June and I take our first solo road trip together: Four hours together in the car to visit the inlaws in Baltimore. Can a two-month old handle such a long drive without having at least three major meltdowns along the way? Can her mother? Will I get to stop at Bojangles?

This will also be my first attempt at packing for another human being. Geez, babies require a lot of gear! Diapers, wipes, baby powder, the Bjorn, the stroller, at least seven changes of clothes (we’re only gone for three nights), bottles, distilled water, formula, the pacifer, a little stuffed giraffe thingie.  I’m also hauling 10 bagged and frozen chickens for various “poultry clients” up north.  Knowing me, I’ll be on the Beltway before I realize I forgot to pack the actual baby.

In my absence, Jake has been instructed to take care of our 55 chickens. Honey, don’t kill the birds!

Happy Labor Day, everyone. Check back in Monday!

When I pulled into Grandma Nanny’s driveway I was instantly put at ease. The house was a classic Virginia farmhouse — slightly worn but homey with no broken down trucks littering the yard.  I couldn’t see any turkey fryers anywhere.  There were no adult sons out on bail loitering on the front porch. A nearby greenhouse was full of tomato plants. A permanent fruit stand stood just off their driveway, which I found out later was manned by the nanny’s husband a couple of times per week. I could just make out an airy, well-made chicken coop in the backyard where a bunch of chickens clucked.

Grandma Nanny opened the door to greet us before June and I even got out of the car. She had distinct “grandma energy” about her: warm, loving but firm.  And she had stylish white hair and glasses.  She invited me in. Her house was decorated as I’d hoped: homey, tidy and featured stuff like flouncy country curtains and lots of interesting knick knacks. A bowl of brown eggs sat on the counter.  Her husband, a wiry farmer wearing a worn baseball cap, sat in the dining alcove reading the paper. He was all smiles too.

We sat down in the living room and talked.  Whenever one of the five children she was minding that day would come in and interrupt, she’d politely shoo them away and tell them to hang out in the playroom, a converted bedroom covered in toys. One of the little girls responded, “Okay, Me-maw” and went away. The subtext was clear: Grandma Nanny was in charge. And the kids get to call her “Me-maw.”

When she asked to hold June, June immediately conked out on her shoulder. See, even infants can sense grandma energy.

I asked her a few questions about playtime, nap schedules and feedings, and also her thoughts on discipline (time outs).  And whether, when the time comes, June will be expected to call her “Me-maw.”  When I asked her favorite age of child to mind, she glanced down at sleeping June and replied, “These littler fellers.”

What can I say? She had me at “these little fellers.”

I feel good about Grandma Nanny. Or am I projecting?  I want June to be in good hands — the best hands, so maybe I’m making Grandma Nanny out to be someone she’s not. Maybe as soon as I leave, she’ll lock the kids in the bedroom, toss June in a drawer and turn on Supermarket Sweep. But she comes with good references so…..how bad can she be? And is that the worst question a parent can ask about a potential caregiver?

I’m placing my bets.  I’m going to give her a try.  Starting next week.

Gulp.

So I’ve been making some calls trying to find halfway decent childcare around here. Some friends recommended their babysitter — an older woman who watches 4-5 kids at her home. I provide the bottles, diapers, wipes, etc, and she provides, as she said, “the love and kisses.”

I asked her how much she charges.  Her response:  $15 a day.

Not $15 an hour. $15 A DAY.

Furthermore, this price is the same whether you drop off your child for “two hours or eight hours.”

I mentioned this to my friend Maria, who asked, “What does $15 get you? A drawer? Will June end up in a drawer all day?”

And yet my friends who keep their kids with this woman have nothing but nice things to say about her. Maybe she charges so little because she’s a longtime country gal who doesn’t know the true value of her services and hasn’t kept up with inflation/taxes/eating food besides squirrels  or June really will spend her day in a drawer in a back bedroom.

The woman invited me over tomorrow afternoon to suss her out. I can’t lie: I’m intrigued. And a little bit scared. Stay tuned.

If there’s an image that captures the essence of motherhood as I experience it, it’s this: A glass of wine topped with saran wrap.

I don’t know about other new moms, but I look forward to a glass of wine all day.  But by the time I’m able to sit down and actually drink it, I’m so tired from the day that I can barely finish it.  So into the fridge it goes, lovingly preserved for later tippling.

And for my next trick:  Prime rib at Sizzlers.

After our success selling our last batch of broilers (40 birds in two days!), we decided to order a bunch more. This batch is all female, so they’ll weigh slightly less at slaughter, which will bring the price dowm.

We’ll fatten them up for 8 weeks, and slaughter them sometime around the end of October.  Stay tuned!

Planting potatoes is a fairly straightforward business. A potato is cut into sections, each section must bear an eye, or sprout.  Only non hybrid spuds can be used (in other words, planting potatoes from the grocery store won’t work). Plant the spud in the dirt, sprout side up–or is it down? Does it matter?   And prepare for a season of purple mashed potatoes.

Unfortunately, between the pregnancy, delivery and the lockdown that is mommyhood, Peasant Garden 2010 turned into an unruly mass of weeds devoid of anything resembling care.

But we’re not a couple of yokels that lets work go to waste. Oh no!  A few days ago, Jake and  I tore up the weeds and tilled the parched soil, on the hunt for our precious spuds.  And we found a motherload.

These will go in our root cellar.

The only problem with digging up purple spuds in a woefully neglected garden?  The potatoes tended to be smaller than the cut segments we planted!!!

So we’re calling these miniature purple potatoes.  Does their puny size justify the planting?  At first, I thought not.  But after tossing them with olive oil, salt and pepper and roasting them at 400 degrees, I am inclined to say MMMMmmmm.

I never thought I’d be one of these annoying people, but I find myself barfing the joys of mommyhood all over my friend Anna, who’s visiting from New York and is so far happily without a whimpering spawn. And the funny thing? I’m still not even sure what the “joys of mommyhood” are or when they’re supposed to hit. I keep evangelizing not so much because I think parenthood will make Anna and her husband Paul transcend to a higher plane of existence, but because I want someone — a whole village, really — to be in the baby trenches with me.  I want Anna to know what it’s like to be shackled to an infant at 3:30 in the morning. I want her to feel the agony of a diaper blow out all over her leg.  I want her to know that as a mom, you’re the last line of defense.   Basically, I want her to be as frazzled , over tired and harried as me (I’ve also been sporting a disgusting, pulsating cold sore on my bottom lip for the past week, courtesy of new mommyhood, I’m sure).  Does this make me a good friend?  Mmm.  No.

But my pathetic little campaign came to a screeching halt this morning when I entered the living room with my whiny baby who quickly spat up all over the coach and Anna casually looked up from her iPad and said, “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can handle having a baby.”

And there you have it.  My campaign must come to an end. But another part of me thinks, “Damn right, friend. Run for your life.”

"I am cuddly. I smell like the spring dew. I am starting to smile....."

"But don't be fooled....."

I know women like this, and seeing random boobie over meat and potatoes makes me a little uncomfortable. But something happened the other day that made me downright squeamish about breastfeeding in public.

The scene: A friend’s garden way, way out in the country.  Jake was helping some casual friends of ours harvest vegetables while I sat off to the side nursing June with a baby blanket modestly thrown over my shoulder for coverage. I will admit, these particular friends are of the redneck persuasion. There’s a lot of rednecks around here. I’m used to hanging out with rednecks. Rednecks are fine, salt-of-the-earth, sometimes wholesome people.  But then a couple of their friends showed up who were downright pig-wrastlin’ hillbillies.

Tip-off #1:  This husband and wife duo drove their self-painted camoflauged Ford pickup right into the yard, over the freshly cut grass and up to the edge of the garden, diesel fumes spewing over the tomato plants.  (Question: What is the deal with camoflauged trucks? Is it to broadcast one’s passion for hunting? Or is it for hunting from the front seat of your truck?  Or both?)

Tip-off #2: The wife wore a t-shirt that said “HILLBILLY HUNT CLUB.” (For visual reference, her personage was similar to this gal here)

Tip-off #3: The wife came scurrying over to my side, got down on her hands and knees to get a good look at my suckling baby and said, “Now don’t you be embarrassed, mama. You ain’t got nothin’ that I ain’t got. I got titties just like you. A tittie ain’t nothin.’”

A tittie?

I’ve never been wild about that word, as it brings to mind castmates of Jersey Shore, but especially when it’s used in the context of breastfeeding. I immediately pulled the blanket closer to my chest.

“I said don’t you be embarrassed,” she said, edging her face closer to my bosom.

I turned away from her and looked over to Jake who was bent over in the garden, oblivious to my little problem. “Help,” I cried on the inside.

But then she suddenly lost interest in my “titties” because the next thing out of her mouth was:

“Don’t you ever beat this baby in front of your dogs.”

“What?”

“Because if you beat your baby in front of your dogs, they’ll attack her.”

“Um, that’s a great bit of parenting advice. Jake?”  I stood up and pried June off my chest and fastened my nursing bra, feeling violated.  June began squalling.  I moved away from her and sat down in another section of yard.

Is there a lesson here?  Yes.  Be careful where you breastfeed. And don’t beat your babies in front of your dogs.