Lie #1: Google Maps

Google Maps is a pack of lies. Caleb placates me by telling me how important I am, that I’m his invaluable eyes up here while he’s down south combining. He wanted pictures of our hay crop, so the kids and I packed a picnic and drove up to Molt to check out the barley and peas. I had romantic notions of a beautiful farm picnic in the meadow by the field, shaded perfectly by a grain bin. Pinterest and Dr. Laura were gonna be so proud of me for enjoying creative quality time with my children. Instead, we all got viciously nibbled by mosquitos and the grass we sat in was so tall it kept tickling the spot on the back of my neck that makes me cranky. When Caleb touches me there I involuntarily punch him in the earlobe. Miriam dumped a bottle of water on the picnic blanket and the dog licked my salami. That’s not a euphemism. Our picnic successfully derailed, we set off to snap photos of our bourgeoning acres. The last time we attempted this a couple weeks prior, I forgot to get fuel and my phone memory was full so we almost got stranded and couldn’t take pictures anyway. But this time, I was prepared—phone memory wiped clean, brimming fuel tank, and I even brought an item to set next to the barley to show Caleb scale for comparison purposes(Ruthanne’s cowgirl boot). So, I ate a stray piece of muffin to ward off the hangries and shot some stellar photos of the field I had land-rolled myself. The kids and I packed up the absurd circus that falls out of the pickup every time I open the door—carseat, strung-out dog, wet blanket, 12 besmirched diapers, my three offspring, half-eaten snacks, adorable picnic basket (a.k.a. plastic Wal-Mart bag), 27 mismatched toddler shoes, stuffed cow, Shaun the Sheep, pocket knife (with corkscrew), Italian dictionary, digital timer, six tampons, four non-functioning phone chargers, various “pwetty” rocks collected by Miriam, and the old Pringles can in which I carry my sanity.

Ruthanne asked me where we were going. First, I said, “Hell.” I couldn’t stop myself. It just came out of my mouth. Then, I said, “Daddy wants us to take pictures of the other fields.”

Ruthanne: “Where are the other fields, Mom?”

Me: “Ummmmm…..I don’t know.” I have come to accept this about myself, that I am the kind of person who gets lost on her own farm. I had no idea where the fields were. To be fair, we’d just recently acquired this lease and I’d only actually been to half of the fields myself. So I drove to the tippy top tip of the highest mound of grass to stand on my tippy-toes to pray to God to transmit my text message to Caleb requesting GPS assistance. He sent me back a pin on Google maps directing me to our hay field. When Siri announced that we had indeed arrived at our destination, we were parked next to a barn and a field that had already been mowed down. Unless some kind neighbor had gotten confused and cut our field instead of his, this was not my intended destination. Siri, you are a fickle vixen. Sometimes you manage to rescue me from what would have been a desperate disaster in pre-iphone times; but other days you gently place me in a precarious pickle like this one. Nevertheless, after a few prayerfully extended text messages and Ruthanne’s expert sense of direction, we managed to find all of our fields and dutifully report their conditions to our farmer-in-chief. (Siri, you may kindly go blow it out your speakers.)

Lie #2: “Mouse” Traps:

Before Caleb left, he set up three peanut-butter-laden mouse traps in the garage. In the first week he was gone I managed to dispose of one successful snare (I found out later that a person is supposed to deep-six only the mouse, not the whole trap. Unfortunately, page 6 of my manifesto demands that any body part grazed by a rodent must be immediately amputated, shaved, tarred, feathered, and burned in the nearest kiln. Therefore, I have no choice but to simply forfeit the thirty cents needed for new traps when the occasion calls for it.).

The two remaining traps sat idle for weeks, until one horrid morning last week. I checked them in passing as we were leaving for the gym; or, rather, I checked where they used to be. One of the traps was sprung, laying mournfully on its side, a bouquet of red feathers fanned out from under the clamp. The peanut butter was gone, and milky splats of bird turds covered the garage floor like little white flags of surrender. Birds are unquestionably more loathsome than mice. They have the same spiteful beady eyes and twitchy forms, but birds fly, which makes their span of terror even larger. Birds sport a high-flying, hifalutin attitude, literally looking down their beaks at us as they help themselves to our hard-earned cucumbers and tomatoes. At least mice know their place; they scurry, knowing they have absolutely no right to be pilfering the dog food. Every time I see a mouse or a bird (especially a bird), my eyes bug out and my throat feels like Chuck Norris chopped my windpipe. I always gasp and groan like a retarded refrigerator on its last legs, and then I scream a little. My dad loves birds, so I’m not sure how this happened. Actually, I know exactly how this happened. See The Mollinator. Or, for more on mice, see No REAL Animals Were Harmed in the Making of this Episode and True Love and Vermin.

As for the third trap, it seems to be horrifyingly missing. I am now avoiding the garage altogether, fearing a fatal encounter with a naked zombie bird-mouse. Better safe than sorry. I mean, who would feed my children if I had my face pecked off? (Side note: Dear Audubon Society, please stop sending me flyers. Ugh, no pun intended. Just stop sending me mail. My children will not be attending your summer camp.)

Lie #3: “Shaun did it.”

Ruthanne loves Shaun the Sheep. She can’t wait until she is old enough to have sheep for 4-H. She asks me every day for a flock of sheep, all of whom already have names. Personally, I think this is a great idea, as my lawn is now thigh-high and climbing. Every time I walk through it to turn on my garden sprinkler, I have to do an obscene little African rain dance to ward off ticks (if it actually rains, this is a bonus as I can avoid the sprinkler and its surrounding jungle altogether). I have to be careful where I perform said dance, however, because the neighbors say it traumatizes their children and they’ve threatened to press charges. Anyway, Caleb doesn’t think sheep are a suitable venture. He rolls his eyes and says that Jesus gathers them to heaven like the dollar theater collects head lice. In other words, they aren’t the hardiest of creatures. Regardless, Ruthanne is Little Bo Peep reincarnated; the heart wants what the heart wants, I guess. So last Christmas, Grandma came up with a compromise and bought Ruthie a stuffed Shaun-the-Sheep. Thank heavens for the internet and free shipping. Shaun accompanies our little shepherdess everywhere, snugly tucked under her arm. I know, I know, adorable, right? Wrong. Shaun has become the convenient little proxy for all Ruthie’s mischievous musings. When I awake to shreds of what had formerly been known as Dr. Seuss on the floor, guess what? “Shaun did it, Mommy. Don’t worry, I’ll put him in time out.” When I get out of the shower and step on little squirts of strawberry applesauce all over the carpet (and in the electrical sockets), guess what? “Shaun really did it now, Mom, he pooped all over the carpet! I think I’ll put him in time out again.” So, I’m not sure if Shaun is exhibiting normal sheep behavior or if he’s acting out because Little Bo Peep is having some intense feelings about her dad being gone. If anyone out there has experience with sheep like this (or knows how to get sheep sh*& out of the carpet) please contact me at 1-800-SHEARMADNESS.

Lie #4: “I should be home by Sunday.” –Caleb

Well, obviously, I didn’t actually believe this one. I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last I try never to give a name to the undetermined day of Caleb’s arrival somewhere in the vague future. If I do, that day inevitably passes and snaps my resolve like a dry twig. If I leave it a mystery in my mind, never setting hope on that rickety shelf, his homecoming is always a happy accident. As my dear brother says, “The benefit to being a pessimist is that one is always pleasantly surprised!”

By now, all Caleb’s coffee cups have migrated to the back of the cupboard. The romance of a man gone, pioneering, working hard for his family is fading away. The gangrenous nature of blame tickles my mind, threatening to feed the bitterness and gobble up what remains of my resolute spirit. I can’t put my finger on exactly why his absence is so difficult. Caleb works a lot anyway, whether he’s here or not (that’s NOT a complaint–I’m extremely proud of and grateful for my hard-working man). I’m used to handling a lot here at home by myself—my work load doesn’t really increase too much when he’s gone—so that must not be the reason this is so hard. I’m not really lonely, either—I show up day after sweaty day at the gym and attempt the latest sadistic calisthenics with my much-more-put-together comrades (they are gracious patrons of the well-intentioned but disastrous Molly Jacobson Show), so I get plenty of social exercise. Our poor trainer is exasperated with the amount of jaw work we can squeeze into a workout. So that’s not it either. Therefore, if it’s not hard because I miss using Caleb for manual labor and I’m not lacking social interaction, I must just miss Caleb for Caleb. What a novel idea. Some very twisted part of me is simply irritated that I can’t just superficially replace Caleb when he’s gone with a patchwork version of the needs he fills for me. If I have my dear old dad around to mow my lawn, my brother-in-law to move my washing machine, and my girlfriends to keep me company, that should about do it, shouldn’t it? A+B+C+wine=Caleb, right? Oh, bugger, I just can’t make this math work. Must be the wine. What if I subtract the wine? Nope, nooooo, that makes it much worse. Never remove the wine. Well, Caleb, congratulations, my darling. It appears that you (and Beyonce) are irreplaceable. I can’t wait to see you, whenever that is, but please don’t tell me a specific day or I’ll have to break your kneecaps. Love Always, Your Devoted Wife

*MollysDirtInTheSkirt*