I love being a nurse. Caring for sick children gives my life purpose. My work makes a difference for families on their darkest days. It gives immense satisfaction, opportunities for growth, and an outlet for compassion. —WUUUB-SKRIIIIIIIITCH (That’s the part of the post where that ‘needle on a vinyl record sound’ scrapes across my brain!) Although the above is heartfelt and true, it’s only half the story! Let’s have a Paul Harvey moment, and I’ll tell you the “Rest of the Story”! I have a t-shirt that reads, “Nurses. We can’t fix stupid, but we can sedate it!” Seriously, nursing
I asked, “When you go for hay, can you pick up needles too?” It all started with that simple question. Long time friends were at the farm for our regularly scheduled ‘Gang Day’. My question was followed by a flurry of jokes about needles and haystacks. Then, Liam asked why I needed needles. I explained, that the next day when we tagged sheep, I wanted to inject them with Vitamin B and Iron. Somehow, that casual question led to a hot, sweaty, slightly bloody, sheepish adventure. Hufflepuff and Old Faithful*, my two best friends, insisted it would be an ‘adventure’.
or When Drugs Helped Me Learn to Get a Straight Story from My Slow Talking Texan Husband “Houston, we have a problem.” I’m not sure I can convey the feeling of panic those few words conjure for me. They form my husband’s pat phrase for problems of all sizes. If he wants a sandwich for lunch, and the pastrami is frozen: Houston, we have a problem. If the mortgage company accidentally takes the mortgage payment out twice: Houston, we have a problem. If the tractor won’t start, the lawn mower has a flat, or ‘someone’ forgot to turn out the
If you have livestock, you’ll also have dead stock.–Anonymous One of the reasons I started this blog was to share our weird crazy wonderful life. However, I think it’s only fair if I share the heartbreaking along with the hilarious. I think we get so caught up in the perfect families on Facebook, Instagram, and blogs that we feel their lives have something ours is missing. So, in an effort at providing you with a more realistic view of our life, today were going to touch on a bit of the heartbreaking. I’ve told you before about our small flock
…We Looked REALLY Redneck!
Bear with me, I’m going to be nerdy for just a second. I promise it’s relevant later. Ralph Waldo Emerson has been quoted as saying metaphysics is “a blind man, in a dark room, chasing a black cat which isn’t there.” For today’s post, allow me to go with the spirit of the quote, rather than the letter. I say that’s the definition of futility. After all, I think the futility of metaphysics was Emerson’s point. …I became the definition of futility! We have rabbits. More specifically, we have a breeding trio of rabbits. I like rabbits. They are quiet,
“Mama, I have your next Friday Funny!” Grace and I had a chat the other day about this week’s Fridays At the Funny Farm post. She asked what I had planned. I said, I’d considered either The Great Rabbit Roundup or Lambs: Tag You’re It. She was afraid we’d eventually run out of hijinks. I figure with three kids and a farm full of animals, we have a never ending supply. After our chat, I went to bed. (I’m a night nurse and a day sleeper.) When I woke, she greeted me at the foot of the stairs. With barely
Our Tradition Transitioned! We’re a family that loves tradition. We read A Christmas Carol every Christmas Eve, just before unwrapping our new pj’s. We eat with the same friends, (the kind that are really family), at the same restaurant every Halloween. We cook exactly the same meal each Thanksgiving. My kids all received their first pocket knives for their eleventh birthdays. My daughter’s ears were pierced on her seventh birthday. And, all my kids came home from the hospital in one of two (boy or girl) outfits made by their great-great-grandmothers. All because it’s tradition! The kids tend to take
…we bought a jackass in disguise! Each time I feed Finnbar, I sing a parody of Elvis Presley’s “Devil in Disguise”. It goes something like this:
…someone asked a stupid question. I know some amazing teachers. People who want to mold, guide and prepare future generations. I have tremendous respect for those folks, and there are several to whom I owe a great debt. However, we aren’t going to talk about them today. Today, we’re going to talk about Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox taught me important lessons. In the third grade, she taught that, not all teachers love their job, not all women love children, and that in 1979 not everyone had conquered their double-knit polyester addictions. Mrs. Wilcox looked like Dorothy Hamill’s over-worked discontent great-aunt