Last weekend was a true work weekend around here. We plowed through stuff–literally, well at least until the tractor broke down in the field, (you can see its sorry self below). The weekend started off with horse hoof trimming, quickly followed by sheep shearing (yes sir, two bags full). After we recovered from the news that our sheep (o.k. and pony) are um, chubby and need a serious slim-down regime (where’s that farmer, I need to talk to him!), we moved on to other work. We had just received our sometimes annual order of nursery trees, so we plugged away at planting the bundles of tamarack (in the wet bottoms) and elderberry, serviceberry, wild plum, dogwood and hazelnut into any corner we could tuck them.
Then we worked on the gardens, weeding, planting, and weeding more (boy that quack grass gets an early start).
Meanwhile, where were the girls you might ask? Hmmm, good question. Perhaps busily hauling chickens around from place to place. Or maybe, changing clothes for the 18th time (as witnessed by the pile on the floor of their bedroom), or perhaps being overcome with a urgent need to brush each others teeth while washing something very muddy out in the bathroom sink (as witnessed by the toothpaste cap laying in dirty sink water), or very likely nibbling leftover pancakes from breakfast (as witnessed by a small pile of half-eaten pancakes on the kitchen counter, sans plate).
What messy children you have, one might say. But yes…and what independent and self-sustaining children they are….suddenly. More than one time this weekend I made a trip to the house noting that the door was wide open and there were at least 12 pairs of shoes lying on the rug (one must need a different pair each time you got out), but I resisted, yes I did (!), the urge to nag or lecture or even discuss the multitude of messes. You see, this here, I believe, is the first spring season of freedom. Freedom for them to explore and create and build and haul and dream on their own. (Don’t you remember: Us on the way through the house: “Mom, can I have the stapler, a wooden spoon and eight marshmallows?” Our moms busy at their work: “Yes, in the top drawer”) And yes, for us, freedom to work uninterrupted for lengthy periods of time, time to pull quack grass and chat farm dreams with your love who you feel like you haven’t really talked to much in the last, well, 6 years!
O.k., so it was only one weekend. But man, we kicked it, and yes there were messes that at the end of a long hot day had to be cleaned up. But you know, you turn on a little Ana Popvic (thanks, Dad!) and everyone gets to work cleaning (and dancing) and it gets done in no time.
And then at the end of it all, you throw bedtime to the wind, just a little. And you hike up the hill to climb a tree and hunt for mushrooms and you look down at that little homestead of yours and you know that growing kids is a bit like growing a farmstead; it seems to take a lot of time and patience, and quite a few messes (and broken tractors). But every once in awhile you remember to stop and look and you realize how much love has gone into to all that growing and you figure it will all turn out right.
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