I Want More

The house that built me sat close enough to I-70 that we could see the interstate when the corn was down, but we couldn't hear it. We knew if east or west bound lanes were stopped, but it required the use of binoculars to figure out why. 

To pass time in the late 80's, early 90's, we'd use Dad's commercial grade walkie-talkies to contact truckers passing by...under the condition, of course, that we never told the truckers where we were located. We'd often ask the drivers where they were heading to, coming from or hauling. If really feeling ornery (quite often), we'd taunt them and tell them we heard truck driver wore pantyhose. This is the exact reason why we couldn't reveal our location: I guess mom didn't want a fleet of semi's lining our road, trying to track down mouthy kids. 

Because let's face it:

We weren't talking to Teddy Bear. 

Time seems to repeat itself. Thirty years later, Caroline is spending her early years in a house that sits on a busy highway. A portion of nearly every day is spent in our yard, trying to get semis to honk at us. I've taught her how to move her arm up and down and yell, "HONK! HONK!", and though she's small, every once in a while, she's able to garner enough attention that a driver actually does honk at her. It becomes the highlight of her day. 

But as soon as the truck is out of sight, without fail, her response is the exact same, "Mommy, I want more!" She even signs "more, please" to reiterate her wishes. 

It didn't take long for me to notice the trend. She'd work her arm up and down for five trucks until one finally took notice. Then, as soon as the one or two honks were done, she instantly wanted more. And guess what ol’ mom did to make sure that happened? I took part in the charade – darn near throwing out my back to get the attention of a Red Gold rig. 

One or two honks more honks, then she instantly wanted more and more. 

But isn't that the world we live in? 

We get a little bit of something that we like, and immediately we want more. 

We want our kids in more activities so their time is packed with social events, constant stimulation and activity so they don't miss out on anything. 

We get numerous "likes" or reactions on Facebook and we feel the urge to post more often to get positive attention from a random sample of people. (This is where regular selfie offenders about wear me out.)

We continue to say "yes" to volunteer projects, group involvement, giving feedback, youth activities and more because someone told us five years we were good at it. Now we're edgy, can't remember the last time the entire family was around the dinner table for a prepared meal and actually quite exhausted because we're pulled in one hundred different directions because someone else wanted more. 

Sometimes too much of a good thing is not in fact, good. We deplete our resources of time, energy and attention to the point where the things that need them most (our children, marriages and families) are getting the short end of the stick. We run our bodies and minds into the ground trying to get everything done because someone wanted more of us. We forget to take care of ourselves because we’re taking care of something else less important, often forgetting:

“But we held up our end of the deal!” we tell ourselves, when the season is over or the project is done or the event has successfully passed. 

Sure – but at what expense?  

“The things that matter most should never be 

at the mercy of the things that matter least.” 

- Goethe 

At what point is what we have before us, or on our plate, enough? 

This is an area where I struggle as a parent: teaching an almost two-year-old that we can't always get more when we want it, even if we say please. Moderation in all areas in life is a positive thing, and that is a lesson I’m learning myself in my mid-thirties. 

There are several groups I’m learning to engage in less often (this means learning to say no to a commitment or not volunteering simply because no one else will) during this stage of life. They’re each wonderful groups which have a special place in our livelihood, but right now they’re just not at the top of my priority list when it comes to time, energy or attention. It is a tough lesson to learn by someone who has always been involved in so much, but the choice has afforded me more slowed, intentional, quality time with the brown eyed brunette that I live with. Actually, both of them.  

Tomorrow will roll around and we’ll continue to “HONK! HONK!” at truckers in hopes that they respond to the little girl in a big yard on the busy highway. I’ll quit putting in a lot of effort to garner “More!” results from semis, partly to teach Caroline a lesson and partly to keep my back in working order. And, I’ll continue to find ways to show Caroline that saying “I want more” won’t always yield the best results in life. 

Sometimes we have to step back and say, 

“I have enough.”

Parenting is serious business isn’t it? 

Especially when you can’t tell who is teaching whom more. 

Friendly reminder:

The Tradition

The house was locked up tighter than Ft. Knox and lights out. 

Caroline was sound asleep in her crib and her chest was moving up and down (at what age do parents stop checking this?). 

Prayers were said, and I was so, so close to sleep. 

That's when I heard my cell phone buzz on the nightstand. 

A text from Cody, two time zones west: "You may need to keep an eye on 301. I think she's starting.”

Keep an eye on 301? My eyes were about to shut for five straight hours, I thought to myself.

Work Hard, Rest Hard

And so, the last three months have been as such. It has only been at night, when the sun settles somewhere far past Indiana, and it is dark and cold that the cattle calm enough to focus on what they’re all supposed to be doing this time of year: Calving. 

The good news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors without getting bundled up. 

The bad news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week (if you have the stamina). 

The worst news is Cody can access those cameras from his phone, no matter where his travels take him. 

My phone is my alarm clock, and my alarms are set as follows when I think something shows signs of calving overnight: 

The wake schedule is basically 
like having a new baby in the house.
And I wonder why my under-eye 
cream doesn't seem to be working. 

I haven't always answered the call of duty, though. On one particular night in late February I slept through three texts and four phone calls from Cody. He went on to contact a neighbor for help, while I slept soundly in the house. We have amazing rural neighbors. 

The months of January through March have been comprised of spot lights cutting through pastures, warm gloves and late night texts between husband and wife, and not the exciting kind. These are the kind of texts that silently say, "We're in this together, even when hundreds of miles apart." 

He sends me shots of the beautiful countryside he’s seeing from coast to coast and advice on how to handle difficult situations at home, while I send him photos of the newest calves to hit the ground and video of our sweet Caroline. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

Each morning and evening (and sometimes overnight) I come in the house and unbundle. Usually exhausted, sometimes frustrated, but never questioning the work. I was raised this way and Cody was, too. Caroline – the greatest and slowest farm hand I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with – already has the farm life engrained in her. I have to bribe her out of the barn with goldfish crackers.

Sometimes she watches me struggle to move a rogue calf or pen a pair and seems to say,
"Dad would have had this done thirty minutes ago."

In our dining room hangs a poem given to us on our wedding day. The gifters - my in-laws - no doubt knew the bride and groom well, and all that they (we) were about to embark upon.

The Tradition

Some folks just don’t get it.

They think owning cattle makes no sense.

It takes too much time, too much equipment,

not to mention the expense.

But the fondest memories of my life

– they might think sound funny –

were made possible by Mom and Dad,

‘cause they spent the time and spent the money.

You see, the most important lessons

helping values grow so strong,

come from loving cattle

and passing that tradition on.

In less than a month the grass will be green, temperatures will be warming, and we’ll be able to look across our pastures and see a flurry of black calves (plus two red ones) running with their tails up, exploring the bounds of the farm. 

Cody’s travel will slow and he’ll be home regularly, which means I’ll probably need to start cooking full meals again. 

The sleepless nights will be a tired memory that paid off with a healthy calf crop. 

And we’ll pass The Tradition on.

Until then, 

with every wake up call or 

dark trek across the barn lot, 

I'll Just. Keep. Swimming. 

Ode to the Farm Mom

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can miraculously stretch one pound of hamburger into 6-quarter pounders, one 9 x 9 recipe for brownies into two 9 x 13 pans and bake a dozen potatoes in minutes when help accepts the offer to stay for dinner.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who knows that cleaning out the bottom of the washer is like cleaning out a time machine from the previous week: kernels of corn, nuts and bolts, bobby pins, and diesel receipts. She’s never felt that bad about keeping the loose change and soggy bills she finds; there is a very good chance they originally belonged to her, anyhow.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can take her daughters back-to-school shopping and even manage to buy a little something for herself: a can of hair mousse that will last her two years.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can save anything:

A science fair project that now contains twice the amount of vinegar than the instructions called for.

A once-brilliant-white baseball uniform that forgot to find its way to the laundry after last Tuesday’s game.

A dismal PTO fundraiser that lacks motivation, input and action.

A decorated cake once certain to win the county fair. People change name tattoos into creative art all the time; surely she can help can change this icing into something beautiful, right?

What can’t she save?

A bad haircut.

“It’s just hair, it will grow back” she’ll empathetically say in support while watching the daughter try to fix the big mistake.

Four hours later she doesn’t feel bad for closing her prayers with: “For the sanity of everyone in this household, please let her hair grow back as soon as possible…”

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who – every once in a while – tries a new beauty product, even though her exhausted nightly regimen typically only consists of drug store face lotion, corn husker’s lotion on her cracking hands and chap stick. One day she’ll finish those jars of anti-aging crème she’s invested in over the years. Probably when the kids go to college and she is past the point of no return.  But she’ll use every drop, no doubt: She’s embarrassed to even think about how much she spent on the little jars.

            

Reality vs. Really Good Intentions

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who keeps stashes all over the farmhouse.

A stash of chocolate she only eats after the kids go to bed.

A stash of greeting cards that arrived in her mailbox when she needed them most. On her bad days, she still reads them. They’re like talking to old friends she’s lost touch with. 

A stash of Christmas presents she bought in April that she won’t find in time for Christmas. In fact, she won’t find them until August….16 months later.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who doesn’t have much use for manicures, expensive coffee or flip-flops.

But she rarely goes a day without using a nail brush and lava soap, putting her coffee in the microwave two or more times before finishing it around 11:00 AM (that’s after misplacing it twice) and Muck Boots with plastic Wal-Mart bags lining the inside.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who will buy a new blouse for the women’s luncheon, only to miss the event because she sees cows in the hayfield. But don’t worry, she’ll take the tags off for the next time she gets to go to town: the day she is room-mother for her middle child’s class. In true fashion, it’s finger paint day and it takes only minutes for her to question why she’d buy a new blouse for herself, anyhow?

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who recognizes, but never fully accepts, the fact that vacuum lines are fleeting but muddy boot prints in the carpet will last forever.

And special wishes for a relaxing day 

for the farm moms who sacrifice so much 

time, energy, emotion 
and good hair days that no one 
but the semen delivery guy 

gets to see.

You deserve it.

Read more about the Stockman's Wife

Eighteen and Know It All

My employer awards scholarships to Indiana and Ohio high school seniors in our trade area who plan to study agriculture in college.

Before I go any further – the submission deadline has passed.

Part of my role within the company is to compile these applications and prepare them for review by our Youth Development Committee. My contact information is on the application, making me three things: susceptible to a constantly exceeded inbox volume, available to confirm last-minute receipt of applications (23 arrived on the deadline...been there, done that) and also be on the line to answer any questions.

Annually we hear from some of the most promising kids in the future of agriculture. It’s always an encouraging experience, seeing how many seniors have a desire to enter the agriculture field, in any capacity. Vet school, economics, communications, marketing, equine therapy, the list of ways students want to pursue agriculture goes on and on.

Annually I also receive a lot of phone calls.

Did you get my application?

Did page 4 come through?

Does my transcript need to be sealed?

Can I hand deliver?

Do you still have a fax machine?

Can you read my son’s handwriting?

And more.

But the question I get every year that really grabs my attention usually comes from a parent. Even more so often from a Mom. On the telephone. It’s typically a question, then a hurried explanation, followed usually by a sigh of relief.

The question/explanation/sigh of relief usually goes something like this:

"Does Jean (name replaced to protect the innocent and overwhelmed) need to declare a major to submit this application? Because she knows she wants to go into agriculture but she isn’t sure exactly what field. And she isn’t event quite sure what university she will end up at. She is still waiting to hear from one more before she makes a decision and it’s hard to declare a major when you don’t know for certain where you’re going to study. She could end up in Indiana, Illinois or Oklahoma – and each offer something different. It’s just a lot to be so sure of right now for this scholarship…"

OK.

Everyone needs to take a deep breath.

I reassure the parent that if the student lists an ag major, they can fully explain their intentions on page 4 of the application.

What I really want to do is reassure them 

that their kid won’t be discounted 

because they don’t have their life figured out 

at 18 years old.

Life figured out at 18 years old?

What does that even look like?

Eighteen years old.

Just enough exposure to curriculum and hobbies that a kid is supposed to draw in pen – or size 12 font - the path for the rest of their life.

The truth is that a large percentage of students who declare a major when entering a college or university will eventually change it to better suit their passions and developed interests by the time they graduate. Me, for instance. I started at Purdue in astronautical engineering and graduated in agriculture communications. And if you'll buy that, I'll throw the golden gate in free. 

So, you college bound students, drowning in fillable PDFs and watermarked transcripts and checking the mailbox everyday for some type of acceptance. And you, students who would much rather pursue a hands-on trade rather than spend another minute in a classroom (Your path is just as important as someone going to a 4-year college. Sometimes we don’t need another lawyer. Sometimes this world needs a talented contractor or welder who will return a phone call):

Whether college bound or bound to build/repair/create something with your hands: You need not have your life plans chiseled in stone right now. What do you really need to know at eighteen years old?

How to get out of bed without hitting the snooze button

This is serious.

You’re in your prime (though these are not the best years of your life, trust me)! When that alarm goes off, your boots (figuratively speaking) should be on the ground within 30 seconds. This is how you learn to manage your own schedule and your own time. This is how you learn to make it to your 7:30 lab without your mother busting through your bedroom door yelling that you’re about to miss the bus. Seize the day and the save the snooze for later in life. Like when you’re 31.

How to work for someone else and follow his or her instructions

This is even more serious.

You will never reach your goals if you cannot learn to take instruction. This does not mean that you’re destined to work for someone else your entire life. This means that the ability to follow written or verbal instructions will serve you well when you’re filling out your first job application out of college. It will serve you even better when you’re responsible for pouring decorative concrete at a building destined to bring back the heart of an old American town. This means that your ability to actively engage as part a team will give you an edge when trying to figure out an employee or procedural issue at work. This means that when you learn to respect someone enough to follow their lead knowing that it’s for a greater good, you’ll gain the respect of those around you at the work place, too.

You are enough

This is the most serious of them all.

Maybe you don’t have your major declared, maybe you do.

Maybe you haven’t yet met someone and thought, “They have my dream job”, maybe you have.

Maybe you haven’t determined your living situation for the next six months.

Maybe you’ve already committed to a school or program for the year ahead and you’re already having second thoughts on being that far from home.

Wherever you are on this path to life after high school: you are enough. Where you are right now is enough.

Be confident in all that you are and all that you are yet to be. Is your life’s path written in contractor pencil rather than fine point Sharpie? That’s on purpose. 

God’s plan for your life far exceeds 

anything you can imagine right now!

And while it’s very good for you to have a roadmap of which you’d like to move forward, as a senior in high school don’t let your heart be discouraged because you can’t declare your dream job and describe it on paper. Some forty year olds haven’t even made it that far, yet. Don’t ever discount your 18-year-old self for still exploring all that may lie ahead. Move forward, learn more, get experience under your belt. 

Do you think Columbus discovered America because he had a map?

That was a bad example.

Here. Read this and save it for all the career fairs in your future for which you’ll get a fresh haircut.

As a senior about to graduate you should know three things:

1. How to get out of bed without hitting the snooze button
2. How to work for someone else and follow his or her instructions
3. You are enough 

You have a lot of choices ahead (choices to do the right thing, go the right place, spend time with the right people, and more) and I trust you’ll make the right ones. Your parents haven’t killed you up until this point: make them glad they didn’t!

 And to the stressed out parents calling me freaking out about the internet connection or the kid's indecisiveness to choose a career path: Take a deep breath. This too shall pass. 

Unless you're the parent of the kid who wrote in his application that he's the oldest of eight children. You have every right to be a little edgy with the gal accepting scholarship applications. 

Stealing Joy

I had heard of it, in passing.

I even recognized the characters’ names, somehow?

But I had never actually engaged. 

Through the advice of coworkers, two weeks ago I began watching episodes of FixerUpper.

 

I’ve had a strange urge 

to burn our house to the ground 

ever since.

For the three people left in this world not familiar with the show (I was one of you, only weeks ago), Fixer Upper is a home improvement show hosted by a young, charismatic couple that transforms dumps into dream homes…in one episode…with humor…and a perfect budget.

Every project they complete is fresher, brighter, and more charming than anything I’ve ever lived in. Sorry, Momma.

They just don’t build shiplap bathrooms made to house frozen baby calves over night.

Chip and Joanna are like your admirable, adorable older cousin and his wife who live states away that you keep up with only seeing the highlight reel (Christmas letter). Even after seeing them every so often (Tuesdays at 9:00 EST), you leave feeling just a bit envious of the amazing work they do, the ease of which they do it and the allure of the Texas life they live.

And that’s why 

I have a terribly hard 
time watching the show.

I have to tell you something.

In hopes that maybe by telling you – and only you – I’ll do a better job of holding myself accountable.

I do this thing. Not often, but every once in a while.   

I’m aware of it, only once it begins.

And I cringe each time I let myself do it.

Still, every so often, it happens again.

I let comparison creep into my mind and 

I quietly begin to discount the positive things in my life.

I see a beautifully renovated Fixer Upper house and I forget about how far along our home has come.

 Today our home is filled with ranch and family history. And walls. None of which you can buy at Magnolia Market. 

I see someone begin to take impeccable care of him or her self and I wonder why I’m ok with WhirleyPop for supper when Cody is out of town.

I see people younger than I chasing beautiful kids around and worry: Am I going to be an old Mom?

But isn’t it so easy? The comparison thing. 

Isn’t it so easy to watch good things unfold for someone else, then quietly sit back and think: I’d like to experience that, too. If only just a little.

In a time where we have access to every intricate detail (whether we want to or not) of a family’s highlight reel, it’s so easy to watch our own behind the scenes footage unfold, and compare. If only by saying something as simple as: I like what they did in that space; I’d like to completely renovate our bathroom. 

Side note: A plumber is seriously coming to our ancient farmhouse today – on the day of this writing. If he can’t figure out something quickly, I’m taking the lightening rods off the roof and letting the problem sort its self out. 

Anyway…

Comparison, in moderation, is not necessarily an evil. In fact, it typically encourages the desire to do more or do better.

So when is comparison a bad thing?

When it begins to steal your joy.

Again: 

When is comparison a bad thing?

When it begins to steal your joy.

Proverbs 14:30

A heart at peace gives life to the body,

but envy rots the bones.

When you expend enough energy comparing anything that you have (or don’t?) to others, 

that you’re too worn to seek out and enjoy the wonderful things in your camp, 

the rot has already set in.

And by “someone else’s beauty”, I mean someone else’s

Career, path or professional success

Family, heritage or history

Home, house or furnishings

Friends, social scene or status

Appearance, confidence, or closet

Health, strength or energy

Location, proximity or zip code

Winnings, success or trophy case

Body type, body type or body type

Children, legacy or rendition

Schedule, production or obligations

Someone else’s Life.

Theodore Roosevelt once said: 

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

What a simple, profound way to think of something so common in our every day life. 

Do you find yourself - if only just a little - comparing what you have to what others do? What about comparing your life's path and timeline to other people's? Why do that to yourself?  God made your life's story uniquely for you. Only you were meant to live it. 

You lock your car when running errands. 

You use a password to securely lock your personal information online. 

Certainly, you lock your home up when you leave for an extended period of time. 

Why?

Because you don't want a thief stealing the physical things that are important to you. 

So why - why - would you allow 

conscious comparing to trespass 

into your most guarded possession: 

- your heart -

so it can

steal your joy?