Farm People

Both Superman and I have a little farmer in our blood, and so apparently, does our boy. 

My grandparents used to have a farm in Canada we would often visit in the summer. They raised, wait for it, OSTRICHES. I know! Crazy. Anyway, we would go up there and ride around on the four wheeler, chase the herding dog, swat at flies, and take a trot around the property. I would get to go check on the incubator with my Grandpa, keep my elbows off the table for my Grandma, and fall asleep in a pile of cousins. It was the life and I loved those summers we were able to visit. I remember specifically sliding my feet into my Grandpa's rubber boots that were always in the mudroom. He would crack his bullwhip and let us ride in the back of his truck. There were smells and sounds of the farm I will never quite come to love, but the rest of it was pretty amazing. 

My husband actually worked on a farm when he was really little. He did chores and all that, so his idea of farm life is a bit disenchanted when compared to mine, but still, he seems to like getting away to the rustic and rural just as much as I do. There is just something so soothing about that simple life when all you need is fields of grass and sunshine to entertain you all day long. 

Which is why I am so, so happy to have a little farm taking up over half of our street block. I get the smells and sounds once in a while--which act as memory jerkers a lot of the time. Yet, I don't have to do any of the work. Yipee! The little farm keeps us grounded and the horses especially are a draw for my Littleman. He loves them. "Wa's dat?" he asks, pointing with his flyaway index finger. I say, "horse," and make the best whinny I can muster. Usually this goes round and round, but the other day he actually said it back to me. What a kid! He knows "moo" to a T, but horse, that is a new one and one more farm animal we can check off our list. 

Anyways, when we walk by this sweet little farm one of the horses, a particularly friendly white one, comes right up to the fence. I rub the velvety nose while Blake takes his time to warm up to the large beast. Finally he will reach out his hand and give the horse a few friendly pats on the mat of hair that hangs between it's eyes. Then I set him down and he scampers along the fence line pointing and galloping. Yup, farm boy at heart, right here. Get him a hat and some boots and we will be set.

These heart melting moments make me wish my Grandparents still had their farm in Canada. It makes me wish I could take my Littleman up there and show him all of the places I would play. I want to put him on a horse with his Grandpa or let him run like a wild Indian in the front yard. I long to let him see an ostrich up close and laugh when it poofs up and does it's funny mating dance.

We will never get back there, and that is ok. The next best thing is a farm in Idaho we can visit. It is owned by our brother in law. It is a beautiful home on beautiful property. Blake will be obsessed with the cows and tractors when we make it up there. I just know it.