Yep, you read that right. We busted our butts and made huge sacrifices to come up to the Midwest, only to realize our summer stint would be followed by yet another cross-country move, this time to the Pacific northwest. And not really so much Pacific -- Seattle is a five-hour drive away, and Pullman is in the heart of the Palouse farming region, teeming with miles upon miles of golden wheat fields and gigantic wind turbines and so much open space that it makes Albuquerque look crowded.
All will be fine, however, as my oldest, dearest friend lives in Spokane ("a quick 72-mile drive away," as she explains it - she grew up out west so driving distances for her mean something a bit different than they mean for me), the job provides a fantastic opportunity for Armando, and the small-town atmosphere that we've been experiencing all summer can continue its positive influence on the kids.
It's going to be very bittersweet to say goodbye to this summer, however. The kids have grown so much, physically, emotionally and psychologically, and we have all learned to re-connect with those most dear to us. We have eaten like organic foodies thanks to the bounty of my parents' garden, and the kids had a great time at the local day care/preschool.
We've also had to broach sensitive farm subjects -- from natural fertilizer ("mama, did you know poop can make plants grow?") to animal habitats ("the sneaky fox lives in a den and comes out to get food for her babies"), from animal husbandry ("the baby chickens need special medicine in their water") to animal behavior (Reni actually got pecked by a baby crane out in Grandpa's prairie and, rather than cry, turned to my dad and said, "why did that bird bite me?"). The hardest for me has been the questions about death.
It began a few weeks ago, when the kids found a baby cardinal that had gotten caught up in an electric fence. And when I say found, I mean that Anika picked up that dead bird by its neck and carried it around like a squeaky-clean stuffed animal, petting it and crowing softly to it and asking why it wouldn't fly away. They had a long talk with Grandpa about why the baby bird died, and they helped him bury it in one of the flower gardens. For days afterward, they would ask me what happened to the bird, why it died, where its mama was, and what would happen to it. Grandpa must've given them a matter-of-fact explanation, as a few days after the incident, Reni informed me that the baby bird died "because it ran away from its mama" and "it is turning into dirt and seeds and flowers." No "All Dogs go to Heaven" conversations here on the farm, folks. Which I am completely ok with, as I feel those types of conversations would prove even more confusing to kids than the truth.
Two days ago, the rooster crowed his last and we had to revisit the death conversation with the kids. This time, they were convinced the rooster met his demise thanks to the "sneaky fox," and came up with all kinds of hypotheses as to what might have transpired. From the "he got hurt by the fox's claws" to the "he got sick," we heard all kinds of ideas, and despite our best efforts to put the thing to rest, the kids have continued to bring up the subject (it didn't help that another chicken croaked in the chicken house yesterday afternoon). Anika grabbed me around my neck last night, tears streaming down her face, and asked if she was going to die like the chickens did. I didn't know what to say, so told her that chickens are much different than people and that mama and daddy were here to take care of her, always. She begged me to tell her a happy story to take away the unhappy thoughts, and we launched into a tale about rainbows and unicorns and Anika the magical engineer until she drifted off to sleep.
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