Big Rocks in Little Boots

On her first day of kindergarten, I stood in an empty afternoon parking lot and texted Cody, “No one is here???”

He responded seconds later, “Of course not. You’re 45 minutes early.” Sometimes his common sense drives me absolutely nuts.

I sat on the bench anyway, wondering if Caroline had been worried sick about me all day, as I had been about her. Turns out, she didn’t even know I was gone.

Months later and when my schedule allows, I love parking on a side street and picking her up from school. She typically talks so quickly and with such enthusiasm that I know all about her 8:20 AM – 2:40 PM day by the time we get back to the car.

But this day was different.

“Why didn’t you give me pants with pockets today?” Caroline asked me as I kissed her head and grabbed her little hand.

I looked down to see what she was wearing: leggings.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I thought you liked stretchy pants?” I tried to justify my 6:00 AM wardrobe selection for her. Who doesn’t like stretchy pants?

She suddenly stopped on the sidewalk and held my hand tightly as she tried to keep her balance. One at a time, she pulled each cowgirl boot off and dumped them out.

“Well, I’m sure glad you came to get me ‘cause I found these for you today and I didn’t have pockets so I just put them in my boots.”

Three rocks fell out of her boots and onto the sidewalk. She slipped her cowboy boots back on. “Ah. That’s better.”

The child had walked with rocks in her boots all day in an effort to please me.

“Caroline. Honey, you did not have to save those for me.”

“But I’ve never seen any like them! I found them during recess.”

“Morning or afternoon?” I asked, not that it mattered.

“Morning. I didn’t find any after lunch.”

In five years of motherhood, I’ve been gifted approximately 400 rocks, most off our farm. Many get shoved in pockets and later removed from the washing machine, but there are a few I’ll keep forever: The one she brought to me when I was in the hospital with Cyrus as he battled RSV at 6-weeks-old, the one she gave me when I was at Riley with Cyrus for his appendectomy and critical infection (sure sounds like a sickly little boy, doesn’t he?), the one she found in the barn lot that she is absolutely positive is Jesus’s tooth, and of course, I’ll keep these rocks, too.

Caroline with the rock she brought me, 

sitting outside Reid hospital 

when infant brother Cyrus had RSV

Because these rocks awakened me to the lengths Caroline will go to please me. What an eye-opening set of rocks! What a tender heart (and tough feet) she has to find such an object and want to share it with me, no matter the cost.

I praised her for the rocks. I studied the rocks and held the rocks and even showed the rocks to Cyrus. I’m sure this will shock you, but he could not care less. “What ‘bout ‘em?” he asked, confused as to what the fuss was all about. Caroline stood with such pride for being the gifter of greatness.

These little rocks in tiny boots taught me a lesson that day. Our kids are watching. They’re watching how we react to little victories and favors. They’re watching how we visit with them during the unremarkable conversations in the barn or on the couch. They love to watch our eyes light up in the same way we love to watch theirs.

I was reminded of this advice from Catherine M. Wallace, Author: “Listen earnestly to anything your children want to tell you, no matter what. If you don't listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won't tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff.”

And these rocks in a little Ball jar on top of my dresser, they may fit in a size 9 toddler boot, but they’re big.

Really big.

 

The Draft

Well, I survived the holidays, but two poinsettias and my jeans did not. 

I pen this on January 4th. How can two plants die and that many pounds be gained in such a short period, you ask? Come to the farm and I'll coach you. We've been living on cheeseball, black coffee and FFA fruit for 15 days. Turns out, poinsettias hate black coffee. And children under 4 only eat the bacon off cheeseball. Then Mom is left to clean up the rest. 

I love a challenge.

Things really began going south when I was washing the bacon grease off a pan and felt wind blowing through my hair. The kids were playing in the living room and Cody was leafing through an Angus Journal in his chair. He was supposed to be watching the children.

"Everybody STOP" I yelled. "Someone has left a door or window open," I continued while drying my hands on a dishtowel. I have a genetic advantage that allows me to feel minimal drafts of air move through areas where they should not. 

I once toured the White House at Christmas in 2007 and let the tour guide know the Map Room had a draft coming from the most northwest wall. That sure cut my tour short, but I do hope it saved Barack Obama a few bucks after he moved in. 

As it turns out, I was right about someone in my family leaving a door open. 

I turned away from the kitchen sink to find my beautiful, tiny, biting 1 1/2-year-old toe-head son standing (STANDING!) in the refrigerator with the door wide open. He was holding the middle shelf with his left hand, waving his right hand to the top shelf, trying to reach the blueberries. 

Of all things he had the audacity to waste energy on, he picked blueberries? There were buckeyes made by my mother two inches to the right. Rookie mistake. One day he'll learn. 

Of course, after quickly removing him from the Frigidaire, swatting his diaper-padded bottom in the same way one might swat a fly which had a pet name, I escorted that little boy into the living room. Then I really let his dad have it. 

I may have mentioned things such as:

You had one job. 

Cyrus not only left the room, but he also found chaos in another. 

He was STANDING IN the refrigerator. 

He was probably there for 15 minutes, I don't really know, I was busy washing dishes. 

We’re so lucky he didn’t open all the salad dressings and spray V8 in every direction!

What if he would have gotten a concussion?

After my tirade, I looked at my beloved husband. 

Boy, has he got some nerve. He calmly responded with, "If it is any consolation, I sold our grain bin on Facebook 5 minutes ago. At the price we hoped for." 

I have never wanted to kiss and kill someone at the same time, until this moment. 

That night I put both kids in fleece footie pajamas, covered them in handmade quilts and wiped noses that were not running. I checked them for hypothermia-like symptoms, fed them only milk that had been warmed and asked both if they'd like to sleep in their favorite toboggan. 

They both declined. They’re tough as nails, to brave the 69-degree second floor. 

Once they were both soundly asleep, I checked the second-floor windows for a draft, and found none. I went downstairs and checked under the bathroom sink because my feet get chilly while starting coffee in the morning, behind the clothes dryer because I don’t trust an external vent that large and every west window. All appeared well sealed. The new year draft did, in fact, only come from an open refrigerator door from a curious toddler. How do you cure curiosity and hunger from a toddler in order to preserve the heating of a farmhouse? I guess I need to read to him more often and I’ll probably go make another cheeseball after I wrap this up.  

I suppose I could just up the thermostat, but that costs too much money.