I milk her. Olivia thinks it's funny when Socks poops in a corner right after I finish cleaning their pen. I will say something to Socks to express my gratitude at her audacity, and she'll cock her head at me and lift her tail, letting another string of black goat pearls fall to the ground. Olivia nearly chokes, she laughs so hard. The other night, Olivia had a friend over for a sleepover. The little girl asked me what time it was, and I was busy making her a bracelet, so I murmured, "I don't know," distractedly. Her eyes grew round. "You guys don't even have clocks?!" she yelled in disbelief. This time I laughed so hard I nearly choked. I told her that we did have clocks- one is even digital! Our perspectives have changed so much, and the novelty is not wearing off. This lifestyle appeals to me even more than it did in my imagination, and I have a feeling we'll be homesteaders for quite some time. How quaint.

For more quaintness, be sure to check out my website! www.katiescustoms.com I will also be in my very first craft show in Rochester on Dec. 4th at Christ Lutheran Church from 8:00am-3:00pm. I would love to see you there!

Katie