Thursday, February 16, 2017

Reasons to Wear Perfume

For the first time since I became a mother, today I’m wearing perfume.

It is not for a special occasion, special person or special day, but rather, very ordinary events that unraveled my morning well before the beautiful sunrise struck Indiana.

I came in contact with the feces from three species before 6:30 AM: bovine, feline and Caroline. Because of this, I’m wearing my fourth outfit of the day – hopefully my final. Until I get home tonight and have to feed cattle, again. Hopefully, after that: pajamas. Six changes of clothes in 12 hours isn’t bad for someone not in diapers. Right?

For the record, CJ is on outfit number three and I 
packed four more to cover the next eight hours. 

I have this strange smell of amoxicillin and acid reflux swirling around me, and despite holding strands of my hair under the bathroom sink faucet and using Bath & Body Works White Citrus hand soap as shampoo, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I have two strategically placed bobby pins in my hair holding back certain parts that have dried, not clean, but crusty. I did a spray-and-run of Lysol and perfume before leaving the house to cover all germs and smells. 

After giving CJ her infant Tylenol, I licked my fingers, rather than wash them, hoping that the sweet relief she gets from the stuff will somehow alleviate the pain her mother recognizes as “Thursday”.  Despite the .05 mL of drugs ingested, I can still feel the pain.

On the way to daycare I asked CJ to behave, to be kind, to take a nap and to eat her food. She promised fifty-percent. That’s the most I can hope for from a 7-month-old. At least she’s honest.


I listened to praise music on full blasters all the way to work because I figured it was the only way to keep myself from cussing the morning; it’s hard to say bad words when worship music is filling your ears. I came into the co-op parking lot on two wheels, leftover Mexican food in one hand, computer bag in the other, stopping every three feet to check the bottoms of my shoes. Something was lingering and it wasn’t amoxicillin, acid reflux, Lysol or perfume.


Damn barn cats.



Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Toys On The Ground

Making dinner of an evening now takes quite a bit longer than it used to, but it is twice the fun with my kitchen helper. 


As my mom did, I'm making an effort to include Caroline in the kitchen early and often. Every evening she sits in her high chair and judges the way my 1 tablespoon of butter measures more like 1 1/2 tablespoons. One day she'll appreciate my generosity. 


Meal preparation takes longer, not because of her inability to mince garlic, but rather her ability to throw her toys on the ground. 

Because I believe in the 5-second rule (and I'm also terrified that Cody wore his work boots across the kitchen to grab an Angus Journal in the living room without me knowing), I try to pick up her discarded toys as quickly as I can. 
Then blow them off. 
Or rinse them off. 
Or put them in the "to boil" pile. 


Maybe because my mind runs in several different directions often, 
or perhaps because something is heavy on my heart at all times
each night as I prepare dinner for our family 
I think of a message that 
I want to share with you. 

I have a tattered relationship with a friend that is in desperate need of repair. Each time I reach out, they make it clear that they want little to nothing to do with me. It weighs on me daily, and strangely each time that I'm in the kitchen and Caroline throws a toy to the ground without any regard to the hard, dirty farmhouse floor resting at the bottom of her tiny force, I think about that friend and our discarded friendship. 


In my true (ignorant) I'm a good person and you hurt my feelings fashion, the first (3) times my friend told me to leave them alone I took it quite personally. Then I got mad. 
Their loss. I thought. 
I'm a nice person. I thought. 
We've had a great time over the years. I remembered. 

Then I had a conversation with someone else that changed my perspective. I told this person (my not-paid-enough-pseudo-counselor) that I feel like one of the objects so thoughtlessly tossed aside; perhaps that's why I'm so quick to pick up every toy. Or spoon. Or spaghetti strainer. Or book. Or teether. Or mixing bowl. Or anything on the ground. 

And I was quickly reminded that I'm not just a toy on the ground. 

I was quickly reminded that everyone is facing a battle that we know nothing about. 

I was reminded that everyone is facing a battle that we know nothing about. 

Everyone is facing a battle that we know nothing about. 

Those last three lines were not typos. I hope you read, read and re-read them. 

Instead of showing frustration, I'll show my friend love, as Jesus has shown me (John 15:12). I'll love my friend in the way that Caroline loves each toy once I wash it off and present it to her again. Each time, she is excited to see it, as though it's a brand new toy she's never seen before. Her excitement and appreciation is admirable.

If you have a friend in need, don't give up. Don't stop reaching out to them because they act as though they want you to go away. Don't get offended because you're the last person they want to spend time with. It isn't always about you. Don't be discouraged because they're bothered that you check on them. Seasons of life affect people differently, and in the long run I can promise you the effort of caring you put into the relationship will not be something you regret.


Tonight I'll cook dinner with CJ in the high chair and CS in the barn.
I'll pick up the discarded toy and the strainer and the spoon and the bowl and the teether and more. 
Later at night I'll lay my head down on my pillow thinking of - and praying for  - the friend that would rather I go away than bother them again. 
And I'll commit to loving them through the storm. 

And I'll hope that you do the same for your friend 
that came to mind as you read this blog. 


Also, Jesus doesn't judge the state of my kitchen floor and you probably shouldn't, either. 
Only my mother is warranted to do that. 

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

The Farmhouse Register

The older I get, the more hurriedly time tries to dodge past and the more I appreciate the value in a farmhouse register. I have a long history with the old metal grate that blows slow, warm air to heat a homestead. 



If you've ever wondered why I resembled Hattie the Witch growing up, wonder no longer. 



When we were young, mom would instruct my sister and I to "go lay on the register" to dry our hair. So, without question or objection, we did. 
No blow dryer. 
No brush. 
Just two girls reporting to our individual registers, lying flat and waiting for the heat to kick on. This wasn't anything odd to me, as it was better than mom using a brush and No More Tangles (I call BS) to work through the knots in my hair. It also allowed me to slow down for a while and get my mind right. Trust me: you don't want to be rough housing when your sensitive scalp is lying against a metal grid. Years passed and styling products, blow dryers, hot rollers and (unfortunately) flat irons entered the picture, and the days of simply lying on the register as our beauty regiment were no more. I learned to miss the ease and quiet of laying on the register. 



But the register was more than a hair dryer; it was also a crystal ball. 

Want to set fire to an already-worn-out homemaker? Get off the bus and immediately ask her what's for dinner. Not that I have experience. I learned early that I could just go the dining room register, check the writing on the white butcher paper of the piece of meat being thawed on the low heat and determine quickly if tonight was a cube steak with gravy, beef and noodles or rump roast kind of night. We always ate well. That's why we could never put our jeans in the dryer. 



There are particular things that are not in my life's Standard Operating Procedure, nor will they be, ever:
Starting the day without making the bed. 
Buying low-fat ice-cream. Or low-fat sour cream. Or low-fat anything, really.
Putting my jeans in the dryer. 

I've never trusted gals who can get their jeans out of the dryer and zip them in the same day. How does that work? Don't you have to do the step-and-squat-step-and-squat for three mornings straight before wearing them in public?  Also, how do the jeans not became denim capris after one dryer session? So many questions directed towards those who don't rely heavily on farmhouse registers. 

From my teenage years to now, my jeans have never been in a dryer but always found a place on the farmhouse register for drying. It is a slow, low heat (think of smoking a 10-pound prime rib) that takes two days to fully complete the duty. But it saves trouble when I consider that I didn't have to lie flat on my bed and use a coat hanger to jack up the zipper. 
Alone. Not that I have experience. 

It was two weekends ago when I really began to consider, and appreciate, the simple service of a farmhouse register. With Cody in Denver for eight days, Caroline and I came in from the farm after choring in -2º temperatures. I considered dipping her in a warm bathtub, but then remembered that we didn't have one. So I unbundled her and sat her tiny body on the register while I removed my layers. 



She was as content as they come, 
feeling the warm air move 
through her footie pajamas. 

It reminded me of a childhood lying flat, looking at the ceiling and waiting for my hair to dry. Or even coming in from the farm twenty years ago and warming up on the register. It's amazing what comfort warm, dry air can bring to a person when they don't truly need anything else in that moment. 

Do you have a register in your life?

Maybe not a metal heat vent that blows as much dust as it does air, but rather a quiet, calm place to focus on one thing, only. 

Maybe yourself. 
Maybe your faith. 
Maybe your family.
Maybe your business plan. 
Maybe just your life's general direction. 

Go there as soon as you can. 
Refocus. Regroup. Recharge. 


And don't forget to lay out a cut of beef for dinner. 
You'll think me come 5:30 when you're trying to carry in five grocery bags, a computer bag and a baby and your husband asks, 
"What's for dinner?"


Not that I have experience. 

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Sixth Annual Jean's Boots Christmas Letter

You read that right. 
We're in week two of 2017 and I'm just now getting out my Annual Christmas letter. 
If you know me, you'll think nothing of it. 
If you don't know me, you should. You'll feel better about yourself. 

Let me be the absolute last person to wish you Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!! I hope you returned from a wonderful holiday recharged to take on another year, with a cleaned out heart, mind and refrigerator. 

I received a scathing message over the holidays from a Jean's Boots reader who claimed that I live in a fairy tale world. 
I'll admit: I was a bit taken back; but that's part of writing your life's story and leaving it for the world to read: everyone has a voice. The fairy tales I remember from my childhood included ball gowns and soft kisses and princes and white horses. 
My life includes Carhartts and mouse traps in the kitchen and heifers in heat and barn cats. 

One hundred times over I'll still take option 2. 

2016 was a big year for the Sankey Tribe. 

Cody spent the first couple weeks of the year in Denver at the National Western Stock Show and I became all too familiar with the intricate mechanics of our ball waterers on the farm. I learned at what temperature each would likely freeze, what tools removed the lids, what damage a chipped seal can do, why it is important that the blue ball floats flush to the top of the tank, why you shouldn't completely removed the valve cover as you pour hot water over it, which animal health company thermos keeps water hottest for an extended period of time, that I have a hole in my left Carhartt pocket where I used to carry the socket wrench, and that my iPhone doesn't work in temperatures below 20º when the battery is less than 38%. Bummer deal. That was my January. 



In February I traveled solo to a dear friend's wedding in Texas where I read during the ceremony. Pregnancy brain was just enough in full swing that I flew there to learn that I had booked myself into the wrong hotel on the wrong side of town, had no rental car or transportation to get myself to and from the rehearsal, ceremony or reception, and also forgot any insurance cards, health insurance cards and even my beloved Spanx. This means I had one  he** of a time renting a car in Abilene and an even worse time trying to zip my non-maternity dress in a hotel room alone. That was my February. 

March, April and May were mostly comprised of waiting room prayers and Cody and I holding our breath in a dark room with our eyes closed, waiting to hear a simple - but so complex - swishing sound. We spent more time walking the aisles of Buy Buy Baby and reading reviews on Amazon.com than either of us want to admit, but we did that for good reason. 

In June Cody represented the American Angus Association and attended the NCBA's Young Cattlemen's Conference. From Denver to Chicago to Washington, DC, it was the experience of a lifetime. He proved to be a force on the Hill - all those years of livestock judging paid off million times over. The guy can convince you of anything: trust me. He was voted by other attendees to be the 2016 YCC Chairman, which means he'll return to the trip in 2017 to represent his class and also go to the national convention in Nashville in a few weeks. 

For the first time in my life, in 2016 I spent exactly one-half of the year pregnant. 
Then, on July 1, 2016 Caroline Jean Sankey entered the world. How amazing that God entrusted Cody and I to raise up this little girl? She brings us so much joy. Wowza is she a cute kiddo. You all told me motherhood would change my life in a thousand different ways and you were so wrong. I counted 2,857 ways back in September. I. WAS. NOT. PREPARED. 
In fact, I was the World's Greatest Mother until I became one. Now, I spend my days wondering if she's getting enough verbal stimulation, if she's over exposed to cat residue in the barn (seriously - I don't know where they sleep/step/live) and if I cram her into that sleeper one more day: Will she turn out bow legged? I spend some nights rocking her from 2-4 AM and other nights checking her breathing five different times because she hasn't awaken me, at all. 



In August Cody accepted a role within Genex as Bull Procurement Manager. He now travels the world looking at cattle and in search of sires to add to Genex's line-up. Sometimes when he sends me photos like the one below, I send him photos of whatever I'm looking at (diaper? sink full of dishes? barn cat frozen to a shovel?) just to remind him of the kind of woman he married. 



I went back to work in October and still really enjoy my job, even if I do take 2-minute breaks every 45 minutes to watch videos of Caroline. Every day I enjoy writing and working for Harvest Land. I like the people, the mission and the work; I do miss our girl. 

2016 was year of little sleep, huge change and even greater love. One hour I find myself completely frustrated with the number of toys, books and burp cloths scattered across our farmhouse. Two hours later Caroline is in bed and Cody is asleep in the recliner and I find a strange sadness in putting everything back to it's exact place. Another day is already gone. 

I use more under eye concealer than those within the entire city limits of Las Vegas, deeply respect a new set of individuals who talk more to a washing machine throughout the day than they do a human being and now measure days in two-hour increments. 

2016 changed things. 

2017 will, too. 

Cody, Caroline and I hope that you have a wonderful year. And if you, too, believe that my writing is fairy tale ramblings, I invite you to read the last five years of year-in-reviews. Need a confidence boost? Here ya go:

Year One
Year Five

Take care of yourself, 

- Lindsay Jean

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Ice Road Truckers: A Modern Day Christmas Story

Last Friday Cody, Caroline and I headed west for Christmas in Kansas. When we pulled out of the driveway – an hour later than hoped and loaded down with BSG sale cattle in tow – we had no idea what lied ahead. Had I known, I would have packed more snacks. Or, any snacks at all. The first thirty minutes into our trek set the tone for the entire adventure. I forgot three gifts in the back compartment of my Edge, so we had to turn around and get those, putting us even further behind. 
11:15 AM: we hit the road – again.


I’m certain that Cody has an app on this phone that directs him to the dirtiest truck stop restrooms in the history of the world and because he’s a curious guy, he likes to experience them. We hit one every 3 hours, or so.  I killed 17 trees making sure no part of Caroline’s body would touch the plastic changing tables at every bathroom we entered. Point of reference: The Pilot in Terre Haute, Indiana has the coldest bathroom I’ve ever been in. Caroline would agree.  She went through two outfits just trying to self-regulate her body temperature.

I don’t remember much of Illinois. It's probably better that way.

Between St. Louis and Columbia, Missouri a freezing rain moved in and completely crippled the interstate system.  Our truck came to a screeching halt, but we didn’t think too much of it because the roads had gotten noticeably slick. Two hours later we were still crawling westbound in stop-and-creep traffic.

By hour 4 Cody was getting quite uncomfortable. First he took off his belt, which was pushing on parts of his body that didn’t need any extra pressure. What made this noteworthy is the fact that he forgot this minor detail each time he got out of the truck. Have you ever seen Cody Sankey jump out of a truck without a belt to hold his pants up? Noteworthy. Secondly, he got a leg cramp so bad I was sure we’d have to amputate, but he couldn’t get out and stretch because we were sitting on pure ice. Then, somewhere in the dark between Wright City and Warrenton, Missouri these simple words cut through the dark, idling truck cab:
“You’re not going to like this, but I need you to dump this cup as soon as it’s full.”
60 oz. and two minutes of gagging later I knew that love truly knows no bounds.

Both directions of I-70 traffic were stopped for several hours.  In fact, we sat in a 7-mile stretch for 8 hours and in park (not moving an inch) for 6 of the 8. We rolled past one man who had fallen asleep behind the wheel, car still running. Cody honked to wake him up as we slowly rolled past him, but we didn’t get the job done. We later saw the guy back up and going; more rested than the rest of us, no doubt. I forget what hour it was when Cody told me that if we sat there much longer he would have to shut off the truck to conserve fuel and I’d have to keep Caroline warm. It was then that I went from frustrated to worried.

It was an eerie feeling driving, or skating, past abandoned semis and cars/trucks that had either fallen victim to the ice and landed in the ditch, or those which had run out of gas from sitting idle in single digit temperatures for eight hours. Those big semi trucks don’t seem so powerful when they’re strung around like rag dolls and piled against guard rails. Once up and going we also saw a lot of cups lining both sides of the interstate. Cody found a bit of peace knowing he wasn’t the only one in such a predicament. I felt empathy towards any co-pilots involved.

We saw only one MoDOT truck during our 8-hour stop, and he kept driving back and forth across the over pass ahead of us. The local country station wasn’t playing music, but rather taking calls from stranded drivers. Cody called in once we “made it through the gauntlet” and told the DJ about the conditions we encountered, how long we’d been sitting, etc. On the air the DJ asked if Cody had a clean joke he’d like to share with the listeners:
Cody was quick to respond: “Do I have a joke? I sure do: MoDOT.”

We were hauling six cows and three calves that had sold two weeks ago at the Bowman Superior Genetics Form to Function sale. One buyer sat at a truck stop in Kingdom City, Missouri from 4:00 PM (when we told him we’d be there) until 1:00 AM (when we actually arrived) waiting on his investments. We unloaded half of the stock in the truck stop parking lot on a sheet of ice, used the restroom, bought coffee then kept on west. Had there been any available hotel rooms there or the next three exits we would have stayed over night. Every room along icy I-70 was already full at 2:00 AM.  Our family has a whole new appreciation for the phrase "No room at the inn" this year. 

For 370 miles – from St. Louis to Council Grove, Kansas – Cody didn’t exceed 50 mph., nor did he take the truck out of 4 wheel drive. I did my best to keep Caroline fed, changed and entertained in the backseat. I’ll admit I broke many rules in terms of keeping her buckled in, but she stayed warm, dry and fed and at the end of the day(s) that’s all we cared about. I learned how to change a diaper in a single-seat space and how to feed a baby while sitting amongst truck drivers in a well-lit Pilot fuel pump line. Motherhood has a way of tearing you down and then truly empowering you in the next moment.

CJ praying outside a Topeka truck stop that we make 
it to the 6N Ranch in time for Christmas

We left our house at 11:00 AM Friday and should have been to the ranch by 9:00 PM that evening.
Instead we arrived at 11:00 the next morning: Almost 24 hours to the minute. To top it all off, Cody went to unload the remaining Shorthorns (sold to Colorado) and the trailer door was pure ice and frozen shut. He had to unload the cows and calves out the side door. That’s just the luck of Cody Sankey, Ice Road Trucker.

I rolled out of the truck with spit up in my hair, my fingers webbed due to the amount of formula caked onto them, my leggings so stretched out that the crotch was between my knees, and a restless baby in my arms.  Cody was in serious need of a stiff drink and stretch, but he settled for a shower and a nap before the Laflin Christmas began in two short hours.

We had three really nice Christmases, were gifted far too much and spent hours watching Caroline and cousin Bayler interact. It was such wonderful family time. But in no time we were heading east again.


The trip home was much more uneventful, thank goodness.
Although we did stop mid-Missouri for fuel and another dirty Pilot truck stop bathroom experience:

I had just lined the changing table with 40 paper towels and laid Caroline down when another mom came in with yoga pants, a thigh gap and her two young kids.  She looked at Caroline sprawled out on the plastic table, then instructed her kids, “Do not touch anything in the bathroom. Keep your hands off everything.”

As she led her Baby Gap models into the handicap stall, I turned and looked down at CJ, batting her tiny hand against the wall, and began to feel like Grand Champion Dirty Mom of Missouri. Meanwhile, thigh gap continued to instruct her kids to keep their hands off everything. In an effort to make more room at my workstation, I wrapped up the dirty diaper and threw it approximately 8 feet across the restroom to the trash can. If you know my athletic history (it’s brief), you won’t be surprised to know that I missed the trash can, the diaper ricocheted off the side and rolled into Thigh Gap’s stall.

SILENCE.
I didn’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry about that! I never was much of a basketball player.”
No response.
Shortly after, she and her kids emerged from the stall, she scrubbed their hands and they left without a word of encouragement or disdain. If I had a Snickers bar in that moment I would have gladly given it to her.

In the meantime Cody had come into the travel center to get caffeine. I took Caroline out to get her loaded up and heard water running? I quickly learned that the diesel pump had dispensed 17 gallons over what our tank actually holds because the pump didn’t shut off automatically when full. That was a $39.00 travel lesson learned the hard way.


The best news: We’re home. We’re safe. We were able to catch up on conversations that we hadn’t had in a while and I was given the opportunity to sit next to Caroline Jean and study her for hours on end, uninterrupted. How many other moms get that chance, especially during this busy holiday season? God doesn't always give us what we want, but rather what we need

Speaking of needs. 

Does anyone have a chiropractor recommendation in east central Indiana? 36 hours of sitting in a crew cab has really taken a toll on this old mom. I've considered doing yoga stretches but I haven't been able to touch my toes in 24 years. 



Merry Christmas from the Sankey family

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Nothing Is Easy

Nothing is easy anymore.

Two weeks ago on a Saturday night I logged on to Amazon.com to buy diapers and a sink stopper.


On the following Tuesday I came home and met the following on our back door step: an outfit for our niece in South Dakota, a copy of Grace,Not Perfection, wool boot socks, pine-scented wax cubes and 36 bars of Kirk’sCastile Soap. Thank you, protector of marriages, for placing Cody in Argentina on this particular day.

Last Thursday I set my alarm for 4:30 AM - 30 minutes earlier than normal -  so I could get to work at 7:00 and use the central printer before the rest of the crowd showed up.
I rolled into the office at 8:07 with half-dry hair, no mascara, slacks with no top button, my work belt (as in: the farm) rather than my work belt (as in: career), spit up on my blanket scarf that I still don’t know how to tie and no cell phone. It was 20 minutes away in the diaper bag. You know, in case Caroline wanted to Snapchat someone throughout the day. 

Last night after work I pulled Caroline out of her carseat to find  - - - a mess - - -  completely filling one leg of her sleeper. I stripped her down to nothing but a diaper rash, bathed her, only to remember that her bottles were soaking in the sink which her - - - mess water - - - was draining into. I threw the sleeper down into the basement where the wild things live, boiled bottles, and attempted a supper for Mr. Sankey. An hour later and two bites in I realized that the chicken wasn’t cooked all the way through, the rice was hard as a rock and I forgot to pre-treat aforementioned sleeper. I did two loads of laundry last night and baked the baked chicken dish - - - twice. 


This working-mother-ranch-hand may be a ticked overwhelmed this holiday season? What day of the month is Christmas this year? Still on the 25th? I want to make sure I at least have something for dear Shadow.