When my husband and I moved our family to a farm two years ago, I knew our lives would be different. But I couldn’t predict in what ways. I understood that farm life would shape my kids, but I couldn’t anticipate how much it would change my own outlook on life. 

When we ride in our back yard, there’s no end game. We stop for hug breaks, pee-in-the-grass-because-we-can’t-hold-it breaks and just-because breaks. At first, this admittedly made me nuts. I was always in a rush and on a mission. But I’m learning to slow down and be patient.

Instead of pushing the kids along to master jumping position or diagonals, I’ve learned to embrace the silliness. Riding at home, my girls rock princess dresses, pajamas and paddock boots. (And tiaras never stay on top of helmets, no matter how hard they shove them on, which is the kind of lesson one only learns in the back yard. The crowns always pop off, but they keep trying, and we all end up belly laughing.)

I’ve found new ways to keep my girls engaged, beyond bribing them with chocolate. We play Follow the Leader and Simon Says. Often, they end up screaming—loudly—“Simon says pet your pony’s BUTTTTTT!” While I still cringe and pray the neighbors aren’t home, I’m less likely to stifle their enthusiasm over buttocks. They’re cute kids having fun with their horses.

Sometimes the girls make me tack up, and then they bail after five minutes. Though it’s irksome, I try to remember we aren’t qualifying for the Olympics. Similarly, when I fish their clean riding clothes out of mounds of laundry, I know how it may go down: We could get into the riding tights only for them to decide it’s not a “getting on” kind of day. It’s still semi-annoying, but we’re not a top-notch training facility striving for Pony Finals at this point. It’s our back yard. 

When we squeeze rides in on chaos-filled days, I’m OK with manure stains on bellies and straw in tails. I give the children permission to leap on bareback in shorts before scurrying off to dance class or Girl Scouts, though this made me squeamish in the past. I learned to always groom before and after riding, and I know shorts aren’t appropriate attire, of course, but it’s our yard. No one’s around to judge. I tell myself and my kids that we can be messy and imperfect.  At least we got a ride in! We’ll do a grooming session tomorrow. 

When I give my girls “riding lessons,” they march around a lopsided field. I’m teaching them to navigate hills and to listen when I say, “Watch for that hole!” At times they get frustrated, but they’re becoming better riders. When our old pony is feeling naughty, her trick is to drag the kids back to the barn with all her might. This has taught them how to steer and kick like a boss. I’m focusing on the positive rather than lamenting that we don’t have a ring.  

Though my kids don’t have the best position yet, they stay on. I orchestrate pretend shows at home and yell: “Trot please. All trottt.” Miraculously, my girls always end up tying for first place. I interview the winners: “So tell me, what’s your name, where are you from, what’s your pony’s name…” The girls take this part very seriously. They may not win equitation classes any time soon, but they’re doing just fine. They’re having fun and love backyarding it.

In the early days of summer, we ride on a shady trail, plucking berries. We stuff our faces until our mouths are stained red. On the stickiest days, the children run through the sprinklers then hop on, bareback and in bathing suits, even though it makes them all itchy. When we’re sluggish from the heat, I help them slather the ponies with Mane ‘n Tail, and instead of riding, the kids bathe their ponies—and drench themselves. It’s their version of the pool. These experiences are our way of embracing the heat instead of despising it.

In the warmer months we also pick ticks, plump like raisins, off our ponies’ bellies and sometimes off each other. The kids groan: “Grossssss!” But I say: “Farm kids are tough.” We pull prickers out of our hair and scratch at our poison ivy, but we’ve learned it’s par for the course. They know the drill. I spray them down with calamine lotion. We’ve all grown tougher. 

I’m getting creative about issues I once saw as hassles. Our young pony constantly taunts us by slipping out of her muzzle. Now we play “let’s find the pony’s lost muzzle again,” scouring the fields until the finder sprints back, flaunting the muzzle. The winner gets a lollipop and a hug. We also play “Find the missing scissors in the hayloft for the thousandth time.” Instead of having a meltdown over misplaced scissors, I’m not sweating the small stuff. Amazon to the rescue if they remain buried. 

Balancing farm life and all-the-other-things life has forced me to let go. I pack granola bars and PB&J, and the kids munch on tack trunks before they “help” with chores or clean tack. I’ve given up on worrying about E. coli and hand sanitizer. They’re building immunity! When we rush out for school, playdates and errands, we’re hay-covered and stinky. The family mantra is “If people think we’re gross, too bad for them.” 

We don’t have high-end tack, blankets or riding clothes, but my younger kids don’t know any other way. They’re royalty with their rainbow reins, pink helmets and sparkle-painted hooves. In their minds, they’re super fancy, riding side-saddle to the mailbox. I hope they always believe they are divas. I’m still working on that level of self-confidence, but I’m learning from watching them enjoy horse life, free from judgement. 

One of our favorite things is taking night rides when the dusk paints the trail in yellow-red. We stop to marvel at flowers peeking out and at insects dancing around the woods. We see rabbits, deer and even foxes. It’s amazing the little things I notice that I ignored or missed before. This is what it’s all about. 

Recently, I hosted my daughter’s birthday party at the farm, so her friends could enjoy just a sliver of our life with the ponies. This spring, her preschool class also took a field trip to our farm for pony rides. For many of their young friends, it was their first time with horses. There were tantrums when it was time to go because the littles loved the farm so much. How lucky are we that we never have to leave?

Sometimes, even with all this good stuff, the kids pause to ask me if I’m OK, “Because Mom, you look stressed.” On top of raising five kids, I’m worrying over which blankets to put on, when to schedule the hay delivery, and if our pony requires Banamine for her bellyache. But I tell the kids I love farm life as much as they do, and they know it’s true. 

As an adult, it’s too easy to fall into the trap of wanting more. For so many years, I found it impossible to feel satiated. If only I had a string of warmbloods, more acreage, a ring with state-of-the-art footing… More, more, more.

In my children’s eyes, our life, our farm, it’s perfect the way it is. Finally, I feel that same contentment deep in my bones.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 3 to 14. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse crazy girls play with their small pony, Cupcake, and her son and husband play with the tractor.