There have been several moments over the past few months when I've looked around and thought, we ain't in Kansas anymore.
Not that I've ever lived in Kansas. But wherever Kansas is, I'm fairly certain it doesn't involve conducting nightly tick inspections on your children like you're running TSA.
For most of my life, I lived in neighborhoods where the biggest wildlife concern was whether someone's outdoor cat was using your flower bed as a litter box. If something bit you, it was probably a mosquito. If your dog smelled bad, she probably found a puddle.
Out here, however, nature has chosen violence.
The first surprise was the ticks. Nobody adequately prepares you for the sheer number of ticks involved in country living. At this point, finding a tick has become less of an emergency and more of an administrative task.
"Can somebody grab the tick tool?"
"I found another one."
"Check behind his ear."
"Did we get the dog?"
This is just normal dinner conversation now.
Then there are the chiggers.
Before moving here, I'd never heard the word "chigger." The first time someone said it, I assumed it was either a derogatory term, a piece of farming equipment, or a minor league baseball mascot. Unfortunately, it was none of those things. It was a tiny invisible bug whose sole purpose appears to be making people miserable.
If you've never experienced chiggers, imagine being attacked by something you can't see, can't find, and can't even effectively cuss out because you don't know where it is.
It's a remarkably unfair arrangement.
And poison oak?
Poison oak deserves its own chapter in the Book of Revelation.
I swear it grows faster when it senses confidence.
The second you think you've figured it out, another patch appears like, "Well hello there."
We now have educational sessions with the kids. Rhymes and everything.
Leaves of three, leave them be.
Unfortunately, Axel's preferred method of plant identification is charging into the woods swinging a stick like he's clearing a path for Lewis and Clark.
As a result, he regularly returns with some combination of bug bites, scratches, mystery rashes, and woodland souvenirs attached to his clothing.
Just when I think we've adjusted to all of this, there's Gracie. Now, I've been told some dogs roll in dead things. What nobody told me is that some dogs make it their life's calling. Gracie approaches every trip into the woods like she's searching for her signature scent.
Dead animal? Stunning.
Random pile of poop? Classic.
Something so horrifying that even the vultures passed on it? That's the limited edition collection.
The worst part is the confidence.
She always comes back looking incredibly pleased with herself, like she's just spent the afternoon at a luxury spa instead of marinating in whatever biological warfare she found in the woods.
I've asked around, and some people claim their dogs don't do this.
I assume those people are lying.
I have smelled a lot of unpleasant things in my life. I think Gracie's limited-edition perfume took the form of Bear poop and immediately it took first place. Friends, I did not know bear poop smelled so foul.
That was the day I questioned every decision that led us to country living.
The funny thing is that all the things that felt shocking when we first moved here are slowly becoming normal. Having a dedicated tick removal tool is normal. Owning three different anti itch products is normal. Having strong opinions about bug spray is normal. Giving your dog her third emergency bath of the week because she found a dead thing and thought, yes, I'd like to wear that, is apparently normal too.
Every once in a while, usually while scratching a mysterious bug bite, I still wonder if this was a good idea.
Then I watch the kids spend hours outside catching frogs, building forts, riding bikes, climb trees and coming home covered in dirt and stories. I sit on the porch and listen to the birds. I watch the fireflies blink all across the property. I watch the sun set over our little piece of land. Honestly, I'd forgotten sunsets happened every night. For years, there was always a house, a neighborhood, or something else in the way. Out here, the sky puts on a show whether you're paying attention or not.
When I experience that, I remember that this is exactly what we wanted.
We wanted our kids to grow up outside. We wanted room to roam, room to build, room to dream a little bigger. We wanted a life that felt connected to the land.
Nobody mentioned we'd also be connected to ticks, chiggers, poison oak, bear poop, and whatever Gracie rolled in this morning.
But here we are.
And one thing is certain:
We ain't in Kansas anymore.
