As that pesky Dairy Man keeps saying: if you’re not moving forward, you’re moving backward. He’s constantly trying to grow the dairy, create efficiencies, or find a new way to till a field. It’s all about forward motion.

So it makes sense that we’re building a barn. Over the next few months, our bovine ladies will gain a bunch of  new mooing friends thanks to the extra space.

We’ll talk about the intricacies of this shiny new facility soon, but for today I wanted to bring you up to speed.

When I get home from work each day, I drive up the hill to check out the barn progress. Over the weeks, I’ve amassed quite a collection of iPhone photos taken from the safety of my Jeep (I don’t want to get my shoes dirty, after all) or while wearing boots and walking Jersey the dog.

I’m sure you are dying to know about things like concrete flooring, water tanks, and big fans, but for now, enjoy this photo retrospective of a few weeks in barn building:

I never could have predicted that I’d be so enamored with a barn, but this is my life now. I can’t wait to fill the new digs with cows and watch the dairy grow.

Jersey the dog, however, will be very sad to lose the beach…

I started this blog as a coping mechanism to grapple with the realities of dairy life—a life I knew nothing about before meeting my handsome Dairy Man.

But somewhere along the line, I became perceived as a dairy “expert.” Inexplicable.

As we all remember, I did not grow up on (or even near) a farm. I spent my formative years in a suburban land of city water, sidewalks, and neighborhood parks.

The closest I ever came to agriculture was Teusink’s Pony Farm. It was basically just a petting zoo with horse rides. Though I was surrounded by ducks, bunnies, and goats, I could hear honking car horns. I was within walking distance of ice cream. I could place one foot on the farm and the other in the asphalt parking lot of a nearby church.

Teusink’s did not prepare me for farm life.

I didn’t experience true rural isolation until I moved to our old white house on the dairy. I didn’t experience the reality of farming until I was painting our laundry room by myself or trying to keep a barrage of black flies at bay.

I’m getting used to it.

The longer I live this dairy life, the more assimilated I become. It makes sense to use my writing to explain dairy processes and farming practice. In some circles I am the dairy expert. Mom is so proud.

But sometimes the very nature of this blog can feel disingenuous. I’m not a farmer. I don’t work on our dairy. I admittedly avoid getting my shoes dirty at all costs. I’m an overdressed transplant who happened to marry a man who is passionate about cows and corn.

Everything I know about farming comes from the DM. Some parts are interesting. Some parts are traumatizing. And other parts are downright dull.

I don’t think I will ever care about milking shells the way Dairy Man does. And I’m ok with that.

Yes, people, we’re getting real. I am breaking the fourth wall.

As I compose content for this blog, I’ve searched for balance between life and dairy. I love to write, but I worry about losing the newness, the confusion. The longer I live in this country place, the fewer opportunities I have for farm “firsts.”

Over time, the abnormal becomes normal. The new becomes mundane. The smells become commonplace.

As this natural process ebbs on, I can’t help but worry. What if I lose my incredulity? What if this dairy life becomes like an old shoe—comfortable, worn, and unsurprising?

My type A personality is prone to such compulsion. But I think my farming exodus, like life, requires a step back.

Sometimes the bud of a flower, the smile of a friend, the delicate fragrance of manure is all it takes to see the world with new eyes.

Familiarity is the enemy of inspiration. But often life’s most profound moments are found in the shabby or ordinary places. Sometimes it takes only the slightest shake of a butterfly’s wings to bring us straight to the feet of glory.

I’ve learned so much about farm life, but there is much more to explore. I continue to experience routine and newness. There’s something profound about both.

It’s profound when the fiery pink/orange sun sets in the orchard across the street. It’s profound when my husband—weary, frazzled, and spattered with dirt—attentively looks into my eyes to say “I love you.” It’s profound when I drive a quarter mile into an isolated field to bring the DM some dinner and spend a few minutes reconnecting.

This life is not extraordinary. We wake up and beat the pavement (or the dirt) just like everyone else. But each day is a gift and I am grateful.

Other dairies are bigger. Other people are smarter. Other houses are cleaner. Other cows have higher milk production. But none of this matters when I look at the beauty of the life I’m blessed to live.

There’s nothing mundane about the love I feel for that man; there’s nothing dull about the passion he feels for his demanding profession; there’s nothing ordinary about our dependence on a powerful God.

This farm life is more absurd than I ever could have known. I’ve lived through planting, harvesting, cow jailbreaks, and barn building. I’ve gone to bed alone. I’ve eaten a delicious steak from a steer who lived up the hill from my kitchen. I’ve driven Subway into fields and waited, waited, waited.

I worry about running out of things to say, but I’ve recently realized that every life (whether full of cows, taxi cabs, or diapers) is seeped in richness. Ours is no different. It’s my goal to remember this—to delight in new knowledge and turn old experiences on their side.

A good dairy blog written by a prissy city girl should be equal parts cow and contemplation. And that’s what I strive to do. As I share the oddities of dairy life from an “expert” perspective, I will also stay true to the pencil-skirt-wearing immigrant behind the veil.

I will never stop learning. I will never stop growing. And I will never stop being thankful that I get to live this life. (If nothing else, for the material!)

Thanks for coming along.

More important than that.

Yesterday this furry little fella turned two!

Even though Dairy Man keeps reminding me that 2 is really 14 in dog years and Jersey’s getting older, it seems like just yesterday that he was a timid baby ball of fur adjusting to farm life.

I still view Jersey the dog as my fluffy little child …er… puppy. I love him just a little too much.

Need more proof? While Dairy Man was hard at work strip tilling the fields last night, Jersey and I celebrated his two years of life at a party with his aunt Amber and cousin Maggie.

Can’t you see the family resemblance?

Jersey, like so many human children before him, had the misfortune to be born during planting season, harvest season, or summer.

Thus, he celebrated his birthday sans father figure. You really have to hope for rain if you want the farmers to come in for birthday cake.

But Jersey didn’t seem to mind once he was chowing down on a banana peanut butter pupcake.

Yes. I am that crazy dog person who throws my pup a birthday party. It was delightful, complete with party hats, wrapped presents, guest goodie bags, and canine baked goods. Don’t judge me.

Jersey and I are an anomaly in the farming world.

Most farm dogs live outside, chase cows, and inevitably meet untimely ends (by tractors, skidsters, cars, larger animals, etc.). But Jersey is not a farm dog. I watch him like a hawk. My pup sleeps next to our bed, has his own chair, and will live forever.

Dairy Man and his farming family think my puplove is a little crazy, but I’ve never been a normal farm wife.

The key, DM, is to just accept it. And yes, that does mean I would like to revisit the doggy bowtie discussion. Jersey would look so dapper…

In short, there comes a time when she must buy land. At least that’s what the Dairy Man told me.

Buying land was a rite of passage for our farm life. I still remember the jittery feeling in my stomach back when DM and I first went down this path.

After months of research, loan applications, bargaining, and stacks of paperwork, Dairy Man and I took our first large step towards personal investment into the dairy: buying farmland.

This land-buying venture represented our first foray into deep, personal dairy investment.

I was just getting the hang of regular old farm life. Sure, the hours were long and the work was never-ending, but I hadn’t thought about the point when DM would want to invest our hard-earned dollars into the farm.

Silly me. I thought that money was accruing for a fabulous Mexican vacation or a paved driveway.

But dairy life and personal life are inextricably intertwined. I’m slowly learning that there isn’t a big difference between “family money” and “farm money.” Somehow it all ends up in the same pot.

This means that every dime we earn, every choice we make, has to take the dairy into account. Annoying. Does this mean my desire for new flooring might get trumped by the Dairy Man’s desire for new cows? Yes. Not an easy concept for a city girl to swallow.

When Dairy Man and I started discussing the land deal, it was easy to hide behind obscurities, generalities, and “somedays.” But eventually the time came to talk numbers, dollars, acres, a closing date. It was scary. I felt levels of resistance similar to those I felt before DM and I got married and moved to Smalltown. I secretly resented the notion that we had to deplete our hard-earned savings to buy something as un-sexy as dirt.

Because that’s all it is. Dirt. Buying land requires a down payment similar to that of a new house. But instead of four bedrooms, crown molding, and a walk-in closet, you get dirt. Instead of remodeling the bathroom, you get to spread poo on your new purchase. Thrilling.

Dairy Man tried to soothe my fears with land adages farmers rely on:

• “Land is our retirement plan!”
• “Land is a gift that keeps on giving!”
• “Buying land will make us rich … in equity!”
• “When the apocalypse comes and the world succumbs to chaos and lawlessness, the landowners will be king!”

Even my desire to become a post-apocalyptic czar was not enough to convince me. I was scared. What if we had a terrible drought? What if it snowed in July and our corn babies froze? What if the field was trampled by a herd of rabid water buffalo? What if there was a plague of corn-loving locusts?

Farm life is a good exercise in letting go. I’m still getting used to a farmer’s reliance on the land and weather. So many things are outside of our control. This could explain why Dairy Man is so annoyingly optimistic and flexible. My type A personality strains heavily against the lack of control that comes with farm life.

But ultimately I trust the business acumen of my scruffy Dairy Man. This is the life I’ve chosen and these are the educated choices we must make.

Because, really, life itself cannot be controlled or predicted. I can thank farming for teaching me this. I’m constantly learning and gaining flexibility and patience. Plus, I don’t even go into hypovolemic shock when I get my shoes stuck in the mud.

The dairy is growing. I’m growing. DM is so proud. I know our lovely land parcels will be a good investment. I’m well on my way to being a feudal land baron and I’m excited to watch this dairy ebb and grow. Land is good.

Even though I can’t buy new shoes with equity.

A spirited discussion about artificial insemination at the dinner table? Why not? An impassioned debate about the best kind of teat dip in the church narthex?  Makes sense. A detailed description of manure management relayed to friends at a fancy restaurant? Totally normal.

These farm-induced out-of-body experiences often  cause me to ask, “Is this really my life?” Last night, dear friends, was one of those nights.

DM and I were sitting on the couch, working on our respective laptops. Out of the blue:

DM: (sniffs his hand) You know, I really like the smell of manure.

MFW: What!?

DM: I’m serious. Smell this (thrusts hand under MFW’s nose; MFW recoils and nearly falls off the couch trying to get away).

MFW: Umm, no thank you!

DM: (sniffs hand again) Good stuff. They should make candles that smell like this.

My husband is not normal. But Yankee Candles, I hope you’re listening. This is my life.

You can milk by hand … by sucky-thingy … by robot. Yes, I said robot. If the Jetsons had a dairy farm in space, they would have Rosie out there milking the cows. (I am aware that I’m dating myself with that reference. We could also talk about Lisa Frank notebooks and how emotional it was to watch Littlefoot lose his mother.

But we’re not here to talk about adorable longnecks, we’re here to talk about milking parlors. Let this tide you over until our next foray into the 90s.)

I’m slowly developing proficiency with dairy lingo. My vernacular has been stretched, twisted, and traumatized more times than I can count. Thankfully, one area that doesn’t cause too much emotional distress is milking parlors. Especially when you compare them to companies that sell bull juice.

It’s hard to believe that there was a time when the word “parlor” conjured up mental images of Victorian wingbacks, lace doilies, and Jane Austen novels. After over 2.5 years in this dairy world, my version of  a “parlor” always has cows, milking units, and stainless steel.

I’ve only recently learned that there is more than one kind of milking parlor.

So how does a farmer decide which type is right for his or her dairy?

Several factors have to be weighed when picking out the perfect parlor, such as herd size, breed of cow, number of available employees, and existing space. Some dairies utilize robotic milking units and have only one fella running the show. Other dairies have 60 cows on each side of the parlor and six full-time milkers per shift.

For this post I tapped into my …ahem… notable artistic skill (just look at the scientific diagram in this post comparing blue whales to a silage pack) to explain the four main types of dairy milking parlors:

1. Tandem
2. Parallel
3. Herringbone
4. Rotary.

As you will quickly learn, I draw a very realistic aerial view of a cow.

1. Let’s start with a tandem (side opening) parlor.

Our north dairy was purchased in 2010 with a tandem parlor. In a tandem parlor, the cows stand horizontal to the milkers. A gate at the entrance of the parlor holds the cow until an empty stall is ready. One benefit of a tandem parlor is that it releases cows individually (versus all at once like in a parallel), so a slow-milking Bessie doesn’t impede the group.

The facility had previously been used to milk water buffalo and we quickly found out that there are some major differences between buffalo and cows. The existing parlor was not working for our bovine beauts. So in February of 2011, Dairy Man undertook a weeklong process to gut and renovate our parlor.

2. We changed to a parallel parlor.

During parlor-renovation week, my poor DM worked a total of 120 hours. No, that’s not a typo. 120 hours. Yes, that is out of a possible 168 hours IN an entire week. We’ll talk about that another time.

When all was said and done, we had a shiny new parallel parlor.

In a parallel parlor, cows stand on an elevated platform at a 90-degree angle with their posteriors pointed at the person milking them. This is the area I refer to as the “kill zone” and I avoid it at all costs. Once I got caught in some horrifying brown spray while visiting DM at work. No, I don’t want to talk about it. PTSD.

Our parlor is a “double 12,” which means that we have 12 milking units on each side of the parlor, allowing us to milk 24 cows at a time.

3. Our home/south dairy has a herringbone parlor.

This is the most common type of parlor in the U.S. for “small” parlors (less than a double 12). Cows hang out on an elevated platform on an angled, or herringbone, fashion. Like the parallel parlor, the milker is staring at a lot of bovine bums.

4. A rotary parlor is the stuff of Dairy Man’s dreams.

This drawing is not to scale. Most rotary parlors hold 60-80 cows at a time. But I didn’t want to draw that many cows. So you get 14.

In his dairy world, this type of parlor is the crème de la crème, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, an automated wonderland. In a rotary, or carousel, parlor, the ladies spin around slowly on what is essentially a fancy bovine merry-go-round. This type of parlor is expensive to build and is best-suited for herds of 1000+. Someday, DM, someday.

The fact that I even know what a milking parlor is, much less that I can identify more than one kind, is still shocking to me. DM is so proud.

Dying to know more about the process from MOO to YOU? Check out these posts:

My first explanation of a parlor
A look at milking shells
Milking 3x a day

Someday soon we’ll talk about what happens to the milk after it leaves the cow. Get ready for bulk tanks, milk trucks, and milk processing. Exciting stuff, people.

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Ps: Did you know you can follow the MFW escapades on Facebook? If you’re into cute pictures of border collies and posts about thrilling subjects like manure management, I’m your girl. Like me! I dare you.

Despite Dairy Man and I being pretty awesome already (and ever so humble), we have both learned a lot about happy marriages from our parents and grandparents.  All of the relationships were different, but each one taught us something important.

As you can see, Dairy Man and I come from good-looking stock. And yes, my dad (bottom right) DID have a legendary ’stache on his wedding day.

Nearly everything I know about love comes from observing my parents. Those crazy kids have a quirky, steadfast love that has stood the test of 33 years.

My parents aren’t showy, but it’s impossible not to soak up some marital goodness to apply to my own relationship. So, let’s take a stroll through Dave & Judy Marriage 101.

8 Things I’ve Learned About Love From My Parents

1: Love is not always equal

One of the wisest things I’ve ever heard about marriage came from my mom. When Dairy Man and I first got married, I had delusions of a perfectly egalitarian relationship. I envisioned a line in the sand with “my duties” on this side and “his duties” on the other. But life is a little messier than that, especially during a farm wife’s first planting season. I was crying on the phone one night to my mom about being lonely, feeling like I was doing all of the work, and she said to me: “Jess, in a marriage you can’t be so concerned about things being perfectly 50/50. You both have to give 100 percent–all of the time. Things aren’t always going to be equal. You might have to take turns carrying the other. But you should both always try to give 100 percent. That’s what love is.” (Read more about this revelation here.)

2: Show your children your love

I have absolutely no doubt that my parents love each other. They were free and easy with hugs and kisses in front of us kids (even amidst a chorus of “Eeeeeeeeewwww!!” and my mom swatting my dad away, “Dave, get off me!”) and weren’t afraid to say “I love you.” When Dairy Man and I have a family someday, I want to emulate my parents and make sure to thoroughly mortify and embarrass my children with a little Mom&Dad PDA.

3: Keep laughing

My parents are dorks. There are no two ways about it. They make up their own words and phrases (like “sugarjets” and “ookums”), tease, poke, and laugh. They don’t take life too seriously. Sometimes they even wrestle at Christmas.

It’s easy to see how my entire family ended up being so weird.

4: Money isn’t important

My parents do not express love in gifts or extravagant experiences. It’s painful for them to spend money on “frivolous” things like soda at a restaurant or new shoes when the old ones don’t have holes yet. Basically they are good upstanding Dutch folk. Not surprisingly, my mom doesn’t really like flowers: “Why spend good money on something that’s going to die? I’d rather have a puzzle.” One year my dad found a way to get around this. While he was rollerblading, he saw some flowers growing alongside the road. Being the hopeless romantic he is, he plucked a bouquet and bladed it home. My mom was thrilled. Because she got flowers on her anniversary? No. Because my dad hadn’t spent a cent on them. That’s love, people.

5: Failure is not an option

It’s inevitable that parents will fight in front of their kids at some point. Mine were no different. But I still remember what they would tell us if we witnessed an argument: “Don’t forget, your dad/mom and I might fight, but I want you to know that we love each other very much and will be together forever.” They taught me early on that marriage vows are forever. My parents will be together for better and worse, in sickness and health, for richer for poorer, as long as they live.

6: Being happy is more important than being right

Over the years, I’ve noticed that the happiest times in my parents’ marriage were often after someone said “I’m sorry.” While there is great delight in being right (my dad and I delight in it just a little too much), it is a far more beautiful, loving act to let things go. If DM and I have a fight, the quickest way to happiness is for someone to let go of the need to be right.

7: Faith sustains a marriage

My parents’ marriage is founded on more than respect and love. They’re the first to admit that #5 would be impossible without God’s help. Every step they take as a couple stems from prayer and deep faith. This faith has sustained them through the best and worst that life has to offer.

8: Happiness is found in mutual hobbies

My parents became empty-nesters a few years ago when my little brother went to college. After getting reacquainted in this post-spawn world, they found a mutual love for hiking in the dunes by Lake Michigan. On one of their hikes, my dad stuck a large branch into the sand and tied a ribbon to it. Over many months, my parents added more ribbon and string to the branch. Other hikers did the same. There’s something wonderful and symbolic about this branch.

I only hope to have a marriage as full of love and laughter as my parents. Or my in-laws (shout out to Kent and Vonnie) or grandparents (Bill and Shirley; August and Anne; Roy and Gloria; Marv and Virginia), for that matter. Dairy Man and I are surrounded by examples of steadfast, godly love.

And that’s something worth celebrating on this day of chalky candy hearts and overpriced roses!

So, dear reader, now it’s your turn to share.
What have YOU learned about love from your parents, step-parents, or grandparents?

Today I’d like to explain how some of these 30 items found their way onto my not-a-bucket list. Let’s start with the first 15.

1. Send 25 handwritten notes
I might be an odd duck …well, let me rephrase… I know I’m an odd duck, but I am one of those nostalgic wallowers who fondly remembers the days of snail mail and pen pals. There is just something about receiving a handwritten note. It feels more special somehow. Unless you have handwriting like my doctor. Then stick to the computer, caveman.

2. Drink a large glass of water before every meal
This one comes straight out of The Skinny Rules by Bob Harper. You might know Bobbo from a little (or is it large?) TV show called The Biggest Loser. DM and I have embarked on a healthy eating regime in 2013 and one of our rules comes from Bob: always drink a large glass of water before a meal. It keeps you hydrated and keeps you from feeling hungrier than you are. Win/win.

3. Read at least one book every two months.
I wanted to say “read a book every week,” but let’s be real here, people. I don’t want to set myself up for failure. I love to read, but something about my old pre-30 age causes me to fall asleep every time I pick up a book at night. One every two months seems realistic. I’m starting with an interesting look at French parenting.

4. Visit our friends in Salt Lake City
DM’s childhood best friend is a lovable long-haired hippie named Mark. Mark was the best man in our wedding and now lives in Salt Lake City. We don’t get to see him very often, so we want to journey west to soak up some Mark-time, snowboard/ski, and ogle the Mormons.

5. Milk a cow
Oh, the controversy. I still vividly remember the piece of advice from a farm wife at my wedding: “Whatever you do, don’t learn how to milk. Because if you know how, you might have to!” While I don’t want to find myself on the shift list, I do think it’s about time for me to try sticking one of those sucker-thingies on a cow’s udder. But I promise you, I won’t “learn” a thing.

6. Take a girls trip to Vegas
I don’t gamble, but I hear it’s warm there. Even my grandpa said it’s worth going once. And everyone loves a girls trip. Plus, I think I’ll have a much easier time getting the ladies into a Celion Dion show than my dear Dairy Man.

7. Try ten new restaurants in West Michigan
West MI, particularly the Grand Rapids area, is bursting with new restaurants and microbreweries. It is my mission to stray from our usual haunts and try something new! It’s much easier to do in a big city like Chicago, but I’ve got three years.

8. Have at least one official date night a month
DM and I have a terrible time making date nights a priority. The hardest part is that we live at least 45 minutes from “anything to do.” Date nights typically have to be intentional and will almost always involve driving. It’s my goal to have one of these bad boys every month – no sweatpants allowed.

9. Host a dinner party
After over two years of marriage and an empty dining room, we finally bought a large table last fall. This baby can seat eight and gives the dinner-goer a great view of cows frolicking in the pasture. Now that we have a table, it’s time to use it! Who wants to come to my house for sweet potato and black bean burritos?

10. Go on an actual vacation with Dairy Man
As you might recall, my dear husband does not vacation well. It’s almost impossible for a farmer to tear himself away from the dairy for a weekend, much less an entire week. But my psyche needs a break. A break that lasts longer than two days and doesn’t involve 3 a.m. phone calls from the dairy. I want to explore a new place and make some new memories with DM.

11. See a show at Second City in Chicago
When I lived in beautiful Chitown I never made it to Second City. Any place that spawned Tina Fey and Will Ferrel has to be awesome. And I want to go to there.

12. Do something that absolutely terrifies me
I’m not a risk taker, just ask the Dairy Man. Sure, I’ll dance like a fool in the rain and boldly try weird-looking vegetables, but I steer away from anything that truly makes my knees knock. But I’m young, and this is the time of life to take some risks. Some might argue that I take a risk simply by living on a dairy farm (I mean, what if the cows get out and I’m trampled in a stampede!?), but I need to stretch myself before the big 3-0. I’ll almost certainly be better for it.

13. Go to five plays or musicals
As a former thespian, I love going to the theater. In the next three years, I want to see at least five new shows. Unfortunately, seeing Wicked for the third time does NOT count. We have a few local theaters with tempting offerings and I am dying to see The Book of Mormon in Chicago.

14. Run the Fifth Third Riverbank 5K
Already half done with this one: I officially signed up last week! Now I just need to get my butt into gear and actually start, oh, I don’t know … exercising. I ran the Color Run last summer with absolutely zero training or preparation, but my shins would prefer I work up to this 5K a little more gradually this year. Wish me luck on May 11.

15. Spend a day with each sibling doing something they choose, paid for by me
Though my little sister and brother only live 60 minutes from my hamlet in Smalltown, I don’t see them very often. It’s really a shame. Thus, I want to take a day to smother each one of them in embarrassing sister love.

Phew. I’m exhausted already. But there’s something very motivating about setting goals and sharing them with my five friends out here in cyberland.

And one more thing before I go. I would be remiss if I left the awesomeness of Ram’s Super Bowl ad pass us by! Dairy Man is still preening today. This is certainly a bit of an outdated folksy look at the world of farming, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. I’ve never seen DM splint the wing of a meadow lark, but I HAVE seen him “finish his forty hour week by Tuesday noon” before. Oof. Remind me to tell you about the time he worked 120 hours in one week. Till then, enjoy Paul Harvey:

I have very delicate sensibilities.

Whoa. I know you’re reeling with shock right now. I’ll give you a minute to collect yourself.

While I’m not exactly a Victorian lady holding a scented handkerchief up to my nose and fainting at the mere notion of social impropriety (a la Downton Abbey), I have not transformed into a rough-and-tumble, dirt-loving, cow-milking, lady. I live on a dairy, but I still wrestle with the guileless city girl brain bouncing around in my head.

I may be able to provide a detailed description of strip tilling or regale you with tales of escaped cows, but I try not to get too attached to our steers and plug my fingers in my ears and sing “Lalalalalalalala” whenever Dairy Man talks about artificial insemination. I blubbered like a melodramatic baby who just watched The Notebook when I ran over a squirrel.  Despite having a pair of stylish rubber boots that I use to tromp around the farm, I will be thrust into a horror-struck paralysis if I get manure on my shirt. While I know where my food comes from, I don’t really need to know the logistics of WHERE MY FOOD CAME FROM.

I’m sentimental about most living things. Deer look like Bambi. Steers are friendly neighbors. Geese remind me of Fly Away Home. Cows are dear buddies. Barn cats (provided they have all of their legs, eyes, and tails) are fluffy kitties. Jersey the dog is my baby.

Normal farm kids think differently about animals than I do. The “circle of life” that farmers accept (not to be confused with a baboon singing “Naaaaaaaaaants ingonyama bagithi baba” while hoisting a lion cub over a cliff) is still a concept that offends my delicate sensibilities.

It’s for this reason that I’ve resisted the idea that the Dairy Man should get a gun. Back in the “this-guy-is-cute-but-I-don’t-want-to-date-a-farmer-BUT-it-would-be-fun-to-visit-his-farm-and-play-with-calves” phase of our relationship, a BB gun was thrust into my hands to shoot pigeons in the barns. I missed every shot I took. To spare the lives of the fluttering birds, you ask? I plead the fifth.

The Dairy Man doesn’t hunt and I stay far away from any mortality conversations around the farm, but there’s something about a farmer and his gun. As soon as DM got his dog, he started begging for a gun.

So, in the second-best wife gift ever, I finally caved and gave DM his heart’s desire for Christmas.

While I don’t think DM will find time to hunt deer or geese next fall, he does have dreams of clay pigeons and skeet shooting.

(And because I want to save you from embarrassment, no, a skeet is not a small, flightless bird resembling a roadrunner. Don’t make that mistake in public conversation. I’m speaking from experience here.)

Dairy Man’s gun is just one more chip in my city sensibilities. It’s a gradual process, assimilating into this farm life. No one I knew in Chicago felt the need to own a shotgun, but we’re in the lawless country (pronounced COOOOOUN-TRAY) now.

I only hope that he doesn’t parade any trophies in front of me like Shadow the cat did with unfortunate field mice and moles. Only the mob should leave a corpse on your doorstep. Even if it’s a deer.

My delicate sensibilities just can’t take it.

I don’t write resolutions, but I do like taking a breath each January to think about my dreams and goals.

I was inspired to write this post by Sarah of Project Soiree and Mackenzie of Design Darling. But while these ladies chose to list 101 goals for 1001 days, I decided to take a slightly different approach. My non-mathematical brain couldn’t wrap around the idea of 1001 days (approximately 2.7424657 years), and 101 was too tall an order for a post that Dairy Man claimed “deviated from important things like manure and artificial insemination.”

Thus I landed on: 30 Things to Do Before I’m 30.

What I like is that Mackenzie and Sarah didn’t write “bucket lists.” Bucket lists overwhelm me. Of course I want to wine taste around Italy, trek to Machu Picchu with my sherpa, write a bestselling novel, speak French fluently, and get a jetpack. Who doesn’t? But these high, lofty goals can take a lifetime to accomplish. You’re talking to a girl who writes tasks on her to-do list after they are already completed, just to have the pleasure of checking them off. In red ink. I might even give myself a high five. I need to see forward progress. Otherwise I’m liable to give up on the whole thing and camp out on my couch with a quart of cookies n’ cream ice cream.

So I created a manageable list of 30. I hope to challenge myself, go outside of my comfort zone, and check items off this list over the next three-ish years.

30 Things to Do Before I’m 30

1. Send 25 hand written notes
2. Drink a large glass of water before every meal
3. Read at least one book every two months
4. Visit our friends in Salt Lake City
5. Milk a cow
6. Take a girls trip to Vegas
7. Try ten new restaurants in West Michigan
8. Have at least one official date night a month
9. Host a dinner party
10. Go on an actual vacation with DM
11. See a show at Second City in Chicago
12. Do something that absolutely terrifies me
13. Go to five plays or musicals
14. Run the Fifth Third Riverbank 5K
15. Spend a day with each sibling doing something they choose, paid for by me
16. Say “I’m sorry” more than 50 percent of the time
17. Talk to my grandparents each week via phone or email
18. Drink a $50-100 bottle of wine (and see if I can tell the difference)
19. Complete family photo yearbooks for 2010, 2011, and 2012
20. Purchase coffee for a stranger behind me in the Starbucks drive-thru
21. Create something with my Instagram photos
22. Upgrade to a DSLR camera
23. Teach Jersey a new trick
24. Spend an entire weekend unplugged
25. Refurbish an old piece of furniture
26. Make a list of birthdays and addresses and send cards
27. Pay off our student loans
28. Find an active outdoor activity DM and I can do together
29. Have a baby
30. Write a letter to myself to be opened on my 30th birthday

I may flesh out a few of these in the future (like the controversial “Milk a cow” – something another farm wife warned me never to learn), but I’ll simply leave you with the list for now.

So how about you, dear readers? No matter which ages you put in the blanks of “___ things to do before I’m ___,” what’s on your list?