The Magic of Christmas

The magic of Christmas is alive and well in our home. Our oldest loves reading the advent calendar daily to her brother and our youngest enjoys squeezing the empty stockings each morning to monitor a change in weight. I am trying to relish in every moment. Even the weird ones.

Like when Cyrus woke up in hysterics one night because there was a Christmas fish swimming in his humidifier. Cyrus claims he was red, and Caroline is convinced the room has smelled like fish ever since. The magic of Christmas.

Last week the elementary school hosted a Holiday Shop, where students had the opportunity to bring a small amount of money to school and shop for loved ones.

I worked in Indianapolis that day, so Cody managed the morning routine. This worked greatly in the childrens’ favor because I planned to send them each with a five-dollar bill.

Caroline went to school with $20 (!!). She came home with three gifts for people she loved and $12.50 in change.

Cyrus went to school with $10 (!!), feeling like a king. He came home with one gift for someone else, a toy jet for himself and $.25 in change. 

He went on to tell us that his buddy bought the same toy jet for his father (what a thoughtful little boy) and Cyrus let him know that if his dad didn't want the jet, he could just bring it back to school and Cyrus would add it to his fleet. The magic of Christmas.

We made our annual trip to Kansas to share the holiday with my in-laws. The stomach bug and strep were both running rampant through the elementary school, and Cyrus recently fell victim. In an effort to curb anything that may came come Caroline’s way, I made a preparedness kit including Tylenol, ibuprofen, two trash bags, washcloth, towel, wipes and spare clothes. Still, just before leaving the house I had this nagging feeling that I was forgetting something.  

We made it three hours into the trip before I had my own Home Alone moment. You know the one, where Kevin’s mother sits straight up on the airplane and screams, “KEVIN!!” after realizing the one thing she left at home was her son.

Well, I didn’t do that. But it was at a Love’s truckstop in central Missouri that I screamed “AMOXICILLIN!!” In a quiet home in the refrigerator sat half a bottle that Cyrus still needed to ingest. But don’t you worry, I remembered my five pairs of earrings and two lipsticks. 2023 Mom of the Year!

Cyrus makes a game of observing semis, guessing what they’re hauling (95-percent of the time his guess is candy or toys) and then turning around to check out the grill to determine the manufacturer. I assumed by the time we reached the Greenfield exit his back would be sore from the break-neck action, but that wasn’t the case.

His personal favorite is “Fra-gee-lee” trucks, which he is certain are hauling leg lamps such as in the movie, “A Christmas Story”. It will be a big day when he does learn to read and realizes “Fragile” is actually pronounced Freightliner. The magic of Christmas.

Caroline hasn’t mentioned a Barbie Dream House this year, but she hasn’t given up on the campaign for a horse. Cyrus is relentless about a new bulldozer with greater horsepower. Been a tough argument explaining that the one he currently has is run solely on the force he uses with his own two hands.

We’re less than a week out and need to finish and practice our Christmas reading for church, go see the lights, bake cookies, go to the grocery and finally wrap gifts I remember buying but cannot find.

The magic of Christmas. May we never forget that the real magic happens when we forget everything I wrote above, and focus on what’s in the manger.

 

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??

936

When you realize how little time you get, 

you do more with the time you have. 

Beside a layer of dust, relics of our late (incredibly admirable) granddads and an ancient photo of our homestead, there is a jar of rocks sitting on a side table in our living room. 

Frankly, I don't pay much attention to the jar, until I hear Caroline moving it around and then I move quickly. A jar of that size and weight could surely hurt a girl so small. 

But when Caroline's activity forces me over to that area of our home,  the jar - and all that it represents - tends to hit me square on the chin. 

You guys. I need stitches.

The glass jar is filled with 936 rocks.

936 rocks represent the number of weekends you have with your child before they go to college. 

Our church gave us this jar and asked us to remove a stone each weekend, so that we can recognize the number of weekends we have left to teach and guide our daughter before she frequents a space where we aren't always around.

When you realize how little time you get, 

you do more with the time you have. 

I thank you for reading this blog right now.  Sincerely. 

You are supporting me in more ways than you know. 

But I want you to put down your phone, close your iPad or shut down your computer and look around you. 

(but not until you read this next part!!)

Time is so limited. 

Time is so, so, so, so, so limited. 

With those we love, and those we need, and those we miss in a way we didn't know we could. 

If we have 936 weekends with Caroline between birth and when she moves to college, and we received this jar less than two months before her first birthday, and I'm writing this more than a month later................I think we basically have 3 weeks left together as a family before I have to do her first college visit. 

But I'm not good at math, so that may be off a bit. 

The point is: time moves really quickly. 

And I know that days are long and you dread the Mondays and you crave the weekends but each minute of those long hours comprise your life and the time you have left with the really amazing people that make up your story. 

I haven't taken a single stone out of Caroline's jar. 

Honestly, I think it would give me anxiety to see the bottom of the barrel. 

I cry when the I see the bottom of the Rocky Road tub - add babies to this deal and I'm DONE. 

Instead, I skip blogs, I skip sleep and I use more dry shampoo than a 32-year-old mother should ---- it saves me time, darn it. 

But I don't miss first words and first touches and first bruises (we have a lot of those these days). 

Today I want you to put down your phone, close your iPad or shut down your computer and look around. 

Nothing on this screen is comparable to those around you. 

936. 

When you realize how little time you get, 

you do more with the time you have.

Quit lookin' at my rocks. 

Go love your own. 

I Had No Idea

Friends, family and readers of this blog gave me plenty of really great motherly advice and insight as I transitioned into motherhood. I listened to each bit and truly tried to absorb it while mentally preparing myself for what lied ahead. 

I learned early that there is no preparing for motherhood. You learn from day-to-day just how much you don't know. 

I had no idea the joy I would find in watching someone sleep. At what age does this get weird for Caroline?

 

I had no idea that mobile babies are most curious when you enter the bathroom. Is this a proven science? What is it about the bathroom that attracts tiny fingers and toes? I can be across the house, in the bathroom washing my face, and I won't get the suds rinsed off before looking down to find this face waiting on me. 
How did you find me and what do you want?

I had no idea how important rest is to your body and mind. I believe I started motherhood behind the eight ball, having been in labor for 27 hours then not sleeping afterwards (I think my body was in shock). Cody was awake and very present for every second of those 27 hours. When I told him I was exhausted, I'll never forget him responding with: "At least you got to pass out between pushes!"

Like....that is my life.  

All I want for Mother's Day is a nap. 

Which is so cliche, and oh, so real. 

I had no idea that someone who can't even enjoy pepper jack cheese would be so sneaky with the refrigerator. Cody can strangely hear me open the freezer for ice cream three rooms away, but I can't hear Caroline open the refrigerator and pull out a jar of salsa while I'm washing bottles 5 feet away? How does that work?

I had no idea the wave of sadness that comes over a mother when she begins folding clothes with little grippers on the bottoms of the footie pajamas. 

I had no idea that there were so many crazy drivers on the road. If you come within 8 feet of my vehicle while Caroline is in the car, I'm calling 911 and reporting reckless driving. 

Our local department has added me to their Do-Not-Call list. 

I had no idea that food intake and output was so important. I have documented more ounces and textures than I ever imagined.
What did I eat yesterday? A banana and cup of coffee on my way to work at 7:15. No idea after that. 
What did Carline eat yesterday?
6 oz. bottle
Cereal and bananas
Turkey, whole grains and sweet potatoes
1/16 of the Jungels ad in the July 2016 Shorthorn Country
4 oz. bottle
Pears and Corn
Hawiaan Delight
2 ladybugs
6 oz. bottle

I had no idea that the same person could be completely overjoyed because she finally got what she wanted and terribly sad at the same time.

I had no idea the kind of man I married. I knew he was a good guy, I didn't know he was made to be a father. I can count ONE TIME in 10+ months that Cody did not get up with Caroline and I in the night. Only once has he actually slept through her cries. Every other time he (was either 1,000 miles away sorting bulls or) had his feet on the floor and was changing diapers with me. That's a stand-up man. Thanks, Chris & Sharee. 

I had no idea how much I would miss certain smells: newborn skin, lemon Pledge, Windex, a freshly mopped floor. 

I had no idea how bad shots hurt when you aren't even on the receiving end. Who has cried more during shots: Caroline or I? That's a question I'm not willing to answer. We're raising one tough chick. 

I had no idea about the things that can run through your mind in the quiet darkness while you're rocking a baby:

Paying for college

Car accidents

Mean middle school girls

The possible consequences of swallowing a sequin

Study abroad trips

Strep throat

That chick on Dateline back in January

Shopping with a daughter - when I absolutely hate shopping

Social media

Our future son-in-law

Lice

I had no idea how much I would look forward to a simple Sunday in May. Mother's Day has a much sweeter meaning for me this year and will for the rest of my life. What an honor and blessing it is to be entrusted to raise this little girl. 

 

Happy Mother's Day to the women who 

guide, raise, nurture, discipline, coach, console, encourage, and love -  

whether you've given birth, or not. 

The Kids' Table

When I think of Thanksgiving, I remember the innocence of the kids' table. 

I remember a mysterious set of arms - sometimes my mother's, sometimes not - would rotate around a tiny table of small children and cut the turkey and ham into digestible pieces. Mashed potatoes and cranberry jello salad were suitable art medium and the pristine, dreaded dress clothes never lasted long. We were farm kids; a stain was bound to happen. Food stains were a badge of pride at the kids' table.

I remember sitting with a small group of semi-strangers - the ones I only saw at major holidays such as Easter and the county fair - and watch them eat like drunk, teething, Jack Russells. I remember thinking how gross they were as I wiped gravy off my chin and deviled egg filling off my sleeve. It was a caloric massacre. Food everywhere. The floor. The table. The walls. Inside the creases of Clark's arms. 

I remember sitting at the tiny table long after the others had left because I had to clean my plate in a way that resembled an apartment with the goal of getting the full deposit back: spotless. I don't remember licking my plate in order to go play, but I've blocked out some parts of my childhood. To this day, I get paranoid that Dear Ol' Dad is watching when I throw my plate away. 

I remember eating and keeping one eye on my plate and one eye on the toy calling my name. Today that "toy" looks more like the couch or even better: The Original Jean's lift chair. 

I wish I hadn't been so eager to move to the adult table. Moving there was the first phase of childhood lost. 

At the adult table the drunk, teething, Jack Russells were traded for adults who knew only how to discuss the milk, beef and pork markets, the never-suitable weather and health insurance. Worst part about the adult table: I couldn't even reach the butter.

Thanksgiving today hasn't changed....too much. 

I still plan to sit at the adult table and discuss beef and pork prices, cuss the weather and discuss health insurance. I'll stand in the food line with 60 others and watch with longing eyes as the tiny tyrants at the kids' table stare at a full plate then proceed to only eat one bite of pork, a roll covered in ketchup and ice cream pie. They don't know how good they've got it. 

These days we eat in shifts, because let's be honest: No one can truly enjoy a meal when you have spit up running down your arm and you're constantly raising a baby over your head to sniff out a diaper check. Thanksgiving in this phase of my life means I only put things on my plate that I can cut with a fork. Spoons and knives don't exist in a new-mom place setting; there aren't enough free hands for either.  

Unless, of course, Momma offers to hold Crazy Train and I can eat with both hands. If thats the case, I'll be relocating to a secluded second-floor closet where I can eat in peace, with two hands, and maybe even use a knife to cut the brisket. I may even have time to get a drink. With ice. If I eat fast enough, I may even have time for a nap. 

When The Barn Is Empty

One by one and pen by pen, barns are emptying out across America.

Auctioneers tap the gavel one last time at county fairs and the pot rolls away. First-time 4-Hers are consoled by parents and seasoned showmen still find it particularly tough to say goodbye. Perhaps because ten years passes much quickly than they ever imagined it could.

State fairgrounds clear out overnight as worn out show crews make their way across the next state line just before midnight. Junior shows or open shows, they chase a white line down the interstate to the next one.

Everyone, no matter the stock or the state, returns home to a similar scenario:

An empty barn.

When the barn is empty the pens will be cleaned out one last time. The last time, and consequently, the best time. For whatever reason, this is the time that no one – not even the family griper – complains about cleaning out pens. It’s not such a bad job when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty the showbox gets emptied, too. Curled up ribbons, Capri Sun  straws, discarded show numbers, half empty aerosol cans, bottles and sprays, stale Combos and loose change: Each thing finds it’s place and the show box is shut up and moved to the corner when the barn is empty. It will be opened only once between now and next season – as the middle child searches high and low for his belt. 

When the barn is empty the alarm clock doesn’t go off nearly as early. Show kids feel rested…

….for a day. After that, they feel strangely unfulfilled when remembering that the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty show moms realize that they are finally basking in the light at the end of the tunnel. And for some reason, that light isn’t nearly as bright as it seemed two weeks ago when she wished so badly that the barn was empty.

When the barn is empty the aisle gets swept with no concern for chips or straw cluttering the way. Every piece will be just where it should be – for once. And sadly it will stay that way, no hooves dragging pieces in every direction, when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty, it’s only then that someone can appreciate routine. Starting your day with great purpose at a certain time, ending your day doing what you enjoy at the same place every evening. There is a certain comfort in routine. A comfort you may not recognize until the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty favorite songs on the radio are replaced by talking teachers, blowers are traded in for bookbags and registration papers are replaced by syllabi. School starts in no time once the barn is empty. 

When the barn is empty dads have a hard time finding a modified to-do list for the kids. No rinsing. No feeding. No Leading. He’ll tell them to organize that and clean up this - and they will. He’ll reiterate that “it better stay that way!” - and it will. He’ll say, “don’t leave that wash rack water running all day!” – and they won’t. Daily instruction is different when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty, the forks and shovels will finally be put exactly where they’re supposed to go. And they’ll stay there. The halters will be cleaned up, hung up and left to do nothing but collect cobwebs. And they’ll stay exactly as they should when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty the fans are switched off, unplugged and slowly the blades cycle one….last………..time…………………dragging out goodbye.

When the barn is empty the lights are flipped off, with nothing but the sun lighting a path from one corner to the other. There is a strange loneliness in the darkness when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty and the door slides shut one last time, it’s sealed like a time capsule commemorating competition, disappointment, passion, and pride; high hopes for the next great one, memories of the one that just passed through. If you do it right, you’ll have more than just ribbons and trophies to carry on that memory long after the barn is empty.

Rest easy and rest while you can. Because the thing about an empty barn - no matter what feeling moves through the hollow pens - is that it doesn't last long. 

A Different Kind of Firecracker

An Oklahoma State onsie, a Certified Angus Beef bib and a pair of cowboy boot patterned socks: That is absolutely as far as we’ve gotten.

Seriously.

Since I’m in the third trimester and Momma continues to ask if we’ve considered buying a crib, we thought now might be the time to share with you the best news we’ve ever had:

Our first child is expected 

to shake up life as we know it 

on the 4^th of July.

Cue Shooter Jennings:

Kinda destined to be a firecracker: Double bred crazy.

A lot of names float across my mind as I write this, this morning:

Bob and Barbara Jean

Larry and Melva Jean

Paul and Marie

Ralph and Martha Jean

And after them come Chris and Sharee, Phil and Linda

We have just a little bit of pressure to raise a great American, much like their grand parents and great-grandparents.

A well-grounded, cattle-committed, rooted-in-faith, humble-and-kind, kid.

I hope you’ll help us.

No, we’re not asking for a babysitter before they even hit the ground (figuratively speaking). We’re asking that you help keep this child on track at the 2031 Junior Nationals and you’ll encourage them just a bit if you ever notice they’re having a bad day.

It takes a tribe to raise a good kid and you’re part of our tribe.

We promise to do the same for you.

I’ve absolutely loved being pregnant, though I’m not clueless to the fact that the tough part lies ahead. Ask me again in June when I can’t see my boots and the Dollar General is out of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Side Note to the Losantville Dollar General Customers: You’ll leave the entire stock of mint chocolate chip ice-cream in the freezer case if you know what’s good for you. And Cody.

We’re almost done with our childbirth classes and that experience has produced weeks of blog-worthy stories. Just wait. I didn’t realize just how awkward Cody could get in certain situations until we sat him in a room full of 8-months-pregnant strangers and exercise balls. 

There are so many things I want to share with you about the hopes we have for this child. In fact, much of the six years of content inside this blog is reflective of things I knew I wanted to pass on, but wasn’t sure if I ever would. The news of an Independence Day baby has greatly changed my perspective.

And my sleep schedule. There have been Tuesday nights when I’ve fallen asleep mid-keystroke and never finished  five sentences of a weekly blog. Now you know why.

We’re often asked when the gender reveal party will be. 

We've approached parenthood - and enjoyed it - like it's 1995. Leaving it off Facebook allowed us to tell folks when we saw them and share that moment of excitement. There are no neck hugs on Facebook. And I really like neck hugs. 

Secondly, this is a baby, not a movie premier.

Thirdly, the party will be at the hospital. On the day of the birth. 

But please, don’t show up. 

Unless, of course, you're thinking of bringing a gift:

We could guess the gender now, but we would only have a 50% chance of being right. 
I think I better wrap this up; I'm getting hungry (shocker).

Thanks for sharing in our joy with us - 

We couldn't be happier.