It ain't book learning

There are some life lessons that seep into your brain or hover around, waiting for that light bulb to glow.

And then there are those that jump right up and bite you.

Like the lesson that Hadley hit on the other day: no matter what the temptation, do not thrust your arm through the neighbors' high-gauge electrified livestock fence.

I don't know what drew her to the wire strands -- there weren't any animals in reach -- and Martin and I had our heads buried in a bush, picking blackberries. But with all of that shrieking and her close proximity to the fence, it was pretty easy to deduce what had happened.

Fortunately, barbarians are loathe to show weakness or pain, so she recovered quickly.

No doubt she stored that lesson on the lowest shelf in her cranium, right next to the volume entitled: "don't grasp the door handle of a wood stove when you're visiting your aunt and uncle in Florida in the wintertime."

Fugitives on the run

I often say that raising a kid is a lot like training a dog.

Grossly oversimplified, but it's true.

Unfortunately, one of the kids is behaving a bit too much like the dog.

As I've chronicled before, Maisie's a constant flight risk, requiring frequent retrieval from her romps down by the river.

Well, Hadley's been on the loose as well.

(And let me interject here that while he does not eat stink bugs or sift through cat litter, the Boy's no patron saint. He's blog fodder but there's no denying that the 2-year-old's been on the lamb.)

The first few episodes were pure parental misjudgment: Just because one kid sleeps late and is unwaveringly mesmerized by the idiot box, doesn't mean the other kid will follow. We assumed that it was safe to jump on morning chores while the rug-rats were sleeping. But we discovered that Hadley rises early, gives the TV a cursory nod, then buzzes out the door.

One winter morning I returned from a crack-of-dawn gym workout and noticed tiny footprints etched in the frost on the deck. They led down the stairs and disappeared in the grass. Glancing up the driveway I spotted Martin and the dog...and distantly trailing them, a pajama-clad kid -- with no shoes or jacket -- picking her way along the rocks and gravel.

After a few of these incidents, we've modified our stellar parenting skills -- we no longer leave sleeping kids unattended while we're out and about.

But last weekend a new challenge arose. My friend Linda and I were walking our horses to the nearby indoor ring while Martin ate breakfast with the kids. We had nearly reached the neighbor's barn when Linda's horse, Mingo, stopped in his tracks. He craned his head backwards to look at the small figure -- this time in boots, still no jacket -- sprinting in leg-flailing-toddler fashion toward us. Hadley had run out the door, across the yard, through the barn, out the open gate and through the pasture. She was breathless when she reached us.

What are you doing? I asked.
Looking for you, she said. I found you.
Where is your Dad?
In the house, she said casually.

So parental presence no longer discourages the roaming Barbarian.

Our short-term solution has been to secure the gate on the deck with a leadrope. And so far that's hampered her travels. But the other night Hadley deftly scaled what we thought was an unclimbable railing.

So the next step is to rethink our door locking mechanisms. And perhaps invest in an ankle tracking device.

For both the dog and the kid.

Barbarian newsflash

Hadley the Barbarian loves broccoli. Out of the blue, she demanded it at the store, wolfed it down at dinner and wanted more for breakfast.

FREAK.

Either that, or the stink bug-eating, kitty litter-consuming kid is growing up.

Veggie eating aside, she routinely douses her food in an avalanche of salt... which confirms that she's my flesh and blood after all.

Pioneer kids

After a near week of being snowed in, I've often wondered how the pioneer families did it. How did they tackle chores -- feeding livestock, birthing calves, loading carts -- with the burden of children? I think I've found the answer.

They left them alone.

I'm not equating our rural property with a Little House on the Prairie western outpost. But certain tasks -- chaining and towing a vehicle, prying open a frozen barn door, and heaving hay and water over snow drifts -- are two-person jobs.

Fortunately, we have something that Ma and Pa Ingalls lacked: a Tivo-ed arsenal of Dora and Diego episodes.

When possible, Martin and I plan our excursions during the kids' should-be-napping time. Then we employ a backup system: usually a breadcrumb trail of Ritz crackers that leads to the TV. In most cases it stops them in their tracks and keeps them out of the knife drawer (see photo of toddlers captured in natural habitat after parental absence). Worst case scenario to date: a half-naked Hadley emerges outside in search of us.

Tonight, after my first full day at work and a dreadful commute home, the Big Rig got stuck in the frozen drive -- a normally straight path now plowed in the shape of an "S" around two snow drifts. The truck got stuck uphill, in the belly of the S.

I summoned Martin, who was in the house with the kids. In the dark we debated hitching Chitty and possibly entrapping both trucks. Or fixing the tractor's blown hydraulic hose and using it as the tow vehicle.

Ultimately, Martin miraculously unwedged Big Rig and it dropped to the bottom of the drive like a pinball in a machine. We left it there, where presumably our neighbors can squeeze by and try their luck with the S.

What were the kids doing in our absence? I don't know but I'm pretty sure it involved a nerf gun and a battery-deprived Star Wars light saber. At least they weren't wielding knives.

I'm sure this blog post disqualifies me for any Parent of the Year award. And it probably flags me for a visit from Child Protective Services. Well bring it on, CPS.

Good luck getting up the driveway!

Sheet search

After last weekend's painful bed assembly, I never thought that sheet shopping would pose a bigger challenge. But alas, I'm a duvet girl living in a bed spread country.

Sure, I grew up like every other red-blooded American, with a quilted bedspread. Mine? Reversible... neon yellow on one side, and lime green on the other.

But in Australia I discovered the doona -- better known in Europe as the duvet.

The duvet serves the same purpose as the bed spread but it invites messiness. There are no corners to fit, no wrinkles to smooth out. A puffy, lumpy, rumpled duvet is completely acceptable. Which is why I wanted duvets for the kids' beds.

But Americans are wedding to the quilt, the comforter, the bed-in-a-bag. And as I visited store after store, I found only a few duvets in the sea of bed spreads.

And what I found was too hotel-like:
too busy and floral:

or too... hideous:

or nauseatingly juvenile:

I couldn't believe the number of lunch breaks I wasted traipsing through stores and the evenings spent trolling the internet. For kids' bedding, of all things! Nearly a week sapped on sheets! In desperation I nearly fell into the Pottery Barn pit, but I couldn't stand paying that much for bedding that the kids would snot on, drool on, and god-knows-what-else-on. Hell, Martin and I don't pee in our bed and we don't have expensive bed linens.

Finally when all hope was lost, I discovered normal sheets in basic blue and pink with duvet covers. And at a snot-worthy price. They don't match the rest of the room, but what does?

The Bee Tree

Tis the season of stings. The bees and their venomous relatives are celebrating a last hurrah -- emerging from the earth, haunting the trees, hovering in the air.

At our neighbors' house, the hornets drive the humming birds from their sugar-water feeders. Obviously the birds outsize the insects, but hornets are powerful intimidators.

Our wasps are also busily streaming from ground nests, seeking an unsuspecting ankle or a bare wrist resting against the tractor. They burst angrily from rust holes that spread in the metal tubing of the pasture gates.

This past weekend, I took Chance out for a rookie fox-hunting run. Not 10 minutes in, he bore the brunt of a dozen vengeful bees, enraged when hounds and horses treaded over a wooded nest. Once the attack was underway, we fled the forest for a bee-less corn field. But they kept after us. At home I picked stingers from the welts that pocked Chance's neck and hindquarters.

And about a week ago, I discovered a massive haven of bee activity right beside the house. I heard the humming from an open window. Like the steady buzz of power lines or some far-off mower chewing grass.

But this hum originated close by, in the tree that hugs the porch and tops out next to our bathroom. I walked outside to investigate. Every branch shimmered with motion. The tree buzzed with life as bees lifted to the air, then dive-bombed the flowery clusters.
I reminded myself that they're plain old bees. Not hostile hornets or defensive wasps. If I leave them alone, they'll return the favor.

But it's the sheer number -- the cacophonous drone -- that scares me.

I know what they can do.

Note Hadley parked to offer scale of tree. Toddler not harmed for this photo.
Even the bees don't mess with The Barbarian.

Rare find

Kicking around the local area this weekend, we stumbled on a strawberry festival, which was less festival and more church parking lot where one could buy berries by the pint & country ham sandwiches, and watch the local jump rope team (whoever heard of such a thing?) entangle themselves in their ropes to music.

But there was something quaint and homey about the whole thing. A couple church members turned hot dogs on the grill and a quartet played bluegrass beside the neighbor's house. A little girl barely in the double digits peddled face painting from her card table. The kids loved that, especially Hadley the Barbarian who promptly licked off the bonus artwork painted on her arm.

While the Barbarian polished off her paint, I pawed through the stack of used books for sale, most of which appeared either retired or permanently borrowed from a high school library. Books are my true weakness -- if I were on welfare, I'd probably blow the kids' milk money at Border's.

So despite slim pickings I found a way to fill a shopping bag for 50 cents. Among my purchases, a 1924 edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel "The House of the Seven Gables." It's not Ebay-worthy, but a nice addition to the book shelf.


For kicks I also scooped up this battered copy of "Lassie." It looks like a dog chewed on the spine, but I love the 1950s illustrations.

Never trust a plant

Our neighbor Ernesto was cruising along the drive in typical dust-raising speed when he spotted me and hit the breaks, spitting gravel. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he pointed to our wood pile.

My wood pile. I take some perverse pride in it since I salvaged, hauled and stacked the logs myself.

It is a lovely wood pile, I thought as I walked toward him...stacked by yours truly....maybe he wants some of it...

"Do you need some wood?" I asked. There's not a lot, but I'm feeling generous....

"No!" He looked kind of horrified, like I'd just offered him nuclear waste.

"No, I just wanted to tell you that the wood's covered in poison ivy. If you burn it, the poison ivy will get in your lungs. You'll end up in the hospital."

I peered at the tendrils of gnarled vines wrapped around the logs. How did he know it was poison ivy? How could he be so sure?

Let me back up a few decades here.

Long ago me 'n Poison Ivy struck an agreement. It would leave me alone and I wouldn't brag about my ivy-resistant powers. And for much of life, I've cavorted in poison ivy. I played hide and seek in its leafy patches and bedded down in it at sleep-away camp. Wove garland crowns out of poison ivy and danced in the moonlight....

There was always a trade off of course. From birth, mosquitoes have devoured me to the bone. Still, that old adage "leaves of 3, let it be" was meaningless. Poison ivy was my friend.

Til I turned the ripe old age of 30, and nature and age bestowed some memorable gifts: my first wrinkles around my eyes, my first gray hairs... and poison ivy re-neged on our deal.

"That's poison ivy!" Martin practically crowed as I manically scratched the bubbly red patch on my arm.

"Impossible! I must've been attacked by a mosquito colony. I don't get poison ivy."

"Well, you do now."

And wouldn't you know it, my powers failed right when we moved to the farm. Where poison ivy grows thick and plentiful by the bushel. Around here you could harvest it, string it together, and it would encircle the earth twice.

But without those Calamine lessons of childhood, I am powerless at identifying the plant. Much to Martin's dismay. "How can you not know poison ivy?" he asks incredulously. You'd think I'd just announced that my hobbies are flag burning and painting swastikas.

"I dunno. Everything's leafy and green around here! I don't understand how you see it so easily!"

Martin tests me constantly. "What that? What's that?" I lob out random plant names.

"Honeysuckle? pachysandra? boxelder?"

"No! Leaves of three...how many times do I tell you this?" He gets pissed about this. "Comeon, you've got kids now!"

Like that denotes some kind of responsibility.

But just about the time that Martin's going blow his stack, I feign sudden understanding. Not because I recognize the plant, but because Martin has a tell: "what's that?" When I hear that, I know that that's "it."

"Oh, that's poison ivy," I say knowingly. He looks momentarily relieved. When he's gone, I go back to plunging through leaves of three, four and five to pick berries. I hope my secret powers return soon.

And truthfully, no one's perfect. Even the great Poison Ivy Hunter stumbles. Last year while I was at a softball game, Martin called frantically because Hadley the Barbarian had eaten poison ivy.

Fortunately, babies are not susceptible or don't develop a reaction until they're older. And for now, I'm gambling that the kids will be like me -- immune. They don't have a choice. I can't identify the damn stuff anyway.

my former BFF, now frenemy

Wanted: Pony with 1 hoof in grave...kid crushers need not apply

I've put the word out on the street. It's time to find a pony for the kids.

But not just any old beast. I want a nice, sweet, bombproof pony. And that's no easy find because ponies can be real stinkers. (*fyi to civilians: ponies do not grow into horses. Small ponies stay small.)

Sometimes the naughty ones are easy to spot: an ad with a pony who's too cute for words, dirt cheap, and offered for sale with "saddle & bridle included." Odds are that thing pitched or stomped some kid senseless.

Ponies can be very sweet but most owners know what they've got and are reluctant to let a good one go. I once judged a show where a pony did everything to keep his rider on -- short of walking on his hind legs and carrying her. The little girl barely stuck to the saddle and eventually popped off halfway through her jumping phase. But that pony knew his job. Without any direction he finished the rest of the course, down to his closing circle, before exiting the ring.

Ponies also tend to be cunning, savvy and whip-smart -- much more than their larger relations. And some use their power for good while others succumb to devilish instincts. In a barn full of horses, it's the pony who will escape his stall and free everyone else, or crawl on his knees under a fence to reach greener grass.

Training a pony under saddle is equally challenging. Large ponies are ridden by adults but often it's a pint-sized pilot who must wrestle with the littler model with the cunning mind. Some horse people believe that being bitten, tossed off or otherwise terrorized by a wicked little beast is merely a life lesson. Kids learn to swallow pride, use finesse, and at times eat dirt.

I'll never forget fox hunting in Ireland...which for most Americans is less about hunting and more about surviving to see the end of the day. Ireland's country is tough and trappy, obstacles are huge and imposing, and the pace is fast. Thankfully a cocktail or two usually precedes most meets, otherwise sober, I'd never agree to such half-brained riding.

Anyway, one particular day a little reedy kid around 8 yrs old parted ways with his gray mount while clearing an obstacle. The pony had approached a stone wall and hesitated before launching into the air. Pony went one way, kid went the other.

"Ah, fer fook's sake! Whatya doin on the ground?" his father -- who followed on foot -- hollered not unkindly. "Get yer arse back in that sat-el!"

Shortly afterward the boy and pony approached another wall at a good clip. At the last moment that impish gray thing slammed on the brakes, spitting out his rider over the top at lightning speed. And then the pony just stood there, blinking innocently in that way that ponies do, as if to say, "What are you doing down there?"

The boy climbed out of the mud and approached his mount, gathering the reins before he promptly clouted the pony smartly over the head with his whip. The pony jumped back. "That'll fookin' learn ya!" the kid announced before he stepped back into his stirrup.

The point? That the Irish are skilled at riding and swearing because they start early at both. And also of course, that ponies are naughty!

British cartoonist Norman Thelwell captured these pint-sized personalities best and published several books depicting pudgy girls and their plucky, mischievous mounts. He was not a horseman but was inspired by two hairy ponies, "small and round and fat and of very uncertain temper" who grazed near his house.

He wrote:
"They were owned by two little girls about three feet high who could have done with losing a few ounces themselves.... As the children got near, the ponies would swing round and present their ample hindquarters and give a few lightning kicks which the children would side-step calmly as if they were avoiding the kitchen table, and they had the head-collars on those animals before they knew what was happening.

I was astonished at how meekly the ponies were led away; but they were planning vengeance - you could tell by their eyes."

I don't mind if the kids wind up with some sly-eyed pony who teaches them a few life lessons about patience, humility and how to hang on. But first, they should earn their sea legs on some weathered, seen-it-all, I'm-just-waiting-to-die, kind, furry soul, who plods along and teaches them to love ponies.

Before they want to clobber them.

(for more examples of thelwell ponies check out this link.)

Country time living, old school fun

You know that Country Time Lemonade commercial that uses iconic scenes of summer to push its powdered drink? It's the TV ad that shows a kid coasting over a river in a tire swing, twins walking through a field of flowers, a couple strolling down a winding, stone-walled path in the setting sun?

It's kind of like that. Only it's March and it's a mud puddle.

Who needs TV -- or a glass of sugar-laden lemonade, for that matter -- when you have a pothole filled with murky water and a muddy driveway full of rocks? Spring never smelled so sweet.

Utterly vile

Most parents fret that their toddlers will choke on something like a grape or a chunk of hotdog. Or they'll swallow something inedible like a penny or a magnet or the top to a magic marker. Something normal.

My kid, on the other hand, went fishing tonight in the litter box and found something that caught her eye. While no one was looking, she taste-tested cat pee generously breaded in litter. I'm still revolved by the incident. But what can you do? Swab her mouth out with a paper towel and move on.

But give me a break already. Can't I have a normal kid who eats dog food or lint balls?

Damn you Drippy, and your semi-used litter box! Your timing is impeccable.

Shortly after the incident, Hadley chases down her cat snack with Doritos. Bon appetit!

Other kid (the normal one), consuming food typically eaten by humans living in the US

"yea, this burger's not bad...but i know what would make it taste better...."

And now that everyone's thoroughly grossed-out, here's a bonus photo. Think of it as a palate cleanser.

It was a tough night and the high chair was a mess. But with a little quick thinking, problem solved.