Confessions of a Farmer's Wife

I have a confession to make.

I don't do any work on the farm. Umm, I don't even go to the farm unless we have visitors in town. There. I said it. Whew. I feel better.

Obviously I have a small reason why I don't do much work out there. But this blog is about why I almost didn't move to Iowa. (There is an adaptation of this story on the farmer's blog, Pirate Tick).

Until moving here, I had only seen a tick in a picture. My husband's picture. Of a tick the size of a quarter he pulled off Jake (the farm dog, who just moved to Georgia). When I found out there were ticks in Iowa, I suddenly no longer wanted to move here. I shudder even now. So, of course, every time I visit the farm, I am greeted by one of my favorite Iowa natives. They usually wait to say hello until we are on our way home. Camped out on the leg of my jeans, crawling down my back, hanging out under my watch on my wrist.

Jake's Tick


And the best part about my relationship with ticks since moving to Iowa. My husband comes home with them attached to his body. That means they are latched on, people! LATCHED ON!

He asked me to burn one off one time, until he realized I might do more damage than necessary and took the lighter away. Because if you didn't know, you can't just pull a tick off that is latched on. It's head will stay latched on to your skin. I think I just threw up a little. They also get attached to his shirts and hang out in our laundry basket. One morning as I was upside down drying my hair, I saw one crawl across the floor. I scooped up Sweet P (who was in a baby chair nowhere near the tick, but I wasn't taking any chances) and put her on the bed while I grabbed a tissue and flushed him down the toilet.

The worst part? We don't even live on the farm, yet. So yes, there you have it.
I know.
It's hard to believe I am the Farmer's Wife.