What's the Plott?

Some evenings, I look around the farm and feel overwhelmed with gratitude, and others... I'm just overwhelmed! The sky turns pink. The pond catches the moonlight just right. The horses and sheep mull around in peaceful belonging. The sun rise catches the dew-covered spider webs. I’m struck by the awe of getting to call this place home. The animals wander in and out of my thoughts — the ones we have now, the ones we’ve buried, and the ones we still dream about. Winter settles in, and the cats get a little heavier. The sheep gain a couple of inches of wool. Life keeps moving, growing, changing. The boys who once lived for muddy rain boots and tricycles now trade them for dirt bikes and fishing poles. The man who once rode competitively with a singular focus now pours that same intensity into training up children — not just to live, but to do so with integrity. Teenagers gather around the table, eating everything in sight, asking me to bake bread… and then reminding me we’re out ...

Every January, my annual purge begins the same way. Christmas comes down and gets lovingly packed into bins that go back to the attic. Drawers get thinned. Closets get honest and everyone starts to guard their belongings from the process of ruthless decluttering.  Each year, without fail, I face the same project: The mismatched socks. Living in a house full of boys means socks have a life of their own. Some are relatively new. Some are favorites. Some are good quality and should still have a match somewhere — in another load of laundry, a drawer, a backpack, under a bed... So I don’t toss them right away. I gather them. I wait. I hope. This year, the pile was small — the last socks that made the cut. The ones that didn’t quite deserve to be tossed but didn’t yet have their other half. I put them in a bag and hung it in the laundry closet, fully aware that only a mom who has lived this sock nightmare could appreciate the irony of what came next. The bag I grabbed at random reads: “H...

Ever since I was a teenager, I dreamed of being a mom with an open door. I grew up in that kind of house — the kind where everyone gathered, where friends came and went freely, and where the front door didn’t even have a key. Our home was the hub. And while I’m sure my parents were exhausted more often than they let on — feeding everyone, cleaning up endless messes, staying up late night after night — the door was always open. I loved that about my childhood. And I knew I wanted the same thing. So when I imagined my own future, I pictured babies… then boys… then teenagers — and I just knew the farm would seal the deal. I mean, what boy wouldn’t love wide open land, animals, dirt roads, and freedom? Right? But it hasn’t defaulted the way I thought it would. The dirt road, the animals, the distance....  The “it’s kind of out of the way” factor. I get it — I really do. There hasn’t been a constant revolving door of friends the way I imagined. And I’ll be honest — I’ve gri...

Routines and Resets From Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day, it feels like we’re all living off leftovers. The same foods reheated. The same casseroles passed from one gathering to the next. The same conversations just with different scenery or people. Our calendar commitments stacked one on top of the other. Farm chores on auto pilot and all homesteading efforts fading quickly into all my semi-homemade go tos.  By the time January rolls around, everyone is pushing the last of the leftovers before they finally go bad — both in the fridge and our energy stores. We are all hoping not to waste anything in this season of plenty.  In the middle of the post-holiday's final plans, I found myself with a rare evening alone with my middle son. No wrestling practice. No brothers to contend with. No extra places to be. Just us for a whole night. We knowingly took our escape and told noone of our plans to get a bite to eat and head home.  Without hesitation or a second suggestion, we both...