25 Lessons

How many of you have had the opportunity to learn wondrous mysteries from a three-year-old boy?  Well, let me tell you about the lessons I recently learned from my nephew, Grant, when he blessed me with a visit. 

My sister had some errands to run and needed a babysitter, so I was quick to jump at the chance to keep her younger son, Grant.  Grant is 3-1/2, and he’s ALL BOY!  Lesson #1:  Being the mother of three girls does not prepare you for a nephew.  I don’t care how tom-boy my girls were, it’s just not the same.

Nikki and I planned a place and time to meet, and as I pulled into the parking lot, I was immediately drawn to the cute little boy smiling from ear to ear, waving out his window at my truck.  I must admit, the moment I saw his precious smile and read his little lips mouth the words “There’s Aunt Sandy!” I fell hook, line, and sinker into those deep brown eyes.  Lesson #2:  surroundings melt away to nothingness when Grant speaks my name. 

As I loaded my little buddy and his various items into my truck, he started with the “Bye Mom” farewells.  Of course, being women, my sister and I stood and talked for a bit, increasing our volume now and again to hear one another over the echoes of “BYE MOM!” that seemed to get louder with each passing moment.  I couldn’t help but notice the little guy breathe a sigh of relief when we finally said our goodbyes and my truck started moving.  Lesson #3:  Patience is a virtue.

It was nearing lunch time, so I asked Grant what he wanted to eat.  “Hmmmm….” he pondered, “how about macawoni?”  Oh boy, that was THE one thing I wasn’t prepared for, so I made a quick phone call home to see if we had any.  Girl 2 answered the phone and went to investigate.  “Yeah mom, we have two microwaveable dishes of macaroni, I’ll fix it for him.”  Not thinking, I replied “Oh, the frozen kind?”  Now I really should have known better than to voice this aloud.  I had forgotten that little ears hear everything, and the mouth that goes along with those particular little ears only likes macaroni that comes from a blue box.  The moment I hung up the phone, Grant accosted me with his questioning. “Your macawoni is fwozen?”  Oops. When I told him yes, he continued, “Is it wegular macawoni?”  Oh boy.  My second yes was followed by, “Is it yellow?”  Yes again, then wait for it…wait for it…wait for it…he must have been thinking pretty hard about that one, because it took him a while to ponder it before he finally said “Okay, I’ll twy it.”  Whew! He had me worried there for a minute! Lesson #4:  Never have a Grant-day without blue box macaroni.

We had only driven a short distance when Grant said “Aunt Sandy, you dwive fast.”  This is not necessarily something I didn’t already know, but he pressed on, “Aunt Sandy, WHY do you dwive fast?”  I told him it was because Hataw drives fast.  (Hataw is the name he affectionately uses for my mother, Grandma Nita.)  Grant started shaking his head and said “No, Aunt Sandy, Hataw dwives sloooooooow.” (Oh really?!  Lesson #5, though I must disagree with his assessment of my mother’s driving.) Then he continued, “Hataw says Pawpaw dwives sloooooooow, but Pawpaw goes VROOM!” (Lesson #6, though everyone knows it cannot possibly be true, because my dad couldn’t drive 5 mph over the speed limit if his life depended on it.)  During that same little conversation I also learned Lessons #7 and #8:  Daddy drives fast, and Mommy drives sloooooooow.

As we exited the interstate and approached the stop sign, Grant hollered “Aunt Sandy, look!  It’s a pony!”  It was indeed a pony, so I pulled the truck over and we sat watching the pony for a few seconds before he informed me with a sad whine, “Aw, I think he’s lost.”  I had no idea what possessed him to think this, so I asked him why he thought the pony was lost.  His response: “Because.”  Lesson #9: don’t ask silly questions. 

We stayed there for a while watching the poor lost pony, then made our way home.  I told Grant that our horses were waiting for him at the end of our driveway, and when we rounded the corner, I stopped and rolled down his window to give him a better look.  “It’s Harley!” He shouted, “HI HARLEY!”  Harley’s ears perked, and he looked up from his grass-eating to see who was there.  Grant cackled, “Aunt Sandy, Harley looked at me!  And...and…and he waved at me too!”  Lesson #10:  horses can wave.  

Before we went into the house to eat lunch, we had to go through the barn lot and greet all of the other horses.  This is where Grant taught me Lessons 11 through 15: horses have long necks, horses have mommies, Grant’s mommy does not have a long neck, Grant’s mommy has a heart beat, and the doctor had to listen to Mommy’s heart beat.  (Don’t you just LOVE the random circle of conversation you get with a 3-year-old?!)

On our way toward the house, Grant stopped dead in his tracks.  “SuuuWEET!” He shouted, and he ran toward the tire swing on the old ash tree.  “What’s sweet?” I asked him.  “Your swing is a TIRE!  Tires are COOL!”  Okay, add that to the “things Aunt Sandy learned today” list as #16.  He hung on as I pushed him in the tire swing, and that’s when I learned Lessons 17 through 21:  tires are for cars, Kyle Bush has a cool car, Kyle Bush is the best driver, Kyle Bush is cool, and Kyle Bush is Grant’s favorite.  When I finally admitted to Grant that I didn’t really like Kyle Bush, he taught me Lesson #22:  “Yes you do, Aunt Sandy, you like him lots!”  

After lunch (he ate about three bites of the macawoni, by the way) Grant wanted to ride Sugar-the-wonder-pony.  We made our way to the back lot and I explained to him that he should not touch the electric fence.  Of course, his immediate response was “Why?” so I explained that it would hurt him.  “Is it hot?” he asked.  I confirmed that it was, and he continued, “What’s that snap, snap?”  I explained it was the electric fence popping, and if he touched the fence, it would feel like the fence was biting him, and that’s when I learned Lesson #23.  It went something like this:  “OHhhhhh, that’s like that God story.”  (The what?)  “You know, Aunt Sandy, that God story.  When he had the nails in his hands, and God came down and went BAM and popped the nails out? Isn’t that cool? That’s the cool part!”  Not wanting the story to end I said, “yeah, that’s cool, then what happened?”  He looked at me and thought about it for a moment, then said “Well, his hands weren’t hot anymore, the end.” 

Now, Aunt Sandy really wasn’t ready for “the end” just yet, and anxious to hear his story again, I escorted him to the barn where Girl 2 helped us saddle up Sugar for a ride.  As Girl 2 led him around the arena, I asked Grant to tell her the story of the nails.  “I don’t remember,” he said.  “Oh sure you do,” I encouraged, “remember…his hands were hot?”  That’s when Girl 2 jumped in to help “oh wow, his hands were hot?”  Grant answered “Yeah…that’s not the cool part,  Emma.”  It was obvious I had just been taught Lesson #24:  when it’s old news, there’s no need to re-tell the story.  (I guess those cool parts are fleeting moments…I’m so glad I was there to capture it the first time around!)

Throughout the day we played…and we played…and we played some more.  Blocks, legos, Little Pig, Go Fish, Mancala, hide and seek…you name it, we played it.  When it came time to take Grant home, I took a look around my house.  What a MESS!  I asked Grant to help me pick up all of the toys.  “No thanks,” he said.  “You can do it.”  I persisted, “I really need your help, Grant, I don’t think I can do it by myself.”  He shook his head no, so I took another stab with a different kind of persuasion, “You know what, if I pick all of these up by myself, then I will be the winner…look at me go, I’m gonna win!  I’m gonna beat you!” and like a fool I ran through the house picking up toys.  He watched me for a moment, giggled,  then taught me Lesson #25:  “It’s okay, Aunt Sandy, you’re the best winner!” 

And with that sentiment, I had to agree.  I was the best winner, because on that very special day, I saw the world through a little boy’s eyes, and it was a great view! 

Ageless

I’m going to tell you all a little secret about myself: I have become my mother <*Gasp!*> and I’m trying to figure out when this happened.

Now, don’t get me wrong…it is not a bad thing to be my mother… my mother is WONDERFUL!  Everyone who knows my mother loves her (and right now, as she is reading this, she is silently cursing me for making her the subject of this post!).  She’s silly and wild and full of spunk and crazy and funny…she’s loving and giving and thoughtful and prayerful and gifted and ageless…oh, there it is…that AGELESS thing.

My mom turned 40 when I was 16, and golly, she was OLD!  In a 16-year-old brain, everyone understands that 21 is the optimum age of life, and anyone over 21 is just plain ancient.  Not only was my mom OLD, she was incredibly embarrassing too.  For instance, it  was LUDICROUS that my mother had to do math in her head just to tell someone how old she was.  And I’m dead serious about this.  To this day, when someone asks my mom how old she is, she stops, rolls her eyes upward to think about it, looks at my dad, and then mumbles “Hmmm…let’s see…I was born in….” and then her fingers start moving as she counts it up.  At 16, this was a horrifying thing to watch.  

My dad is just the opposite.  The past few years Dad has been suffering from short term memory loss, but it has not affected his sense of how old he is.  For as long as I can remember, my dad has told me he is old.  It’s his excuse for everything under the sun, and I think in some weird way, he gets some sort of satisfaction out of his “old-ness.” Honestly, when it comes right down to it, my dad could probably tell you his age in years, days, hours, and POSSIBLY minutes…except for the math part…that’s another thing my dad always told me when I was younger, “You’re smarter than I was, so do your math.”

ANYHOO, through my parents’ “ageless vs. ageful” thing I have seen a bizarre cycle unfold.  Mom, of course, has no real sense of how old she is, so she doesn’t focus on feeling old.  Because she doesn’t feel old, she is fun-loving and crazy and silly, which in turn keeps her young.  Isn’t that a beautiful thing?  Dad, with his overwhelming sense of time and age, focuses on his years and suddenly begins to feel sick.  When he feels sick, he focuses on how old he is, which in turn makes him feel sicker.  See the pattern here?  This is why I’ve had my fair share of chuckles over that point in life many people commonly refer to as a “mid-life crisis.”  Oh, who am I kidding.  I don’t just chuckle, I give it a full-on laugh-out-loud bellow!  My dad has had a few mid-life crises.  His generally come in the form of worrying about his age and his health.  My mom just does not understand what the big deal is.  To her, there is no such thing as a mid-life crisis.  It doesn’t apply to her likely because she doesn’t know how old she is.

As I began to have children of my own, I began to secretly hope I could embrace my mother’s form of denial.  And I did.  It came to full fruition one day that dawned last fall.  As I washed my face that morning, I peered a little closer at the image in the mirror.  My first thought was “Who is this person?” Then “Sheesh, the gray just keeps multiplying!” Followed by “Wow, is that an age spot?!” I did a quick mental-math calculation and came up with…gulp…40?!  Okay, wait…that can’t be right…do it again.  Oh my goodness.  I’m FORTY?!  Wait…did I just count that on my fingers?!  Uh-oh.  Houston, we have a problem…make that TWO problems:

1) I’m 40.

2) I had to count it on my fingers. 

Oh wow…when did this happen?  When did I have to start counting my age?  And when did I reach 40?  Wasn’t my mother just 40?  I didn’t think I was a day over 16!  Immediately the aches and pains began in my joints and I felt sick to my stomach.  “I’m OLD…oh wait, that’s my dad talking…STOP IT!  I am NOT old, and I can deny my way right out of this mess if I think clearly.”  And it was at that moment, as I looked at the strange person in the mirror, that I decided something very epic in my life.  I decided to embrace 40 in all its wondrous glory!  I decided not to care that wrinkles were forming around my eyes and mouth.  I decided not to care that sun spots were popping out on my face and shoulders, and I decided not to care that my hair wanted to be gray instead of brown.  I just wouldn’t care, because these things are good and lovely, and they show the world just how far I’ve been in life, and if someone looks at me and thinks of me as OLD, why should I care?  I am only as old as I feel, right?  RIGHT! I made no more appointments at the salon for hair color, eyebrow waxes or manicures, and when Girl 1 visited my stylist, Liz-the-beauty-maker, she always brought home messages for me.  Liz was worried about my loss of sanity, the dear girl, but the decision was made. 

And I lived one very long blissful winter in denial. 

Sunday after church, it was evident Spring had sprung!  It was a glorious day, and Cowboy and I had one of those rare moments of Ballenger life: sitting in lawn chairs in the back pasture, watching the sunset.  We began to chat about our 20+ years in our church (this is us 20+ years ago on our wedding day at our church…oh my golly we were young!).  We talked about various members past and present that we’ve had the benefit of loving over those years. I’m not sure how or why, but our conversation seemed to have started with the oldest and progressed down in age until we hit  the teens.  We stopped there for a moment to consider how long we have known Jacob, who only yesterday was a sweet, loving, smiling, huggable brute of 5-year-old kid, and today is a sweet, loving, smiling, huggable (that is, if you can reach him) very tall 16-year-old.  We wondered over the time that escaped between age 5 and 16, then continued down the line of youngsters until we got to Baby Luke, that precious miracle that our entire church family prayed for and fell deeply in love with before he ever entered the world.  He’s sweet and adorable and perfect, and we all swoon when he smiles.  I was focusing on the swoony smile part when Cowboy dropped the bomb that exploded my peaceful little world. This is what he said:  “If Luke grows up as fast as Jacob did, you and I will be old codgers before we know it.  When Luke is 20…we’ll be in our sixties.”  I was stunned.  Are you KIDDING ME?  SIXTIES?!  Wait, my mom is 60-something…I can’t be SIXTY!

This of course started my head spinning and aches and pains began in my joints, and I felt sick to my stomach.  I sat there in silence for a minute or two, processing the thought of it all.  Then with all of the energy my ancient body could muster, I looked at Cowboy and it dawned on me that I had not consulted him in my 40-year-old denial and quest for “all natural.”  He’s the one who has to look at me every morning and every night, after all.  So I took a chance and asked him, “Honey, do you mind that my hair is turning gray?”  He looked at me with those loving blue eyes and his sweet smile, cocked his head to one side and spoke softly:  “You…should color it. Sorry. I guess I’m vain like that.”

Humph.  Well then, so much for embracing 40…er, ahem 41 (now)…in all its blazing glory.  So much for the blissful denial that allowed me to think my hair was still brown, and wrinkles didn’t grace my eyes and mouth, and my shoulders were void of sunspots.  So much for “all natural.”  I guess I’ll deal with my own personal mid-life crisis by making an appointment with Liz-the-beauty-maker.  I hear she has missed me.  Boy, she has the work cut out for her!

Cats Rule, Dogs Drool

The cats rule at this farm.  Every human and animal who lives in the area knows this simple truth.  We have the BAD-est cats this side of the Mississippi, hands down.  Jack and Lola are their names.  There is nothing known to man that  can match them.  They snicker at mice and rats.  They giggle at squirrels and rabbits. They laugh out loud at snakes.  And they frequently poke fun at the dogs.  As for the horses…they simply have no respect for the big lugs who leave huge clods of manure in the big sandbox.

Jack and Lola came to us at a time when we were in desperate need of BAD-ness.  Most of you remember our beloved barn dog, Diamond.   She was a gem.  She kept order.  No one and nothing crossed Diamond.  Everyone and everything knew better.  We thought many times of posting a warning for all creatures great and small: “Strangers Beware: Diamond Rules Here.”  She protected children, adults, horses and little dogs from raccoons, rabbits, squirrels, deer, coyotes, cars, trucks, UPS men, and IRS auditors (true story…and a mighty funny one!). 

In the fall of 2008, when Diamond died, we erroneously thought Diamond’s daughter and partner in rodent crime  fighting, Libby, would pick up where Diamond left off.  Libby was fierce against humans whom she thought were threatening, so surely mother had taught daughter the tricks of the rodent trade as well?  Alas, no. Libby wasn’t cut out for the job of rodent crime fighting.  That fact was made abundantly clear the day we introduced her to the new Chihuahua puppy, Tito. Tito, nearly exploding with curiosity,  ran straight to Libby, looked up at her with tail wagging and his tongue licking 500 licks per second, and bounced with joy…up and down, up and down…DYING to be instant best  friends.  Libby, unsure what to do with this tiny little mass of energy, cowered, whimpered,  and turned to run as fast and as far as she could possibly go to get away from him.  It wasn’t long after that Libby began leaping up into the sill of our family room window, begging to be let inside to watch Criminal Minds with her family.  We gave in of course, suckers that we are.  The house became Doggy Daycare.  The barn turned into Rodent Resort.  

While the dogs were warm and snuggly in front of the fire that winter, the Rodent Convention’s closing announcement was made: “Diamond is gone!” We could hear the cheers as news spread far and wide and rodents moved “en masse” to Jordan’s Crossing.  Mice, rats, chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons,…they were all staking claims and taking over.  That’s when Brian put the word out that he needed cats.  Not just any cats, mind you…no, no…only BAAAAAD cats need apply. 

Enter Jack and Lola.  Jack and Lola were siblings out of a momma stray cat roaming my aunt’s neighborhood.  My aunt had been caring for them, offered them to us, and Brian gave them the job.

Jack and Lola quickly accepted their new farm life.  They established napping spots on my front porch rockers, found all the best window screens to use as claw sharpeners, and  left disgusting little look-what-the-cat-drug-in gifts at the back door.  Brian was suspicious of the origin of these gifts.  He wasn’t noticing any decrease in activity in the barn, and was pretty sure the hunts were taking place outside of our property line.  So, one morning as Brian watched Lola venture out to the front pasture, he jokingly hollered “Hey  Lola, there’s plenty to hunt up here by the house!  Why don’t you take care of that mole that is tearing up our back yard?”  She didn’t act as if she heard his plea, but she certainly must have, because when Brian returned home from work that afternoon, a dead mole was waiting for him in the middle of the parking lot.  The rodent activity in the barn slowed considerably after that, the cats were lauded as royalty, and from that point on, the cats have monitored the comings and goings of every breathing creature.

One day, Jack and Lola were sunning on the back patio, taunting the poor Chihuahua, Tito.  Tito, always a bundle of nerves, was begging to be let out to investigate the situation.  I opened the door, and he ran straight for the cats.  The three of them began peaceably scrutinizing each other, so I thought it was  okay to turn my back for two  seconds…just TWO.  Nope.  Immediately, the cry of a tortured puppy reached my ears.  I whirled around to see Tito running toward me, crying like a baby, both cats sitting prim and proper, proudly swishing their tails and smirking.  I could’ve sworn I heard “We don’t know WHAT his problem is…big baby.”

Birds are certainly not off limits for taunting.  I’ve seen both cats leap four feet into the air to bat at them mid-flight.  Humans don’t escape the taunting either.  This winter Lola came into the barn during a riding lesson and dropped a still-live chipmunk at the feet of a student’s parent.  The chipmunk ran around a little bit before Lola bounded after it again. She was of course expecting praise from the visitor, adding a little excitement for drama.  But her plan backfired.  The parent couldn’t stand to watch the event unfolding before her, and she held Lola back until the chipmunk safely escaped the confines of the barn.  Lola looked up at the parent as if to say “Now c’mon…what’d you go and do THAT for?”   

Jack recently began carrying half-dead, still-wiggly snakes  to Brian.  Somehow he found out that Brian hates snakes worse than anything, and I think Jack gains some sort of satisfaction in hearing Brian squeal like a girl.  They’re ruthless, I tell ya…ruthless!

Just yesterday I was sitting on Jack’s front porch rocker with our dog Skip at my feet.  Jack came around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.  I thought maybe he was suspicious of Skip, but quickly realized he was wondering what in the devil I thought I was doing sitting in his chair.  He walked up to the porch, used my jean-clad leg as a scratching post, then jumped into my lap and lay down.  He obviously wasn’t going to let me get in the way of his afternoon nap.  As I sat reading, Skip gave out an excited yelp and went tearing through the yard, chasing a squirrel up the nearest walnut tree.  Skip sat at the base of the tree, yelping up at the squirrel.  The squirrel sat at the top of the tree, chattering down at Skip.  Jack opened one eye and I think I heard him snicker.  I stroked his back and assured him “Don’t worry. Skip wouldn’t know what to do with that squirrel if he caught him.” Jack closed his eye, swished his tail, and seemed to sigh.  I can’t be sure, but I think he mumbled something akin to “Dogs drool.”

Last evening, someone let our big dog Libby outside and forgot about her.  By the time we realized it, she had found the manure pile and rolled in it repeatedly.  We tried to let her sleep in the garage for the night, but the stench was overwhelming, so Brian escorted her out to the barn and closed her inside...with the cats.  This morning, we awoke to Libby clawing at the kitchen door, whimpering.  We have no idea how she got out of the barn, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Lola held the door open as Jack picked her up by the collar and booted her out.  They’re baaaad cats.  The cats rule.

The Horse Hoarder

This is my cowboy on this sunny Friday afternoon.

He put in a good half day of construction work today. I don’t really know why it was a planned half-day. I think he mumbled something earlier in the week about having a small bathroom repair for someone in the morning and that he would take the rest of the day off, but I can’t be entirely sure. I was only half listening. I’m kind of bad about that sometimes. (Oh, by the way, my camera says I took these photos at 1:57 p.m. This is really important to note.)

I came home earlier than normal today too. Girl 2 and Girl 3 take part in a science class with other homeschoolers on Friday mornings, and typically the afternoons are reserved for running errands, but not today. Why? Because this morning Cowboy said he needed Girl 2 to get home early. Girl 1 had to work, and Cowboy wanted to go look at a pony, so Girl 2 had to go with him to ride it. My friends, let me take this moment to announce: we are buying a pony.

Now before you go assuming some bad non-listening stuff about me, let me defend myself up front by telling you that this time I truly WAS listening FULLY, and even though he SAID he was going to LOOK at a pony, I have learned to listen instead to what he MEANS. He definitely means we will own a pony before this Friday is over. Do you know how I know? Look at this…

This is Cowboy in his truck. He is leaving our farm. He’s headed out to “LOOK” at a pony…with our horse trailer attached. The trailer, I’m sure he would say, is going along with him “just in case.” (For the record, my camera says this photo was taken at 2:01 p.m. Have you figured out where this timeline thing is going yet…?)

Anyway, as he left the house he defended his shopping trip by delivering his usual disclaimer: “If I buy it, it will be a project pony. I can train it and turn it in a couple of months.” There was no need for a reply on my part. That silly argument may have worked on the first nine horses, but I’m not falling for that trick again. I’m smarter this time.

At this point in the story I could post a few more “wait for it” pictures, but to save your precious time and my precious blog space I will cut right to the chase. See this…?

It’s Cowboy and his truck coming home…this picture was taken at 5:58 p.m.
Then there is this one at 6:00:
 
And, oh my golly…what is that coming out of the trailer at 6:01?

SURPRISE! Wow, that sure looks like a pony to me!

Now you should not think the story ends here. No sir. Not yet. The end is near, but before I get too far ahead of myself, let me take a moment to remind you of the quote above. You know the one…it included some silly words like project pony…training…turning…couple of months.

As Girl 1 led the pony into the barn, Girl 3 asked Cowboy how long the pony would be staying. “We’re probably going to sell him,” Cowboy said. Did you catch that? PROBABLY. Do I need to translate for you? Yeah, didn’t think so.

Meet Vegas:

Blue roan Quarter Pony

Isn’t he handsome?

He kissed my camera at 6:11…

Made his bed at 6:14…

And completely stole our hearts exactly 60 seconds later.
Welcome home Vegas.

I’m such a sucker.