Lately we’ve been spending a lot of time at our barn. We have had a huge herd turnover after years of no changes. We sold two horses and bought three. The only remaining long-timer is my old gelding, Payday, who will live out his days with us.
We’ve had emergencies involving the vet and stitches, riding lessons, natural horsemanship coaching, the farrier appointment and the daily norms of stall cleaning, bucket rinsing, feeding, haying, grooming and it has been raining almost non-stop.
Today I almost had a melt down at the barn. The kind of meltdown that little kids have in the floor at WalMart when mom won’t buy them the Jumbo Sized bag of Starburst. Exactly. Not a sensible melt down over something hugely traumatic but a fit pitched out of petulance and exhaustion.
You see, I’m tired of mud. Tired of manure. Tired of hair and hay and oats and I’m tired the wheelbarrow. I. Am. Tired. of. Jeans. I actually stuck it out long enough to ask Martina if she wanted to ride and when she said, ‘Yes!” I said, “Later, I’ve got to go inside for a while.” She got it when I explained how tired I am of being over there with mud in my Crocs and on my pants. She’s tired of it, too, I think.
So we came home. I washed up and put on a sun dress. She washed up and put on pajamas. Now we are sitting at our laptops in the air conditioning, reading, social networking, checking emails and smelling not one whiff of road apples. We needed to get out of the role of barn help and into the role of mom and kid, woman and big girl.
It feels good. Putting my feet up for a little while? Bonus.