The Windiest Day on the Farm

This week, in a word, was trying. Trying because it was exhausting, and trying because it felt like life was trying to stomp my spirit into a big flat footprint of squashed dreams. But it didn't succeed, and that is the only part that matters, and there were much more amazing things that happened this week that are more worthy of writing about.

Like on Sunday we spent the windiest day ever out on the farm.

Bub and Teebs, of course, sported their John Deere green shirts and camouflage hats that in the wind made a better kite than a hat.

The wind was so fierce that when I begged Bub to hug Teebs for a cute brotherly photo, he instinctively clung to him as if to keep his cherished little brother from blowing away.

That  brotherly love, it is innate, and it is strong. It is mesmerizing.  Like Teebs examining a robust, prickly pine cone, wondering what could this be.

And not being able to drop the pine cone but finding something else just as mesmerizing and demanding to know "dat! dat!" what is "dat" with his forceful index finger point.

"DAT!" Teebs squawks and points at anything he needs to explore.

DAT!

Teebs loves the farm because in open spaces he can scuttle away much farther to explore before my sharp mommy voice beckons him back.

He loves scuttling. And he loves exploring. And he loves seeing just how much he can get away with.

And I love, how at the end of his scuttle, when he's reached his destination, his deep furrowed brows engulf his face and I don't know if he is criticizing, or wondering, or loving.

I love the mystery of those deep furrowed brows.

Bub was in love with the magic of the wind that day. He lept into the air, again and again, flinging his hat high until the tips of his fingers had to let go and let the wind take over.

He would watch it looping around through the breeze and guffaw his deep, brazen chuckles, leaping through tall grass to catch it and start all over again.

My boys love the farm.

Even on the windiest day.

My favorite picture of the day was standing Bub up against the huge steel shed and trying to coax him to give me a smile, a grin, an artsy little smirk, anything for a picture. And finally I said, "Ok, Bub, put your hands in your pockets."

And there he is. Just my little farm guy with holes in the knees of his jeans and wind blown, tangled hair. Just a boy in his boots hanging out with the dirt and debri on the farm.

Pictures like that make the grueling parts of this week dumb and forgettable. In fact, we're already over it, and I'm pretty convinced that after the worst week ever, this certainly has to be the best weekend ever. And that I think I can handle.

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