Little Beggars

Now that the weather is nice, my girls are spending their non-egg laying hours (or break time as it is referred to by their union) free ranging in the sunny backyard.  They love to scratch for bugs in the flower beds, take dirt baths in the freshly tilled garden, and eat anything green and leafy they can find.

Stay out of my parsley, girls.  I know it's you.

Whenever our squeaky back door opens, the sound sends chickens running from all directions in the expectation that something delicious is being brought to them.  How pavlovian.  Just yesterday, however, the girls discovered the door from which the squeak and the subsequent treats come.

Yo, we know you're in there.

Bring me blueberries.

Sometimes I stop and think ... what a strange life I lead.  

My Happy Place

There are places and spaces in life that I love.  Some more than others, but one best of all.  It is a place where this girl can fill her lungs with the fragrance of the country, wrap her arms around a cow, drool over the finest bull in the county (I may be slightly biased ... but only slightly), and drive various and sundry farm equipment.  I mean, really, does life get any better?

Don't answer.  It was rhetorical.

Meet the reasons I love the Ranch.  Meet my happy place.

Harley.  The bull.  As if you needed to be told.  What a beefcake.

The Harem.  That Harley is a lucky man.

The cutest, sweetest, fuzzy wuzzy offspring I've ever seen.

"Faster, sweetheart.  Here comes that crazy lady who wants to hug on us some more.  That just ain't right."

Girls with an appetite.  I feel ya, ladies.

Oozing happiness.

More oozing.

The face of a dirty, tired, happy kid.  Now, that is what a boy is supposed to look like.

Child labor.  He's not terribly efficient, but he's free.

I have the coolest mother ever.  Do you see that look of adoration on my son's face?

Feedin' time.

My daddy.

And finally, an Oklahoma sunset.  Best ones I've ever seen.

I just left the ranch, and leaving isn't easy.  This girl's roots grow deep.  So now, when I get homesick, I just close my eyes, conjure up the smell of manure, and I'm home.  

On second thought, better just close one eye.  

You never know where your boot will land.

Overachiever

3 inches is, by definition, a very large egg.  Freakishly large.  Like, skyscraper large.  I've seen the bird that laid that egg, and I'm telling you, I would have demanded a c-section.  Turns out, it was twins.

One day I'm giving out kale and bread and cucumbers, the next day it is ice chips and epidurals.