Quarantine Cut

After looking at Easter photos I realized that Cyrus’ hair was so long you could barely see his piercing blue eyes. It was beyond time for a haircut, but all the shops remained closed due to the times we're living in. 

I asked my husband if he could cut Cyrus’ – an extremely active 1 ½ year old – hair, because I certainly wasn’t doing it. 

Do you remember a time when you came to the realization you weren’t talented in an area? I remember clearly a day that I decided to trim my Barbie styling head’s hair. Barbie styling heads were a big deal in the late 80’s. They were simply the large head and shoulders of a Barbie that you could apply make-up to and style the hair. It was very basic training for your first homecoming dance. 

With purple Fiskars in hand, I began the trim on one side, and slowly twirled the head around while I snipped precisely, from ear to ear. When I finally got around the entire head, I spun her around to learn that the cut ended in a perfect spiral. In fact, the left side of her hair was down past the chin, and by the time I got done, the right side of the head had hair above the ear. 

It was then that I knew: I wasn’t cut out to cut hair.

Fast forward thirty years and my husband was plugging in clippers and snapping on guards in our kitchen. My blood pressure was rising.

I sat Cyrus on my lap and wrapped a towel around him like a cape, then kissed his cheek. The clippers began buzzing and he jolted. But dad talked to him throughout the process and he became completely calm. He giggled when Cody went around the ears. 

White hair began falling onto the towel and he fought to get his arms out. He grabbed a handful and studied it like snow. 

I grabbed a handful and set it aside. That handful now rests in my cedar chest in an envelope, “Cyrus’ Quarantine Cut 2020”. If you come to his graduation open house in 17 years, you’ll probably see it on the display table. 

I have a damn hard time letting go.

Then, the mood suddenly changed when Cody began dropping hints about how badly he, too, needed a haircut. The hints were unnecessary; I’d been living in the same house with him 24/7 for 45 days. 

I told him the Barbie styling head story and he either didn’t care or didn’t listen, because by the time I wrapped it up, he was sitting in the chair with a towel wrapped around himself like a cape. 

Two minutes, many verbal complaints and an acre of dark hair on my kitchen floor later I told him:

“Listen, pal. I can’t do a fade. I can’t blend. I can only take little bits off a time and hopefully not an ear.”

“OK,” he replied. “Well, my girl in town can do all of it. Just try.”

“Ok, well, your girl in town went to school for this. She has a license to run these clippers. I only have a license to drive a car,” a snipped back.

“Daddy. Who is your girl in town?” asked Caroline. 

The three-year-old took the words right out of my mouth. 

It took twenty minutes and four trips to the bathroom mirror for Cody to agree that we could end the charade. 

He was somewhat content with his fresh quarantine cut, 

the kids were covered in dark hair from playing on the kitchen floor and 

I was hiding a dirty little secret: a 1” x 1” patch I shaved bare behind his left ear.

You can keep a secret, right??

Quarantine

Quarantine

quar·an·tine

noun

a state, period, or place of isolation in which people or animals that have arrived from elsewhere or been exposed to infectious or contagious disease are placed.

Also, a situation where you have a burning desire to try every recipe you’ve ever encountered.

Like everyone across America, I’ve been cooking much more in the last two weeks. My previous routine included cooking a large meal on Sunday and Monday evenings, then Cody would take flight on Tuesday, and the kids and I would live on leftovers until Friday when Cody would return. The COVID-19 travel ban has changed all of that. I’ve cracked open cookbooks I’ve not used in five years. I am so thankful for the local Hagerstown IGA; they’ve consistently had everything I’ve needed.

The increased appetite also stems from a group of eight college sorority sisters who are terrific cooks. We often swap stories of desperation when trying to visit with the UPS man who won’t make eye contact because you’re still in yesterday’s mascara, and husbands we’ve been married to for years, but are just now revealing that they don’t like Miracle Whip. Who knew? Talk about sleeping next to a stranger.

Our sisterhood group also swaps recipes. Between all of us, we have 18 children that line our dining room tables morning, noon and night. Also, ten times throughout the day for snacks.

One is a ranch wife in California; her recipes include a lot of fresh food and wine. Three are farm wives in Illinois and Indiana; they’re really into crockpot meals and things you can prepare at 11:00 PM the night before, then bake the next day. One is a pharmacist in Illinois; her recipes always include the calorie count and nutritional facts (gross). One is a marketing big-wig for John Deere; her menu usually includes meals that can be enjoyed on-the-go in a tractor or combine cab. Friend number seven is an engineer for August Storck; she figures out how to get Werther’s Originals on your grocery shelf. Her recipes will rot your teeth.

My recipes always include beef. 

Being a good and supportive friend, I work very hard to try each recipe the girls send out. We had five-course meals three nights last week. I’ve made dessert more in the last two weeks than I have in the last 35 years. My jeans are begging for me to eat a spinach salad, but I can usually shut them up with another Werther’s caramel brownie.

Our kids still don’t know how to practice social distancing, so I have yet to go to the bathroom alone. They’re also really into sharing food right now. If I hear, “Mommy, close you eyes an’ open you mouth,” one more time, I’ll probably put myself in legit quarantine. Maybe in Mexico. 

Because of this new routine, I also get stuck eating cold oatmeal at 9:00 AM that someone abandoned because they found a book to read, half-eaten chicken tenders at 1:30 PM after I get them down for a nap and grapes drenched in ketchup at 8:30 PM when I’m finally cleaning up the kitchen for the day. I don’t know the calorie count on crumbled chocolate chip cookies I’ve consumed, but it has to be around the 10,000 range. We don’t waste cookies in this house. 

I’m so thankful for the recent beautiful weather we’ve had so we can get outside to work, play and burn a few calories. On Saturday and kids and I went to town and walked four miles before the rain moved in. I felt great about the exercise and the fresh air we each enjoyed. So, we stopped by The Dairy and ordered cheeseburgers to celebrate. 

I wanted to lose 10 pounds this year. 

Only 13 left to go. 

Discomfort ≠ Suffering

I have never thought of myself as an individual with an entitlement complex, but I do remember certain experiences where I'd like to go back and kick my own butt. One happened just this morning, so I guess that's why I'm writing today.

My first job out of college took me back to a place I swore I'd never live again: Washington, DC. I had interned there one summer and enjoyed it, but certainly didn't catch the "Potomac fever" as many often did. But one year later, the job I wanted to launch my career required I move back to the east coast; I packed a UHaul and my Ford Focus and began my career on 1301 Pennsylvania Ave. 

I remember rinsing out the office coffee pot at the end of a really bad day, thinking to myself, "I did not go to Purdue University for four years and earn a degree to do this."
After a few minutes of scrubbing the pot in my heels and then wiping down the countertops, I remember thinking: "Your father would absolutely kill you if he knew those words were going through your head right now. You were raised better" 
It's funny how sometimes your upbringing can shout at you from the back of your mind when you're 518 miles from anything you've ever known. 

And do you know what? The next day was better. 
And the day after that was better. 

And day, after day, I learned to be grateful for discomfort on the long days because it made the good days that much better. It also proved that I'm capable of anything. Including washing a coffee pot I never poured a cup from. I also learned how to make coffee at my first job. 

We live in a society where discomfort is associated with suffering. People no longer want to experience any discomfort or inconvenience, at all. 
We expect heated steering wheels and seats. 
We no longer drive to a movie store or even a Red Box; we hit "download" and have whatever we want on our living room big screen.
We have thirty pairs of shoes because each feels different on our feet when the temperature swings by ten degrees. 
We don't pay attention to landmarks or even keep a map in the console because we can type an address into our phones and be spoon fed step-by-step directions. 
We expect our professional careers to be constant climbing and measurements of success because we've studied and worked hard and deserve it. 

The truth is that sometimes you have to go into situations understanding that: 

Challenging jobs,
college experiences, 
buying our not-such-a-dream home, but rather the one we can afford
skipping a vacation, 
a lemon of a used car,
or taking the long way
are all things that might not be comfortable, but they will allow us to grow in unforeseeable ways. 

Someone asked me recently how I've come up with content for a blog for eight straight years. 
Well, sometimes I try to be my own life coach and talk myself off a ledge by typing away on this keyboard. 
Because as I type this, our kitchen sink and counter tops are sitting in the yard and will be there over night. A small kitchen project turned a regular Monday into the most Monday-est Monday, ever and this morning I washed breakfast dishes in the 6:00 AM darkness by garden hose while the barn cats watched, smirking. 

So, yeah. 
My discomfort is not suffering. 
It's just a phase of life. 
Let's just hope this phase moves fast. I've got big things to do next week and I don't like making eye contact with animals when I'm still in my nightgown. 

The Spaceship in the Room

In a corner of our kitchen, along the Hoosier Cabinet and the south wall, a large box sat for nearly two full months. 
Caroline found it to be a great place to stack toys or climb. 
Cody found it to be quite in the way and annoying. 
I found it to be quite intimidating. 

On Amazon Prime day (July 10) I ordered an Instant Pot, based solely on the raving reviews  I'd seen my food-fixin'-Facebook-friends give the spaceship-looking machine. 

I watched in wonder while they threw a chuck roast, a can of pinto beans and a shoe string into the spaceship, pushed a single button, used a spoon to release the valve of death, then opened the lid and basically found Thanksgiving dinner inside. 
It was real.
It was fast.  
It was magical. 

Two days after ordering the counter top spaceship, it arrived at our backdoor and a wave of intimidation came over me. I now owned a machine that is supposed to cut my meal preparation time in half and I'm scared of it? I felt silly. 

So, I did what anyone would do with something they're intimidated by: I avoided it. 
I didn't look at it. 
I didn't reference it. 
I no longer watched the videos on how to make yogurt and cheesecake and soups. 
That box sat by our Hoosier for weeks before I scooted it into a corner where it was more out of sight, out of mind. Weekly, Cody asked what my plans were for "CrockPot's Little Sister". I assured him it wasn't another crockpot! It was a pressure cooker! And it will help me in the kitchen!
But not until I got it out of the box, he was always quick to remind me. 
So one Sunday afternoon, I did. 

As I dug it out of the (dusty) box, I was surprised to find a cracked lid and broken utensil. 
I'm embarrassed to say I felt relief in finding a broken machine; that meant I didn't have to face the thing for at least a few more days. 

I know you're asking yourself: 

Why would Crazy Train buy a kitchen gadget 

that intimidates her so?

Well, thanks for asking. 

I wasn't scared of it until it showed up in my own home. 

Much like babies. 

Back to my story:
I packed the broken Instant Pot back up, intimidation and all, and put it in the back of my vehicle where it rode around with me like a bag of Goodwill clothes that don't make it to the store for five months.
You know the bag of clothes I'm talking about. 

Then I called Amazon and requested a replacement InstantPot.
It arrived two days later. What a drag.

This time, I put the box in the living room so it would annoy the heck out of me and I was forced to address the spaceship in the room. 
You guys. 
This is true!
This is how I operate!
This is what fear does to a grown woman!
This is why my husband spends so much time in the barn!

Cody asked me what I was so afraid of. 

Oh, I don't know, Cody. 
The beeping?
The hissing?
A dashboard with more options than what is offered when landing a plane?
A user's manual with more pages than my Ford EDGE's manual?
A lid that closes, seals, latches tighter and is more secure than Ft. Knox?
And when that bad boy locks, you know something is about to go down. 
Or, up....like through the ceiling of our farmhouse kitchen. 

 

It was only three three days later that the weekend arrived and I opened the new box. I read every piece of literature packed within it, studied every utensil, read the trial recipe six times before attempting it. 

I then did what any confident in the kitchen cook would do, I boiled water. 
And it worked!
Relieved, I thought I better quit while I was ahead, so I dried the spaceship off and tucked it under a cabinet until the next weekend. 

Yes, I'm ridiculous. 

I told Cody,

"We'll either have supper or an insurance claim in 17 minutes."

He rolled his eyes and went to the barn. 

In the days to follow I made beef short ribs, hard boiled eggs, shredded beef nachos (no link: Jean's Boots Original Creation) and applesauce. All were quite easy to prepare and very good. And it is true: This thing really cuts down on kitchen time. 

So I have more time with this:

If you're on the fence about getting an Instant Pot, I highly recommend it. It has saved me so much time on the few recipes I've tried, and also encouraged me to try new things. I would have never attempted homemade applesauce in the middle of a busy week. Now, I have enough for our lunches and an after dinner treat. And I had a great excuse to use the high-powered Mexican vanilla my mother-in-law gifted us after a trip south. A little goes a long way. 

Also, I'm terrible about meal planning, which tends to lead to quick thawing of meat after work. Many of the Instant Pot recipes allow for frozen meat to be used, at an additional 10 or so minutes. You can't beat that with a stick. 
I guess you could - but you shouldn't. 

If you want to pull the trigger and invest in a spaceship, you can use this quick link to get the model I have:

As for the genuine fear and intimidation of the machine in the beginning:

I can only compare it to a breast pump...

You can only avoid it for so long. 

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.