If the frequency of blog posts are any type of reflection of the current state of our roost, then my absence on this space the past month would reflect the storm of chaos we’ve been in the eye of lately.


As harvest inched closer, Angus’s blood sugar inched higher. I had a gut feeling he was coming down with something, but I prayed that the Health Gods wouldn’t pile that on our plate right before Judd started cutting. Last week, I came home (from a late night visit with a girlfriend) to a little boy burning up– his skin was on fire! Judd and I went into panic mode– his temperature was 103 and he started screaming out in pain that his tummy hurt. A quick urine test and we were now dealing with a very sick boy with very large ketones. This is the Danger Zone for diabetics.

For the next two days, we were in constant contact with our team at Children’s. We were doubling insulin in attempt to flush out ketones. We were chasing highs– blood sugar and stubborn temperatures. We were even threatened with being admitted. But, we survived. Judd and I are deep enough into this diagnosis that we felt solid in our knowledge of this disease– which in turn, influenced our highly reactive and effective sick-day management.

After Angus was diagnosed, we were handed a binder that read “Sick Day Management.” I was overwhelmed and intimidated that the knowledge we had developed in the past four years– of parenting through snotty noses and puke bowls– did not apply. Diabetes changed everything. I don’t think people quite understand how dangerous a virus can be for someone with Type 1. Because Type 1 is an autoimmune disease, any outside bug that attacks his immune system has the potential to turn life-threatening– just like that.


Consequently, this little virus bumped Angus out of his honeymoon completely. Before, he was able to snack on any foods with 5 grams of carbs or less– not anymore. He is higher than a kite. The amount of insulin is not working. Things are changing and the amount of insulin he requires has almost doubled in the matter of a week.

Beef Creek Jones is feeling back to his high-energy self, just in time for harvest.

So, here we are. This is harvest: We say goodbye to daddy around 6 AM and don’t see him again until almost 9 PM. It’s a long day; a long day for everyone. Because parenting after 6 PM seems to be my Achilles heel, I am eating my fair share of humble pie right now. I’m being practical this year, and because of this, I’m gentler with myself. Screen time seems to increase, the line the I draw in the sand slowly retracts, and structure gets pushed to the back burner. But, this is how I can handle days like this without losing my shit.

Hats off to all the single mamas out there– this job is tough!


To combat the witching hour, we’ve been meeting daddy in the fields. We exchange dinner for a ride in the combine; his buddy makes fun of my footwear choice (Keens in the stubble wasn’t the smartest choice),  and Otto baby gets snatched from my arms by a baby-loving grandpa who adorns flannel and greased-stained hands.


These times are to be romanticized. They are worthy.


Let’s not forget the sanctity of the 30th of every month.


Half a year old. Already. How can that be? I’m beating a dead horse with these overly sentimental posts, but I can’t help myself.

Otto Currently:

Blowing raspberries, clicking his tongue, and whining MA MA MA MA when he gets hungry.

Nursing has become our time to flirt endlessly with each other. He reaches up for my face; I kiss-attack those fat little fingers; he rhythmically pats my collar bone. It takes him 30 minutes to do a 10 minute job, because every time we lock eyes, that tight little latch erupts into a heart-melting smile.

We introduced solids. We peel whole peaches and apples, then let him gnaw on them while we eat our meals. We tried a little mashed up avocado. No good. The green goods really clogged him up. We will try again later.


We’ve entered the early stages of crawling. He rocks back and forth on his knees, only to drop down to his tummy and drag himself to toys.

To top it all off, he magically fit into a 9 month onesie this morning. My silent sobbing just became obnoxiously loud.


Were you worried the middle child would be forgotten in this post? Let me put you at ease.



Now that I’ve purged a month’s worth of mental notes– Happy harvest to all the hard working families out there!




We celebrated our girl this weekend. Three years old in the blink of an eye.


This year, we are approaching birthdays a little different than years past. Less party; more celebration. I’ve slowly felt myself surface from the suckhole that is the Pinterest Standard. Judging parties, vacations, announcements, etc. by the worthiness of a Pin is ludicrous. And vain. And in a way, feels like an exploitation of a sacred moment. I continue to discover that the more I loosen my grip on control/planning/organization, the happier my entire family is. Like I said, I’m surfacing. I feel myself becoming a better mother because of it.

So, instead of bunting strung throughout trees and color-coordinated décor, we let Isla decide how she wanted to spend her day. The morning was spent at Waterville Days, in bounce houses and twirling dresses to live music. Followed by a dip in the town’s outdoor pool and a BBQ with close friends and family.

We did maintain certain traditions:

Our kiddos wake up to balloon-filled rooms on their special day. Isla rightfully screamed, “The balloon fairy came! For my birthday!”

Birthday kiddo gets a breakfast date with daddy in town. Judd is swamped this time of year, so this special time away with just him holds more weight than other times of year.

Birthday mornings are a bit like Christmas. We don’t wait for a party to open presents. We dive right into wrapping paper with bed-head and morning breath.

Food is not consumed without a candle lit and the birthday song sung: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. They all warrant celebration. Why should cake have all the fun?



I fall in love again and again with these kids as I witness them find their person. Isla Rose, in particular, exploded her way into girlhood this year. She likes pink, dresses, and accessories soaked in glitter as equally as she likes superheroes, rough housing, and roping cattle. She has an air of confidence about her that has me feeling both proud and reassured– I know she’ll be okay.

She is the funniest small human I’ve yet to meet. Her humor paired with execution is a debilitating force. She huffs and puffs and grunts and groans as she collects eggs every morning. Her sure-footed feet stomp their way past pecking hens and chicken poop. She physically removes our broody hen from atop her eggs, only to discover one.

“When the chickens be bad and don’t lay no eggs, I gonna cut them.”

She stomps back inside with a pout of the lip and asks to have chicken for dinner.

The parts of her that seem rough and crass are complimented with the most tender of hearts. An impromptu pool date, just her and I, ended with her little arms wrapped around my neck, bobbing in the deep end and smiling ear to ear.

“Today’s my favorite day, mama. We’re best friends, right?”


Sister, you are loved. Fiercely. I can’t believe you’re mine.

Happy birthday, Cowgirl Rose.



Friends, I’ve been feeling the pull lately. The same pull that has me deactivating Facebook on a whim and deleting apps off my phone. The pull away from social media and the push to fully emerge in the present. A good ol’ detox.

Angus and I went into town for a lunch date. A bit of shopping, nibbling, and perusing the coveted toy aisle. There I was, scrolling through my phone while he was enthusiastically describing how Bruce Banner’s transforms into the Hulk. “Uh huh…” I kept scrolling.

“Mama, look at me. Are you listening?”

I instantly dropped my phone into my purse and locked eyes with my boy. Validation, that’s all he wanted– and I was busy giving it to someone on Instagram. Gross… I’m pulling back on the reins a bit. Join me?

My absence here has meant presence elsewhere, so forgive me as I attempt to catch up.


I turned a year older. I’m officially in the last year of my twenties. I spent this non eventful day attending an insulin pump class at Children’s hospital. Followed up with  dimsum in the International District and a bottle of wine that cost more than our phone bill. I savored that bottle of wine snuggled under evergreens, while recapping the past few years aloud with Judd.

Three kids in four years. I’ve reluctantly traded my title of Lady Fishery for Doctor Mom. Doctor Mom is a world renowned blanket fort engineer, who herds chickens and children, and occasionally gets paid to write. Not necessarily what I thought almost-thirty would look like, but I’m drunk off this life none the less. Happiness is a reflection a content heart. That is how I’m entering my 29th year.


Otto baby also aged one month– with a handful of months now behind him.


Something new: we’ve been laying him down at night. No rock to sleep, nurse to sleep, etc. It’s wonderful. We’ve reclaimed adult time: 9 PM to 11 PM. No children allowed– mama’s off the clock.

He’s rolling and scooting like crazy. He’s even sitting up– only to have the kids yell “timber” as they see him start to tilt. He’s grabbing for things and bringing them to his mouth, making it hard to eat or drink while holding him. I let him gnaw on a roasted carrot the other night– he was ravenous! Tears ensued when I pulled it away. Sorry, Red!

He still hates the car, but he’s repressing his discontentment for the most part. Angus sits behind him in the car and has been successfully distracting him from the ride itself by making obnoxious noises and playing peekaboo. Hey, what ever works!

Also, he had the shortest bout of Stranger Danger known to mankind.

He’s just a peach. Oh, how I love him.


Wishing everyone happiness this July. Here’s to hands pulling weeds, hands cradling babies, hands wiping tears and tickling tummies– hands NOT tapping at our smart phones. An excellent read for all those on social media: 5 Questions to Ask Before Posting To Social Media (thanks, Val!)






When I’m busy wishing the day away. When I’m holding my breath for synced naps or counting down the hours until Judd gets home. When I feel so lost in the chaos that I lose the sanctity of the present.

Please, let me remember…


Red light-up cowgirl boots that stomp clouds of dust from the ground as they chase ducks around the yard. Guttural belly laughs that answer each other like echoes between my two eldest. And the silhouette of Batman perched in our tree.


Helpers that push stools up to the kitchen counter. Clumsily stirring while sauce splatters on cabinet doors. The beam of pride in their faces when they replay the preparation, “We made this! We helped!”

Five bodies crowded around the dinner table. Balancing baby at breast and fork in hand. Little fingers that reach up to my lips while nursing. How the lock of eyes will send the tightest latch loose with smiles. Don’t you dare forget this, Maggie. Food in our bellies and food on the floor. Together, around the table.


Superheroes battling villains. Capes and masks and shrieks and shrills. Bare feet slapping hardwood while the walls of this little home shake. Fits of laughter when daddy jumps from the closet. Oh, please heart, remember all of it.

Don’t let me forget the intimacy found in hand washing dishes alongside my husband. Hands submerged in soapy water; the others sweeping dry my grandmother’s milk glass and chipped plates. We exchange looks of love and replay events from our day. We wear the scent of Ivory soap like perfume and the steamy window filters the moonlight.

Let these moments carve themselves into the old oak tree behind our house. Permanently cut into the bark of the tree; still allowing roots to grow deeper and limbs to reach higher. The tree still thrives while wearing the sentiment of the past.

Please, just let me remember.




Last year’s ode to my favorite face of fatherhood.


This morning, sunlight poured into our bedroom window and I was woken far earlier than I would’ve wished. It’s okay, though. I have a love affair with the first few moments of morning: the songbird alarm clock, the rising sun that bursts through the east facing trees, our hens scratching and clucking outside our widely opened window.

Spring has been put to bed. The wind has settled and the temperatures have climbed. It’s become quite obvious that Mother Nature does not adhere to dates on a calendar, for summer has arrived on the Plateau. And with this change of seasons, we have emerged as outdoor enthusiasts.

Sunshine chasers | Water worshipers | Routine breakers


It’s nice to run away from home everyday. We escape the broken dyer and soggy clothes, the dishes piled in the sink from the previous night’s supper, and the toilet that has been clogged for the third time this week (reminder: no more cheese for Isla).

I cram a day’s worth of adventure into the confines of 8 AM- 1 PM. Currently, naps are my half time. A much needed half time. The quarterback needs to rest.


I listen to the hum of little bodies sleeping soundly while I sprawl out on my grandmother’s afghan and begin to write. Scattered thoughts. Ideas. Feelings of goodness, but also hurt. I delete a lot. But, the point is, I write. It’s the desire to maintain transparency and authenticity. It’s the need to vent feelings of frustration. I hold myself to a strict standard of authentic living, only to find that my own authenticity can easily be reproduced. Flattered, they tell me I should be.

With the change of seasons, there is a change inside of me.

The pendulum is swinging. Seeds push their way through the soil as I push my way through the dirt.

Growth and acceptance.

Nap time ends when I hear little feet padding down the hallway. I close my laptop and rise to me feet.


“Let’s go outside. Your cheeks need more pink to them.”

Out of the dirt and into the sunshine.


Another morning captured on Mamalode this week. Click here to read more.