. . . who hooked up with a red laced blue Wyandotte. It was nothing serious. She knew that. After all, he had at least fifteen other hens that she knew about. It wasn’t going to last, but who could resist that tail?

But then the unthinkable happened and she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. She wasn’t sure she knew how to be a mother. So she did what everyone else did and hopped in the little box in the corner, sat down and laid her egg.

No one really knew what happened to all the eggs that were laid there. They were laid and then became somebody else’s problem. Everyone liked it because it was discreet (even if everyone knew there was only one reason for going in that room) and within a few hours the problem just went away.

So mama australorp hopped in the little box and laid her egg. She covered it lightly with a loose blanket of straw and cried loudly as she left, but her problem was gone.

But then along came the Welsh Harlequin. She was a beautiful duck with only one desire in the world: to become a mother.

But her drake had been killed in a vicious dog attack the year before so she was unable to have any children of her own. She saw the hens going in and out of the box in the corner. She knew what it was for. And it always pained her to see them treating such a beautiful blessing like a problem that needed to be disposed of.

Until one day she decided to do something about it. After the australorp ran out crying over the problems she had brought upon herself, the Welsh Harlequin went in and sat.

And sat. And sat. And sat. For three weeks, she sat leaving only for an occasional drink and a little food. But mostly, she sat.

Until finally, she became a mother.

And though her baby didn’t look anything like her, to her mama heart, it was the most beautiful duckling in the world.

“You know, both your brothers wore this outfit. Bear wore it. And Tiggy wore it.”

I was just about to tickle him when he exclaimed,

“Tiggy!”

And the air stopped right there in my chest and part of me wanted to collapse to the floor screaming

“WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?“

and part of me wanted to dance at the sound of his name. Tiggy . . .  Tiggy . . . Tiggy . . . It’s still there, lurking in the shadows, but I don’t hear it very often any more. Mattias . . . Mattias . . . Mattias . . . His name seems only to echo in my own mind. Always waiting there at the tip of my tongue, waiting to slip out any time I am distracted but need to call out a name.

But little Mookie knows his name. He knows the name of his big brother, not quite 20 months older than him, who only got to hold him a few times but would sit next to me on the couch while his baby brother nursed so he could pet his head.

And weeks after he died, when little Mookie was old enough to grab my hand while nursing, he put my hand on top of his head and that feeling in my chest then is the same as that feeling that is there now where I cannot breathe and seem balanced on a razor’s edge between collapsing under the weight of losing my little boy and rejoicing at the connections that can still be made.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A farmer’s wife.”

“A farmer’s wife, huh?

“Yep.”

“Why a farmer’s wife?”

“I want to feed the chickens and milk the cows.”

The chickens started as a homeschool project but they awakened in me something that I must have known at least a little bit way back then, before I even started kindergarten. Something that yearned for wide open spaces, fresh air, hard work and food from our own land.

And before we knew it, we were out here. I’ve been surrounded by chickens ever since.

But this weekend, we added on a little something more.

Two little Dexter heifers, Tasha and Candy. These two are too young to be bred just yet, but they are to be our milk cows and I’m reading everything I can about raising cows, breeding cows and milking cows hoping that I will know everything I need to know when the time comes.

But that wasn’t all the additions to our little farm project.

Some time ago, a friend’s husband hit a turkey while out working in his fields. Then he found her nest. Since they knew we had an incubator, they brought us the eggs.

I wasn’t really expecting anything, but thought it would be kind of exciting to se them through until hatching. And it was.

Monday evening, we came home to one little turkey poult resting amidst the eggs. My husband called me in and I screamed. Seriously. Like a little kid at Christmas. I screamed and called for the children.

So now we have a turkey.

I never wanted a turkey. Maybe for a few minutes while looking at them during Chick Days at Orsheln’s, but it is easy to want all manner of things when they are running around in their baby fluff being adorable. But once I got over that, I went back to not wanting turkeys. I still don’t want to raise turkeys.

But now we have a turkey. A turkey I have no clue what to do with since it is technically a wild animal.

And I am so excited.

So, I got to review the Venus Embrace razor for new shavers together with my daughter. The razor has five blades, a Ribbon of Moisture and a soft (pink) grip handle. Plus we got a whole bottle of their Passionista Fruit Satin Care shaving gel. My daughter was excited about that.

“Is it going to make me smell like that?”

“Maybe. At least a little bit.”

“Wow! And they should make one that smells like pigs because then it would smell like me!”

Now my daughter does NOT smell like pigs. Or even a pig. But she does spend a lot of time in the barn with her steer and her minihorse. And she had just finished moving her newly hatched chicks out of the incubator and into the brooder. And I think she rather likes the smell of living and playing amidst the animals on our little homestead.

As I opened the package to the razor, I figured I may as well make these few minutes teaching her how to shave count for something.

“What do you think it means to be beautiful?”

“To be kind and to be pretty.”

“Good. What does it mean to be pretty? How do you decide if someone’s pretty?”

She wrinkled her nose the way only a thirteen year old girl who has been asked the obvious can.

“That . . . you . . . are . . . pretty. Nice skin and hair and you aren’t deformed.”

“Ok, good. For the most part, what we see as pretty is tied to signs of good health: glowing skin, shiny hair, clear eyes, proportional body shape. Those are all signs of good health so when we make choices to be healthy, we are doing what is best for our bodies and nurturing our natural beauty.”

“So what does that have to do with shaving.”

I looked down at the razor in my hand.

“Maybe not much, but we’ll see when I get there.”

“Oh. OK.”

“Anyway, sometimes people do have deformities or disabilities or other things that aren’t considered “beautiful.” Most people have something about their body they don’t like, but even pimples can make you self conscious of how you look. That’s why the kindness you mentioned is such an important part of beauty. People who have that kind of true, internal beauty are just nice to be around. After a few minutes, you don’t even notice the way they look, only the way they make you feel.”

“Horses don’t care about that stuff, either.”

I laughed.

“That’s true. And most people really don’t either if they get a chance to get to know each other. Good hygiene helps, too. Cleaning yourself, brushing your hair and dressing in appropriate clothes tell people that you respect yourself. Shaving is really just a cultural thing here in America, but it is part of basic grooming that communicates to other people that you respect your body and want to take care of it. And it doesn’t hurt to smell like Passionista Fruit.”

She laughed and I handed her the razor.

“So, how was it?” I asked when she returned.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” I wasn’t sure whether she really didn’t like it or if she was just a thirteen year old girl who thought enough talking had already taken place. “Is that what you want me to write for the review? Fine?”

“Oh, OK. Well, I really liked the shaving gel. It smells really good, but it didn’t really make me smell like that. A little nice but not so strong. And when you first put it on it is like a gel but then it turns white when you rub it in and foams up. It makes your legs really slippery. The razor was cool. You don’t even have to hold it or move it and it just shaves.”

“What do you mean you don’t have to hold it? How do you shave without holding the razor?”

She went and got the razor and showed me how the head tilts.

“All you have to do is pull it straight and the razor just goes up and down. You don’t have to hold it.”

With the image of razors magically floating across legs, I laughed.

“So you liked it.”

“Yeah, it was nice.”

And with that, she went to bed not smelling like pigs or chickens.

_______________________________________________________

I know she’s starting to pay more attention to her appearance, and I want to make sure she’s getting the right information from me.  What are some of the ways you tackle conversations like shaving (or other “firsts”) with your daughter? Leave a comment to be entered for a chance to win a $50 Visa gift card, courtesy of BlogHer and Venus.

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He knows that bees sting, so if I get closer to the hive than he thinks is safe, he will bravely charge between me and the hive, snapping at bees in my defense until they drive him away with their stings. If I dig a hole in the garden, he digs his own. Never mind that he can dig up bushes as fast as I can plant them. And he just knows that steer belongs in the barn.

So I look at his problem behaviors and I don’t just see puppy. And I don’t just see lack of training. I see the bright student in the back of the class that turns to class clown out of sheer boredom with the task at hand.With this small bit of insight, I decide to stop working on “come” and “no’ and “leave it.” He actually knows those quite well. They are the commands he hears most.

Today, I decide to ask him to work.

We walk down to the garden together and open the gate to the run. He trots in to sniff around and I just stand and watch him for a minute before walking to the henhouse to let the poultry out. He runs to catch up and pays only mild attention to the storm of feathers that erupts from the henhouse door. Then we open up the chicken run and out come the goslings and ducklings, perhaps the most closely guarded livestock on the farm.

Working waterfowl is different than working cattle. When moving our steer, Timmy has to drive in with all his senses. He is young and insecure so he tends to bark more than drive, but he is learning and gaining confidence. He has to be equally ready to charge in for the controlling grip at the heel or jump back to dodge an angry kick.

Not so with poultry. For the last few days, we have been walking the fence outside the run while the waterfowl are grazing. I let him sniff and stare and even chase from the outside of the fence. I didn’t say much, hoping he would learn the way ducks and geese respond to his movements. It didn’t take long and he could put them where he wanted them (back at the gate in the shade by the water dish) even with a fence in the way.

That’s how I knew he was ready.

As the birds file past him, he pays them no attention. He is used to hearing “no” and “leave it” and “come” when he tries to herd poultry. His eyes are on me until the ducklings fall behind and one of the goslings starts to run. His attention shifts, his head lowers.

“Walk up,” I say, anticipating that he will move closer.

“Good walk up,” I say when he does.

He is confused for a moment. He’s never heard the command, but I’m clearly pleased with his intensity. With half a wag of a tail, his full attention is back on the goslings who are starting to run. He backs off a little and moves to flank them, but they are at full waddle to get into the garden run.

They leave the ducklings in their dust.

But when we go back for the ducklings, Timmy knows exactly what needs to be done. Only he doesn’t know about the subtle differences between herding geese and herding ducks. For one, my goslings have been making the trek to the garden much longer and actually will go there on their own without herding. But geese also have more confidence. They aren’t as quick to panic and they can be herded even with the dog’s nose at their side.

The ducklings panic.

They trip over their big feet and when he tries to nose them back toward the fence line, they roll and then jump and then dart. They panic and run straight past the safety of their run and into the ditch on the other side. Timmy needs to back off. He doesn’t really know “easy” but I don’t want to command him to “leave it,” either. He is doing well, never showing the slightest impulse to use his teeth.

He’s just working them too close. So I try something else.

“Easy,” I say as I back up.

And in that moment’s hesitation where he tries to decide whether to follow me or stay on the ducks, I say “Good easy.”

And he wags his tail and stays where he is at. I walk to the other side of the ditch. He joins me and three ducklings immediately rush out of the long grasses toward the safety of the run and the goslings they hide behind. We watch the other two for a moment, but they’re playing a game of “I can’t see you so you can’t see me.” Timmy walks calmly toward them and they bolt.

Rather than chase, he just stands next to me and watches them sprint toward the run as only ducklings can.

And as I shut the gate and give him the rambunctious praise he is due, I think about the relationships we build with our dogs. I have almost always had a dog, but before we moved out here, they were all “just” pets. I played with them, trained them and loved them. In return, they barked too much, peed on the carpeting and loved me. Out here, they have jobs to do.

When I clipped that gate shut, Timmy became more than “just” a pet. He became a partner in this little farming endeavor.

And would you believe he didn’t chase the steer once all day?

I didn’t like it. At least not very much.

My mom said she kept reading it because she wanted to find out what happened. That’s something, I suppose, but I was about a quarter of the way through the book before I let go of the fact that I didn’t really care what happened and started to like Adam just a little a bit. He should be at the top of the world with hit songs, and world tours, and PR managers and fans who ask for his autograph at every turn. But his world is falling apart around him as he struggles to find his place in the world after Mia broke up with him. Fame and fortune and even a famous actress live in girlfriend isn’t enough to fill the vaccuum she left behind.

And then they meet.

And then the dialog starts. The backstory unfolds and it is handled reasonably well until the climax when they are able to walk away from each other and Adam realizes he can be OK.

The book should have ended there.

If it had ended there, I would have forgiven it some of the unnecessary length of explanations as Mia and Adam go on and on, filling in the blanks of the last three years. But instead, all the loose ends are tied up a little too neatly, they get back together, the band finishes its tour and Adam goes on to write independently and with less anger.

I liked the idea of these characters that had to be separated in order to heal from their separate hurts so that they could truly be together. But it was a little too wordy and a little too neat.

And I’m probably the only person in the world who reads a romance novel and hopes the couple doesn’t end up getting back together in the end.

“This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.”

Micah begins to fuss. For as much as he wants to nurse, he is also hungry.

“Do you want some kefir?” I ask.

And he drops down off my bed and runs to the kitchen. He dances and claps as I prepare the kefir for the morning and hand him a glass. He drinks it and smiles up at me with a kefir mustache and a kefir beard and kefir dribbling down his stomach . . .

Micah looks in a box of peeping, fuzzy goslings and squeals with delight. He leans close to look, holding his hands together. He is trying hard to not touch while he waits for someone to hold one close to him and help him pet. He leans his cheek against the top of the goslings head and his eyes sparkle . . .

Micah stands in the middle of the gym floor, watching the mass of children run and play. He’s a little overwhelmed with all the activity, but curious, too, and he wants to explore. I watch as he walks a little further away. Someone smiles at him and he turns to look for me. I am there and his whole face lights up as he runs back to me, arms held high, waiting to be swept back up in my arms . . .

Micah climbs up behind his sister on the computer chair while everyone is getting ready to watch Lost in Space. He doesn’t really get the whole show watching thing. He’d rather be redistributing my dishes about the house. Except he wants to do whatever they are doing and right now they are getting ready to watch a show. He gobbles his sister’s back and she laughs.

“You shouldn’t eat your sister!” Bug says.

And then everyone is laughing and Micah is laughing so hard he is having a hard time gobbling . . .

Micah looks at me . . . and he smiles.

And every smile is a treasured gift. A ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. A breath of fresh air on a hot summer’s afternoon.

Because last year, I was so scared. I was scared that I cried too much and laughed too seldom. I was scared of the effect so much grief would have on such a young baby. I was scared of what he would go through growing up in the shadow of a brother he barely met and never really knew.

I was scared I was going to ruin him.

But when he looks at me, he smiles.

And I’m not so scared anymore.

Because that is when we gave up on Pepper and had her rehomed.

But as I screw on the little metal knobs that actually deliver the shock, I hesitate. Jake is napping peacefully in the corner. He lives to please me. I was already harsh with him and even now, a few days later, he approaches me submissively with his shoulders low, his wagging tail sweeping the ground, and those great big eyes that just say, “Do you still love me, Mommy?”

The first thing I ever read about remote shock collars, or e-collars as their proponents prefer to call them, was about training dogs to leave chickens alone.

“Set the shock high and walk away. You don’t want the dog to know you are delivering the shock. You want her to think it is the chicken. When she goes for the chicken, the shock should knock her off her feet.”

That recommendation from a total stranger soured me on the use of a collar and actually was the first thing that made me seriously consider giving up Pepper. Because a new home away from chickens was surely better than treating her that way just so she could stay here.

But Jake isn’t Pepper. At least not yet.

So I call him over and fit him for his new collar. I read a little more about just exactly how I am supposed to do this and finally take him outside. With the remote in my pocket, I watch him sniff around the front yard and deliver the first shock.

Nothing.

I increase it. Still nothing. I’m looking for that point when he takes notice, but nothing more. I increase it more. And more. And I start to think maybe the shock cannot penetrate his thick coat but then finally he stops sniffing to scratch his neck. He resumes sniffing, as if it were only a bothersome fly. I try once again, in case it was just a fly. Same response.

And now it is time to introduce chickens.

We walk down to the henhouse to release the chickens and start our morning chores. Because right then, when the door is first opened and the chickens come racing out, right then it is the hardest for any dog to remember that they aren’t allowed to chase chickens.

He’s immediately alert as the tension gathers in his shoulders for a possible strike. I tap the remote in my pocket with no effect. I increase it by one and see the reaction in his eyebrows and ears as they make a slight jump. His gaze never leaves the chickens, but I decide to work with him at this level. I tap the remote again, his ears lift and he runs to my side.

“Hey, Jake!”

I rub under his ear and continue chores as if I didn’t notice what just happened. On the way to get water, he notices the pullets, small females still only half the size of the hens. Before ordering the collar, he killed one, lunged at one and caught yet another I rescued from his jaws. These are the ones that get him excited.

And yet it takes only one little tap on the remote in my pocket and he is back at my side, enjoying scritches behind the ear and the sound of my voice as I tell him about my plans for the day. He trots back down to the henhouse with me and lays down when I start to walk toward the garden. I leave him surrounded by chickens.

As I fill the five gallon waterer for the goslings, he gets up and walks around the barn. He’s out of sight, but through the open door, I can see the chickens coming around the opposite side. They aren’t running, but they are nervous, so I walk slowly to where I can get a view of Jake. He’s just standing there, staring at a chicken perched on the water dish. I’m not sure what to make of his stance. I’m not actually sure whether he wants to go after the chicken or if he just wants a drink of water.

I give him one more tap and that is it. For the rest of the day, I can’t get him to pay any attention to the chickens no matter how hard I try. Whether I sit on the porch or watch through a window inside, he goes about his business as if the chickens aren’t even there.

And I couldn’t be happier with his new little e-collar. Not just because he is learning (and quickly!) but because I was able to relax while doing chores with him. He went after the chickens three times and yet I didn’t have to scold him once. All he heard from me was praise.

And I really think this is going to work.

It was a hard day and then Jake killed a chicken.

Bug saw it and brought me the dead pullet. I was angry, unsure of what to do, so I smothered it in hot sauce with a bit of wasabi intending to feed it to him and knowing it wouldn’t work but feeling like I had to do something. I walked up to him, a chicken walked by and I saw him change from overgrown teddy bear to lightning fast predator in an instant.

And I threw the dead chicken at him as I yelled that I was taking him to the pound.

Though he has killed before, I had never seen him do it. When he is with me, he doesn’t pay that much attention to the chickens.  Sometimes he pricks his ears and sometimes he shows more interest than I like and once, the day before, he charged one but not with that kind of intensity.

And now, after locking up the barn, I look back at the house and the day isn’t over. I still have the dinner dishes. I still have a list of things I know I should do and I know I probably won’t. I think about pushing it all aside and just going to bed because I want the day to be over and I’m just done with it all.

I look up at the stars and think how they once filled me with wonder. That night . . . the night Tiggy died . . . there were stars. The most spectacular shooting star streaked across the sky as we lost sight of the ambulance on Highway 2 on the way to the trauma center at Bryan LGH in Lincoln.

It was beautiful.

My husband saw it as a sign that God was in control. No matter what happened, He was there. I have had difficulty even looking at the stars ever since. They are still beautiful. Out here, the night sky can be breathtaking. But to open myself to that kind of awe, I have to open myself to the fountain of grief that boils alongside it and it is easier not to take notice.

And it is eleven at night and I don’t want to go inside so I sit in the grass by the barn and stare at the sky. I find Orion on the western horizon. Leo is further to the north. I find the Milky Way playing peekaboo behind wispy strands of clouds and part of a song runs through my mind.

“. . . the stars are his handiwork, too . . . “

Jake leaves the porch to come lay down next to me. He puts his big head in my lap and I hold him there, stroking his fur. It is warm and silky in spots and rough in others. He needs brushed out, but I run my fingers through the dirt and bits of grass and hold my big puppy Jake as I watch the stars.

“Oh, Jake, what am I going to do with you?”

We’ve sat like this before, on my front porch looking out at the cedar trees that mark the northern edge of the cemetary where my son is buried. His fur has caught too many tears to simply give up and give him away. And it catches them even now as I hope that I am not forced to choose between him and the poultry that plays such a strong part in our plans for this property.

And Jake has no idea why I am sitting out here in the dark but he knows I need something to hold onto so he chooses to lie here with his head in my lap rather than returning to the pot of left over oatmeal sitting on the porch.

And I’m sorry I got so angry at him, but I know it was partly fear. Fear of the problem getting worse. Fear of losing him. Fear of having to make a choice.

And the day ends more challenging than it began.

“I hate bees!” she yells.

The tears have stopped but are replaced by anger.

“I’m never going outside again!”

And I’m not sure whether she is really upset about the sting, or the betrayal. Last year, she visited our little apiary almost every day. She sat amongst the bees, petted them and waited patiently at the entrance for one to climb on her finger. She watched for workers carrying pollen and reported to me how hard they were working.

She wanted that again.

But then she got stung right on the nose.

Ouch.

And it hurts me as well, because I want these hives to be a learning experience for my children. I want them to learn about the fascinating life of the honeybee, I want them to learn the flavors of the seasons and experience the “soul of the flower” as honey was once called.

But there are lessons in their sting as well.

Perserverence

There is pain in so many things we want. It hurts to fall off a bike. It hurts to crash on roller blades. It hurts to lose when you’ve worked so hard. It hurts to get stung by a bee when all you wanted to do was watch it fly. And sometimes it seems like all the scrapes and bruises aren’t worth it, but then you learn to ride that bike. Or taste that first drop of honey.

Good things are worth working for and the pain of the journey is oft forgotten when the goal is finally achieved.

Perspective

The little bee didn’t know why we were there, why we dumped her out of her home, why we didn’t leave when she buzzed her angry buzz. She didn’t know we had bought a home for her, made to her exact preferences, and put out a feeder of sugar syrup to help her have enough to eat while she got oriented in her new surroundings. She didn’t know that we would only take her extra honey and would always leave her hive with enough to get through winter. She only knew that she was scared and we had something to do with it all.

Wonder

Have you ever really looked at a stinger? It is so small, it doesn’t really seem like it could hurt . . . and hurt . . . . and hurt. But the real pain comes from that little venom sac. Have you ever watched it pulsate as it pumps more and more venom into the sting? Have you ever considered how amazing it is that something so small can defend a hive full of something so incredibly sweet?

Compassion

Bug’s nose still hurt, but that bee gave her life to defend her hive.

It didn’t take Bug long to go back outside. After all, that’s where all her favorite things are. And her curiosity gradually drew her closer to the hives.

Because she really does love the bees.