An Ode to Crowbait.

Crowbait. Never has a name more accurately described the appearance of a horse. Although dreadful in appearance, Crowbait is a gem among steads. He is steadfast, trustworthy, a tick lazy, and he has the most wonderful, soft, speckled nose.

He even has speckled eyelids, which of course, add to his less-than-appealing appearance. But, like I said, he is a gem--and I suppose might just be beautiful if you go for that appaloosa look.

David broke Crowbait to ride when David was 15 yrs old. Crowbait may have been 4 yrs old then, but no one really knows his real age due to the fact that he is not registered like the rest of our (beautiful) quarter horses. In any case, Crowbait is now a geriatric horse. But in his years, he has cared for many small, apprentice riders.

David's cousins, Kate, Will and Lee, all rode Crowbait at some point during their childhood. All have fallen off (mainly due to Crowbait's really annoying habit of trying to de-saddle his rider by scraping them off with a tree limb), but none have been bucked off (to my knowledge).

Lee really put him through his paces when he was little. Lee's favorite thing to do as a young rider was to spank him with the end of his rein to make him go faster...and faster...I think Crowbait was relieved to come to our house to meet a new set of youngsters...

Now Lee comes over to our house and continues to harrass him by riding him around the barn lot bareback...poor Crowbait. But the girls think, of course, that cousin Lee is the coolest boy they know because he can ride their horse bareback.

When the girls ride, there is always an argument. Who gets to ride first, who gets to ride by themself, who got to ride longest, etc...And they do get to ride other horses, but of course, Crowbait is "their" horse.

During the recent "Saddle Up for Diabetes" trail ride on the ranch, (pictures will follow soon...) David, Grandpa Mike, and Neighbor Jerry were riding the only well-trained (and beautiful) quarter horses on our place. (Since David raises and trains horses, we are plagued with a constant string of half-broke young horses--David sells all the trained horses--kind of like a carpenter's house is never finished--same theory applies to horse trainers.)

So what do I get to ride, but Crowbait. Of course. Because God is constantly humbling me. The wife of Trail Boss David (as the city-slickers call him), riding an old, ugly appaloosa, while David rides our beautiful, black, gleaming stud horse.

Oh well, Crowbait did safely carry me and Elizabeth the whole ride, with not one falter (except for the one attempt to scrape us off with a tree branch). Several city-folk commented on him, with David and I quickly explaining that while ugly, he is the best horse on the place...

And these pictures illustrate why he is the best on the place...two girls, under the age of ten, running the barrel pattern over and over and over again. And he does it, without complaint (although there are no tree branches around for him to complain with).

(And no, mom, the girls were not really "running" the barrel pattern. Nor were they going fast to make their hair fly like that--the wind was blowing--I promise.)

The picture above is Crowbait complaining...by nickering at nearby horses. So maybe a kind, old horse can get a little bored of walking/trotting the barrel pattern over and over and over again.

And this is my opportunity to brag on my kids a little more. (Not that I ever need an "opportunity" to brag...)

What eight-year-old do you know whom you would trust to ride a horse with your 18-month-old? Rhian has really blossomed in the last two years. She has grown from a shy, introverted, somewhat scared of everything kid, into a brave, strong, big-kid.

Rhian is remarkably compassionate and patient with her sisters. Not that she does not fight and argue any less than any other 8yr old sister, but she does temper it with kindness.

And what 18-month-old do you know who is so confident on a horse and so trusting of a sibling? Jacklyn has absolutely stolen my heart. She is full of giggles, and can express more with her facial expressions than any adult can with a thousand words. She may never learn to talk though. With two sisters to cater to her every whim and talk for her, who needs to learn any more than the signs for food, drink, and please?

But back to Crowbait--honestly, I dread the day when we wake to find that Crowbait is no longer with us. He has been such a good horse to the Chambers family--such a good friend. He is by far, much more beautiful than his name implies.

(Note the very bored, half-asleep look on Crowbait's face (face?). He is so patient with giggly little girls. Also note, there is no real "Ode" in this post...because that requires more talent than I possess...)

Trying to be Superwoman

I have been reading a book, which is unusual for me, for now days the only books I get to read are third grade Junie B books and piles of textbooks, so when I do get to read, I prefer magazines or extremely lighthearted books. This book is called Harried With Children, by Karen Scalf Linamen. If you have not read it, get it. My mom bought it for me (hum, was that a hint?). Now I am going to make her read it.


In her book, Linamen celebrates all of the crazy experiences that come along with being a wife and a mom--the things that we would never admit to our closest friends. The crazy things that happen that make us shake our heads and pray to God for strength.


One of the things that I often struggle with is not being a superwoman. Or superwife. Or supermom. I always imagined life different—more pulled together, more organized, more structured and orderly. More fun, fewer headaches, less hectic. I always have had a romantic notion of what life would be like—and I am pretty sure that I have fallen short of my 13-year-old dreams.

As I get older, and especially recently, I have gotten to know other women—other moms. And not the passing in the carpool lane, polite wave with make up on get-to-know, but the real, drop your guard, be honest get-to-know. And you know what? These women are even more wonderful and beautiful than they were with their perfectly pressed facades. Their flaws, their inadequacies, their fears—make them all the more beautiful. They are strong, devoted, loving women doing their best to do the same thing I am—survive the great balancing act.

Linamen talks about this in her book—and they way she writes is so hiliarious, I had to share…


“My guess is that, like me, you’re no superwoman. In fact, if you’re really like me, you don’t even know any superwomen.

“And yet, we are so hard on ourselves, aren’t we? We begin with such high expectations…and are dismayed to discover how short we fall…

“And yet I still have these really crazy expectations for myself. I still try to do it all, be it all, have it all. I keep thinking I can fly…

“At these moments, it’s good for me to try to get a grip on reality. I try to remind myself that, while I may be a superwoman wannabe, I’ll never be a real superwoman. How do I know?...


“A real superwoman would never be rushing for an important job interview, nick her leg shaving, and have to walk out the door wearing a Muppet Babies Band-Aid under her hose.

“A real superwoman would never have to go on a diet. And if she did have to go on a diet, she would never cheat. And is she did happen to cheat, it would be for something rich and sophisticated, like caviar or chocolate mousse. She would never blow her diet because of an insatiable craving for Moon Pies or Sweet Tarts.

“A real superwoman wouldn’t tell her kids to save dinner leftovers in a Tupperware container when she doesn’t actually own any Tupperware, and what she REALLY means is for them to use one of the twenty-seven recycled butter tubs (with missing lids) that comprise the bulk of her food-storage system.

“A real superwoman would never invite friends over homemade brownies, forget to add the flour, and make her guests eat the brownies using spoons. She definitely would not then move to a new house, invite those same friends over for chili, realize her spoons were still packed away in the garage somewhere, and serve the chili with plastic forks.

“A real superwoman would never hang up on her editor while shouting the phrase, “I HAVE TO GO! THE BABY’S IN THE TOLIET!”

“A real superwoman would not own a freezer so precariously crammed with frozen mystery foods that she makes her children wear hard hats and steel-toed boots before they’re allowed to open the door for ice cubes.

“A real superwoman would not occasionally arrive at her office at 6:00 am to get some extra work done and fall asleep at her computer until 8:00. Thus, she would never be put in the embarrassing position of hoping desperately that her coworkers would not find out about her dark secret, only to have one of them tell her later, “Of course we knew. We all knew. When you’d been sleeping, you’d come out of your office with a keyboard imprint on your cheek.”

“A real superwoman would not be growing eleven different strains of penicillin in her refrigerator.

“A real superwoman would never sit down in front of the TV to watch Sesame Street with her toddler…and still be there watching Barney two hours later while her toddler is happily playing with her blocks in the other room.


“A real superwoman has never stood in front of her closet, gazed at the pile of dirty laundry awaiting her, and had the word ‘Kilimanjaro’ pop, unbidden, into her mind.

“…cheer up and welcome to the club. You and I are members of a mega-soroity of women everywhere who live a harried, flawed—and at the same time, a relatively happy—existence.

“Superwoman? Who needs her? She doesn’t exist, my friend. Not at my house, not at yours. Not in our generation. Not in this universe.

“Superwoman is passé.

“But super women…well, that’s another story altogether.

“Let me tell you a little about super women. They’re everywhere, in every generation, in big cities, and small burgs alike. They’re flawed and fabulous, wounded and wonderful. They are moms and wives and daughters just like you and me, woman who know what it’s like to juggle and struggle, live and learn, laugh and love, moan and groan, and ultimately survive and even thrive.

"Women of steel? Women who leap tall buildings? They’re the women who drive carpools and care for aging parents, who watch Barney, watch for their teens to come home after curfew, and watch their weight. They’re women who remember birthdays and doctor’s appointments and baseball games, who bake cookies for fund-raisers and muffins for colleagues at the office. They’re the women who take care of their grandkids so their daughters can work. They crave chocolate and hate well-woman exams and learn to live with the adversities of life. They’re the women who change diapers and dread the change of life and end up changing their world because of what they do and who they are.

“Super women? They’re alive and well on Planet Earth.

“So smile when you zip up that cape.

“Looks like we just might be the real thing, after all.”


So you know what, I am not superwoman. But my superwoman feats for the day are: that my hearing impaired daughter can read Junie B books, that my four-year-old is learning to be patient and kind to others, and that my 18-month-old goes down the tornado slide at the park all by herself! And that is enough for me!



Thanks for listening, Superwoman Kathryn.

My Brillant Children

As I have mentioned before, I am teaching a section of Formation of the Christian Mind (freshman orientation) and as part of the course, the students were required to take a personality test. So, I took the test so I could share the results with my class. I was an even split between two personalities: Choleric, the extrovert, the doer, the optimist and Melancholy, the introvert, the thinker, the pessimist. I remember taking this same test when I was in college, and the professor commenting that he had never seen that combination before...so good, I'm an oddball. I knew that. Call it bipolar, blame it on the fact that I am a Gemini (although I put absolutely no stock in horoscopes), but apparently I have a split personality.

The test has long lists of attributes for each personality, most of which I would agree with...It even has a section which lists attributes as a parent. This is what it says about my parenting style...

The Choleric as a Parent:
Exerts sound leadership
Establishes goals
Motivates family to action
Knows the right answer
Organizes household

The Melancholy as a Parent:
Sets high standards
Wants everything done right
Keeps home in good order
Picks up after children
Sacrifices own will for others
Encourages scholarship and talent

All of which, I would agree with...I expect a lot of my kids. And they always rise to my expectations, and exceed them.

Case in Point: When Rhian comes home from school and sits down to do her homework; this is what often happens...
There is Rhian, diligently working math problems, and Elizabeth who insists upon doing homework as well, and Jacklyn, who just does everything her older sisters do. They look so academic, don't they?
Rhian really likes math. She is really good at math. However, recently she asked me if her penmanship was good enough on her math homework or if she needed to redo it...Obviously, I can take the setting high standards thing to an extreme.

And then there is Elizabeth, whom insists that she must do homework too. Therefore, I bought a book of preschool worksheets that help her practice forming letters and numbers, and learn to recognize shapes, colors and patterns. She works at least six pages every night. She begs to do them. She loves to do them.

So I am raising classic overachievers...At least that's what I thought before I took the personality test. Now, I am somewhat worried.

The test also lists weaknesses as a parent for each personality. Here is what it says about me:

The Choleric as a Parent:
Tend to Overdominate
Gives answers too quickly
Impatient with poor performance
Won't let children relax
May send them into depression

The Melancholy as a Parent:
Puts goals beyond reach
May discourage children
May be too meticulous
Becomes martyr
Sulks over disagreements
Puts guilt upon children

Isn't that horrible? Now I am terrified. Should I lighten up? Should I hug them and reassure them more? Should I allow them to run free like the wind? No more homework kids! No more chores! Play! Play! Get Dirty!

She looks depressed. Before I thought she was just concentrating, but now maybe she is depressed looking. Does she look depressed to you? Overdominated? Discouraged? Tense?
Look--now this one has to be crying out for help...and she's young enough to be helped! Help! Help! My mother is going to send me into overachiever depression!

Okay, so maybe I am being a little melodramatic. But seriously, this is one of the major reasons I don't homeschool. My children would be warped. Not they are not already. What eight-year-old do you know who offers to redo homework? What four-year-old wants to do worksheets?

Dear Lord, please let my children be normal. Please don't let them be eggheads.

Melodrama aside--maybe I am just raising overachievers.

(Note: Due to the high number of concerned readers who gave me very sweet advice about not being so hard on myself...I felt it necessary to write a disclaimer about this particular blog...I was being sarcastic--I am a very sarcastic person, remember? While I do agree that I am somewhat hard on my kids--please note all of the other blogs where my children at least seem to be happy and well adjusted...Thank you, though, to all those who were concerned about me!)

Cherry-Limeades, Welding, and Sunflowers

Sometimes, when we girls are on the way home from school, David calls. He nevers calls in the middle of the day, so I always know exactly what he wants. A cherry-limeade. From Sonic. Delivered to the middle of nowhere to where he is working.

Occasionally I am annoyed because it interrupts my (not-so-important) plans for the afternoon, but I always agree to bring him one. He is always extremely grateful (it makes me feel like a good wife), and the girls get to see him and "help" him work.

Here is my very cute husband, in his welding cap, holding my very cute baby--and the cherry-limeade.

David drinks enough cherry-limeades in a year to pay the salary of one of the employees. He loves them that much. I once attempted to make them at home for him, my attempt at cutting costs, but apparently they were just not the same.

(Notice the freshly welded corner post behind him, and the long stretch ready and waiting for a line of perfectly driven t-posts. David is the ulitmate fence-builder. He takes pride in it. People notice it. Neighbors recruit his help. Elizabeth thinks daddy's new fences are "berry bootiful." And they are--no one can build a fence quite like David.)



Rhian is always the first to offer her help. Here she is "helping" neighbor Jerry measure a pipe and lineup the next cut. He is ever-patient, ever-willing to accept her help (and advice). Jerry will be a grandpa for the first time this fall. We are very excited for him. He will be a tremedous grandpa. He has had a few years of practice with our kids--not to mention years of teaching sunday school to keep him in practice. Although we are quite sad that our kids will not be the center of attention any longer.


Rhian quickly tired of her duties and went off to pick a sunflower instead.

Notice the very large root ball attached.

But Grandpa Mike has a handy-dandy (and very sharp) knife just right for cutting root balls off of sunflowers for little girls. Grandpa Mike makes knives. Extremely beautiful knives that are now in great demand across our little ranching community by both cowboys and hunters. Although I am sure the intended purpose for them is cutting flower stems for little cowgirls.


So then Elizabeth had to have a sunflower too. (Monkey see, monkey do...)


And Grandpa Mike, of course, cut her stem as well. And then he got a lecture about how a sunflower is first a bud and and then opens to have "widdle yewow pikey thwings" (aka petals).


Then Elizabeth sat down on Grandpa Mike's lap, and Jacklyn needed room too. (Monkey see, monkey do...) Doesn't he look quite content with his great-granddaughters on this lap?


And this is the picture for posterity. (It would be perfect if Jacklyn did not have chocolate all over her face, and didn't have such a scrunched up look on her face...) I think I will have it framed for him for Christmas. And he will get all misty, like Grandpa Mike does...he got misty just sitting there with his granddaughters on his lap. He is soft-hearted. I love that about him. And so do the girls. Little girls and soft-hearted grandpas have a special relationship.


So--as you can see, it was worth it to drive out into the middle of nowhere to bring David his cherry-limeade. And one for Jerry. And a water, no ice for Grandpa Mike...

The Horse Trough

Every summer, since Rhian was very small, I have purchased several hard plastic or blow-up swimming pools. And every year, something--some animal--destroys them. Goats, horses, cows, dogs, and racoons all seem to find a blow-up swimming pool irresistable. So this summer, after our dog Sam shredded my second purchase of the season, David decided that enough was enough.

And so, he brought home a very, very large horse/cattle watering tank to serve as the girls' swimming pool for the summer. (Great idea--only that it weighs a ton, and is impossible to clean--but that's not his problem, right?) Not that we are not redneck enough, but now we have a horse trough taking up half of our brand new patio, directly in front of the house...

But the girls have had a fantastic time in it, and it is dog-proof. So really, I should not complain. The girls have played "Ring Around the Rosie" until I was sure that poor Jacklyn's arms would be pulled off--or until one of them drowned. (Yes, mom, I was always, always, within arms reach anytime they were in or near the pool! They would not have drowned, that was an exaggeration...I was a lifeguard, remember?)

And note the following pictures. This is my Elizabeth. This is my "Liz." And this is typical Liz. Full-out, non-stop energy, with the capacity to wear anyone out...even a steel swimming pool...

Rhian adores the younger girls and is a great help to me. However, tickles her sisters way too much. Not a day goes by that she does not hear me say, "That's quite enough, Rhian. Not everyone enjoys being tickled that much." And Elizabeth--well, let's just say that she does not tickle Liz much anymore...so she just picks on Jacklyn instead.

Jacklyn loves water. Anytime the words "pool" or "bathtub" are mentioned, you had better be serious. And, you had better let her play until she is done...or else...
But you know, I complain about my kids way too much. I absolutely adore them. Who could not adore girls this cute? I may be biased, but I am pretty sure I have some of the most beautiful girls on earth.

And every once in a great while, when they are all getting along, and having a great time, I remember why I had kids. They have to be the greatest blessing God can give.

(Note: Know that I know that the girls' swimsuits are about two sizes too small, but their properly sized swimsuits were still in a pile on the washroom floor from the day before. So I apologize for any improperly covered body parts. But hey--they are little girls--they run around underwear most of the time! So at least they have swimsuits on!)

The Good, the Bad, and the Really Wet...

My girls love to play outside. Rain or shine, snow or even sleet, they play outside. Sending them outside is good for at least an hour. An hour of quiet for me to catch up on chores, talk on the phone, grade papers, etc.

My girls play like boys do. They wear out their friends, family members, shoes, and the knees of their pants. They get dirty, wet, muddy, and my personal favorite, hairy. They bring me flowers, pretty rocks, long blades of grass, and my personal favorite, bugs--lots and lots of bugs.

But sometimes the quiet becomes scary. When my girls are quiet, it generally means that they are up to no good. Like drawing on the siding with chalk, or tying the dog to the wagon, or sweeping the barn and completely covering themselves in filth, or rearranging Daddy's tackroom, or climbing up the ladder on the bulk tank, etc, etc, etc.

On this particular day, they were playing quietly and peacefully together, so I went inside to put some dishes in the dishwasher. (Note--I can see them--most of the time--through the kitchen window--and I leave the door open so I can hear screaming...) But then, the quiet became too quiet. And as I turned off the water in the kitchen sink, I realized that the outdoor water faucet was running. And much to my dismay, this is what I saw...

Rhian, the instigator. She always has the idea--and then lets the younger girls take the blame... She didn't get wet...

So what do I do, rather than get on to them for playing in the water fully clothed--I laugh and run to get my camera...



Such laughter, such joy--who could be mad at that?

After watching the big girls drinking from the hose, Baby Jack decided that she could too. Of course, since she is big too, ya know...

Trying, trying, trying, getting wetter, and wetter, in the eyes, in the nose...

Ah! Got it!

Getting some help from Sister Liz...

Its when they started licking water from the sidewalk that I made them stop...

Ah, summer afternoons with nothing to do but get wet in the waterhose (and drip water throughout the house and leave muddy footprints...)