Avoiding the All Souls Day Scramble

Are you familiar with the All Souls Day Scramble? A typical All Souls Day goes like this: Weeks ahead, Father will announce that there are sheets in the Church lobby on which to put the names of those faithful departed. Other Catholic organizations will mail you ample papers requesting the names of souls, too. Then there is my scramble. I usually forget to mail the list into the organization. I may have prepared it, but I forget to mail it. Either way, these poor souls do not get their Mass. As far as the sheets at my parish, I may fill them out, forgetting about 75% of those poor souls. In the car on the way, I may think, ‘oh, I need to put down Suzy Jones’, but when I get to Church, that is a different story. Usually, I will still be thinking of forgotten names until Lent.

November second is All Souls Day. It is the day (well the month, actually) when the faithful pray for our faithful departed. There are special graces for this. Most parishes have an All Souls Day Mass or even a novena of Masses which are offered for those souls which we parishioners designate.

A few years ago, I found a way to avoid the All Souls Day Scramble.  I typed a list of these faithful departed souls on my computer. I saved it. I printed out two copies, one for my parish’s Masses and one for that other Catholic organization. (For the record, these were mailed in a timely fashion this year.) I now have it on my computer, ready to be added to throughout the year, and ready again for next year to avoid the All Souls Scramble.

Eternal rest grant onto them, O Lord, and may Your perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God forever rest in peace. Amen.Catholic Organization


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The Phone Call

Hello, is this Mrs. ___?
This is Sally Smith. I’m a nurse in the neuro-oncology department at Children’s Hospital Colorado. Your son had an MRI today.
Yes, he did.
Well, this isn’t really easy for me to say, but your son has a brain tumor.
I know he has brain tumor. He had an MRI to see what that little lump was at the base of his skull.
No, he has a brain tumor. In his left frontal lobe.
Yes, he has a little lump at the base of his skull. That’s why he had the MRI.
Yes, but the MRI found a brain tumor.
So, the brain tumor is a separate thing?
Yes, the brain tumor has nothing to do with the little lump. We made you an appointment. You need to bring your son in tomorrow at 10 am. He will see Dr.Neuro-oncologist and Dr.Neurosurgeon, see them both.
The brain tumor is a separate thing.
What? Are you saying he has a brain tumor? A brain tumor?
Yes. Your son has a brain tumor. (pause) It’s probably a low grade one. If it was a really bad brain tumor, we wouldn’t have even let you leave the hospital. (pause) So you need to bring him in tomorrow at 10 am to see Dr. Neuro-oncologist and Dr. Neurosurgeon. We were able to get them both to come to the appointment.

Even though I remember much of this conversation, I don’t remember the rest of it.

I was home alone with the kids. That morning, Vince had an MRI to investigate what the lump was at the base of his skull. The other children had slept at their grandparents’ house the night before. We went early in the morning to Children’s Hospital Colorado to take Vince to his MRI. We came back as soon as we could. We met Kevin’s parents and the children at the Turkey Crossing Cafe. We had a nice meal and went home. Kevin then went to his parents’ house to do some farm stuff. And that’s when I got the phone call, the phone call that changed everything, everything ever.

I managed to somehow call Kevin and tell him I needed him to come home immediately.

I remember that day, January 2, 2014 to be exact.
I remember that phone call.
And I always will.

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Once Upon a Time… Or What Is This Blog?

Once upon a time there was a Jersey girl named Laura. Laura was a typical Jersey girl who studied at Rutgers and worked in the mall. One day Laura took a course in Limnology (the study of inland waters- just because it fit into my schedule and fulfilled a requirement) and discovered that plants existed during one of the many Limnology field trips. Then one day Laura got a job at a Garden Center so she could play with plants and then learned about organic gardening and then organic farming. Then Laura had an internship on an organic vegetable farm and decided that she would be an organic farmer when she grew up and raise a lot of children on that said farm. Laura eventually met a farmer from eastern Colorado who had a very different idea of farming and organics, but they decided to get married anyway. Kevin and Laura moved into a little house on the Colorado prairie before Laura even knew that the prairie and the plains were the same thing. Laura had lots of babies and struggled very much with the many ups and downs of learning to be a country girl, both with little projects and the different culture present on the prairie. So Laura started a blog, a blog to vent her cultural frustrations and talk about her little projects such as raising chickens and homeschooling.

Then one day, January 2, 2014, to be exact, my son then 2.5 year old son Vince was diagnosed with a low grade brain tumor. We had five children under five at the time. This diagnosis came out of left field, and Vince’s brain tumor battle has kicked all of our butts. Vince has had two tumor resections and is now on chemo.

I wish I could talk about my chickens, like maybe the chicken waterer I made.
I wish I could talk about my goats. I wish I could talk about the ups and downs of raising my own pork.
I wish I could talk about my cultural struggles some more.
I wish I could talk about the process we’re going through to certify our farm organic.
I wish I could talk about wheat. Or GMOs. Or the irony of living in a food desert surrounded by farms.
I wish I could talk about how grasshoppers ate my garden. Or how wonderful all the Lincoln County residents are.
I wish I could talk about how there is now a medical helicopter stationed in Hugo. Or how my elm trees died.
I wish I could talk about how I love John Saxon’s Math. Or how I bought an electric pencil sharpener.
I wish I could talk about how I make tortillas using our own wheat and lard from our own pig. Or my shoe organizer in the mudroom.
I wish I could talk about the intricacies of driving Karval’s former school bus, otherwise known as my big van.
I wish I could talk about how when I delivered my last baby, I finally had a water birth.
I wish I maybe could have even thrown in a Catholic thing in here now and then, like a saint story.

Or any of these.

But the truth is, this blog isn’t any of that anymore. All of those have happened, sure, but Vince and his brain tumor battle take precedence. It consumes us. Sure I’m still working on that organic farmer, living off the land thing, but the truth is I really don’t care. I am fighting the battle for my baby Vince, right along side him.

This was supposed to be one of those city girl turned farmer blogs (that would make me a lot of money so I could buy more chickens)… but it’s not anymore.

But it seems that the only thing I seem to write about is Vince. I never ever thought that any of my children would be fighting this battle. Ever.

I spend my days doing my duties. Homeschool. Watering the goats. Laundry, endless laundry. Sure I do a few farm things, like mentioned above, but, the truth is, everything has become about Vince’s battle. I don’t give one flying speck about a stupid chicken when compared to my baby, my Vince. So I will write about our struggles with Vince’s brain tumor, even though it’s not what this blog is supposed to be- it is what it is. I am a Jersey girl who lives in a little house on the prairie, but I am really a mom whose son battles a brain tumor and I fight next to him.


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An Open Letter To the Lady Who Sat Near Us at Children’s Hospital

Dear Grandma,

Remember me? You, your daughter and grandchild sat at the next table from us in the Children’s Hospital cafeteria last week. My almost three year old son had a temper tantrum. It was because he didn’t want to share his pizza and yet didn’t want to eat it, although the real reason was that he was overtired.
He was screaming. I was ignoring his temper tantrum. You turned to me and said “Can you do something about your child?”
I turned to you and I explained, “He’s throwing a fit.” Did I need more of an explanation?
“We’re trying to eat here,” you explained. “Will you please do something about your child?”
I did not reply. I didn’t feel the need to point out how a cafeteria in a place that has a sign outside that says “Children’s Hospital” is probably not an ideal place to have a quiet lunch, especially after you choose a seat next to our big family. You honestly shocked me so much that I didn’t even say anything else. I didn’t know how to reply to you without using bad words at that specific moment, so I said nothing. I did pack up the children, four of them with me at the time, and moved ourselves mid-lunch to outside, lest we disturb you some more. Outside, my son quieted down and then threw another tantrum over something new. A CHCO staff member walked by us and offered support- she told me I was doing a great job.
I noticed that your baby grandchild was in a car seat in a Children’s Hospital wagon hooked up to some gizmos. While I don’t know what those gizmos were for, I can tell you that whatever your grandchild’s illness is that the doctors here at Children’s Hospital Colorado are all top-notch. They are doing the best for your grandchild and doing the best they can. I hope that your grandchild has a speedy recovery. How scary this all must be for your infant grandchild to need to go to Children’s Hospital! I am so glad that you are there to support your grandchild and your daughter. They both need you. It is beautiful that you are able to be there to offer support.
I’ll also assume that since your grandchild is an infant, you are new to this whole sick-kid thing. As an experienced sick-kid-mom, I wanted to take time to explain some things to you that you may not be aware of. Our children are fighting a war against their illness. As their mom or grandmother, we are in the trenches with them. Our love for our child binds us there. Our job is to fight with our children, fight for our children and to be their Mollie Pitchers. Since we’re all in those trenches together, we have the same camaraderie as soldiers at war. We would never attack each other verbally. You violated a major war rule today. There are enough attacks from the enemy- our child’s illness. We all support each other, even if its just a kind word, a nod or a smile. We are on the same side.
My family has been coming to Children’s Hospital for a while. Our encounter was the first time that I have ever heard an unkind word from another parent or grandparent or even anyone. As a matter of fact, I usually get compliments on my children’s behavior, and my temper tantrum throwing child was an anomaly. I invite you to ask my son’s nurses or doctors or the speech lady or the lady in the daycare room or anyone else about my children’s behavior. They will tell you. Thursday my almost-three year old was very tired. His brother’s illness is hard on him, too. He schlepps with us everywhere. He witnesses our stresses in this battle. His brother was diagnosed originally when my almost-three year old was four months old, so having a sick brother is all he knows.
Can I point out the ratios? You, your daughter and infant grandchild had a 2:1 ratio of adults to children. I had only four of my children with me at the time, so our adult to children ratio was 1:4. How about the next time you see such a discrepancy, you offer to help? Just a suggestion.
Grandma, you and I apparently have different parenting styles. I ignore temper tantrums. I’m not saying that your parenting or grandparenting style is wrong, I am just saying that it is different. I support parental rights and I believe that you should have the right to discipline your child or grandchild as you see fit (of course as long as it’s not abusive) even if it’s different than my parenting style.

Here is Vince before that MRI, not long before we met.

You had no way of knowing this at the time, but my son Vince was in his MRI, actually under sedation in the MRI machine at that very moment that you asked me to “do something” about his brother. Vince is a brain tumor patient and I cannot remember the last time he had a “good MRI”. Actually I do- it was right before I became pregnant with my last baby. We had an all-clear, although it was short-lived. My baby is 16 months old now. How many “bad MRIs” can my son have? I wish I knew. My other missing child was at speech therapy since she goes to speech therapy while her brother gets chemo.
We did get the results yesterday afternoon and my son’s tumor did not change in these last two months, thanks for asking. Chemo first works by slowing the tumor growth, then stopping the growth, then shrinking the tumor. His tumor was unchanged. It’s actually a victory, even though I shudder to think that no-growth/no-shrinkage is a victory. It is still a long slow healing, but this is a good first step. So I guess I’d call this a “good MRI”, finally.
I am sorry that we are in the same sick-child club, the club no one wants to be in. But we are here. We must fight our child’s illness and not each other. Will you remember that during your next trip to Children’s Hospital? We are a band of brothers, not enemies with each other. Your grandchild is in the best hands at Children’s Hospital Colorado. I hope that the gizmos and the illness are all short-lived, that your grand baby is healed quickly and that you can get on with life, without having to do this battle. But if you do go back to Children’s Hospital and if you ever need anything, do let me know. I am right here in the trench with you. Don’t ever forget that.
A mom of a child who threw temper tantrum

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The People You See In the Hall

These are my children walking down one of the halls in Children’s Hospital Colorado this past April. You can see Vince’s IV bag on the wagon.

During our many trips to Children’s Hospital Colorado, I have bumped many people in the hall. Some of us had lengthy discussions, some we have just seen or see all the time and some we have just seen once or twice. (I have changed all the names here.)

There’s Sally, the teenager. Every time I see her, she looks worse and worse, weaker and weaker. She comes by herself and meets her father at CHCO after he comes straight from work, leaving early. I have no idea what type of cancer she has and if it is her disease or the treatment that weakens her, but I think of her often and cannot imagine what it must be like to go through that as a young lady.

There was John and his father. John is also a teenager. He was there for his first annual MRI and checkup. He had had a brain tumor, had a few surgeries, had been on and off of chemo for a total of 8 years. He was clear and was down to annual MRIs for the first time. John’s father said the doctors had told him John wouldn’t make it, and I’m so grateful that he is still with us. John had a stroke from one of the surgeries and still walks with a limp and has limited use of his non-dominant hand. But he is still with us and smiling. What a nice young man. It was so nice to see John on the other side of treatment.

There was the lady and her teenage son Ernie who had down syndrome and leukemia. Ernie’s treatment required hospital admission during the week. For months and months. Twice. Ernie’s half-sister had to go stay with her otherwise absent father because she was not allowed in the in-patient areas. Ernie’s mother was a single mom and somehow held it all together. I haven’t seen them in a while and I pray that it’s because Ernie has recovered. Or moved. I don’t want to think of any other possibilities.

There was Stacy and her mom. Stacy was a teenager and had just started chemo and had to receive it six days per week for three weeks. She had long dark straight beautiful hair past her butt. I’m scared to think what happened to it.

There was Suzy, the single mom whose son Peter had only spent one day outside of a hospital ever in his whole life. He was 18 months old and coded out multiple times per night sometimes. She had already lost a child years before.

There was Harry, the four year old boy who was playing with my kids but could not even turn his head because his tumor was so big sticking out on his neck. He did not let that stop him from pedaling a tricycle through the oncology floor.

There was the little boy in the elevator yesterday who had just had brain surgery a month before. He reminded me of Vince. He was about the same age as Vince when Vince had his second surgery (four) and had the same scar, in the same place, just on the other side. He even had the same hair color as Vince.

There’s the lady who takes her born-premature infant twins there a few times a week for follow-ups to their issues. My kids play with her other child in the daycare room.

There are the parents I see with tears in their eyes in the halls, trying to hide it.

There are the happy patients. There are the miserable patients.

I see people leaving the hospital with suitcases, stuffed animals and helium balloons.

I see families with an entourage of support in the form of aunts and uncles grandparents, cousins and what-not. I have seen twenty people in the PICU waiting room for just one child. The parents were in the PICU with the child and the other relatives would rotate in and out.

I see parents by themselves.  I see single moms, single dads. I cannot imagine this. This is hard enough and I have Kevin’s support.

I hear children scream and cry. They are in an infusion room with the curtains closed tight. Their chemo is painful to them and they scream the whole time.

I see small families. I see big families.

Kevin’s even seen a former inmate, he thinks, and it did not hit him who the guy was until after we’d left.

I see people who don’t speak English and have a medical translator translate what the doctors and nurses are saying to them so they can understand what is happening to their child.

I see all kinds of races and backgrounds.

I see all kinds of religions. Everyone from those who look literally like Marilyn Manson to Mennonites, to those in full hijabs, to… everyone.

I see all kinds of classes. There are those who have old beat up cars and those who have new Lexuses. There are those parents who come straight from work and are wearing a suit and tie and those who have a fast food uniform on. If you want to see everyone getting together, not caring about class, race or teeth, look to Children’s Hospital- they help everyone. And just the reverse is true, too- cancer is also non-discriminatory.

The doctors and nurses are the generals.
We are all soldiers. The kids are soldiers. The parents are soldiers and Molly Pitchers. We offer each other a kind word, a quick conversation, sometimes only just a smile. Not one of us is there because we want to be, but we are. We love our children. We are fighting with them.  We are bonded with each other, like no other camaraderie I have ever known in this war we don’t want to be in. We are bonded by our love for our children. And we fight…

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June Was a Month Of Schlepping

June is over and I’m honestly grateful. Here on the prairie, June is a month of schlepping. I’ll define schlepp here because although it’s a common Jersey word, people out here probably don’t know what it means.

Schlepp- To carry clumsily or with difficulty; To move slowly or laboriously; To go on an arduous journey. (Yiddish)

We homeschool. We also live in the middle of no where. You may recall that I have already discussed how out here, the schools are everything. My own theory is that because there are no other cultural institutions, there is just nothing else and therefore schools are thee defining cultural institution by default. A post office, school and a grocery store is really what makes a town out here. I mean I suppose that given that your other options are hanging out at the grocery store, the railroad tracks or the post office, the school seems appealing. Even though I belong to two different homeschool groups in the Front Range area, they are far and we hardly know any other homeschoolers out here. The two other homeschooling families I know live 25 and 35 miles away, respectively. There are hardly any other activities (besides school) for children to participate in out here. 

Out here, the local school calendars roughly run from the Assumption (August 15th for all you non-Catholics out there) to Memorial Day. While I one of the reasons that I originally homeschooled was to not arbitrarily plan my life around what some school board decides when the children should be off or in school, I find that I must do this anyway, as the schools finish in May and June is when they start the summer activities. These summer activities are wonderful in their own right, however, they are my children’s only chance to participate in these type of things. So it’s June or it’s nothing.

This was my son’s third year and my daughter’s second year playing tee-ball. While there is nothing wrong with tee-ball, it’s tee-ball or it’s nothing. There are no other sports for them to participate in. I really don’t know exactly how the tee-ball league is structured. I do know the tee-ball is through the towns, not the schools, but the players use the schools’ fields. The participating towns range from 60 miles away from my house one way to 40 miles away the other. The games are against the teams from the same town the same night, which is great at accommodating siblings. On a typical game night, for example, my daughter played her game at 5 p.m. and my son played his at 6 p.m. Tee-ball is pretty much the whole month of June. There was one practice in May and the tournament wrapped it all up the last Saturday in June.

My daughter's team won the tournament. She is wearing last year's shirt.

My daughter’s team won the tournament. She is wearing last year’s shirt.

My children also attended swimming lessons in Limon. While the program was great and professionally run, it is still about 25 miles away. These are the closest swimming lessons to us. I am extremely happy with them and so were my kids, but honestly, I’m glad they’re over.

Action shot of my son at swimming lessons...

Action shot of my son at swimming lessons…

My children are also attended Dance Camp, and, yes, I sent my son, too. While these ballet lessons are expensive (thank you to my kind in-laws for paying for them) I view them as a once in a lifetime opportunity. The ballet teacher grew up here in Lincoln County and teaches dance in Denver. She came back to hold camp. In my children’s lifetime, they have never before had an opportunity to attend professional ballet lessons in our area.


Dance recital.

And then there is Storytime… The very local library only had a summer story time for June. The librarian is extremely awesome and has thoroughly motivated my children to read, but again, it’s June or it’s nothing.
Additionally, the librarian in the next town has cranked up Storytime to twice per week in the park. Her Storytime is always fantastic year round, but we have made an increased effort to attend it for the summer because we’ve been in town anyway. She also tends to cater to the grade school kids more in the summer as opposed to just the preschoolers during the school year.

The librarian in the next town holds Storytime in the old one room schoolhouse that is part of the museum complex.

The librarian in the next town holds Storytime in the old one room schoolhouse that is part of the museum complex.

Oh, and I forgot lunch in the park! A wonderful charitable group seeks to bridge the gap on summer lunch and lunch during the school year. They recognize that children from low income families receive free school lunches and that these low income families may struggle to put food on the lunch table throughout the rest of the year. The result is lunch in the park, free to any child, no questions asked. We have joined the group for lunch quite a few times. It is wonderful for both the children and their parents to socialize with each other, not to mention the free lunch.

June was also an extremely busy month for my farmer husband Kevin who planted maybe 300 acres of millet and still worked his full time job.

We had also planted a huge garden which the grasshoppers now chomped down in its entirety. We had two out-of-state friends visit us separately. My dog ran into the street and got hit by a car and died. My cat that I had from the time I was single got sick and had to be put down. I also have new baby chicks that I’m taking care of- they’re now about a month old now.

This was George's last trip to the vet.

This was George’s last trip to the vet.

And then there is the usual- getting Vince to Chemo, going to Mass, buying groceries which are insanely far, etc.

I had a day on June 16th, for example, where we went to Limon (25 miles away) for swimming lessons, Storytime still in town, lunch in the park, back home because we forgot my daughter’s shorts, the pool in Hugo during a little down time, dance lessons, back home while they were in dance, back to Hugo to pick them up and then off to Stratton 60 miles away to play two tee-ball games. That was about 200 miles and a whole lot of wear and tear on all us. My wonderful husband took Vince to Chemo the next day just so we wouldn’t have to schlepp again.

So, yes, June was a month of schlepping, mainly because there are otherwise no local activities for my children to attend. These enrichment activities are blessings and are almost necessary to make my children well rounded and be able to interact with their local peers. However, I honestly couldn’t wait for June to be over so we can go back to our normal life of just about never leaving the house except for going to Mass, Chemo and Costco.


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Another Fourth of July

It was in June of 2015 that we learned that Vince’s brain tumor had grown back again. Vince would need another tumor resection surgery and perhaps chemotherapy. They were unsure about his prognosis. We made plans for a second brain surgery.

Last Fourth of July (2015), as I was driving the children to the fireworks in the local town (to meet my husband there after he got off work) it hit me: what if this was Vince’s last Fourth of July? Independence Day was the first holiday since that diagnosis, and it hit me, hit me hard- this mama had a break down that night.

Well you know the rest:
He had the brain tumor removed.
It grew back again.
He started chemo in March, and now chemo is our new normal.

Vince is surviving and thriving.
Yeah, his tumor did get bigger between the last two MRIs in spite of starting chemo.
Yeah, they moved up his next MRI a month sooner to keep a closer eye on it.
Yeah, they may change up his chemo depending on the next MRI results.
Yeah, this tumor could be a lifelong battle for him.
Yeah, he could be on chemo for years.

We don’t know what his future brings.

But yesterday, Vince celebrated another Fourth of July. And this is a victory.

I rejoiced in celebrating the Fourth of July- not just because it’s our country’s birthday, but because it was one more Fourth of July that I can celebrate with Vince!

Vince cannot wait to celebrate Fourth of July 2017- he’s already talking about more fireworks.

Happy Fourth of July- 2016!

Happy Fourth of July- 2016!

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Goodbye, Good Neighbors

“There is nothing in the world so good as good neighbors.”
Ma Ingalls, quoted by Laura Ingalls Wilder in On the Banks of Plum Creek.

Living out here on the prairie, we probably have a different definition of neighbor than most others. The houses are extremely spread out. I would use the word “neighbor” to describe someone who may live 10 miles away. I have to say that every one of my neighbors has always treated my family and me kindly. They can be counted on for a helping hand always, even to put out fires.

Certain neighbors have sold their house and are moving to a different state.  I will miss them. While I wish them the very best in their new state and their new chapter in their lives, I am selfish and I will miss them, I will miss my friends.

My neighbors were there for me, time and time again.
There was that time when my cat Mr.Hooper kept running away to their house and I drove over to pick him up. Mr.Hooper stepped on the lock button in the pickup truck and locked himself and my oldest (who was a baby at the time) inside. My neighbor and my father-in-law had to break into the pickup to rescue my son and Mr.Hooper. Mr.Hooper decided he like them better and is now their cat. He is coming with them to their new state.
And who could forget the time my pasture went on fire and my cordless phone was lost and dead and I threw the children into the pickup and sped over to their house and barged right in screaming for them to call 911 for me? They watched my kids for me while I went to go check on my house, and they kept my sanity. They weren’t even the slightest bit upset when I ran into their house.
And then the time they helped me chase my llama all over the prairie, getting Kuzco home again when he wasn’t very happy about his new home.
They have supported all of my little endeavors, even purchasing eggs from me back when I had chickens.
They have always shared their kindness with me, cooking meals or treats for us when I had a baby or was going through a hard time.
They have remembered my children. They have shared sentimental things with us, like a book, for example, that their neighbor shared with them when their own kids were little.
They have always offered me kind words and encouragement and hope.

In short, while I am so happy that my neighbors will be starting a new chapter, I am sad to loose my friends.

Goodbye, Good Neighbors. I hope that you enjoyed your time in your little house on the prairie as much as I have enjoyed your time here. Geography had made us neighbors and your wonderful constant kindness has made us friends. I am proud to call you my friends and I will miss you.

We will miss you, Good Neighbors!

We will miss you, Good Neighbors!

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These Are My Thirties

I am in my thirties.

There is an old Catholic tradition that since Jesus suffered, died, resurrected and ascended all at 33, that we’ll all be 33 in heaven.  At the end of the world when our bodies rise, we’ll be our perfect 33, even if we died before or after 33.

I always thought that my life would be a lot different in my thirties.  I’m actually past the age of 33, and even with these extra few years, I’m still not anywhere near where I’d want to be.

I thought I’d have more of life figured out by now.
I thought I’d be farming.  I mean farming for real and my husband not having an off-farm job.
I thought I’d have more kids. (I know I have six, but I really thought I would have started earlier and had more by now. I’ve always wanted a big family.)
I thought my house would be bigger. And cleaner.
I thought I’d be richer, a lot richer.  I thought my student loans would be paid off.
I thought I’d have another degree or two.  I have a Bachelor’s, but I thought I’d have a Master’s. I’m a grad school drop out.
I thought my faith would be stronger.
I thought I’d always know where my keys are.
And of course skinnier- I always thought I’d be skinnier.

It’s not all bad. I have had some successes. I had a llama. I am pretty successful at being a cheapskate.

But I’m frightened because I do not have too many more years left in my thirties. I wonder about the tone my thirties are setting for the rest of my life.

But then, I look at my six beautiful children. My children make everything worth it.  All my children have been born when I was in my thirties. They have challenged me in ways I never thought I could be challenged and yet they have delighted my heart in ways that I never thought it could be delighted. I’ve had to find strength that I never thought I had and this strength was something I never even thought existed.

I am tougher.
I am smarter.
My heart and my soul have grown tremendously.

My thirties are nothing like I thought they’d be, that’s for sure. Of course I still wish I was skinnier and richer and above all else that my son was healed from his brain tumor. We take it day by day with him.  We enjoy Vince’s preciousness, even if that means trying to have fun at chemo, something that was never on my radar. I enjoy all of the precious moments with all of my children.

So these are my thirties and it’s clear that this is not heaven’s version, yet I am here now as God draws me closer to Him.

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Heifer Bulls

Every once in a while I finally think I “get it”, living out here.  And then something slaps me in the face.
This afternoon I was reading Thursday’s edition of the weekly local paper.  I had that slap in the face.

They were advertising for heifer bulls.  Heifer bulls?  Talk about a contradiction.  This whole cow vocabulary had confused me, but I thought I was over it. If you remember correctly, a while back I shared my new found bovine term knowledge with all of you.

If you recall, a heifer is a female bovine that has not had a calf (baby) yet and a bull is an uncastrated male bovine. So obviously a heifer bull just confuses things.

As my husband explained (twice), it turns out that in the world of ranching, that is raising bovines, that the birth weight of baby calves is determined by genetics on their father’s side. A heifer that makes her entry into cow-dom, that is has a baby for the first time is younger and will have smaller hips than a cow who is older and has done this a few times. A lower birth weight calf is desirable for heifers, but not necessarily for cows. A heifer bull is a bull that is better to have a honeymoon with heifers to have low birth weight calves.

So heifer bulls exist. Mind blown.

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