Several months after Leslie died, her farm was sold. We didn’t know the people who bought it, but through the rumor mill we learned it was a husband-wife team, both veterinarians (one large-animal and the other small-animal). And then one of my older daughter’s former co-workers called. She’d been hired to manage the farm and would my daughter like to help the new owners clean out the barns?

“Go, go, go!” we said. “Introduce yourself! Get a job!”

And so she did. Now she works there regularly, dividing up the schedule with the farm manager for the twice-daily chore-time responsibilities. (Which just so happens to fall during the two worst-possible times of day: the early morning scramble and the supper-hour crunch, gah.)

The farm is still not in full working mode. The owners haven’t made the final move to the area, so the stalls are mostly empty. Still, a couple horses (belonging to some university students) are boarding, and when the farm owners come to work, they bring their horses, too. The owners have big dreams for the farm, and eventually it’s going to be a happening place. To see the farm being cared for once again—and our daughter doing the work she loves—is gratifying.

And soon our girl will have her license and I will no longer have to shuttle her to and from the farm, glory be.

This same time, years previous: a dell-ish ordeal, the quotidian (10.20.14), the reading week, a pie party!, how to have a donut party, part two, and rhubarb cake.

Last week, the Pennsylvania baby cousins spent the entire week at my parents’ place. To give my parents a break, and to allow for my kids to have some extended bonding time with their seldom-seen cuzzes, the babies spent all of Tuesday at our place.

Because the babies are semi-terrified of the great outdoors, one of our goals was to make them spend as much time outside as possible. I kept ordering the kids out, out, out, but the babies squalled whenever they were approached by anything that wagged or purred. My kids ended up lugging them around the whole time.

“Can’t we just come inside, Mom?” my younger daughter sighed. “They hate it out there.”

So I’d relent… for a little. And then I’d shoo them out all over again.

I didn’t really expect anything to change. The kids have been consistent in their dislike of furry things since forever, and we weren’t exactly cajoling them into petting and playing with the animals. The animals were just… there.

But then, late afternoon, the babies pulled a one-eighty. They were all out on the deck—kids and animals—when, suddenly, the babies grew bold. They petted the dogs, shook paws, hauled the cats around, and got down on all fours to scoot under the dogs á la London Bridges.

What a hoot.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (10.19.15), autumn walk, how to have a donut party, part one, and pumpkin sausage cream sauce.

How much hair falls out of your head when you wash it?

I was discussing this with some people recently and was interested to learn that what I perceived to be a normal amount was considered excessive by others.

This is what I typically gather during my every-other-day hair wash. (After giving birth, the hair loss was 3 or 4 times this amount and seemed to go on forever.)

My younger daughter sheds hair at an alarming rate. I’m constantly picking her hair from her clothes, and when I braid it, I usually collect a whole bouquet of baby-fine blonde hairs that I feed directly to the vacuum nozzle so they won’t waft about the house, haunting me at every turn. On the other hand, my older daughter’s hair sticks firmly to her head.

So, after giving the issue almost zero thought, I’ve come to the brilliant conclusion that some people shed hair and others don’t. (Give me a medal, please.) Which are you?

This same time, years previous: rich, would you come?, Italian cream cake, stats and notes, 2008, and deprivation.