Harvest is done and now comes everything that has to be done
before winter sets in. Mike baled
cornstalks until 10:30 last night. Now
we have to bring the bales home.
Hauling bales with a pick-up and two rail trailers really isn't a tough job. However, in some situations it can be treacherous. These
possibilities of danger are amplified when performing job responsibilities with
a two-year old in the backseat.
{She did her own hair. "No, me do it!"}
Let me preface today’s story by letting everyone know that
#5 has been diligently trying to master the art of putting on her own
mittens. Now you’re up to speed for the
rest of the story.
This is the first year we’ve farmed this particular piece of
ground. Therefore, the first time I’ve
hauled bales from there to the feedlot.
When Mike asked if I could help, I said “sure”! (maybe not that
willingly, but it looks good on paper)
Then I drove over there. I forgot
about “the big hill.” It’s tough enough
to pull 12 BIG bales of stalks up the hill, but having them push you DOWN the
hill is another story. I'm totally being a girl here.
Before the journey even begins, I can play in my mind the
exact happenings if something went terribly wrong on my way back to the feedlot
from the field: a cornstalk bale carnage, if you will. Bales everywhere, me afraid to call the
farmer, rail trailers bent all to hell, two-year old screaming, myself crying,
farmer shows up, MORE crying … Get the
picture?
This grade may not look like a big deal to some of you; but
to a forty-something flatlander farmwife it’s as intimidating as the giant
slalom is to a twenty-something mountain-raised Olympic skier. Seriously.
Clearly, I’m nice and relaxed when I get to the field. I did have a little down time before the
farmer and his pay loader showed up. I
perused the latest issue of Vintage Victorian (or something like that)
to calm my nerves.
We’re loaded. Good to
go. Time to scoot.
I tootle along
through the first two miles singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and approach the
crest of THE BIG HILL with caution. I brake
steadily and wind down to a nice kinda Dodge Ram kinda crawl.
As we begin our descent to the valley below, number 5 says,
“Fum in der.” Let me translate: “Thumb in there!” She’s found some mittens and was able to get her
thumb in the right spot all by herself.
She’s proud and I wasn’t listening.
She knew I wasn’t listening…
“Fum In
Der!”
“Okay, sweetheart.”
“FUM IN
DER!”
“I know, I see.”
(I
really didn’t – my eyes were fixed on my course.)
“FUM IN
DER!!!!!!!”
…no response from me…still trying to drive and stay married.
Due to my lack of attention, she starts screaming. I’m almost crying. I do my best to ignore her.
I reach the bottom;
the sweet, sweet bottom of the hill.
She picks up her pretend “Cars” phone. Sobbing,, quietly, deep breaths, (you can picture it) she
says, “Daddy, come git me.”
I couldn’t have been happier that Daddy didn’t have to “come
git us”.
Navy Seals should train with a two-year old in their
backpack.
Becky
