Bring it on!

“You should’ve been a nurse,” my Aunt Mindy (the licensed nurse practitioner) told me after we corresponded back and forth about yet ANOTHER medical situation.
Yep, having some medical training would definitely come in handy with the group we have.
Every day is an adventure and it is even more of an adventure during cold and flu and strep throat season.
Every morning I wake up and I have absolutely NO clue what the days will hold.
Not a clue. Not an exaggeration.
A week or so ago, Rylan developed a fever and cold symptoms. That grew into a chest infection, ear infection and chicken pox (yes, he’s been vaccinated — twice!).
He seemed to be responding well to a new antibiotic (he, of course, is allergic to amoxicillin), until literally an hour after his second dose when he developed a scary, crazy looking and itchy rash up his neck and all over his face.

Showing the calves who’s boss

Poor Matt has such little help on the farm.
Yes, he has me, but I am sometimes (let’s face it, most of the time) more of a liability than a help.
Sometimes the little relief I can provide is worth the liability.
(We decided early on in this little farm venture that my having life insurance was a must!)
On the Sunday morning Matt was loading a set of calves to transport to the sale barn, he came to the all-too-familiar junction where his job would be much easier with another body to help.
That other body was me.
He called into the house, “I need you to come out here and help me load these calves.”
Me: “Really? I have to go to the restroom and I’m wearing flip flops!”
Matt: “It will just take a second — HURRY!”
I obeyed.

Life at Roosterville

I’ve decided Oehlschlager Farm is not an appropriate title anymore.
Matt and I are now the proud owners of Roosterville.
At least that’s what it feels like after our last chicken debacle.
It all started with (what I thought was) my best idea yet.
We were ordering our spring chickens when I thought it would be great to add some flavor (no pun intended) to our rather uniform flock.
We ordered the “Grab Bag” of hens, which promised to feature a mixture of several different varieties of hens. Sold!
“Why not order our broilers at the same time?” I cleverly thought to myself.
So, I purchased another special — the “Pan Fry.” Later I learned this means a variety of birds that aren’t cross-bred for extra fast gaining, but a slower-growing meat bird.
They were all to arrive in the same shipment — all 50 teeny, tiny little tweeting creatures in one little box.
(At this point, I am still VERY excited. Ignorance truly is bliss.)
When we cracked open the box and I first saw the birds, I began to realize my mistake.
Since these were a mixture of varieties, it was nearly impossible to tell which were the hens and which were the meat birds.
They all looked different.
So I separated them the best I could and immediately got on the phone to the professionals who told me “There is really no way of telling them apart until they are older.”
Great!
But we kept trucking along. What could we do about it now?
Then one Monday (about dinner time, of course), I noticed something was wrong.
Something was VERY wrong. Half of our birds had this giant mass on their back ends. It was huge, nearly as big as their bodies.
UH-OH!
Our “chicken professionals” were closed, I couldn’t immediately find answers online. Matt was too busy at work to help.
It was all up to me. The lives of these birds were in my hands.
“I can do this,” I reassured myself.
So, I confidently (yeah right) headed out to study the situation. Soon I realized the poor chicks were constipated on the outside.
The heat lamps had escalated “the situation” into a rock-hard, tumor-like mass.
VERY disturbing for us chicken amateurs.
I soaked them in this, I soaked them in that. Nothing was working. “It” was literally super-glued on them — tail feathers and all.
It was rapidly turning into a serious situation. Chicks go to the bathroom like every four seconds (or more) and with nowhere to go, I imagined they were at death’s door.
There was only one way left to save them.
I pulled out our hair trimmers off the shelf, grabbed a bird and flipped the on switch. I nearly cried with the poor creature while I attempted to shave “it” loose.
Thankfully Matt walked in from work.
“What in the world,” he screamed. “This is ridiculous!”
(At this point I’m crying hysterically trying to explain the seriousness of the situation and how, I feared, their was no hope.)
Frustrated (and thoroughly annoyed), he picked up a chick, grabbed hold of “it” and yanked it off.
TWEET!
He then set the bird free, minus all its tail feathers, as I watched in amazement.
The next day our birds were back to normal (well, as much normal as is possible here).
And the week came when we had to decide which birds were going to “go.” (At this point they all looked the same.)
So, we chose. We guessed. And hoped for the best.
Now, four weeks later, our “broilers” are resting comfortably in freezer bags and I have started to see some curious changes in our so-called “hens.”
It looks like we did an excellent job of categorizing our “Pan Fry” birds and the “Grab Bag.”
Unfortunately, it looks like we butchered the wrong group.
Can you say Roosterville?

Wave

Have you noticed that nobody waves anymore?
Well, not nobody, but most do not wave.
Sure people wave at those they really know, but just the good ole raise of the paw to a stranger is very uncommon in these times we live in.
Matt is a waver. I am not.
It’s not that I’m not friendly, it’s just that when I’m driving there is typically a “crisis” of some sort in the back and I am intent on staying on the road and not crashing.
But this is really no excuse. There are plenty of times I’m alone or the kids are behaving and I don’t wave because I just don’t wave.
We, as a society, are so busy. We are so connected, yet so secluded.
It’s very sad, actually.
We don’t have time for community. For shooting the breeze. For worrying about other people’s needs over our own. (I’m talking about myself more than anybody else in particular.)
Back in the day when life was slower (which I’ve seen only on T.V.), people visited each other’s houses, sat on the porch while the kids played in the yard.
The women stayed home so there was more time for friendships. People weren’t off here or there every single day like our lives are today.
I’m envious.
I hate the hustle bustle. Life is fast enough without the added nonsense. All the fill in the blank we pile onto our schedules takes away from the real fragrance, the essence of what makes a satisfying life.
I read an article about an elderly woman who really had no reason to be happy and content. Blind. Old. Moving into a nursing home. Yet she was pleasant and gentle. Satisfied.
How in this world we live in is there such a thing?
Satisfaction?
It seems so unattainable.
But she had it. She couldn’t see, but she had it. She was close to death’s door, but she had it.
Her secret was a choice. She chose to — despite her circumstances — get up each day and be content. To accept each moment, whether it was good, bad, boring, exciting.
She filled her “memory bank” with those contented memories and now, although she can’t see and is moving to a place most people dread, she is satisfied. She can make daily or hourly or minute-to-minute withdrawals from the “bank” of her youth, which she intentionally filled with memories.
Wow.
Stopped me dead in my tracks.
Sounds like something I need to do. Something else I have to do.
But I’m too busy to do this.
Two kids have ear infections and are on different dosages of antibiotics. School is starting and there are school supplies to label, doctor check ups. Clean the house. Make dinner. Oh, I have a headache. The daily grind.
Nope, I am too busy.
Choices.
Can I afford to be lost in the busyness. No.
I can’t afford to be carried away by the speed of this society.
I am going to stop.
Intentionally.
Breath.
This moment only.
Choose.
To.
Stop.
Typing the words makes my pulse slow. Makes my ears more attuned. My eyes can see life. My vivid life. What I don’t want to miss. What I can’t afford to miss.
Because one day I will (God willing) be that old woman.
Someone will be dropping me off there at a nursing home and I will be alone.
If I’m too busy to enjoy and accept and choose to be content in my life now, how can I expect to be happy or content or satisfied then?
I have decided I am not going to put off living, breathing in and depositing the precious and sustaining memories of now.
Today.
Masen is nearly the age Kadence was when he was born.
It was only a blink ago.
Today.
My brother will celebrate his 18th birthday this week. It seems like only yesterday he was a toddler.
Today.
Didn’t I just graduate high school? Nope, my 10-year class reunion is this year.
Today.
Right now.
This life stage.
Breathe in.
Feel.
Smile.
Choose to accept.
Choose to be satisfied.
Take the time to wave.

Duggars!!!

I’m sure you’ve heard about those kid-lovin’ folks down in Arkansas, the Duggars.
If you haven’t, they are a family with 19 kids “and counting,” with very conservative values, a hit reality television show and two books.
I love love love the Duggars.
Everything about them is totally opposite of our culture’s definition of normal and I am so attracted to their way of life.
A mentor of mine told me the reason I’m drawn to them is because they are a light in this dark world. A breath of fresh air. Gentle, kind, peaceful, loving, forgiving, graceful. Seriously, these folks are living right.
I know I don’t KNOW them and I KNOW they aren’t perfect (they know that, too), but in this day and age, I truly believe God is using them as an example —truly a one-of-a-kind example of how He wants us to live.
Every aspect of the Duggars life has been based on Scripture.
We are supposed to relinquish control in all areas of our life to God. He controls all. We can’t pick and choose. It’s easy to believe we have control (vasectomy, etc.), but God has the ultimate say in whether or not a child is brought into this world. That is why the Duggars believe it is God’s will how many children they have.
They believe children are a gift from God. And that’s biblical.
And I find it very ironic that it is “PC” to offer a woman the “right to choose” as long as that choice doesn’t more than a typical number of children (China).
The Duggars also live debt-free (including the 7,000 square foot home they built together as a family project). They homeschool, wear modest clothing, have family focused pastimes, have daily family Bible times and watch very little television.
It’s easy to glance at the cover of this family’s book and immediately cast judgment.
What an irresponsible use of limited earthly resources!
How can they possibly give each child the attention he or she needs?
They are fake. Nobody can be THAT happy.
But I truly believe they ARE that happy.
And my answer to all the other questions people pose about their impact on the earth and the health of their children: Isn’t God in control of all that too?
Doesn’t He know what He’s doing?
From what I can see (and from the fruit of their works) their children are growing into happy, well-adjusted contributing members of society.
Two of their children own their own businesses.
Three of them are trained to be first-responders and volunteer on their area fire department. (When they got word of the deadly Joplin tornado, they immediately loaded up and lended a hand.)
While Matt and I both believe the Duggars are living right, we don’t live exactly like them. I don’t know about Matt, but I am afraid. (Isn’t that pathetic?)
I don’t know if I could take the ridicule that people would give me (even though that scorn is also biblical).
The Duggars take all the critiscm in stride and show love toward those that hate them.
Despite all the mockers and doubters, this family continues to rise above.
And they give all the glory to God. I am thankful for them.
Check the family out for yourself at www.duggarfamily.com.