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. 

Auction Itch

You can travel all over the United States this season and find a cattle auction going on or approaching. Many beef cows, heifers, and bulls are sold this time of year, whether in the commercial, purebred or show cattle industry. 

Two weeks ago, our family of four traveled to the Kansas flinthills for our family’s production sale, then we went to the beautiful sandhills of Nebraska to another sale where we had beef embryos selling. Over five days, we logged 2,227 miles. That’s a lot of time in a car seat, just ask the kids. 

I love attending these livestock auctions. The atmosphere of the sale, the auctioneer’s rhythmic chant, and “HA! HA!” of the ring men who call the bids – it is truly an exciting event. It is amazing what some stock will bring, what genetics are sold for and how people select what they’d like to take back home to their operations. 

But I’ll tell you, there is something about a live auction that makes me itch. Seriously. 

When at a live auction, you should sit very still so the ring man or auctioneer doesn’t think you’re bidding on the lot. 
Do not nod. 
Do not wink. 
Do not move your arms. 

Not me. 

Put me at an auction and I itch, twitch, and simply do not have the ability to sit still. At the sale in Nebraska, I got something in my eye during the heat of the sale, and could not quit raising my arms to get whatever it was, out. Naturally, I kept blinking, winking moving my head back and forth to find comfort. My husband wasn’t terribly impressed that I almost bought a Hereford bull for more money than we have in our farm bank account. After a bit of confusion, I excused myself to the food line for the remainder of the event. 

A month ago, we went to an estate auction and I watched as they sold the 1989 Crown Victoria. It was at that moment that I saw an old neighbor and couldn’t help but wave. This was a bad, bad idea. Next thing I know, I’m “in” at $2,500 and the auctioneer asks if I want to take the bid to $3,000. I nodded “no” then again excused myself to the dessert line. 

Do you notice a trend?

On Friday night we went to an Angus sale outside West Lafayette. There I was, minding my own business and visiting with a cattle friend when I hear the auctioneer say in the middle of his chant, “Lindsay! You’re OUT!” I looked up to the auction block, and he was, in fact, looking straight at me. I wanted to respond with, “Frankly, I had no idea I was even in,” but I only nodded “no” and walked outside to get some fresh air. I think I use my hands too much when I talk. 

My husband attends these cattle sales for a living, in search of the next great beef bull. He’s taken me to three live auctions over the last two weeks, and I am fairly certain he’ll never again invite me to job shadow him. I’m just a risk that he (we) can’t afford. 

But if you do drive by our farm and see a Hereford bull, 1989 Crown Victoria or something else that just doesn’t fit in, please understand that it is probably a (/an expensive) result of me getting an untimely itch at an auction. 

Why I Don't Leave Home

Last weekend Cody and I traveled to Ft. Worth for the 2017 Angus Convention. 

Two people. 

Two suitcases. 

No diaper bag. 

You guys - I darn near had an anxiety attack traveling without Caroline. 

It was during those brief three days that I remembered why, now that I'm a mother, I no longer leave home. Unless we're out of milk. 

1. I updated our will. 

I'm serious. After retrieving Caroline from daycare to take her to my sister's, we took the updated will to be notarized at a local business. We were flying to Texas, not Tonga. This is the state of mind I was in. 

2. I found the best sitters money can't buy. 

My sister and brother-in-law, Laura and Scott, watched Caroline for the weekend. Let's talk about the list of instructions I left for them. I put a lot of thought into the instructions on how to love our child, and I have a really bad feeling that they never even read the document before throwing it into the trash. 

I also continued to think about all of the guidance two grown adults - who have fantastic children of their own - would require when managing Caroline. So, as the weekend progressed, I sent more instruction. Least I could do. 

3. Airline travel is ridiculous.

Cody and I split ways when we got to security because he goes through TSA Pre-Check where he just bypasses all lines and walks through, iPad, laptop, boots and all. 

I, on the other hand, still mingle with the snow birds. I was moving along the security line quite well until a line of 5 (FIVE!!!!!) wheelchairs scooted up to the podium. There, the snow birds had a heck of a time remembering that they had to have their license (the one that was revoked four years ago) to go further into security. 

Because of the wheelchairs, they were able to bypass me. This took several minutes. Then, a TSA employee called for attention and loudly asked this simple question: "Do any of you have metal in your body?"

Some people just like to hear themselves talk. 

It was then that all five raised their hands and the interrogation proceeded quite quickly. The snow birds went on their merry way to head south and I jumped back in line to throw my iPad onto the security belt. 

4. I like my personal space. 

I'm not sure if it was the furry vest or the fact that the tray table was not down, but my row partner had a burning desire to rest her sleepy head in my lap. For the entire flight. I tried bouncing my leg, faking a sneeze, and reclining my seat, but girlfriend must have needed some serious rest. I get it, girl. 

5. Look Ma, No Hands

I had no idea what to do with my hands all weekend. I didn't have a kid on my hip. I wasn't carrying buckets. I wasn't pushing a stroller. I wasn't picking up sticks or toys. I was basically a big bag of skin and mascara, wandering around a massive crowd of Anderson Bean boots and Bar None hats, hearing to people ask me: Where's the baby?

"Well, good question," I constantly replied in my head. "I should probably call home immediately." 

Which leads me to #6. 

6. My phone rang off the hook. 

I thought. 

I cannot count the times I thought I heard my phone ring, beep or buzz. 

Caroline needed me. 

She had swallowed a sequin. 

She had developed a rare and severe allergy to beef. 

She was trapped in the car seat because technology had changed so greatly since Laura had kids, that Laura could not figure out how to remove her. 

I think I checked my phone something like 697 times throughout the weekend. 

My phone actually rang four times. Total.

However, there were four great successes of the weekend:

1. I spent really good quality time with my in-laws who I see every couple of months. 

2. The event I was there to help facilitate went quite well and I'm even better prepared to do it again 2018. 

3. I learned that Caroline can survive for several days and have a wonderful time without me. This made me smile and cry. Roots and wings, right?

4. Lastly, I had four (4!!!!!) strangers approach me and tell me that they read and enjoy this blog. I wanted to hug them and visit with them and ask them how they stumbled upon my writing. 

But then I had to excuse myself because I thought I heard my phone ring. 

A Mother's Day to Remember

"Welcome to your first Mother's Day," my sister said to me with a smile while we were standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, in an effort to pacify my 10-month old while we waited on our delayed meals. 

Though our reservation was for lunch, my first Mother's Day had already proven to be a real doozy. 

Caroline spiked a 102.5 fever the evening before. We spent the evening and night checking on her. At 4:00 AM she decided to start her day, fever and all. I rocked her from 4:00 - 5:30, when she finally went back to sleep. But Cody and I didn't. 

This was also the Sunday that our church moved to new service times. Our later service time had been eliminated, so we planned on attending an earlier one. No problem, right? Unless you've got your little one on a strict schedule. It threw our whole morning off. That, and lack of sleep. 

We made it to church on time, tossed Caroline into the loving arms of some woman in the nursery, telling the church ladies good luck, and went two floors up to our beloved balcony seats. We try to one-up the back row Baptists. The service about mothers was wonderful, I of course cried, and in no time we went back downstairs to retrieve Caroline. We were met with this: 
"We made her a bottle but there were no tops in the bag, so we couldn't feed her. She's ready to eat!" said the gal working the nursery. 

Ugh. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN??? 
Strike One. 
How do we pack for a Mother's Day out, without packing the most important part of the bottle? 

Between church and lunch we stopped at K-Mart to buy the missing parts we needed. K-Mart is a shell of what it used to be and barely keeping the lights on; still, it took Cody 15 minutes to find something suitable to feed a fussy, hungry 10-month-old. 

We arrived to The Olde Richmond Inn (mom's favorite) fifteen minutes early so I could feed and change Caroline before the rest of our family got there. Except, Caroline was having absolutely no part of the new K-Mart sippy cup and there was too much going on around her for her to want to eat anything from a spoon, at all. 
She was hangry and defiant: A dangerous combination.
So, I decided to cut to the chase and change her diaper. 
Except the diaper tote wasn't inside the diaper bag. 
It was sitting on the dinning room table at home. 

That's right. 
Strike Two. 
In our haste to make the earlier church service,  we planned a Mother's Day Off the Farm without any diapers. 
Not one diaper. 
No wipes.
No cream. 
Nothing. 
I thought he grabbed them. 
He thought I grabbed them. 

By the end of the two-hour lunch (wait service was shoddy), Caroline was 12 pounds heavier and soggy as a swamp. Anyone who wanted to hold and kiss her was warned that their clothes would need dry cleaned. 
No one seemed to care, but me. 

The lunch itself...
We love this restaurant, but this meal was so disappointing. My medium-rare filet was so over-cooked that my throat closed and I spent 30 minutes in a bathroom stall trying to get a tiny (look at the size of your middle finger nail - it was that small) piece of over-cooked beef dislodged. It was awful. 

But then came the voice from one stall over...

I knew she was over there because she was having one heck of a time getting her panty hose pulled back up. Misery loves company and on this particular day mine came from the next stall. 
"Honey, you need me to tell someone out there that you need some help?"
"No ma'am, I'm fine. Thank you," I responded, quite embarrassed. 
Suddenly, a loud and unsolicited prayer came from a stall away:
"Lord Jesus we need you! Lord Jesus protect this lady; and Jesus please make it end soon. End It Soon Jesus! Amen."

I stood there in my Sunday best, staring at a framed mid-century postcard that needed dusted inside a wallpapered bathroom stall and thought to myself: Happy Mother's Day, indeed. 
"Amen," I echoed Miss Daisy. 

That evening I did dishes as the sun slowly moved behind the milk house. 
I could hear Cody zipping around the farm on the Kubota, working another hour before dark. 
I was thinking that it's a shame I didn't double my supper recipe so I could have lunches this week. I was thinking how our kitchen window needs replaced so badly; I can't even see the tree where Caroline's swing hangs. Maybe it just needs washed really well. I was thinking about how I went to church and town without diapers. I can't believe I did that. 
And then I felt two little hands 
grab ahold of my leg, tugging with gentle force and with great confidence. I stopped with my hands in a sink full of soapy water and looked down at a little face so full of joy and pride, as she stood hugging my leg. 

And it was in that moment that I realized - despite the fever, no bottle, no diapers, throat closure, stall-sister prayers - this was the best Mother's Day of my life. 

Thank you, God, 
for showing mothers grace 
on days that we 
don't think we deserve it. 



Side note:
 I came home yesterday to a new kitchen window. I'm serious.
I believe God truly hears the desires of our heart. 
And every once in a (great, great) while after enough complaining,
I guess husbands do, too. 

Trim from the Compromising Crib

Twice a Day for Ten Days

I'm writing this column wearing latex gloves covered in hand sanitizer because I'm a first-time mom and nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof.    

Twice a Day for Ten Days:

I'd love to tell you those were doctors' orders for something far more exciting, but no. 

In our house if it ends in "cillin" or has both an "x" and a "y" in the name, is liquid and isn't part of the alphabet song, you can bet we've been prescribed it in the last three weeks. 

Symptoms:
(Two) Double ear infections. 
5 teeth. 
Respiratory virus. 
Eyes matted so badly that we ran Caroline's tiny hands along the cows so that she knew she was home without seeing proof. 
Life in general. 

BUT WE ARE OF RESILIENT STOCK!!

When I was 13 my Dad broke his arm after a suspense lever came loose on a loading chute. He went about his business for two days with his arm resting on a 2 x 4 board and took two aspirin. When his hand began to turn green he decided to get it checked out. I just wasn't raised in a home that over-medicates. 

So drugs in this house are like the gluten in a Seattle condo: they don't belong and we aren't sure how to use them.

I keep telling myself that by the time Caroline is school age, she'll get the award for 12 years of perfect attendance because she has been exposed to every germ on both sides of the Mississippi. More times than once. 
Indiana to Kansas. 
Kansas to Indiana. 
Indiana to Kansas.  
Does perfect attendance merit scholarships? 
Asking for a friend. 

During our last Pediatric center visit (Caroline thinks this is our vacation home) Caroline waved good-bye to everyone in the joint as though she knew she'd see them next week. Our daughter may be both intuitive and super social, and I link that to genetics. She is double bred. 

Our health insurance is getting a full run for its money because on Monday I had a dentist appointment over my lunch hour. 

Between the initial cleaning and the consultation with the dentist I fell asleep in the chair. 
Like....really asleep. 
As in chin to chest, drool, asleep. 
I woke to the young dentist (re)(re)reintroducing herself and trying to shake my limp hand. 
All while I was still trying to figure out where I was and how I got there. 

I wiped the drool from my chin and explained that I had fallen asleep. She laughed awkwardly and explained that - for the first time in 13 years - I have cavity that needs filled. 
Why does everyone want my money?

Last night - in an effort to clean out the deep freezer - I thawed steaks that had been stored too long. I was embarrassed, in fact, that cuts such as those as fallen to the back of the freezer and weren't grilled during the greatest opportunity. I thawed and seasoned them anyway. 

While praying over our supper Cody held my hand and Caroline's and closed with "And we pray that the grey meat Lindsay prepared doesn't hurt any of us."

Amen, buddy. 

A-M-E-N. 

But I have peace of mind knowing that anything that he and I consumed last night can be addressed with something taken "twice a day for ten days."

Two serious questions:

1. Does this count? 
2. Does our health insurance cover it?

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.