Clear View of the Western Sky

I've never been in a hostage situation. 

Until that darn (local, talented Cambridge City gal and fellow 4-Her) Lindsey Monroe, Channel 13 meteorologist, decided to start her tornado talk on Memorial Day. 

The day had been near perfect. Cyrus slept past 5:00 AM. Cody did all the chores. We treated the kids to lunch at The Dairy, then went to the Hagerstown Park. Then, we really splurged and went back to The Dairy for ice cream. After checking heat, pulling weeds and clearing supper dishes, we were all ready for bed. But instead, we began watching the radar. 

I was two storybooks in, upstairs with the kids when Cody yelled up the stairwell, "You guys need to get down here, now!"

I knew storms were rolling in. From our bedroom, I can look northwest and see anything coming from Randolph or even Delaware counties. The lightening was unreal. The clouds were eerie. The wind was picking up. 

Here is an important detail of this story:

When we were looking for a place to purchase and call home six years ago, we had many stipulations. But probably the one my husband was most adamant about was having a clear view of the western sky. He is a Kansas native, raised in the beautiful Flinthills, and he prefers to see for miles. A clear view of the western sky allows his type to prepare for anything heading our way. 

In our search for the place to start our story (have you read that story?), we walked dozens of farms. And walked away from a few simply because they didn't offer a clear view of the western sky. 

So when Cody summoned the crew back downstairs (sleep seemed so close) and then the tornado warning went off on both our phones, things got serious. Fast. 

He instructed the three of us to sit in the closet under the stairwell. 
Great idea. 
Except the closet under the stairwell is home to six suitcases, five hooks with old jackets hanging on them, four cowboy hat boxes, three Rubbermaid tubs of farm receipts, two king size pillows and air vent tubing leading upstairs. 

No room at the inn. 

So then he suggested the bathroom. 
Great idea. 
Except our almost-three-year-old, who at this point was crying, hanging on my leg, has been demonstrating a peaceful protest against the bathroom since she caught on to our potty training tactics. She avoids the bathroom like the plague. Unless Mom is in there. If mom is in there, she will beat down the locked door with nothing more than a cup of whole milk and one soggy veggie straw. 

Try again, Al Roker.

By this time, the TV had cut out, Cyrus was screaming his head off and Caroline was sitting on the couch under her farm animal umbrella. I could hear the hail pelting the house. I hadn't seen Cody in twenty minutes, but he was kind enough to crack the west windows so we could hear his weather updates from the yard. There was a lot of new vocabulary, and also many, "This is not good."

After we realized the bathroom is far from a safe zone, he then suggested the basement.
Great idea. 
Except I'm scared of the basement on 72-degree sunshine days. Don't even think about putting me down there with two kids under three during a tornado when our protector is one hundred feet away, in the front yard trying to catch hail with a breeding sleeve. 

I lose sleep over a lot of things, but one of those is not content for future science fair projects, because we have a farmhouse basement. 
I have found a cat down there when we did not own one. 
I have found an army of frogs down there in a five-week drought. 
Every time I go to the basement I find a surprise,
and my favorite books were always the "choose your own adventure" kind 
because I don't handle surprises well. 
Especially if they're breathing. 

Try again, Jim Cantore. 

The red cell of fury sat over our farm for an hour. You never want to lie to your children, but on Memorial Day 2019, I told Caroline so many lies about why I had snacks (priorities), flashlights and cell phone chargers in my pockets. Lindsey Monroe finally shifted the spotlight to Ohio and we retreated back to bed, for a second time that night. 

Cody and I only dated for a year and a half before we wed. During that time, and the nearly six years following, never have I faced a tornado situation with him, until this one. I learned that his dire need for a clear view of the western sky isn't completely crazy. I also learned that he goes into super protective father mode when the wind stops and things get oddly still. I also learned that hail, straight-line winds and unbelievable lightning don't seem to phase him near as much as I, as he spent the entire evening standing in the front yard, taking photos and calling home to Kansas. 

I also learned that I should probably clean out a few closets. 

Bundling Up

I love cold weather, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make things more challenging on the farm. Especially as Cody travels, the weight of calving and keeping stock (alive) weighs on me. I’m sincerely glad to do the work; I grew up in this lifestyle and knew early that I wanted to spend the rest of my life around cattle. 

So, what is the worse part about raising livestock in the winter? 

Fixing frozen waterers? 

Getting cows in the barn during a wind storm? 

Carrying buckets through drifts? 

Nope. None of those things. It’s bundling up the kids to go outside. 

Here is my daily routine:

Change two diapers. Put Vaseline on cheeks and lips. 

Start bundling Caroline: Firstly, get warm socks on her. This consists of spending two minutes explaining why socks are necessary when it is ten degrees outside, then crushing her dreams of wearing her Crocs in the snow. Wipe tears. Lots and lots of tears. Put her hooded sweatshirt on her. Not the easy, slightly large one, but she insists that she wear the old one with a horse on it, the one that I can barely get over her head. This one is apparently the only one that is suitable at this stage in her life. Find her pink coveralls. Sit her on my lap and stuff her into pink coveralls. Stand her up, then tuck her horse sweatshirt down into the coveralls. Zip up the coveralls, forgetting to tell her “chin up!”. I zip her chin. More tears. Tell her I’m sorry then give her my phone to pacify her while I bundle Cyrus then myself, and also to buy her love from zipping up her chin. 

Next, Cyrus: Get Cyrus out of the jumper. Cyrus smells. Back upstairs for another diaper change. More Vaseline for good measure. Grab his snowsuit and head downstairs. Try to find a two-foot by two-foot space on the living room floor that does not have a toy, blanket or shoe on it. This is very difficult.  Lay snowsuit on the floor and place baby inside. Kiss baby and tell him I’m sorry we have to do this, but it will be over soon. He rolls his eyes because I use the same line, daily. Lay baby in the snow suit and zip it up. He is smiling. He is easy. 

Instruct Caroline to stand by the door because we’re almost ready to go outside. Repeat myself. Caroline cannot hear me because she’s watching Baby Shark for the 3,532,694^th time and has lost all sense of her surroundings. 

Go to the mudroom to find my clothes. I forgot to lay my gloves on the register after breaking ice this morning and they’re still soaking wet. Search our bottomless bucket of nice gloves that fit and match. This is very difficult. I choose one advertising a semen service and one advertising a bovine estrogen drug. One day these kids will be able to read and I’ll have to explain this to them; today is not that day. 

Shimmy into my snow pants; they should not be this tight. Pull my hair up and pin it into a toboggan. I have to do this before putting on my coat because I’m not able to raise my arms well once it is on. Get coat on. Check pockets for adequate Kleenex supply; supply low. Open door to kitchen and ask Caroline to get Mommy a Kleenex. Repeat myself. She cannot hear me because she’s now watching videos of Asian children wash their hands and has lost all ambition. 

Cyrus is crying. I tiptoe across the kitchen floor in an effort to not leave a trail of mud – or other – across the floor. My kitchen floor is extremely clean and I want to leave it that way. If you believe that last line, you don’t read this column enough. Find the baby in the living room screaming his head off. Someone has placed a stuffed chicken on top of his head. Something tells me it was not him. Ask Caroline again to go stand by the door. Miraculously, she hears me. With her newfound alertness, she realizes that she has on several layers and it is 70° in the house. Suddenly, she is on fire, screaming that she is hot. I understand how she feels; I started sweating when I was trying to stuff her into warm socks. I tell her there is a draft by the kitchen door and she will feel better when she gets there. This is not a lie. 

I put Cyrus into the car seat and buckled him in but do not pull him tight. His snowsuit is so big on him that there is very little room left in the car seat. He’s not going anywhere. I set the car seat by the kitchen door so he, too, can enjoy the natural breeze. I go back out to the mudroom and put on my boots. I carry both kids to the mudroom and instruct them to stay right there. I have forgotten Caroline’s gloves. Her gloves are on the register. I have to take off my boots and tiptoe across the floor again. But the register is empty. Someone has moved her gloves. I go back to the mudroom and ask her where she put her gloves. She admits that she took them upstairs and hid them under her crib. I am really sweating now. 

I try to dodge every toy, blanket, and shoe on the living room floor to make my way upstairs. I cannot find her gloves but I did find an unwrapped granola bar. Suddenly, our mouse problem begins to make more sense. I go to her dresser and find a pair of pink mittens, knowing full and well she will lose her head when she sees they are not her favorite Mickey Mouse mittens. This is a battle I’m willing to fight mostly because I started this process 45 minutes ago and we have probably had four calves born during this “bundling up” process.

I report back downstairs to the mudroom to find Cyrus crying and Caroline taking 50 pairs of gloves out of our glove bucket. This is fine. This can be addressed later. Right now, I need fresh air and enough stamina to make to the barn. I get my boots on and put my phone in my pocket.

I open the storm door and get Caroline outside and pick up the carrier with Cyrus strapped in. All three of us are outside of the house; now, we can start chores.

And my husband wonders 

why I insist on 

feeding the stock only once a day. 

You must always pay the help.