Why My Kids Would Not Make Good Country Folk

Even though I make fun, my kids are not exactly hillbillies.  They are not exactly city slickers either. 

They are suburban kids. 

Suburbanites. 

They ride in a minivan with lots of election "I voted" and Scooby Doo stickers permanently adhered to the windows. 

Our neighbors are a driveway away and they run over to their house barefoot, sometimes in the snow. 

They play outside, but inside the fence, and are convinced that werewolves live in the woods behind our house.

When I signed up to work at a farm this summer, I wasn't sure how they would react.  Or, how they would fit in.  Let's take a little peak inside that adventure, shall we?

While I'm planting kale, lettuce and broccoli, Middle Child and The Third Grader tromp off to play in the woods with their friends.  Baby Girl stays with me and plays in the dirt.  All is well. 

Until we hear screaming.

Now, let me first say that my friend that was with us had a discussion with her kids about "What not to do on the farm."  Item #1 was:

Do not scream "Help" because that's like screaming "Help" when you are swimming or in a boat.  You don't yell "Help" unless you are stuck in farm equipment or being eaten by a wild animal.

Of course, they started yelling "Help!" 

No one was stuck in farm equipment or being eaten by a wild animal.

They were looking for orcs and thought they found one.  They hadn't. 

A few minutes later The Third Grader comes running out of the woods screaming that he is bleeding.  He had a scratch.

I'm bleeding!!  But, don't worry.  I found this leaf and I've been using it to wipe the blood off my leg. 

Luckily, it was not a poison ivy leaf.  Maybe he did actually learn something in Cub Scouts.  Then he asked me how he should dispose of the leaf.  We were standing in the middle of a field.  At least he is aware of littering.

They had fun.  They yelled and screamed and didn't have to worry about neighbors.  They ran.

We got home and got ready for showers.  Middle Child took off his shirt and right in the middle of his chest, I saw...

a tick.

I was also a suburban kid, but I used to camp...a lot.  We camped in a trailer at least once a month.  Sometimes two weekends a month...March through November.  We got dirty.  We swam in lakes. We took baths in lakes.  We played hide and seek in the dark without a flashlight in the park playgrounds.  We boated all day without life jackets.  We carried jugs of water from the spigot several campsites away back to our trailer (this makes me realize what wimps my kids are.  They can hardly get a bottle of water by themselves).  I remember my hands feeling like they were going to fall off.  We checked for ticks.  We found them.  We burned them with the end of a match and threw them in the toilet.  I knew when I was eight years old to wear my hair in a ponytail to lessen the chance of getting ticks.  Ticks do not send me into a panic. 

I guess I should not have assumed that my kids would feel the same way.

I saw the tick and yelled for all the kids to come in the bathroom. 

This is a tick.  It is a bug that sucks your blood.  You have to check for ticks after you spend time in the woods or in tall grass.  We always have to check for ticks when we get home from the farm.

That sent Middle Child straight into hysterics.

Waaaaa!  I never want to go outside again!  Waaaaaaa!

Nice job, Mom. 

What does it do?  Does is suck all my blood?  Waaaaa!  So gross!!!!!

I picked off the tick with a paper towel, cut it in half with a barrette and flushed it down the toilet. 

They all looked at me like I had just bit the head off a live chicken.  It was a mix of disgust and awe. 

I decided it was best not to tell them the tick hadn't been on there long because he only had a little bit of blood in him.

I'll just keep that to myself. 

It's going to be a long summer on the farm...