Rooting About, Becoming Rooted. Rootsome.

Bated breath.

2011-08-07T23:16:00.000-07:00

Hating being told to sit still for a picture. 2009.

I think we nearly lost our little dog this afternoon.

ClaireDog's been with us since Thanksgiving weekend 1998, when I scooped her out of a pen outside Wal-Mart and decided that I couldn't wait until Christmas to bring her home to Aaron. I went inside, bought a tiny harness and some food, and brought her home in a cardboard box. She was six weeks old and could fit in the palm of my hand. We wouldn't have kids for another seven years, but suddenly we had a baby.

She's been with us ever since, and her antics always entertained. She was a tiny puppy fireball who could hurtle herself over the back of the couch without touching it at all (skidding across the house on our hardwood floors on her rear end afterwards) and a "heat-seeking missle" that laid, panting, with her belly turned toward the flames of our gas space heater, baking herself until you couldn't touch her. (Then she'd stretch out belly-down on the coldest section of floor, recovering. Spa treatment, I called it.) She chewed on electrical cords until she shocked the tar out of herself on the a/c cord in her metal crate while we weren't home. She caught mice and floppy orange frisbees with wild and endless abandon. She fought the leash at first, hopping down the street on her hind legs, gagging, embarassing us to no end. She snowplowed through the yard at full tilt, spraying snow and pushing her body through the white cloud like a dervish. The first time we left town and left her with my sister, she immediately went into heat and started bleeding all over the place. My poor sister followed her around with little doggy diapers, trying to stop the chaos. We've laughed and laughed at her. God, she was nuts.

In Florida, she was my companion, digging with me in the sand as I built gardens and schemed to plant our front yard with natives instead of grass. She chased a giant black snake (harmless) that was living in our yard until he finally bit her in disgust and left forever. We would walk around the neighborhood retention pond, and I'd watch the bald eagles circle overhead and hope they weren't mistaking her for a rabbit. One day we came upon a giant momma sandhill crane and her baby, and had to beat a swift retreat as she spread her wings and advanced threateningly at us. She entertained our many visitors and gorged herself on fallen avocados from our tree. I remember crying and her licking my tears as we struggled through the horrid conflicts in our church (and employer) that led us to leave and head back to the Ozarks.

Now, she's a sleepy old thing who spends her days snoozing and asking to go outside. She loves to bake herself (still) on the sidewalk, even in this awful heat. When she's had enough, she comes and scratches at the door. (She's peeled the paint and scratched that old door something awful. I can't believe I let her do that. I do.) She loves carrots and cheese and any other treat she can scam from the kitchen; she loves the kids, and they've learned to treat her gently and love her, though not like Aaron and I do. She still thinks of herself as a fearful watchdog, obliged to bark furiously at anyone with a uniform, wheels or fur of any kind, or a tendency not to move right along out of her field of vision. As far as she's concerned, everything within sight is her property. Stay off your yard, neighbor. I have a fat geriatric minpin who's a-gonna bark you to death.

I've never had another dog. Before we had kids, she was our baby. She slept in our bed until she couldn't leap up anymore; then she slept on the floor in our room, until she started making a regular habit of peeing on the carpet in the hall. We tried and tried to get her to quit, but finally had to install a baby gate and keep her downstairs with the hardwood floors. She sleeps on her bed or on the couch now, and is apparently untraumatized by the switch. I still miss her warm body pressed against my feet. (Okay, I don't miss the hair in the bed. At all.)

Anyway. Today Aaron called as I was parking at the grocery store. She'd fallen out of an armchair in some kind of fit, and her hind legs wouldn't work right and her head was twisted and held hard to the right. She was panting hard. He sat with her, helpless, and I called the vet. There's not much we can do, he said. She'll either stop or she won't. Could be a seizure, could be a stroke.

Then, forty minutes later, her head straightened, and a minute or two later, she shakily got to her feet and tottered off for a drink. Aaron watched in amazement.

My sister says a 40-minute seizure would probably kill a person. But within an hour afterward, she was wiggling greetings and kissing us and asking to go outside just like she always does. I gave her half a baby asprin, as the vet suggested, and we'll go in for an exam tomorrow to see if there's any way to pinpoint or prevent the cause.

Hanging out with Gracie at the grandparents'. 2008?

There could be more of these, one after another. There could never be another. We really have no idea. Has she had them before, when we were gone? Will she have more, alone, when we're out of the house? How scary.

My sweet old dog. I'm thinking through 13 years with her tonight.

I know no dog lives forever. But how much time do we have left?

Blazing.

2011-07-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

The sun's in overdrive. Blazing, blasting, relentless. I water my vegetables in our little plot at the new community garden, but my front yard plants are suffering with only their mulch to save them. There only seems to be time to water one thing, and I choose the veggies, dreaming of tomatoes and eggplants and squash that are only now beginning to form, slowly and reluctantly under this oppressive heat.

My summer's in overdrive too. Somehow, Gracie's second round of swimming lessons arrived today-- the "end of summer" session that I've been thinking of as the end of our season. Our Arkansas Virtual Academy supplies are en route via UPS to us, and I still don't have a schoolroom area cleared to put them in. My son's still not pottytrained, and he returns to preschool in just a month. (I really wanted to accomplish this, but we've been running hither and yon all summer. How, exactly, do you provide consistent and leisurely trips to the potty when you're always flying about from one place and activity to another? I'm stumped, and failing on this point.)

Life blazes along. "You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away." I struggle along attempting to provide food, clothing, shelter for my kids and husband... not that well, I might add. But do I provide love? Spiritual growth, depth, honesty? Do they know how much I love them? Do we read enough books, pray enough, laugh enough, look into each other's eyes enough?

How can I possibly be 37, married 13 years, nearly 20 years out of high school? How can Gracie be nearly 33% through her time at home with us?

Amazing. Exhilarating. Also, terrifying.

Thoughts at Q's naptime (3.25 years old)

2011-02-18T16:04:00.000-08:00

Oh, Q. My baby, my oh-so-big boy, and everything in between.

I just rushed upstairs at the sound of your tears, my heart pounding just a little even though I knew there was likely nothing seriously wrong. You'd woken from your nap, perhaps suddenly, and didn't like it. But a momma's heart is always just a bit terrified to hear her youngest crying.

I worry about you more than I do your sister, actually. Your reluctance to walk, talk, tell me your age, climb stairs alone, use a spoon regularly... all these things have given me pause. You, certainly, are not on your sister's timetable... your behavior as a 3-year-old is closer to hers as a 2-year-old. I know you're a boy, the youngest, and that these things slow you down a bit, and that she was and is a regular whirlwind of Grow Up AS Fast As Possible, but still. I wonder about you sometimes, about whether you'll catch up with your peers before kindergarten, about whether I'm doing enough to make sure you can.

I am also completely devoted to you and dazzled by you whether you do or not. You are smart and funny, a boy who could identify all the letters of the alphabet before he could say hardly any other words. You love the Cat In The Hat's new learning show, building things, making tunnels for your trains. You ask for fireworks every time we drive past the parking lot where we parked last fourth of July, and you cry if we drive past the turns that lead our car to Grammy's house. I know you're smart as a whip, in your own way.

I drive you to preschool every Tuesday and Thursday, and even after a few months, part of me still wants to back out of the parking lot and take you home with me. I love our mornings together, full of late-morning jammies and PBS shows and watching you haul your trains around as if they were dollies. But that preschool has connections to the school district therapists that will be giving you extra help soon, and I know that could be a boost in your development that you need. I know too that the structure and the social interaction there has already spurred you further, and that you're learning to follow directions, climb playground equipment, and socialize with other kids there. So I park the car, pull you and your alligator out of the back seat, and lead you in for your six hours away from home. It is usually a little sad for me to do it, though.

Anyway. Back to that crying you were doing.

I sat down on the bed, patted your back, asked if I could hold you, and you gratefully nodded, allowed me to scoop you up. You sit on my lap now to put your head on my shoulder, your long legs sticking out behind me. I wrapped my arms around you gently, and after a minute, your head sank onto my shoulder.

Just like we used to be, all those nights when I'd rock you to sleep after a feeding. Snuggled together, and your heart at peace because of it.

And my heart broke a little to hear your breathing lengthen almost immediately, your limbs growing heavier as you slipped back into your nap.

I laid you down and came back downstairs, thinking of the quote that is so true it's almost become a cliche:

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” -Elizabeth Stone

You are my heart, walking around outside my body. In the quiet of the just-us-two afternoon, I feel it so deeply. Sleep well, Quinton. Grow up healthy, strong, good, trusting, and brave. I will give my all to see that you get a chance to do so.

I heart Dan.

2011-02-11T23:08:00.000-08:00

If I lived near the Phoenix Commotion, I would be banging down the door to somehow help out with what they're doing. Generous, thrifty, creative, resourceful, FUNNY, and undeniably meaningful.

Single moms, low-income families, artists, strugglers. Come one, come all. Everybody can have their own house, rising from the ashes of the castoffs of our wasteful, foolish building industry.

Oh, how I love it. I've seen a brief video or two about Dan Phillips and his work months ago, but forgot the names involved. I stumbled across him again today via YouTube recommendations, and listened to his entire TED talk (available on the Phoenix Connections website).

Somebody hand me some goggles and show me how to use a power saw. I'm so in.

Happy New Year- 2010 in review

2011-01-01T18:38:00.000-08:00

I'm still here, still alive, just not posting much.

I picked this list of yearly questions up at a blog I've been reading for years. This is the first year I've answered them, but I found it helpful and hope to make it a yearly event. I may go back and alter a couple of these as I remember (or come up with) better answers, but I wanted to post it before it gets shunted to the back of my mind and forgotten.

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
This was strangely hard to answer at first. We didn't travel anywhere new, I didn't take up any new hobbies that I can recall... but there were a few firsts. I visited two children's museums for the first time. I threw a kids' birthday party (as in for kids, not for family/adults). We
attended Baker Seed's spring planting festival (which I will definitely repeat) and visited Laura Ingalls Wilder's home nearby in Mansfield, Missouri. I impersonated Martha Stewart (or possibly my mother!) and taught a group of women how to make snowball candles, candied apples, and frost sugar cookies. We opened Aaron's new office downtown, which was a ton of work but has been hugely rewarding. I weigh more than I ever have without being pregant. (sigh. more on that later.)

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? 

I don't remember if I had any official new year's resolutions, but I did intend to start exercising and get into better shape, and no, that has not happened. This year's resolutions include that, plus implementing some kind of household management schedule, using a calendar and to-do list so I don't forget important things, and teaching my daughter to read with the system we've owned for over a year. All of these are things that eat huge guilty holes in my self-image and my desire to interact with the world around me. It's time to make some changes and unshackle myself from these issues!

Smaller things, more desires than Life Needs:
Make the kids' room cute and less girly. (Quinton moved into Gracie's room, and it needs to be made theirs rather than her room with an extra bed.)
Build (or have built) the cold frames for the old windows I scored on freecycle so that we can try growing greens through the winter next year.
Get the $#%% window a/c removed from the dining room so that it can stop leaking cold air into our house during the winter.
Start finding or forming a community of women from my own church.
Clean the upstairs carpets, myself or by hiring someone.
Paint the kitchen.
Help Gracie learn to swim and conquer her weird fear of water in her eyes.
Continue to learn how to use essential oils effectively for my family's physical and emotional wellbeing.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? 

Friends, yes. Family, no.

4. Did anyone close to you die? 

No.

5. What countries did you visit?

None. 

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

A plan. That sounds funny, but this year was a bit of drifting along (in the slow times) and/or just managing to stay above water (during the crazy times). I'd like to tackle my responsibilities with a bit more forethought and deliberate action. Just a bit-- I'm no Type A personality. Just need a little less chaos.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

Late August, for putting Quinton into preschool, and Gracie starting ballet classes (my babies are growing up!).

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 

That's hard. I'm not sure I can name one. Survival? Keeping a Happy Face through my husband's busy season (aka Single Mom Era)?

9. What was your biggest failure?

I really wish I had taught Gracie to read by now, and that I had gotten busy on the fitness/weight loss thing this year. My lofty goals of feeding my family healthy food often fell by the wayside as I grabbed something quick and easy (and popular) to save myself hassle. I think I'll stop here, I'm not sure which is biggest and I don't want to create a Failure List.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Surprisingly little. I credit essential oils (yay!) and a lack of general activity (boo)-- ie if you don't move much, you're unlikely to injure stuff.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

We put central heat and air into our downstairs, which is fabulous; we scored a $100 swingset via Craigslist this fall that I think will serve us extremely well; and we bought a beautiful handcarved artisan rocking chair (again, secondhand via Craigslist) that I absolutely love.

12. Where did most of your money go?

See the paragraph above, especially the central heat and air bit.

13. What did you get really excited about?

That rocking chair. Quinton getting so enthralled with Christmas. Finding a friend who shares so much of my life outlook.

14. What song will always remind you of 2010?

The Twelve Days of Christmas was Gracie's hands-down favorite this season... I hope I never forget having to sing it over and over.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you: 
– happier or sadder? Not sure.
– thinner or fatter? A bit fatter, sadly.
– richer or poorer? Financially richer, I think. Not by much.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of? 

Lived with the electronics turned off. Read more books. Given Gracie more reading lessons. Made better use of my alone time to recharge my batteries and organize my thoughts (rather than, for example, playing bejeweled late at night on Facebook).

17. What do you wish you’d done less of? 

Bejeweled and Facebook. Watching the television. Sitting still.

18. How did you spend Christmas?

We had four Christmases this year: At my parents' the 23rd, at home alone on the 24th, Santa coming on the morning of the 25th, and then the big dinner with Aaron's family on the afternoon of the 25th. And then Aaron's mom came to town the 26th to visit. That's a bit nuts, isn't it?

19. What was your favorite TV program?

American Pickers, or Pawn Stars. I love stuff shows.

20. What were your favorite books of the year?

That one about the poor kids with the crazy parents.

21. What was your favorite music from this year? 

I can't remember a single thing. I don't listen to much grown-up music these days. I did love the Butterflyfish album (kids' music, but good enough for adults to enjoy too).

22. What were your favorite films of the year?

I am not film-centric; we watch a lot of films, but I generally forget their names quickly. I don't remember actors' names either. Um, How to Train your Dragon was really good...

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 36 in March. Um... I don't remember? I'm sure there was pineapple upside down cake at my mom's house involved... that's a yearly tradition.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

That health/weight loss thing I keep harping upon. Teaching Gracie to read.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

Um... If It's Semi-Clean, I'll Wear It. I Hope I Didn't Wear This To Church Last Week. My fashion situation is pretty dismal at the moment.

26. What kept you sane?

Coffee. Knitting. Friendships with other moms in this phase of life. God's love.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010. 

I hope I've learned it: Nobody can or will make me change except me.

Split personality.

2010-03-20T22:11:00.000-07:00

I should probably mention that I'm writing in multiple places.

I may be overambitious here, but I decided recently that I should start making more of an effort to categorize my writing a bit. I'm using two other blogger/blogspot blogs now:

Rootsome (this one) contains my most personal writing- things for and about my kids and family, mostly. (You're welcome to read, but my primary intention is to make sure that I'm writing a little about this phase of life for my kids to read when they're older.)

Fuzzy's Finds started out as a blog connected to my Etsy shop, but it has morphed into a linkfest of whatever I think is cool-- products, home ideas, simple living, essential oils, etc etc. It's a mishmash, but it's MY mishmash.

Finally, Hickory Hill House is now being used as a repository for my house and garden musings.

I'm pretty sure this is spreading myself too thin, postwise, but I can't choose just one of these areas to focus in; I really do want to write about all three. Feel free to read only what interests you!

Late bloomer, full speed ahead.

2010-02-19T21:56:00.000-08:00

My two-year-old's been saying yes ("essss!") for a year or more, but just yesterday morning, he began to use its antonym for the first time.

Yep, that's right. I have a toddler so sweet and accommodating that he hasn't bothered to say "no" to his mama-- or anyone else-- for the first 2.25 years of his life. Now, we've heard him say plenty of other words, so we knew it wasn't a matter of ability... more a matter of motivation, I think. What burning issue drew the negative from his lips, you ask? A dire situation: I wanted to pull him up and out of his crib, and he had other plans. "No," he said gently, smiling, waving his feet at me.

Translation: No leaving the crib until These Little Piggies is performed on each foot.

Am I wondrously blessed or what? Naturally we did the Piggy Ritual before exiting the crib, and came on downstairs. Later on when I turned on the Netflix On Demand and began paging through our queued kids' movies, the word was used again, clear as day: As each video came to the foreground, he seriously but softly gave me his verdict. "No." "No." "No." When we stopped at one of the Thomas the Train videos, hopping, squealing, and flapping replaced the negative, with his adorable approximation of train sounds: "Chi Chi! Whoa Whoa!!"

My heart swells with love for this little boy. He's taken his time, but since he finally started walking just after his second birthday, there's been no stopping him.

He's growing like a weed, adding words every day (Today, his first sentence: "Ducks, PLEASE!" to his Poppop, begging for a golf cart ride to go see the course's ducks. Again, my heart: first sentence includes the word PLEASE?? How did I deserve such a sweetheart of a child?)

My baby suddenly has little-boy interests and passions: legos, trains, construction equipment, letters. He's a committed vegetarian, diving happily into his spaghetti tonight while expertly spitting out every last bit of meat that we tried to sneak into the sauce. He kicks his shoes off endlessly in the grocery store cart, laughing me when I groan and bend to pick them up AGAIN. He rests his head in my hand at the dinner table, a gentle moment of love before he proceeds to cover himself and everything within arm's reach with his dinner. He still prowls the house in search of letters, both his magnetic fridge treasures and any letter he can spot on a book, magazine, or piece of mail. "O! P! X!" he screams, pointing a hand nearly shaking with joy at the proper letter.

Oh, my goodness, I am so proud of him. After his surgery, his misdiagnosed infection, his slowed growth, his poor botched circumcision, his eczema, his milk allergies... he's been slow to take off, to really show us the Quinton that's been hidden underneath all these struggles and his contented nature. At last, though, he's starting to rip the curtain away, chortling and squealing and racing around with glee as he does so.

What a fella. And what a soft spot I have for him.

I am sad (in more ways than I can quite articulate) to lose my little baby, but this little boy that's emerging is so fascinating, so special. Onward we go... lead us into your next adventures, buddy. We'll be cheering you on.

Thoughts at Sleep Times.

2009-11-15T21:03:00.000-08:00

Little eyelids droop, flutter, and drop. A moment later, she's gone. I watch her, listen to her breath as it lengthens and steadies. Four inches from her, her long legs touching mine, she finally (FINALLY!) starts her nap, and I marvel. Did really I give birth to this beautiful creature? How is it that seven pounds of mewling baby turned into this?

****

Six hours later, there's another sweet warm body next to mine, this one stockier, plumper, and almost comically earthy. Our relationship is often all about this little body: the Foods He Likes (cheddar bunnies, cheerios, bananas), the diapers he fills, the sleep he needs. But tonight, for a few moments, he leaves his body behind, flops backward onto the bed with a grin as we bring out the board books: Feel the Baby Animals, Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, and the ultimate: One Duck Stuck.

We read, point, flip pages. He grins with delight most at the pages that are most familiar, the comments he expects me to make each time we reach them. But when I ask him if he's ready for "RockaRocka", he grins bigger. "KKKK," he says firmly (meaning "OK"), reaching for my arms before I'm quite ready to pick him up.

We settle down into the glider, and his heavy little head nestles into my shoulder. He's big now; his legs are almost comically folded up underneath him so that his trunk can be as close to me as possible. I wrap my arms around this strong little fella, his broad chest and chunky legs, and again, I stop and steep in the moment.

****

They are so very mine right now: mine to feed, diaper, nap, clothe, reclothe, tote around town. Mine to read to, sing to, walk with, eat with, train, teach, cajole, force, bandage, mourn with. I'm an introvert, and there are moments, even as I exult in their love, their innocence and sweetness and joy as they pile on me like puppies, I sometimes at the same moment feel a bit smothered, a bit Never Alone. Oh my word, what I would give at times for a day or three to myself, with books and yarn and a fountain pen and camera and all those things I used to have time to enjoy.

But then I think about those tiny veins in her eyelids, and the way her long eyelashes wave up and down like little surrender flags as she gives in to sleep.
And I think about his grin as he gleefully sticks his tiny finger into my ear canal for the thousandth time, delighting in watching me cringe and squeal and pull it away.
And I think about how proud I am that he's finally decided he wants to walk, and that she's almost sure to be reading before she even starts kindergarten, and how excited I am to be there for the next steps on their journeys.

And really, this is exactly where I want to be.

(As long as there's hot tea and an hour or two of peace and quiet available each night.)

Out with the old (and cold).

2009-09-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

Last week, my aunt gave us a steal of a deal on a fancy nearly-new "french door" refrigerator.

It's fantastic. It has an icemaker and a water dispenser, which we were lacking; it works better spacewise for our small kitchen; and it puts fruits and vegetables at my daughter's eye level, which has already been much better for her food requests. I love it. (Okay, I would love it a little bit more if it were a black Big Chill. But you can't have everything you want in life.)

Despite the windfall of a nearly-new fancypants fridge, though, I feel even happier about how we came to rid ourselves of the old fridge. After a week on Craigslist and several days on a local "bargain hour" on an AM radio station, I hadn't had a single bite. Odd, when I was asking less than $150 for the fridge, I thought. I found a local thrift shop that would take it, then posted a rather desperate request on the local Freecycle group for someone with a truck to come and help me move it there.

I heard back from several people who wanted to take it for free, and I resisted, until a shy woman called and told me reluctantly that their fridge had just gone out, ruining all their food. She has three kids, and can't afford the prices at rent-a-center. Could she possibly pay me $25 for mine instead-- on Friday?

I love the thrill that comes with a God Moment. They're not that common, hard to describe, hard to relate without sounding a little kooky. But I didn't even hesitate when this woman made her shy request. Something that I believe is the Spirit within me lept up and all but shouted in my head: YES. GIVE IT TO HER. It was out of my mouth before I even thought about it.

She was at our house within thirty minutes, beaming, a friend helping her load it onto the truck. Will she come back Friday with the promised $25? It doesn't even matter.

I had a fridge clogging up my life, looking trashy on my front porch. She had hungry kids with no place to store food for them.

Done deal. So satisfying, to be used to meet an unknown need like that. I just love it.

Give your balloons to the Lord.

2009-05-20T07:50:00.001-07:00

This morning, as Q's eating breakfast in the kitchen and I'm putzing about with yarn swaps in the dining room:

Gracie appears with her prized pink heart helium baloon tied to her foot. "Okay, Mom, I'm ready for God."

I have her repeat herself a couple of times to make sure I'm hearing her right. Then I ask why she has her balloon tied to her foot.

"Well, I just want to make sure I can give it to him for a present. I want to give Him a nice present."

I'm now being instructed to pray/write messages to God and Jesus all over the balloon.

I'll take pictures and post them once we get finished.

(She was very persistent about this project, and a few days after we wrote on it, we released it in the front yard so that it could go "up to God". It's probably a momma thing, but I'm fascinated with her heart and her thinking about this. I did not prompt any of the messages on the balloon-- she dictated every one.

I want to give you a present, Jesus and God.

Also these are great:
pbskids.org
go.disney.com/princess

I love you, God and I love you, Jesus. And thank you for our food and macaroni and cheese.

~~

Thank you
I'm going to bring it (my money) to church for you and put it in the box.
I love the Fairies: Iridessa, Silvermist, Fawn, and Tinkerbell.
I want to give this balloon to God because I love Him. Now!

Love, Gracie
)

Why an Old House?

2009-04-05T21:28:00.000-07:00

Why do I want to live in an old house? People ask that sometimes (or imply it with their eyes, as they see our somewhat chaotic life as we work to restore and update this home that we've chosen). I thought I'd take a little time and list some of my favorite details about this place. (I'd hoped to make it to 100, but I just don't have the stamina tonight.)

In absolutely no particular order.

1. I love the aesthetics of older rooms. Wood floors, big mullioned windows, higher ceilings. There's something peaceful about their spaces.
2. I love living WITHOUT homeowners' associations, because I'm an untidy yard person. Nobody's going to sniff at me if I leave my hose lying out in the side yard. If there's a bag of egg cartons on the front porch swing waiting to go to church (for a member's neighbor who sells eggs), nobody will be horrified. I do not have to water or weed my "lawn" or spray it with chemicals to keep the neighbors from being terrified of its dandelions. There is freedom in that for me.
3. We live on a steep hillside, but my backyard has a perfect garden-sized terrace built into it, because everyone used to grow their own vegetables. All I had to do was kill a little "grass" (see #2) and plant.
4. Our view. This was one of the first houses in the area, and we gaze over valleys in three directions. It's not a grand vista, but it's charming to have a little elbow room around us.
5. Our walls. Solid wood, 1" thick, where drywall would be in a modern house. Beat that for sound and weather insulation.
6. Our hooks and nails. Wherever I find a need to hang a robe, a cleaning brush, a picture, a plant... there's almost always a nail or hook already there to fill the need. And not just a boring modern robe hook, but a lovely patina'd wire one, full of character, or a chrome Art Deco model, sleek and striking. Makes me grin.
7. The flowers. The original owner was a hardware store owner, his wife a dedicated gardener. Come spring, our yard erupts with hundreds of pink hyacinths, daffodils, and some truly giant ancient shrubbery-- lilacs, a pink dogwood, and a giant fuschia azalea. It's gorgeous and fragrant, fodder for some truly amazing bouquets.
8. Mr. Perme's modifications. The second owner of the house was a WWII carpenter, and when something was in his way, he cheerfully altered it. The bottom stair to the basement, positioned to bang your shin terribly, has been rounded and sanded to avoid just that. A low ceiling beam in the porch's crawlspace has a notch cut out of it-- just tall enough, I imagine, for Mr. Perme to move through the space without cracking his head. Two closets were added upstairs (absolutely vital for modern life). A giant bookshelf was built in the dining room. The basement is full of wooden shelving, benches, worktables. I think Mr. Perme regularly as I move through the house-- we would never have time or attention to add all this ourselves.
9. The backyard's circular flower bed, ringed with a low wall of stones and cement, that I plan to someday make very useful (strawberries) or very beautiful (flowers).
10. Over an acre and a half.
11. The wild purple flowers that bloom in the thicket's shrubs on the side lot in the spring. I don't know what they are, but they're beautiful.
12. A neighbor who gardens and hangs out clothes on a clothesline and loves their old house like we love ours.
13. An enclosed back porch that makes a perfect playroom; the kids can play there, or bring their toys into the living areas, just a few feet from where I am in the living room or kitchen.
14. Old windows with wavy glass that we can easily repair ourselves. We've already repaired (okay, my husband has skillfully repaired) at least half a dozen of the old sashes, and the windows go from being impossibly heavy to lift to being able to raise and lower them with just a few fingers. We can replace broken glass, even repair rotten wood in the frames, easily, without having to replace entire windows. Incredibly sustainable. (Yes, they leak some heat and cold. It's worth it.)
15. The "E.P." childishly painted in a pseudo-stained glass "work of art" in the upper panes of Evelyn Perme's old bedroom. It's hidden by a valance, and I'm not sure I'll ever want it removed. It tells a story.
16. The smallest windows in the house are on the west and east sides, to shield the house from the freezing old and blazing sun. The largest windows are on the south side, to bring in light and heat in the winter, and light without heat in the summer. Every bedroom but one has windows on two walls, which makes arranging furniture a challenge but lets in wonderful breezes and air when the windows are opened. Double-hung windows will let cool air in the lower openings while letting hot air flow out the upper openings. Wonderful "green" design from 90 years ago.
17. Because of all this thoughtful design, and the fact that our living space is all downstairs and our bedrooms all upstairs, we've learned that the house is entirely livable 95% of the time without any heat or a/c on the upper floor. Enough heat rises in the winter to keep us cool, but not cold (as is good for health and good sleep); enough night air can be drawn in through the upstairs windows with fans in the summer to keep us cool enough to sleep. It's amazing, but I see no need to invest big bucks to install ductwork and a climate control system. 5% of the year, we're uncomfortable. That's a tiny amount.
18. The "J.O. Wilson, March 7, 1920" written in the concrete of the garden retaining wall. The original owner, leaving his mark. (The house was four years old by then; I think the date represents the day the concrete was poured...?)
19. The low stone wall on the south side of the house, lined with hundreds of iris plants that erupt in bloom twice a year.
20. The double-drainboard cast iron sink on its metal cabinet in the kitchen.
21. A cool basement for keeping potatoes and onions and such. (We're trying to grow our own this year and will need a place to store them.)
22. Wiring and plumbing that's simple and straightforward, and made of higher-quality materials than can now be bought at any normal price.
23. Insulation board that Mr. Perme has crammed into every imaginable crack and orifice of the basement and back porch. I'm sure it's part of why our utility bills are so reasonable-- but he was obviously obsessed.
24. The pull chains on the bare-bulb fixtures in the original closets upstairs, which turn on and off with such a smooth, flawless motion after 90 years. (I compare these to one modern one we have-- it's cheap, flimsy plastic and has to be pulled so hard that I'm afraid I'm going to break it each time I need to use it.)
25. The medicine cabinet oddly installed on the back porch, which has never been a bathroom. What on earth did they need to store there?
26. Woodwork that's heavy, thick, and elegant, on every window and baseboard and doorframe of the house.
27. The "pass-through" hole in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, created by Mr. Perme when he got sick of bringing the telephone from one room to another via the doorway. (According to their daughter Evelyn, Mrs. Perme was NOT home when he knocked a hole in her kitchen wall, and she was NOT pleased when she returned.)
28. Mail delivered to the mailbox on our porch railing, rather than in a box out on the street.
29. A big front porch swing.
30. Big, big, big oak trees surrounding the house-- but not overhanging it. I especially appreciate the shade and privacy they provide in the summer.
31. A hook by the front door that's just right for a holiday wreath, and little cup hooks installed all along the front porch that hold a string of Christmas lights perfectly.
32. Our little one-car garage, made of local stone with the original tin tile roof still intact. (Now, I do wish we still had a door on that garage, but I guess one can't have everything...)
33. Gutters that feed directly into underground drains that dump rainwater far away from the house.
34. Concrete borders built on either side of narrow beds flanking the sidewalk leading to our front door: a perfect planting bed for hostas.
35. Old windows, hinges, window locks, panes of wavy glass, light fixtures, etc, all carefully preserved in the basement and shed.
36. A heavy old metal window fan, a gift from the Permes when we bought the house, that is strong enough to pull cool air in from every window upstairs on summer nights.
37. An old wood-handled flathead screwdriver, fished out of a window, that somehow works better for the old screws in our hardware and doorknobs.
38. Layers of linoleum and contact paper in the kitchen cabinet that tells the story of decades of decor changes. I'd never remove those.
39. Sweet pea vines that spring up, wild and crazy, and cover areas of the yard with blooms and fragrance in the summer. They're messy, but I can't bring myself to remove them yet.
40. Old glass storm windows on the playroom windows, that multiply the wavy-paned effect and make the room swim with light.
41. Rabbits that live in the thicket on the side lot and occasionally appear in our yard, nibbling clover. (I may change my mind about those rabbits now that we're trying to grow vegetables...)
42. Marbles dug up when we planted the hostas in the front yard: evidence of children playing on the sidewalk, long ago.
43. Oak floors downstairs, which refinished beautifully.
44. Original pine floors upstairs with lovely gaps between the boards because of their age. (Most of those floors are carpeted now for the childraising years, but someday, we'll refinish the rest of them too.)
45. A beautiful staircase with original dark wood on the railing and newel posts. I love how the finish on the posts is worn by the hundreds of hands that have rubbed against them as their owners traveled up and down the stairs.
46. Stairs that are markedly shallower than standard stair sizes today-- making them easier for little feet (and someday, old joints) to maneuver.
47. Funky old chrome handles on the kitchen cabinets.
48. Pocket doors on the living room and pantry doorways that still slide perfectly after all this time.
49. Old clown wallpaper on the back porch playroom's walls. I'll have to replace this soon, as it's getting fragile and discolored, but I love that it was obviously a child's place long ago, just as it is now.
50. A big, deep old cast iron tub in the bathroom, perfect for soaking.
51. A chimney that runs up the center of the house, with the perfect vent spot for a woodstove in the dining room already there. (Should we ever decide to invest in that.)
52. Flocks of bird visitors to our little feeders.
53. A front porch that's broad and deep enough for chairs and even a dining table, with broad concrete railings perfect for sitting on as well.
54. The beautiful original wallpaper still showing in my closet, and the unpainted original dark wood still visible on the trim inside the closets upstairs. Someday we WILL refinish the doors at least, to show off a bit of that beautiful wood that's underneath the paint.
55. Sturdy wooden ceilings that allowed my husband to hang my HEAVY choice of a dining room light fixture without ripping out ceilings to install additional bracing in the proper spot.
56. Soundproofing by the solid wooden doors and walls. So total, it's hard to hear my children crying from another room if their doors are closed. (Bad thing now, good thing in a few years!)
57. Windows that let in sunlight all day long, creating pools of warmth for my little old dog who loves to sleep in them. You can always find her on the east side of the house in the morning, the south in the afternoon...
58. The heavy cotton curtains decorated with Egyptians that are hanging over the utility shelving on the back porch. I wonder if they've been there since the US's Egyptian fad in the 1920s.
59. The little bars of soap I keep finding stashed in odd corners, even years after we moved in. Mrs. Perme's idea of air fresheners, I imagine... we find another one occasionally, like magic, even though we've certainly been over every inch of every closet already.
60. The giant glass bottle with pump sprayer that we found in the garage. It's perfect for spraying liquid fertilizer, and I love how it looks sitting on the old shelf in there.
61. The hilarious-but-very-useful utility shutoff valves that have been installed into the beautiful (but leaky) original exposed plumbing in our shower. It's very handy to be able to shut off the shower flow without adjusting the temperature knobs, but more than that, I love the sheer fuction-over-form ugliness of it: practical Mr. Perme strikes again, I'm sure.
62. The currently unused water cistern below the kitchen windows. It's dry and covered with concrete pavers and a birdbath right now, but should I ever get brave enough to fashion myself a rainwater catchment system, I have the perfect vessel right there to hold it.
63. A pole I just discovered this month near the garden. It probably used to support a clothesline, but will be perfect for me to mount a tall pole with my future bat house on it. (Bats eat thousands of mosquitoes every night, and that is probably my least favorite thing about this house... we are hounded by mosquitoes every evening here.

Whew, what a list. I'm sure no one is still reading at this point, and that's okay. It was lovely for my state of mind to write all this out. I'm feeling very blessed.

...those are also #27-90 of my gratitude items, because I've been grateful for each and every one of these old-house quirks as we've lived our lives in this home for the past two-plus years.

Thanks, J.O. and Mrs Wilson. Thanks, Perme family. You've prepared a lovely home for my family.

We are happy here.

We must have people over for dinner more often.

2009-03-26T22:07:00.000-07:00

The toys are picked up.
The paper clutter's off the dining room table.
I MOPPED the downstairs today with a spare 20 minutes I had.
The bottom of the kitchen sink is even visible.

Is it possible for both of us, at once, to have had a little bit of the winter housebound blues this past month or so?

Things are different now, though. The daffodils are blooming, the garden's in the front of my mind (where it does not belong until taxes are filed), we've been swinging on the front porch and playing with the kids after dinner, and the whole world seems filled with promise.

My little boy's saying "I touch it!" and "Adda" (daddy?) and "bye-bye-bye" and getting closer to walking every day. He takes my breath away with the cuteness. My girl is becoming more and more a companion, and a fascinating and fun one at that.

It's a good evening to be in my own skin, is what I'm sayin'.

I'd rather be knitting.

2009-03-04T19:44:00.000-08:00

Darn.

I logged in, opened this page, hoping to write, and realized:

There are too many things to record, moments to share, discontents, hopes, fears, joys, worries. I sit in front of the keyboard and am helpless amongst the swirl. How do I pick which one to focus on? (When I try to write about a little of everything, it turns into a list, not a piece of writing, and then nobody's satisfied, most of all me.)

Swirl. Swirl.

Oh, forget it. I'm going to go knit on that sweater.

27) Knitting, which is mindless yet productive, giving both time to reflect and new challenges to overcome, and which provides me hours of entertainment and a sense of community at ravelry.com.

Speaking of community... (Look! The swirling cloud has parted! Something's emerging!) Here's a little topic that's on my mind:

How do you, as a parent, navigate the confusing waters of forging friendships with other moms? I want my daughter to have regular playmates, but darn it, I also want to feel secure that I am genuinely liked by their parents. My previous incarnation as Working Ministry Wife meant that I pretty much haven't needed to MAKE new friends for myself in years (as the church and my job always brought people into my life fairly naturally).

However, there seems to be no natural way to meet other toddlers and their moms when I'm raising two at home, putting them down for naps every afternoon, and then doing the dinner/bedtime boogie once they wake up at 4pm. Our church has exactly one other toddler in it, but for some reason, that mom does not seem to interested in anything deeper than a Sunday relationship. (I play the Insecure Mom Mantra in my head when I start trying to figure that out: Is My Kid Ugly to Her Kid? Is My House Too Dirty? Am I Too Dull or Ugly or Unwashed or Old or Sinful or Condescending? Did I insult her without knowing it? Am I somehow UnFriendWorthy? I know of no way to get an honest answer to that question, or even of how to ask it without sounding like the pitiful nerdy kid in youth group who everyone had to be friends with because it was the Christian thing to do even though he was about as interesting as a used toothbrush.)

I want good friends to share coffee with while our toddlers run amuck in our houses. I had that once, back before I had a toddler; she'd come over, I'd brew the coffee and stick in the Superman videos, and we'd laugh and ponder and pray and chat all morning. She let me convert her to Lasagna Gardening and the lust of Other People's Organic Material, and we spent hours lugging home bags of leaves and grass clippings for our gardens. I went to the hospital with her during the late-night scares of her second pregnancy, and took off work for days to help when she came home with him (and a giant spinal headache from the epidural). I'm realizing now that it was, perhaps, the best friendship I've ever had, and possibly the best I'll ever know in this life.

Given that I still have fifty years or so left on the earth, that's rather disheartening.

There is no ToddlerMama Support Group type meeting in this town, as far as I can find. I have no time to join organizations based on my interests (knitting, historic preservation, the arts, etc) to meet women I'd mesh with. Leaving our beloved little church to attend big churches with lots of toddler families doesn't seem right either. I mean, I love our little church. I generally hate the big ones, and the ones who have delusions of bigness. I'm afraid that, to have a big enough pool to find the kind of friends I'd like to have, I would have to belong to a church that would make my stomach churn on Sunday morning. (Surely that's not God's idea of a healthy spiritual situation.)

All I really know to do is to pray my pitiful little used-toothbrush prayer to One who knows how insecure and isolated I'm feeling about this. Here is my heart's great need. I lay it down there, and just keep going through our days, hoping that less lonely ones lie ahead.

The Ice Storm cometh.

2009-01-26T19:19:00.001-08:00

I'm shivering a little, either from my nasty sore throat/sinus illness or from the weather creeping into our home through the dining room window to my right.

The forecast is grim:

Tonight...Sleet in the evening. Light freezing rain. No snow accumulations. Ice accumulations around one half of an inch. Lows in the mid 20s. Temperatures nearly steady after midnight. East winds 5 to 10 mph. The chance of precipitation 90 percent.

Tuesday...Light freezing rain. Ice accumulations of one half to three quarters of an inch. Highs in the upper 20s. Temperatures steady or slowly falling. North winds 5 to 10 mph. The chance of precipitation 90 percent.

Tuesday Night...Sleet...light freezing rain likely and a chance of snow in the evening...then a slight chance of snow and sleet after midnight. Snow accumulations up to 2 inches. Ice accumulations of up to one quarter of an inch. Lows around 17. Northwest winds 5 to 10 mph. The chance of precipitation 70 percent in the evening...decreasing to 20 percent after midnight.

So... if my math is accurate... we can expect to have up to four inches of frozen mess on our hands, only two of that snow. May God freeze most of it on the way down, before it hits our trees and power lines. Right now, the metallic sound of heavy sleet is positively welcome.

If I were not so shivery, I would love to write more. But I must go brew more tea.

22) Sleet hitting my window instead of freezing rain tonight.
23) A dry, warm (okay, warm-away-from-the-windows) home to shield my family from that sleet.
24) A husband who'll be home from work for the next couple of days to help with the kids, which will keep me from losing my mind as we're holed up in here all together.
25) For Grammy, who turns 63 today. Her birthday dinner here was postponed, but we are still celebrating her. A tremendous gift, to enjoy my mother-- merry, helpful, loving, and hospitable to extremes-- on a daily basis, just a phone call or a short drive away. I am hugely thankful that my kids will grow up knowing her well and loving her so deeply.
26) Hot tea on cold nights and sore throats.

I never do these things.

2009-01-05T11:00:00.001-08:00

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
My middle name, Virginia, is the middle name of both my grandmothers.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
This is embarassing... about an hour ago. I listen to a country music station when frozen stuff or tornadoes are about, because it's the best local weather source we have. Today there was a song on it about a little girl growing up, and her Daddy weathering the difficult times... sleepless newborn nights, leaving her at preschool despite her tears, teenager era, etc... I'm helpless against this sappy kind of stuff now that I have babies of my own.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
It used to be fine, but now that I hardly write anymore, it's getting pretty sloppy. I wonder if it'll be antiquated and quaint to handwrite things someday, like calligraphy is now.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
I actually do like Petit Jean bologna more than just about anything. I hate turkey or ham if its slimy, but like it if it's dryish and smoked and sliced thin.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
Two. One of each, three and one year old.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
I hope so. I can be hard to get to know, though, and I worry that I'm thoughtless or neglectful of my friendships. So maybe I wouldn't?

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
I hope not.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
I do.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Not now that I have kids. Roller coasters are about as death-defying as I'm willing to get now that I have two little dependants.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Homemade granola, or Cracklin' Oat Bran. I rarely have either because I cannot stop eating them if they're around.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Not if I can avoid it.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Emotionally/spiritually, yes. Physically, ha.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Mint chocolate chip, or homemade vanilla w/ fresh peaches. I'm not a huge ice cream person.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Where their eyes go.

15. RED OR PINK?
Red.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
My ability to distract myself from things I truly need to accomplish. (this is a fine example of that ability; I have QuickBooks waiting for me right now.)

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Jen Dove. And my sister's true self.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO DO THIS?
I don't really care. But it would be interesting to read.

19. WHAT COLOR SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Black mary jane Dr. Martens.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
french-pressed coffee made from husband-roasted beans. Superb.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The sweet sound of silence. My kids are at Grammy's.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
eggplant. (Is that a crayon color? Dark dark purple, I mean.)

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Coffee. baking bread. clean baby. clean sheets. my grandmother's house. rain. the Buffalo River.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
My haircutter. My hair, it is suddenly in sad, grown-out, lifeless shape. She is going to rescue me.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
I got this from Kim, who I like very much, although I've never met her.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
I will watch the Arkansas Razorbacks if I am with someone who is a fan. I can become a fan by osmosis (and alumni status) for short periods. Other than that, I'm entirely indifferent.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Dark brown, shot through with more and more silver these days.

28. EYE COLOR?
Green/blue.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Not usually. I have contacts, but I mostly just wear them for dress-up. My glasses are my everyday wear.

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
GOOD pad thai. Indian curries. Recipes from Crescent Dragonwagon and America's Test Kitchen.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Documentaries, actually, which usually are neither of those.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
"The Queen." interesting but also slowmoving.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Blue

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Winter.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Depends on who from.

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Tiramisu from the long-defunct Pianalto's. (sigh.)

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
no idea.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
no idea.

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
"The Red Tent" by Diamant.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Don't have a mouse pad.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
"The Queen." (We don't have cable and our antenna picks up three spectacularly cruddy stations-- so we don't watch a lot of tv on the tv. We do download a few things on the computers.)

42. FAVORITE SOUND?
My little boy's happy babbling.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Geographically, central Europe.
Culturally, a shantytown in a dry riverbed/junkyard in Mexico.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I used to bake and write and decorate pretty well, when I have the time. Time is rare these days, so those abilities are fading. I can, however, drop off to sleep at a moment's notice, in almost any location or position. Oh, and I love to customize databases. LOVE IT.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Arkansas

47. WHAT ARE YOU BAKING NEXT?
Nothing anytime soon... we're trying to drop some pounds.

48. DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR FIRST LOVER IS?
Yes.

49. WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING RIGHT NOW?
Cooling coffee. Need a warmup.

50. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Anybody's. Everybody's.

Open windows in January.

2009-01-03T21:35:00.000-08:00

...and that's not on the computer, folks. I'm sitting here in bare feet, with breezes blowing through my downstairs, and it's nearly midnight. It got up to 77 degrees today, just three hours south of here (which is our nearest TV station in this state, believe it or not, and our source of info when we're at mom and dad's-- we don't have cable or a strong enough antenna to pick up legitimate TV station signals).

Wow. 2009 already. I remember imagining myself at 26, when 2000 would arrive, and thinking that was so far away. What happened?

Our gal has a new dollhouse, a new playhouse/supermarket thing ($15 on Amazon! SCORE), and a new tiny little Ariel doll which is apparently superior to them both (sigh. I can prohibit the movie, but I can't keep Santa from bringing an Ariel doll when it's the ONLY thing she wants in all the world).

(like all these parentheses? It's called LAZY WRITING. If I had time, I'd go through this, editing carefully so I could include all the info while removing 90% of the parentheticals. I won't. Suck it up and stumble through figuring out what I'm saying, please. Time alone in a quiet house is rare, and I won't spend it editing tonight.)

Our fella has... well, a huge multicolored dragon that has yet to leave the living room. A set of MegaBlocks, which he does seem to like in a chewy sort of fashion. An Oball. Not much else. This is the Christmas year of I Love Wrapping Paper for him, after all, and most all of his one-year-old toy needs are met by his big sister's stash.

Me? The best dining room chandelier in all the world, ALREADY INSTALLED. (cue hosts of angels triumphant here) A restored vintage stove, which we continue to believe (what amazing faith we have!) will be delivered in the near future. A WoodWick candle (candleish joy for those with no fireplace of their own), a scholarly book on the Ozarks which has turned out to be rather outdated and dull, and a gift card for Barnes and Noble, already spent in the clearance bins for next year's niece and nephew birthdays.

Last year we took time to think through the Advent season with friends and Andrew Peterson's Christmas album, and it was fabulous. Husband performed some of that music at church, which further connected us to the deeper side of the holiday. I bowed out of giftgiving and cardsending, having a new baby to tend to night and day. It was refreshing.

This year was a bit too much about Santa and a bit too little about Christ, in my opinion. I'd like next year to be a little more thoughtful, a little less frantic. But that's okay. One good thing about the years flying by is that I know that we'll be upon the next holiday season before too long, and I'll have another shot and doing it more meaningfully.

Other goingson...

We're resisiting the urge to resist the cliche, and bowing to our shared desire to eat well and exercise beginning this week. There's a reason this happens for so many people in January... brimfull of baked goods and chocolate, sated with sauces and stuffings and Santa-shaped chocolate-dipped marshmallows and such, we're ready to strip the intake down to the bare minimums, enjoy some cleansing.

I must learn QuickBooks. Like, now. Our taxes depend on it, and I'm 12 months behind logging our expenses in this new business venture already. Eek.

21. Her songs.

2008-12-16T20:44:00.000-08:00

Oh, how I love this girl.

Thirteen months.

2008-12-11T22:36:00.000-08:00

You are over one year old now, sweet fella. I can hardly believe that. It seems like just a few weeks ago that I was nursing you in our chair, the copper leaves glowing on the oaks outside, as I ached for your struggling kidney and learned your face and the feel of your dear sweet body in my arms. You still lay in my arms for a while each night before bedtime, but now your arms and legs splay out from my body; you're so very big, but still we settle in for some nursing and a bottle, rocking in the dark. You are still my baby, just an evergrowing and everchanging one.

You're crawling now, at last, a sweet grabby little belly-slither that isn't quite perfected but nonetheless gets you where you'd like to go. Where do you most like to go? To our feet, to be picked up and snuggled in our arms. Your contentedness with our arms (and your bouncer, and exersaucer) is doubtless some of the reason that movement's coming late to you. And that's fine. All in due time, buddy. At your own pace.

We x-rayed your head at your checkup this week, just to make sure you did have teeth. They're in there, taking their time just as your movement is, hanging out, slow to appear. In the meantime, you're managing to eat an amazing array of food without teeth. Prunes; crackers; chopped chicken; cooked veggies. No problem for my fella! Gums of Steel!

Your laugh has two sounds to it: a lovely gravelly huh-huh-huh, and when you're seriously tickled at something, a lovely inbreath of a squeak. The squeak developed first, and the huh-huh followed a few months later, and both of them can make me breathless with love for you. You smile often, your eyes dancing with what looks like mischief.

Twenty pounds, six ounces. Three months ago, you were thirteen pounds. Apparently you needed some extra calories; we added some formula to your diet, and you've grown like a weed ever since. I'm so proud of your chubby little legs and your round little face now. It feels like we've conquered this together (along with your surgery, along with that nasty scalp infection last spring). You've been through a lot, little guy, and you just keep marching on, overcoming your hurdles and impressing the heck out of me. Out of all of us, actually.

Your hair was black when you were born, and you were almost bald for a little while, but now you're growing in a spiky, cowlicked head of dark blonde or light brown hair. Your once-blue eyes are turning brown, the same lovely deep brown that your daddy has. Your feet are still a little small (or is it that your sister's are huge and I'm unaccustomed to normal feet?). Your head seems big, since hats for your age group generally are too small for you.

The past month has been chaotic at our house; your mom and dad decided to remove some ugly paneling and add some drywall to parts of the house, and our world's been covered in drywall dust and mud splatters and primer and paint and (tomorrow, thank God) new carpet and re-installed moldings. You've hardly noticed; you soldier on, hanging out with us in the safe areas of the house, walking through the chaos just to get to bed. I sure hope that we're in this house for many many years, and that you'll ask someday to see pictures of how funky and dated this house was when we bought it, and be amazed.

Things you love: Your grammy and aunt Leigh. Your sister, always, even when she's bossing you around. Our sweet Clairedog. Being outside whenever possible. Toys. (No particular favorite, but you can sit with a basketful of toys for quite a while, playing with one and then another.) You love Cheerios, but seem to love pureed food and cereal a bit more, flapping and cooing with enthusiasm when we sit down with a bowl to feed you. Oh, and television, most especially the Fraggles DVDs at Grammy's house. Your binky (just like your sister at your age, one is absolutely required for bedtime). And always, always, you love to be held, love your milk (both kinds), and love your momma most of all.

And I eat that up. You are such a blessing, Quinton. The next year will bring your first steps, your first sentences, the beginnings of a relationship with you that's more verbal and less tactile. I'm looking forward to all that, but I must admit: I also love this gentle time of cuddles and bottles and watching you learn to crawl. Thanks for stretching your babyhood out a little longer; it is a treasure to me--

As are you. Happy Birthday, buddy.

More gratefuls.

2008-12-09T21:16:00.000-08:00

9) For a half hour spent driving round neighborhoods after dinner, prowling for pretty Christmas lights, with my toddler jangling her new jingle bell ornament incessantly and insisting that we sing along. Headache-inducing, but glorious fun.

10) For living in the same town with my parents, and such close relationships between my kids and my family. It's impossible to imagine raising them anywhere else now, and I feel so blessed that I have a husband willing to suffer the indignities of finding work in a small town so that we could be here.

11) For blinds ordered off the internet (lowestpriceblinds.com) at crazy too-good-to-be-true prices, but it was true. They're high quality, they look fantastic, and I have been deemed Good Wife for having made the purchase (whew! Relief.).

12) For a handyman/carpenter that I can trust with my house, who's reinstalling 100-year-old woodwork beautifully over the drywall we just had installed. For a careful, slow painter who'll come in and paint said woodwork, because we do not have the time this month to do it ourselves. For a completely trustworthy flooring installation business, who'll be here Friday to replace the 50-year-old carpet. Things have been chaotic, but they're progressing nicely now, and peace is not far off.

13) For a gal who, when asked what she wants from Santa this year, replies ardently, "a candy cane." Lord, help us preserve this sweet innocence and lack of the gimmes as long as we can.

14) For Andrew Peterson's Behold the Lamb album, which has been deepening our Christmas season for years now. It centers me on the true celebration, helps me cut through the chaos.

15) For a husband who can whip up some blackened salmon and green beans while I'm out buying groceries.

16) For a son who, on cue, waved an enthusiastic goodbye to his grandparents visiting from Georgia today. (Waves are rare.)

17) For the candles in our windows-- battery operated, true, but still lovely flickering things that burn all night and make our house look so festive from the street.

18) For the gallons of flat paint we're using on the walls being mysteriously marked down to $16.95. For my busy husband being willing to prime and paint walls and ceiling ourselves, which literally saved us thousands.

19) For a beautiful padded laptop sleeve from LL Bean's clearance online that kept me from having to create one myself.

20) For a warm bed upstairs that's calling my name right now. Goodnight, all.

Hold me, Jesus.

2008-12-03T08:14:00.000-08:00

8) Gracie was watching some Christian cartoon on Aaron's computer this morning. I was listening from the living room-- I heard it explain the story about Jesus' resurrection, and wondered idly if she'd ever seen a kids' presentation of that before. (I know we've covered it at church, but lots of stuff goes over her head there.)

Afterward, she came straight to me, climbed up into my lap, looked at me earnestly (almost sadly), and said, "Mama, I want Jesus to come HOLD ME. Now."

I was a bit floored. I bumbled about with descriptions about how He holds us with his heart, and through our family, but she wasn't having that. Mama Holding was no substitute for Jesus Holding. When Claire began barking a few minutes later, she popped up, exclaimed, "Is Jesus here?!", and started running for the door.

My heart broke with thankfulness and something close to sorrow over this. I so want her to love him. I do not know how to explain him to her, though.

things a perceptive three-year-old might learn from the Little Mermaid.

2008-11-25T23:26:00.000-08:00

Daddies are mean and yell loud. (We're talking through this one.)
Kisses should always be openmouthed with tilted head. (Ditto.)
You can meet a guy and immediately want to leave your home and family forever.
I will have Daddy's blessing if I defy him, meet the man of my dreams, and marry him in such a way that I can never be a part of my family again.
You find out if someone likes you by trying to get them to kiss you.
A good man could fall in love with you without ever hearing an intelligent thought from you or knowing anything about you.
If you sell your soul to the devil/sea witch, it'll still turn out Happily Ever After.

...I've seen this movie before, but never as a parent of a little girl. We bought it without much thought this weekend and let Gracie watch it twice. The more I think about it, the more I wonder what on earth I was thinking. For one thing, it's terrifying (particularly the Sea Witch scenes). For another, it's got some horrid social messages about adolescence/love/family/relationships.

What really set me off, though, was the music video (Ashley Tisdale) that plays immediately after the movie, which applies the "Kiss the Girl" song to what has to be a middle-school or junior high dance scene.

**Mommy twitching in horror at the thought of her girl applying this song to her first dance/date/crush/relationship**

I may be paranoid, but I'm resolute in my paranoia. We're retiring The Little Mermaid, thereby avoiding the whole Princess schtick for a bit longer, and returning to aiding and abetting her Tinkerbell fascination instead. (At least Tink's running around trying to help others instead of collecting fancy trinkets, sneaking off to forbidden places, or batting her eyes to try to win a man.)

The openmouthed kissing thing is absolutely hilarious, 'tis true. But it was scary how quick she picked that up. "This is how I do it now." No, sweetie, not for a long while yet... PLEASE.

Sunday night. Leafthought.

2008-11-16T22:53:00.000-08:00

It's 1 a.m.(whoops-- I thought it was about 11pm). My husband never came downstairs after putting the gal to bed, so I imagine he's up there sleeping on hers, carefully balanced between her sprawled little body and the edge of the mattress. It's not the best way to sleep, but it is a great way to drift off. We both accidentally go to bed early occasionally because of her way of cuddling as she drifts off to sleep.

7) Today, I'm thankful for autumn leaves. In Orlando we had very few, and they tended to drop around December or January. I missed autumn terribly. I went out today with our gal and raked leaves furiously for about half an hour. It was good for my soul to feel the whispery cruch and smell the earthy scent that comes with disturbing leaves that have been too long on the ground. Good too to see her throw herself with abandon into my piles, laughing and running about with leaves stuck to her sweater and hair.

As I composter, I value leaves for practical reasons as well: Chopped leaves make awesome mulch and compost ingredients. I want to shred them all and add them to our garden spot, but with 1.8 acres and about 12 huge oaks, we have more than we could ever need. Best to leave today's big piles near the street for city pickup next week.

Our oaks don't turn bright colors, but the copper glow of the sun through their clinging brown leaves is something I'll forever associate with the first days at home with Q. I rocked him in his room with a view of those gorgeous leaves in the slanting afternoon light, prayed for his health, and felt so thankful to be holding him at home at all, whatever was to come with his kidneys. A year later, he's healthy, and I am so thankful. And I will always remember those leaves and prayer-breathed first days.

(off to bed. 1 a.m.! I am a glutton for punishment.)

Good Work, Good Messes.

2008-11-11T10:17:00.000-08:00

5) I'm so very very grateful that my husband is doing work he loves, work that helps people AND has the potential to make us a good living.

We're leaping into our first "open enrollment" period for the products he sells, which means that Medicare recipients are going to be demanding much of his attention for the next two months or so. I'm very accustomed to having his help-- cooking, laundry, kid-watching are all things he's very skilled at. It's going to be an adjustment for me to have him occupied elsewhere. May I keep remembering what life was like when he worked for a ministry that wrang everything out of us and left us in a damp moldy unhappy heap, or when he worked in the office at the crusty outdated chalkboard manufacturer and made his supervisors look productive while they paid him in beans (well, not quite, but almost). A little sacrifice is well worth the benefits-- monetarily, but most especially in the way he thinks and feels about his life and dignity.

6) Hooray for progress on the home renovation front! Sunday the handyman/carpenter who my parents use called to let us know he was available for a project we've decided to do rather unexpectedly. Our 1916 American Foursquare house has had only two families own it before us, and it's badly in need of renovation in multiple areas. My husband needs a meeting place for clients during enrollment season, and we figured out a way to do it inside the house. This means that the renovation required to bring those areas out of "1970's fugly" into a presentable condition is a tax deduction. So bring in the handyman, to remove all the woodwork and the 1970s paneling; bring in a drywaller, to hang 1/4 inch drywall; paint it (ourselves?); and bring back the handyman, to put back what he'd removed. Voila! Non-ugly office and entryway/meeting room!

(But yikes, the chaos that began in my house yesterday. Nails and splinters all up and down the staircase carpet. Pile of paneling on the front lawn, with no sure plan on how to dispose of it. Gaping ugly holes around my old windows and doorways, with cold air seeping in everywhere. Let's get this done asap, PLEASE!!)

7) I love that there is something this beautiful available for our dining room:

...of course, it's nowhere near affordable for us at this point. But there it is, my little (well, rather big) dream. It makes me smile. I am willing to wait for our opportunity to purchase it.

Saturday night gifts

2008-11-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

4) That my two children have grown and changed and loved and blossomed for another year. Q's now one year old, and G's three tomorrow. (Three! That boggles my mind... how can it have been three years since I sat in that wheelchair, shivering and sore, waiting for the nurses to get her IV placed so that I could see my beautiful girl for the first time since she was whisked away from the delivery room? I remember picking her up gingerly, with all the wires and monitors and oxygen and feeding tubes hanging off of her like spaghetti, trying not to displace anything. And the wonder of her obviously recognizing me, nestling herself into the hollow under my neck, and sleeping, at peace because I was there. I knew right then that nothing was more important in my world than being present for her, helping her sleep or with whatever she might need.

That's still true today. After all the chaos of today, the frantic housecleaning (too cold for a park party! 20+ people coming to our house in four hours!! YIKES, that.) and cake-decorating (NOT my Primary Talent) and present-wrapping and visitor-greeting. After having to greet a college buddy I hadn't seen in ten years wearing my milk-stained pyjama top and jeans in my wretchedly untidy house. After Tinkerbell crowns and Little Blue Engine that Could party hats and apple cider and birthday candles. After putting away a mountain of leftover cake, a kitchen full of dirty bowls and icing tips, and a whole mess of wrapping paper... there was so much peace and joy in my heart as I curled up to nurse my boy and cuddle my girl as we watched her new Tinkerbell movie before bed. She put her head on my leg and said sweetly, "I just love you so much, Mommy," and my heart nearly broke for joy. What more could there be in life than this-- a beautiful sweet girl and a jolly little baby boy, with a husband who adores us all?

There's nothing I"d rather be giving myself to than this. I am tired, often flustered, often stained with milk and embarrassed about my house. My stupid belly is still stretched out and ridiculous-looking, and I rarely get more than four hours' uninterrupted sleep. But I am so unimaginably blessed.

A new take on this tired ol' blog.

2008-11-05T18:18:00.000-08:00

Life with toddlers and babies does not give itself to writing very much. Even less, life with toddlers and babies and a new business in the house. All require constant care, overwhelming care, care that by its very nature always falls a little short of my ideal. We're scraping along, managing to keep everyone fed and clothed and the house from falling into the Filth Abyss, but just barely. So there's no time for the writing I'd like to do, the NaNoWriMos and NaBloPoMos and daily updates and hometown tourism writing and such that's lurking in the back of my mind. Someday, perhaps, but not just now.

But. I do want to record something of my life. This first year with Q has slipped by in a flash-- we've endured a birth defect, an operation, a nasty scalp infection, a lack of weight gain, a lot of things. And I have very little of my writing to show him about his first year. I have yet to write out his birth story; I don't know when I'll get around to creating pretty scrapbook pages that tell the story. I haven't written this month about G's glee the first time Q rolled a ball back toward her after she rolled it to him. I've not told you about his first word: "out,' he said softly, as he reached for me in his carseat. I have no pictures or videos of the adorable way he speaks, softly, out of the side of his mouth sometimes, a sweet soft baby with a John Wayne twist to his lips.

It's ironic that I have so little time to write when everyday life is so tip-top full with beautiful moments to write about. I think about all that writing I did when I was single, and then married and childless, soul-searching, restless, often unhappy writing, documenting what now seems like a fairly empty life. Now that my every moment is full, that my babies are changing and growing and making me laugh every single day, I am not recording it. How upside-down that is.

So. I'm going to try something new, something I think will help me record snippets of my life: my everchanging children, my everhealing husband, the home I love and want to nurture and design and craft.

I've been reading Ann VosKamp's words at aholyexperience.com for a couple of years now. Sometimes I stay away for a while, because her eloquence and centeredness and the simple beauty of her life can stir a sense of inadequacy if I'm not feeling good about myself. But when I return, I'm always overwhelmingly blessed again by her thoughts, her discovery of the unspeakably holy lurking and indwelling the mundane details of motherhood and home life. It's rich stuff, like Carmichael or Elliot is rich to me. She has a project called The Thousand Gifts that is simply this: she challenges us to list one thousand things that stir us to gratitude, little and large moments that find us amazed anew at the Hand that placed them there.

A gratitude journal is no grand new idea; in fact, it's a bit of a faded fad. But I'm going to try this and see where it leads me. (Obviously, my current course is getting me nowhere, writing-wise.)

Without further ado, my first Gifts:

1) A little girl who treasures the experience of having something special over the experience of consuming it. She sat tonight at the kitchen table, her small heap of Halloween candy spread out in a pile, and gleefully shaped it. "Mommy, it's a Candy Tree! It's a circle!"... and simply could not decide which piece to eat for dessert. After a great deal of time, and a fair amount of maternal pressure to please Make A Decision So We Can Get On With The Evening, she carefully selected a package of Whoppers... and gave me four pieces during the process that she wanted me to have. What generosity of spirit, what a joyful little steward she may be one day.

2) A little boy who wriggles in paroxysms of delight whenever his sister swoops down to interact with him. She may tug on his head, push at him, pull blankets over his face, steal his toy, bounce him too roughly in his jumper... and until the moment that he is either getting hurt or is absolutely terrified, he will beam and squeal and huh-huh-huh giggle just with the joy of having her attention. What good friends they are going to be.

3) A new laptop that makes me want to write and create again, that seems to open up all kinds of creative possibilities. A hard drive that's all mine, to fill with pictures and writing and design and research of whatever I please. And the doting husband who gently insisted that I have a Macbook instead of the less expensive PCs I would have chosen for myself, who finds such joy in giving me such an extravagant gift. Just wow.

That was fun to write. I want to keep doing this...

New.

2008-10-21T21:19:00.000-07:00

No new blog changes; there just isn't time. I have things in mind and no chance to enact them.

But I do have a new treasure; my sweet husband, bribing me away from my database job, has purchased a new Macbook for me.

It arrived today; I'm typing on it now. Big pink puffy hearts. And still growing as I learn about what this thing can do.

And it's so, so pretty. And all mine.

Lack of focus. Changes brewing.

2008-08-27T09:37:00.000-07:00

Removing that snarky "literacy in America" post that I intended to be amusing but just ended up sounding grouchy... sorry. I'm not that pissy, really.

I'm feeling a bit tired of this blogspot, and my writing shows it. I believe it's time to shift gears a bit. I'll be back asap with the details.

Value your personal time. I mean it.

2008-07-02T21:33:00.000-07:00

May those of you without toddlers please take a moment and be thankful for the following things:

1) You can poop alone, without a play-by-play commentary being given by your bathroommate
2) You can bathe whenever you want for as long as you want-- and again, alone and without commentary.
3) If you put something down, it usually stays where you put it.
4) If you have something to eat, you don't necessarily have to share it.
5) No one ever spits mouthfuls of your food that they DON'T like into your hand.
6) Generally, no one begins shrieking at the top of their lungs (or sobbing uncontrollably) at you before you understand what you've done to piss them off.

Just be appreciative of these things, is all I'm sayin'.

Home is where you get bruised and sunburned.

2008-06-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

I live in one of the most beautiful places in the country, and I do not take enough advantage of that.

Last Sunday we ditched the kids (at Grandma's), played church hookey, and headed for a much-neglected hobby of ours: floating the Buffalo, our nation's first national river. Rain's been heavy this year, so we got to float from Steel Creek to Kyle's Landing, which is usually a spring-only float. The bluffs, the bird calls, the deep swimming holes and rapids and magnificent boulders... we had forgotten how much we love this. We've been back in the Ozarks for two years, but we've been busy with babies, and this was our first time back on the river together (my first time since we returned).

It will be years before our kids are big enough and good enough swimmers to go with us, but I think we made a decision as we paddled and talked (and argued about Who Made Us Tump): a good used canoe must be procured, because we want to be able to do this regularly.

It just felt like home.

Six months.

2008-06-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

Baby Q. Six months old already! (Okay. Technically, seven. You clever thing, you counted months. Sorry I'm late.)

Four months ago, you were recovering from your surgery at Arkansas Children's Hospital, and I was still in a bit of shock, that my little baby had such a birth defect that we'd needed to operate at three months old. You were still tiny then, and I handled your little body gingerly, with fear-- even though the doctors and nurses had told me that I could handle you normally.

You were just starting to get what we (and your pediatrician) thought was some seriously crusty cradle cap to go along with your excema on your legs and back. That crustiness would proceed quickly to oozy crustiness, and sometimes bloodiness, and patches broke out on your face and neck as I applied every cream and salve the doctor had recommended, desperately trying to make you feel and look better. You'd scrape your fingernails across your head until you bled, over and over. (That's when the socks went onto your hands on a constant basis.) I knew you were itching terribly.

None too soon, I gave up on that doctor and took you to a new one, Dr. Jackson. He took one look-- one tiny little half-second look-- at your scalp and gave me a different diagnosis, different medicine, and different things to do for you. A week later, you were all but cured.

We have a new doctor now, obviously. And I've learned something about trusting my momma instincts.

Today, you are all eyes and smiles, reaching for our faces, taking off my glasses, trying to grab at our water glasses to steal a sip. You're still not rolling over, although you do know how-- you just seem happy to lay on your back and hang out. On your stomach, you can raise your head up and look around while resting on your elbows, but within a few minutes your head lolls over and you flip yourself over onto your back again. That's about the extent of the "tummy time" I'm supposed to be giving you daily.

You've started eating a little bit of pureed food now-- avocados, oatmeal cereal, bananas-- and every item is met with grins of approval and eager swats at the spoon with your hands. (Sadly, we've still got to keep your "nubbin cover" socks on your hands most of the time, as your habit of scraping your head hasn't quite abated.)

You're a champion napper, sleeping an amazing amount of the day in two or three naps. You still love to cuddle, sitting happily in our laps while we watch movies (or Gracie's Sesame Street, which you stare at avidly). You love being outside and have quit screaming in the car almost entirely.

You're a skinny, long little fella these days, weighing 13.5 pounds at your six-month checkup. I'm hoping that eating some food will help bring your weight up a bit, and I worry a bit too much that I don't have enough (or rich enough) milk for you. Your sister was tiny until her first birthday, and she's big for her age now, so I guess that even if my milk isn't very rich, you'll end up just fine in the end.

Can't wait to know you better, little Q. We love what little we know about your personality so far; I'm sure you're going to be a fabulous little son and brother.

Two and a half.

2008-06-07T11:38:00.000-07:00

My little fairy sleeps like a bag lady, with all her precious things piled around her.

In the morning, we're often awakened as the first one of them gets slung onto our bed, bedsheets, or backside. "Move over, mama. I come SLEEP with you!"

Depending on the hour, we either accept or reject her advances. (5:30 a.m.-- accept. 3:45 a.m.-- reject and escort back to her bed, where like as not I'll awake at 5:30 a.m., sore and crowded from scrunching myself onto her twin bed with her.) If accepted, chances are our sleep is over, as she squirms and points and chatters and giggles and pokes between the two of us. SoftDolly is always welcome, for even though she rattles softly, she never injures; PokeyDolly (these are their only names so far) has hard vinyl Fisher Price head and appendages, and can make you see stars when she's accidentally swung into your skull.

But our little bag lady, she insists. There will be no peace "sleeping" with her without the dollies. So we relent, and allow even PokeyDolly to pile in with us. So there we are, two largish adults, one solidly built two-year-old, a slightly tubbifying middle-aged dog (if she didn't leave the bed in protest when it was invaded), and a collection of dollies, sippycup, books, blankets, or whatever else strikes our gal as vital to her happiness.

It's crowded, silly, and too early to be truly happy about our wakeful status. In a few minutes, our baby boy (aka the Squid, the Woodchuck, or, most recently, the WhistlePig) will be awakened by this ruckus, and begin his yawps for milk. Our day will begin, with feedings, entreaties to PUT ON THESE CLOTHES, PLEASE, scramblings for cereal and blueberries and juice. We'll have Sesame Street, and playroom time, and trips to Grammy's (weekdays) for lunch and naptime. You will defy me at least once during the day, and try to manipulate me with your sweet words and eyes, and I will clean up umpteen of your messes-- playdoh, crayons, blocks, dominoes, puzzles, crumbs, spills.

But for a few minutes, as we wrangle for a few minutes of sunrise peace with our bedfairy baglady, I am in total bliss.

You are still a complete enchantment, sweetheart. Even at 5:30 a.m.

(Picture above: Nap today, with SoftDolly, Tinkerbell, sippycup full of water, no pillowcase on her foam pillow, and blanket beside her, NOT on her, please.)

Conversation with a two-year old. Rinse. Repeat.

2008-05-07T12:31:00.000-07:00

On the way to Grammy's house, five miles away.

"Where we goin', Mommy?"

"Grammy's house, honey. For lunch and a nap."

(fifteen seconds elapse while she looks out the window and I drive.)

"Where are we goin', Mommy?"

"Grammy's house, honey."

"I don't want to go to Grammy's."

(beat)

"Where we goin', Mommy?"

"To Grammy's, where we go almost every day. You love it there."

"Would you like to go to that restaurant, Mommy?"

"Huh?" (I see the local sandwich shop on our left.) "Oh, that's a nice place, isn't it?"

"Neighbor's Mill. You want to go there, Mommy?"

(beat)

"How 'bout Sonic? Sonic's good, Mommy. You want to go there?"

"Mommy, where we goin?"

My heart beats fast for Amish drygoods.

2008-04-18T12:17:00.000-07:00

I have a secret love:

Lehman's.

It's a store in Ohio that originally was created to serve the Amish, providing simple tools for living that were becoming difficult to find elsewhere. But they also have a website, and it carries wonderful things.

A tabletop butter churner.
A wooden form to make seedling pots from newspaper.
A non-electric doorbell. (We actually need one of these.)
Composting toilets.
Amish-grown popcorn, dried on the cob in a corncrib. (Don't ask me why that's better, but doesn't the sound of it put poetry into your movie snack?)

Clotheslines, old fashioned toys, woodburning cookstoves, apple peelers: this stuff feeds my Inner Homesteader. I mean, really: how many online stores have a Home Butchering category, or sell German Fermenting Crocks for making your own sauerkraut? Where else could I browse and learn so much about home canning products or purchase a book titled "Anyone Can Build A Tub-Style Mechanical Chicken Plucker"?

My husband recently pointed out that I have a secret desire to build a cabin in the hills and live there squirreled away from the world, living off the grid and growing my own food and growing flowers to sell at the farmer's market. It's true, although I know enough to realize that it is not really going to happen. I think my yurt and tiny house fascinations tie into this, along with my irrational love of the idea of Urban Chickens and my much more rational love of Mel and the work of his Square Foot Gardening foundation.

I have two babies, each of which have more stuff and require more of my time than I ever imagined. I won't be fitting my and my husband's life into a 120 square foot cabin or learning to raise all my own food anytime soon. But in the meantime, I'll keep browsing at Lehman's, dreaming of simpler ways.

Getting it wrong.

2008-04-18T09:08:00.000-07:00

I had a "first" this week: getting a second opinion on a pediatrician's diagnosis and treatment of my child.

Since about Month 3, Q's head has been itchy, scaly, scabby, and oozy. Whenever he was agitated or hungry, he'd claw at his scalp, often until it bled. His head left stains on his crib sheet overnight; I would obsessively try to pull the scales out of his hair while he ate. His hair has mostly fallen out at the sides except for a spectacular mohawk in the middle (where he can't reach to scrape); he's been wearing socks on his hands for months to help prevent the scraping and bleeding. It's been awful.

Almost two months ago, his pediatrician gave me a diagnosis of (basically) severe dandruff and possible allergies, and had me start using heavy-duty Head and Shoulders on his head, and told me to be patient, that it would take a couple of months to improve. That his head would look dry and icky. That I should persevere.

(What I hear in this, and what I've heard in his previous advice about my kids' illnesses, is basically, "don't come here bothering me unnecessarily about this." I'm not sure why, but something in his demeanor makes me feel like a paranoid mom any time I have a question or bring my kids in sick. So I committed myself to being patient, following his directions, waiting for the healing to begin.)

I made it about six weeks, bathing him daily, trying to ease his discomfort, waiting for the improvement. It wasn't really getting better, although it obviously looked and felt better for a few hours after a bath. But the mess would return overnight. I've hardly taken any pictures of my beautiful guy, because I don't feel like I want him to see how sad he's looked. When I do, the red patches and uneven hair stand out like beacons to me in the photos, and I sadly download them onto the computer and don't look at them again.

Finally, this weeek, we sought out another doctor; a family doctor, since there are only two pediatricians in town (and I've never known anyone to speak positively about the other one). This man was sweet with both kids, gentle with Quinton, and took one look at his sad scalp and made a different diagnosis: Impetigo.

I am so relieved to have some medication he can take and a new regimen to try. He says it should be mostly gone within a week. However, I'm more than a little embarassed to have such a icky, contagious infection on the baby I'm supposed to be lovingly caring for-- much like I've seen families feel about discovering lice on their kids' heads. I'm also feeling more than a little guilty that I waited so long to seek out another diagnosis.

This uncertain, aching, am-I-doing-the-right-thing-oh-crap-I-guess-I-wasn't feeling is so unique to motherhood for me. Making a mistake in my own care or life seems perfectly normal and forgivable; making a mistake (real or perceived) in my kids' care is agonizing, guilt-inducing, regret-filled.

However, the prospect of erasing the contagion, of restoring Q's sweet head to its healthy state, is so exciting that I feel almost slavishly grateful toward this doctor. If his diagnosis is correct, I think we'll be switching to his care for a while, to see if I'll feel a bit less intimidated by him.

Please heal, little Q. You don't deserve this nastiness.

Ten things about Baby Q at 3 months old

2008-01-29T21:39:00.000-08:00

1) Baby Q, you have the most beautiful eyes. We can't tell yet what color they'll be, of course, but they are deep and dark and big and lovely. Those impossibly long eyelashes that come from your dad's side of the family are sprouting on you already, and with your slightly-curly dark hair and those amazing eyes gazing at me, I sometimes wonder how I (definitely not the most lovely of women) have managed to give birth to such a gorgeous creature.

2) Of course, you're also in the middle of your baby skin nastiness-- lots of cradle cap and irritated rashiness going on right now. We've found a lotion (Aveeno's heavy-duty moisture baby lotion) that helps tremendously, so hopefully this will be a short phase. Most babies have it, I think, especially winter babies like you who have to endure cold dry air on their tender tender skin.

3) You want SO BADLY to try to talk. You look earnestly into our eyes, your mouth working, struggling to remember how to form a sound. Eventually a little coo or grunt or squeal comes out, and we're enchanted. You want so much to be a part of the conversations we have with you. And your favorite person to talk to is definitely your Grammy-- your eyes get wide and you wriggle with excitement whenever she starts talking to you.

4) Your sister loves you more than anything else in the world. Despite the fact that you steal hours and hours of her Mommy's attention, despite the fact that you're the source of more "Gracie, NO!"s than any other part of her life, she would rather be playing with you than doing anything else. She loves to hold you on her lap (with lots of help), to lay next to you on the couch, to sing to you and babble in a strange language that she uses with no one else (I need to get that on video before it's gone). Whatever struggles the two of you have later in getting along, however annoyed with you she may be sometimes, I hope I remember to tell you both how much she loved you from the very first time she saw you.

5) This week when we returned to Children's Hospital in Little Rock to repeat your kidney tests, the technicians had a horrible time getting an IV into you. They stuck both your hands and both your feet, failing four miserable, painful times before a woman named Kim managed to get the needle into a vein in the inside of your left elbow. It was so hard to see you on that table, weighted down with sandbags, crying miserably as they struggled to do something that you didn't understand was for your good. You'd look at me as I stroked your hair and tried to talk to you during their attempts, and your eyes seemed to just beg me for help, desperate and confused about why I wasn't intervening on your behalf. (Your mom's side of the family gave you that little inconvenient trait-- my veins are hard to find too, and I often get myself bruised up pretty good when someone needs to get blood from me or put in an IV.)

6) You don't really like to be alone. When I put you down for your naps, your most successful and longest ones are in rooms where people are moving around within earshot. If you're crying in your room alone, I can often moved your swaddled little body into the room where I am, and without another word of complaint, you fall asleep within just a few minutes. I wonder if this is an indication that you're going to be a "people person"; it's definitely pretty convenient, since your sister hates to leave you alone to sleep in a room by yourself. I have a sleep book that recommends that babies learn to sleep in quiet dark rooms, though-- not sure yet if I'm going to try to persuade you to sleep in that environment or not.

7) You're growing like a weed and are much larger than your sister was at this age. I put a one-piece sleeper on you today that your sister wore well into the summer when she was your age; it looks like it might fit you for a month or so at the most. After worrying about Gracie's growth and tinyness so much, it's a huge relief to have a big strong boy who eats with gusto and grows like crazy.

8) You have broad, squatty hands like your daddy, but you have my narrow tiny feet. I think this is hilarious, because your sister has just the opposite-- rather delicate little hands, and big, flappy flat duck feet like her daddy's.

9) You're getting better about enjoying a swing or a rest on your back to look around by yourself, but you'd really prefer to be in someone's arms at all times. You're quite the snuggly baby, and you like to be held on your side and bury your face into your holder's elbow or chest. It looks like you'd smother doing that, but it's your favorite little spot and will put you right to sleep most of the time.

10) I realized today that, because you were born in November, that you've barely been outside at all in your entire life so far. Other than being shuttled from car to building and vice versa, you've rarely seen the sky, or trees, or felt the breeze or sun on your face. I look forward to changing this just as soon as the weather warms. I hope that you'll be a gardener and outside-lover like your sister and your momma.

Random is better than nuthin'.

2008-01-25T19:27:00.000-08:00

Oh, my. So much time has gone by.

We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.

We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.

She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)

We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.

And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...

And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.

May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"

And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)

And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...

In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)

Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.

Welcome.

2007-11-14T13:12:00.001-08:00

Welcome baby Q.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007
9 lbs 10 oz (!), 20 in

Absolutely beautiful, if you ask me. Not that I'm biased or anything.

BIRTH TOMORROW.

2007-11-05T19:01:00.000-08:00

I have no time to write.

I just want to record my astonishment that, holy cow, I AM ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH IN A FEW HOURS.

Inducing is a weird thing. I'm not sure if it's good to know exactly when it's going to happen or not.

Ready or not, here we go. Welcome, baby Q!

Sigh of relief-- 34 weeks!

2007-10-17T15:28:00.000-07:00

Hi!

I don't have time to write out the drama that has been the past few weeks, but here's the short version.

House: Tenants finally out. Empty but filthy house. Paint. Carpet. Housecleaners. A/C repairs. About to be listed on the market. (Whew.)

Additional Tests and Babymonitoring. Premature labor imminent within 15 days, supposedly. Strict bed rest. (No computer access, mostly.) Grammy to the rescue to watch the Bird, church to the rescue to provide meals. Deeply grateful. Butt on couch, mostly.

15 days past-- no baby yet! 34 weeks milestone reached! Almost hospitalized three times-- but not! Steroid shots to help baby's lungs administered! All very good. Still on bedrest for 10 days or so, til 36 weeks. Then, give me baby or give me freedom to roam!

Major database project at work completed! (Two years of work-- finally put into action!) Working well 99% of the time. Hoorah.

So, if you can decipher all that, you'll see that we're doing well, the baby hasn't arrived yet, and I'm living in a happy haze of thankfulness for friends and family who have stepped up to help us. Life is good, and when the fella gets here, it'll be even better.

Thanks for your prayers and wellwishin'. Much appreciated!!

Already but not yet.

2007-09-26T21:52:00.000-07:00

Howdy, fella. May I introduce to you-- and me-- my little boy's face, courtesy of an unexpected ultrasound yesterday.

Is he not beautiful? Just look at those fat little cheeks.

Mysteriously, those healthy, fat little cheeks have a left kidney that's "dilated"-- meaning that it's-- in my opinion-- enormous, at least four times the size of the right one. Along with that (probably because of that), I'm swollen with lots of extra amniotic fluid-- not a good thing. So now we've been launched from "absolutely uneventful, perfectly normal pregnancy" into "let's get you an appointment with a perinatologist asap. How about Friday morning? And we'll probably be needing to do stress tests, and see you more often, and" et cetera et cetera. Including the fact that my primary care provider, a midwife nurse, may have to turn over my care to the ob/gyn, a perfectly competent man (I'm sure) who I inherently distrust because he makes part of his living doing boob jobs and other plastic surgery. (Sigh. I took this risk when I chose this clinic, I suppose.)

And I'm trying not to google too much, worry too much, or say too much until after Friday. But oh, I am so afraid.

Not so much that he may be born with a bad kidney-- I've never been one to use the phrase "as long as it's healthy" as if health were a prerequisite for a parent's love or approval or thankfulness for the gift of a child. If he has a problem, we will learn and love and deal with it.

But I have a sick spot in my gut that simmers all day long over this thought: I am deeply afraid of not ever getting to touch those little cheeks or hold these little hands and feet that are drumming away at my insides these days.

Please, God, let it be something that can be helped or fixed or healed or managed, by you or doctors or me or anyone or anything else. Just let there be something we can do.

***
I was holding my anxiety in check pretty well until about thirty minutes ago, when I discovered that my washer was on strike. My "new" 15-year-old bare basics washer, which was donated by my parents to replace my 5-year-old energy-efficient fancy washer that needs a $400 keypad repair and, according to reviews and Consumer Reports and etc, is likely to have further motor, drain, and other repair issues. We've decided that paying for the pricey repair would be akin to pouring money into a lemon of a vehicle, so the fancy washer is getting the boot. Dad came and hooked the freebie up for us last weekend because my husband's back is injured. (Dad entering our basement and seeing the state of our workbench/tools/etc is never a good thing, particularly for our husband, but it couldn't be avoided-- we needed the washer, needed the help, and weren't able to prepare the basement before he showed up.) I did one load of clothes successfully tonight before it decided not to drain the water out of the tub for load #2.

Now I have a load to wring out and haul to my mom's (to use her fancy new washer that finally replaced this one). That is a stupid thing to sit in the dining room and cry about, I admit. But it was really just a final straw on a long list of stresses this week.

I also have tenants-- ex-tenants-- who cannot seem to get all their belongings (or their butts) out of my house in Florida, six days after their move-out date. This is deeply difficult to manage from eight hundred miles away or so. Painters, carpeters, realtors are all standing at the ready to begin fixing it up and taking it off our financial back. But they can do nothing until the place is empty and clean. I had a smooth, quick transition to On The Market planned, and now it's all shot to hell.

I also have a nice mixer with a burnt-out motor. A bathroom window that's been covered with a paper tablecloth for the last eight months-- which a certain toddler just shredded in her enthusiasm to see "owside!" (So now anyone peeking in can see us, facing them, setting on the pot.) There's a beautiful dishwasher out in the garage that I'd love to be using, but we need to hire a plumber to install it into 90-year-old iron pipes, and the money's not there. And I'm enjoying (ha) a steadily shrinking wardrobe as my belly gets bigger and bigger. I'm at 31 weeks pregnancywise, and 38 weeks sizewise. How big can I get in the next nine weeks-- assuming that I have the immense privilege of having a full-term baby? Will I have any clothes at all, or will I be buying used Mumus from the thrift stores and refusing to leave the house in a month or so?

I have the vintage gas stove of my dreams-- some parts of it are in my house, having been given $250 worth of reporcelaining. The rest is in a guy's garage in Tulsa, waiting for him to have time and inclination to restore it for me. It's been there since April.

I have a house that I adore-- that badly needs a $3500 paint job that I can't give it. It has beautiful horizontal board wooden interior walls-- covered with wallpaper, paint, and ugly wallboard that I'm not yet allowed to remove. And in four months, my rent-to-own lease expires, and the grumpy half of the two sisters that own it is likely to demand that we purchase. And without the Orlando house sold, no bank will give us the loan to do so. (We have the option of appealing to my father-- but oh, how sick I am of appealing to my father for help, be it washer installation or financial loans.)

I feel like I'm a living example of one of my husband's favorite spiritual illustrations-- living "in the already, but not yet."

I already have:
A husband
A beautiful sweet mischevious brilliant toddler gal
...thank God those things are present, settled, and being enjoyed here and now. We also have:

A house I love that we have resources to buy
A fabulous stove
A kitchenaid mixer
A washer
A dishwasher
A tidy house/garage/workbench
... and most of all a beautiful, beautiful little baby boy about to enter our lives. And it's possible that all this will come to fruition in a relatively quick time span.

...But the full experience of so many of those things hinge on other (known or unknown) factors. It's such an occasion for uncertainty, doubt, fear, faith. I have them already, but I cannot relax and enjoy them just yet.

These are hard days for me, I think. Even without the addition of a high-risk pregnancy-- which makes everything else on that "not yet" list seem suddenly trivial.

Please, God, make him okay. Or okayable.

22 months old.

2007-09-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

Bird, I love this new you.

You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.

Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.

You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.

You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)

We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.

Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.

You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.

...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.

I am so proud to be your mommy.

expanding mind. in the toilet.

2007-07-21T21:01:00.000-07:00

Today, after dinner, playing with Play-Doh with mom and dad:

I show her how to load dough (doh?) into the little compartment, position the circle shape over the extrusion spot, and push on the plunger. A tube of dough comes oozing out, snakelike.

Thoughtfully and softly, she says, "Poo."

I wouldn't have believed that she'd made the connection without doing it again and getting the same response.

Please tell me how a 20-month old who has never wiped her own rear can understand what poo looks like when it comes out, and that the play-doh toy we were using resembles that.

All we could do was laugh.

***

There is something magical about the way she's learning new words (and new uses) so quickly now.

Bird usually spends many hours a week with my mom while I work. While my mom was out of town last week, she spent every day with me, and took to preceding her one-syllable requests with my name:

Momma, out (of the high chair).
Momma, more.
Momma, HOLD!
Momma, SEE!

I loved it. But now that Grammy's returned, we see that she hasn't quite got it yet-- every request, to anyone, for anything, is likely to be preceded by "Momma."

Oh, well. It'll straighten itself out before long, I guess.

***

But I really adore the way she'll pause, just before entering a new room, going outside, or getting into the car, earnestly grab your hand, and say seriously, "Too." You must come too, Momma (or Daddy or Grammy or Aunt Leigh). "Too."

Too precious, is what it is.

multifaceted? schizophrenic? inconsistent?

2007-07-21T20:42:00.001-07:00

Hey. Um, I'm doing fine after that rather dramatic post there. Things are still uncertain. But hasn't all of life been uncertain since we left Florida-- and really, since we arrived in Florida and found it wasn't what we believed it to be? I've been walking around learning to hand over my fear and panic for around six years now. What's a few more months? Pshaw.

That's not what I want to write about; it's just my response to my felt obligation to somehow apologize for or explain that Dark Night post. I can't really do either, and I refuse to delete it, because that is part of my life these days. So it stays, I try my best not to minimize it-- although I can see already that I just did-- and we move on to other fascinating topics.

Including: Who on earth am I? (note: fascinating to me. I rather guarantee this to be tedious to anyone else.)

I've lately become very puzzled by the inconsistent breadth of my own perspective.

I am part snarky modernist, sneering at the simpletons and fundamentalists and hippies. This man's derision of the homeschooling fundamentalist moms at the blueberry patch, for example, made me snort in my tea--- particularly when I clicked on the link to discover who Little Critter's Mom was.) I read snooty food blogs, lifehacker, and like geekery, and usually relish it.

But part of me hates the snarky modernist. I want to grow my own food, educate my own children, follow the God that's been in my heart since adolescence, eschew cable tv and video games and even Dora and Elmo. After laughing at Dutch's vitriol over the homeschoolers, I click right on over to another regular read--a homeschooling mom of 6 in Canada who writes the most beautiful and honest reflections I've ever seen about living life as a mother devoted to Christ. I soak up the wisdom in her writing, and it dissolves away some of the cynicism and arched-eyebrowness that comes from the snarkers.

Then I click over to my Wiccan teacher friend in Hawaii who writes beautifully about her dogs and her knitting projects. And then over to another Wiccan, a mom of a toddler in Virginia who lives with very little so that she can live deeply and richly with her son, giving him a world of hikes and flowers and friendly wolves instead of days of shuttling between a harried home and a chaotic daycare experience. And then over to my favorite snappy shopping blog, who gives me tips on where to find great stuff dirt cheap-- even as I'm contemplating how much less we could live with if we just tried.

I am all of these perspectives, but also a critic of all of these perspectives. I love parts of each and every one of them, but am fairly sure that, were we to need to be slotted into a particular "type," that I would fit in none of their respective compartments-- and possibly even be welcome at none of their dinner parties, because so many of my other sensibilities would not be shared there.

Perhaps this is some of what's sparking this question inside me: We have good friends here that are enthusiastically environmental and naturalistic in their viewpoints. I love those friends and in many ways love their viewpoints. But something in me can't commit to sharing them wholeheartedly. I am a skeptic of all things. I can listen with great interest as they mention their hatred of Wal-Mart, their refusal to vaccinate their children, their distrust of traditional medicine. But I can't join the bandwagon without tangible proof. Can anybody give me something to read that proves that Wal-Mart is worse than other corporate entities they're buying from instead-- not just bigger? (And why shop at Sam's when you drive to the bigger towns, if you don't like Wal-Mart?) Has any reputable source published anything about the dangers of vaccination, when the dangers of NOT vaccinating a society's children are so great? I want to ask these questions because I really would like to know their answers. But I don't want to seem like a prick, so I don't-- and feel myself a little withdrawn as a result.

Our church, which contains some of those good friends, is also full of older generations of a decidedly more conservative order-- Christians whose worlds are more black and white than mine, who would never dream of voting Democrat for any reason, who think that questioning the 7-day Creation account in Genesis is essentially questioning the validity of all of Scripture and even the Gospel itself. These are sweet, hearty, wonderful, loving, good people, and some of them helped shape my faith when I first came to God. I am honored to have them in my life. But my world is much more murky and uncertain than that, and I'm not sure I could return to that purity of perspective even if I wanted to.

My husband is one of those people who cannot help but speak his mind on almost everything. He'll challenge almost anyone's viewpoint, argue or debate if necessary, lay his own perspective out on the line before he knows what the other person believes at all. I sometimes admire this and sometimes think it's insane, but regardless, I have never been able to imitate it. You probably won't know my opinion unless you ask me outright. This is sometimes wise and safe, and sometimes overcautious, I know.

Apparently I am unclassifiable. Too conservative to be a hippie, too liberal to be a conservative. Too environmentally conscious to run around consuming thoughtlessly, but a bit too skeptical to believe every eco-rumor that gets passed down from a friend or natural foods store worker, and unwilling to modify my life for something I'm not sure of. So I end up with friends (and reads) in each camp, sampling from everyone, enthusiastic about everyone, and utterly unable to stake a tent in any one location.

It's odd, and I think it's part of what makes me always a little lonely. But isn't everyone always a little lonely?

Dark night.

2007-07-05T21:13:00.000-07:00

Lord,

Here I am, sitting in the dark at your feet, miserable. I pour out my heart to you, because you are my refuge, my shelter, my mother hen. I know you know it all already, but still I do it-- even wondering why you find this precious, when none of it is new to you at all.

The two deeply interested buyers from June on our downtown house have not panned out. One simply lost interest, for reasons unkown-- "the house will not suit our needs at this time." (Assuming that our realtor's trustworthy and didn't fabricate the buyer at the end of May to get us to extend our contract. We're beginning to wonder about that, as it's happened repeatedly as the contract has expired and been renewed over the past few months.) Another has waffled all through last month-- about to make an offer, about to make a rent-to-purchase offer, about to make an offer again. Not one piece of paper has been offered-- nothing official, nothing written, just an array of questions, stated intentions, and long silences inbetween. Torturous. On Sunday we gave our realtor one more week with the house, to see if he could bring forth something from this man. It's Thursday night. Nothing so far.

That it itself makes me heartsick.

The other house's current tenants agreed to send us $5000 as a deposit on their purchase of the house in return for keeping the house for them for a month-- on May 23. We agreed, but didn't receive that check until June 26-- and their financing still hasn't come through for them to buy the house.

But thirty minutes ago, I checked our bank balance on our Orlando accounts. I deposited the deposit check before the holiday; it's bounced. We also haven't received July's rent yet, which they are supposed to pay us if the house didn't close in June (and it didn't, obviously).

I know we extended a certain risky amount of faith and good will to them in this. But they want the house, they're doing their best to find the financing, and we love the idea of helping someone buy the home that would otherwise have trouble buying one. Have we been monumentally stupid to trust them, to think that you'd want us to help them?

I really, really, REALLY need some indication that you are looking out for our interests, God. I cannot believe that you would lead us out of Orlando and then let us waste away financially. It does not make sense to me, does not match what I know of You in my life. Our bank accounts are spent, our tax return has been doled out to the mortgage companies, and we are at the end of our resources here.

I am not afraid of being poor, of making less than even Husband did when he was in ministry. We can work within that; many good people do, and live happy and righteous lives. But I do mind being financially ruined by houses that we bought as we tried to follow Your lead. That does not feel just to me.

(And I think of upright Job, and tremble. He never got an explanation for his financial and personal ruin, but the ruin came. Please, God, do not Job our life. I could not bear it as he did.)

I sit here thinking of my sweet, good husband, hopefully sleeping in our bed across the hall right now. If I tell him what's happened, he will not sleep tonight (as he did not last night, worrying about these things even without that terrifying bounced check). I cannot imagine sleeping next to him knowing about that without telling him. (I know I need to sleep, so I'll go lie down and feel the weight of this on me until I go unconscious; and I'll tell him in the morning, so at least he'll have a little rest tonight.) And so I'm stuck here, typing something to You that you already know, which feels somewhat absurd, and yet what else can I do?

My heart, God, it breaks. I am tired of breathing in and breathing out and waiting for houses to sell. Houses sell for other people, other people leaving Orlando for the same reasons we did, but they do not sell for us. Why is that? It's getting hard to continue breathing in faith. The alternative-- an asphyxiation of my hope, a panic of not having trust and not choosing to believe without seen evidence-- is too hard to contemplate. But the breathing, that's getting very hard too.

Where else can I go, but to Your feet, and sit here with tears blurring the screen and a bitter grapefruit lump in my throat and our total helplessness spread out before you like a pitiful offering?

It's all I can offer, my dependence and sorrow. I hope it's acceptable to you. I hope too that you choose to have mercy on us.

Please don't Job me. But even more, please don't Job my dear sweet husband. He is so tired, God. We need to see your hand at work. We've seen it before, in amazing ways.

Please hear me. Please do something. I sit here with my eyes downcast. There is nowhere else for me to go.

trouble underfoot, but not for long.

2007-06-29T21:25:00.000-07:00

The floors we paid over $2000 to have refinished have had us a little stressed. Especially in the entry hall and the kitchen. They’re... spotty. Not shiny, or even sheeny, where water’s touched them repeatedly. If you spill grape juice or something greasy in the kitchen, it’s going to soak in and leave a spot that doesn’t completely come up.

As you know, this is not the way newly finished floors should be acting. We've been living with these for four months, eyeing the mess daily, mopping at it periodically, feeling a little sick.

The guy whose company refinished our floors is a local from Jasper—a real born-and-bred mountain guy. He’s over six foot four, booming, hyper, full of smiles. I instinctively trusted him on sight. His team worked hard, finished quickly, packed up and moved out like pros. He’s refinished floors in several historic hotels in the area—and at the home of the owners of Arkansas Products. I’m pretty sure he’s top notch.

But our sad floors—blotchy, stainy, ugly. Especially in front of the sink in the kitchen. We stressed and fretted. He promised to come back to take a look and fix problems, but seemed slow to get around to it. I stressed, first inwardly and then outwardly, about my conflict between my trust in this man’s integrity and reputation, and my husband’s (and my) unhappiness with our two-thousand-dollar floors.

I didn’t realize how much it was bothering me until tonight, when we finally touched base with him and got some additional clarification: The urethane he used was a bad batch. He’s had to redo fifteen houses in the past few months. He’ll be coming back, buffing every single board in every room we had refinished, and refinishing them. The splotches and stains and etc. will all go away.

When Husband came into the kitchen to tell me what he’d learned, I burst into tears and cried for a few minutes. Yes, I’m pregnant, and that’s part of the emotional outburst.

But it was so nice to know that this unpleasant waiting, this one of several in our life right now, is going to have a pleasant and just ending. No wrangling, no arguments with the workmen. They’re going to make it all better.

SUCH relief—even though it’s just old floors.

One small step forward...

2007-06-19T21:46:00.000-07:00

After dinner tonight, while we parents were tidying up and the wee one was running about underfoot undermining our efforts with Tupperware distribution, I spotted her squatting with an earnest look in her face.

"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."

And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.

Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)

Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).

She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.

We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...

It does happen.

2007-06-19T21:30:00.000-07:00

Another doctor's visit today. Weight gain slight (that's good), blood pressure good, baby heartbeat strong and audible. Eighteen weeks along tomorrow.

And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.

It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?

Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.

Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.

big news-- a little one.

2007-05-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, here’s the deal. I’m just going to cut to the chase, and quit trying to find time to compose the perfect post to record the news. Weeks have passed while I’ve wistfully thought about having time to do some “real writing” on this subject. Weeks that I’ll not have back, and the weeks ahead don’t look to be any less busy. So out with it, already.

We’re expecting another babushka. Another wee little smidgen of a creature, due to arrive just a couple of weeks after the Bird turns two. A baby, to be clear about the matter. We were a little shocked (not a lot—we do understand how these things happen, after all), but mostly we’re just thrilled. I'm just past the twelve week mark, and feeling the nausea lift and some of the exhaustion fade away. It sure is good to be on this side of the first trimester.

Okay, and a little scared. I’m scared about handling a newborn and my little delight of a toddler, who’s so much fun right now. About being able to raise her well while also raising an infant—about making sure that she learns to behave in public, eat with her own spoon, come when she’s called, sing the rest of the ABC song—while my hands and boobs are full of baby duty. Already I get twinges in my stomach when I pick her up and hold her in my arms for more than a minute or two. How can I explain to her that I won’t be able to do that much longer? I’m sure her neverending fascination with babies will transfer to her new sister or brother, and that she'll love the baby—but will she get what she needs from me (and her Dad) as well?

...Of course she will, the rational part of my brain says. People raise kids two years apart all the time. They grow up just great. It’ll all work out. And then my worrybrain overrides and frets anyway. (sigh)

...But a bit of rational thinking helps me restore some equilibrium, when I remember to apply it. I live in the same town with my mother—and now, my sister, who’s returned to her hometown to start a new life here, just like us. And that grandmother and that aunt will be all too eager to help us when we feel a little overwhelmed—or even when we don’t. (They already take Bird for sleepovers at least once a week, just for fun.) And that is a luxury that almost no family has—to have two women (and a grandpapa) on hand, itching to help. I know we’ll be fine.

And another baby. Night wakings, burpings, that amazing smell in the folds of a baby’s neck. A sweet weight snuggled against me in the sling... tiny little hands grasping my fingers. I cannot wait to meet this little one. Gal or guy, it is going to be wonderful. Having already experienced it once just makes me all the more anxious.

So that's my news, the revelation that's rocked my world for the last month and a half. Here we go again...

Quoting a quote. Recording a thought.

2007-04-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

from Anne Lamott-

My priest friend Tom Weston says that God's will for each of us is to have a
life. "And it is up to us to go and get one. Find some work, some love, some
play. Taste things. Be of service. Feed the hungry and clean the beaches and
clothe the naked and work for justice. Love God, love your neighbor. Help build
a world where it is safe to be a child, and where it is safe to grow old. And
love cats, and the occasional dog." I think this pretty much says it.
I periodically return to this pondering-- the living of an "ordinary" Christian life instead of a high-rollin' Full Time Ministry lifestyle. It is a beautiful thing to us-- though still uneasy at times-- to put ourselves at His feet with the rest of humanity, without the special status and influence that comes from being a vital part of a church (as volunteers or staff).

One of ye olde pastors wrote my husband recently, asking for his take on our Orlando experience and whether there were hard feelings. It gave us a few weeks of intermittent pondering, prayer, and struggle. (Truthfully, the struggle was mostly my husband's-- as Wife, I was an am essentially a nonentity to these men; my opinion has never been a matter of interest.) What do you say, when the four years there were four years of conflict, drama, power plays, strife, and galling unlove? He implied that we should feel warm and fuzzy and peaceful and want to go on fishing trips with him, and that he sensed that maybe that wasn't true, and that troubled him.

Bizarre. We spent years trying to share our concerns, our needs, our panic, with our leaders. He acts like it's all a mystery to him. I'm all for forgiving everyone involved, and will continue to do that (it is a process, I admit). But no fishing trips or warm fuzzies are going to be forthcoming to assauge anyone's sense of guilt. Simply put, your church, under your leadership, was a nightmare for us.

My husband wrote a beautiful, measured response last night and sent it, and I hope (but doubt) it closes the discussion. Quoting it here would certainly get me into trouble, so I won't. But I am tremendously proud of him for the way that he said those things.

And tremendously glad that we're saying them from here, rather than being embroiled in the drama there.

too long it's been, young jedi.

2007-04-01T22:42:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah, I know. It has been a long time...

It's midnight, I drank coffee at 8 pm, and it looks like I'm in for some insomnia as a result.

Good time for some catchin' up, I suppose.

New Old House:
We love living alone again. The house is not as expensive to heat as we'd feared (ie as my father had direly predicted). It's an enormous project, overwhelming at times, but we love it. The yard is full of flowers and lilac bushes and an enormous arching dogwood (blooming now) that takes my breath away every time I see it. We have a small problem with the refinishing job on the wood floors, one I need to schedule a visit about this week. Oh, and our renter's insurance was mysteriously cancelled by State Farm last week. But that should be easily fixed or replaced.

Someday, I'll write about what I learned last week about its original builders-- a childless couple who owned a hardware store on the square. But I want to save that to be written well, as it deserves.

Bird:
She is amazing. Talking a little, running around like a banshee, full of fun and mischief and will. Her favorite things are watching the Sesame Street Old School DVD episodes, taking baths, eating just about anything, and most especially running around outside and getting dirty. I am a little toddler-tired, and beginning the season of Weathering Tantrums Without Giving In, but so thankful and blessed every day that I get to spend my life with her. She is a wonder.

Orlando Houses:
Hooboy, not good. Our downtown home is still for sale. We thought we had a workable offer last week, but the offerers had misunderstood or misrepresented their financing qualifications. Our financial belt is tight, and getting tighter. Our tenants seem unable to buy the other house, and will be leaving at the end of their lease May 31. (They say they could have the money together by the end of June, but if they're wrong, that would ensure that we miss the best season for house-selling almost completely, and they're $40,000 short at this point. They've had a year to get their finances in order for this, and they haven't done it. I don't know what to do other than follow through with the deadlines we set, which means that they need to get ready to move out.) Which means their last rent payment comes in this week. Which instills a bit of panic in my breast, at the thought of having two houses for sale. We're sweating. But our best bet is to get that house ready and sell it early in the summer.

The downtown house is a big question mark right now. Why hasn't it sold? It's beautiful. We may drop our price again (we dropped it last month, which generated a lot of interest but no offers) and see if we can just get out of this. It's cost us so much money it makes me ill.

I hate feeling like we made a bad decision when we bought that house. It was a very good idea if we were going to stay in Orlando, which we believed we were at that point. But a year later, we'd decided to leave, and now, a year later than that, it's still up for sale. I worry that God's trying to teach us something, that we're not depending enough upon Him or displeasing Him and causing Him to not act on our behalf. Then I remind myself that that kind of secret blackballing is not the God I know, not the God that has been so good to me in my lifetime. I fret, I stew, I stay up too late at night worrying. Like this.

Enough said. Onward.

Health:
My attendance at a water aerobics class faded away with the move, and now that we're not residents at my parents' house, it would cost me $40/month to resume. Can't afford it. I'm trying to hoof Bird about in the stroller a few times a week, trying to do an exercise video occasionally, trying to eat well. Doing fine, I guess, but I feel less empowered about my health and shape these days. Oh, and we do all have health insurance again, which is good for one's peace of mind-- Husband in particular had been without for about two years. So, we survived that little gamble, thank God.

Dog:
Just lovely, greying a bit about the muzzle and sleeping more as she gets older. Eight and a half years now-- easing toward old age. Peeing and sniffing all over her 1.8 acres with abandon whenever she's allowed outside. (Need to build a fence to better protect our two Outdoor Gals when our finances stabilize.)

...Assuming they do stabilize. (Back to money again.)

This is a long season of bated breath and trying to be assured of what's hoped for and unseen at this point.

He has always been faithful to us. I dislike the doubt that creeps into my heart over this. We truly have made the best decisions we knew how to make as we moved here.

So we wait, and try to feel out what our next move should be. Trying to be full of faith, not anxious, believing that whole Romans 8:28 thing.

It's getting harder as the weeks drag on, though.

Oh, to be in O-town again...

2007-02-11T22:37:00.000-08:00

Well, it's finally happened-- something makes me long with all my heart to be in Florida this week.

Best of luck to our little buddy in his public debut. My husband had a great (if sometimes bewildering) time teaching him guitar while we were there.

I always wanted to see that restaurant, too.

Good thing my beliefs don't determine my hairstyle.

2007-02-10T21:53:00.001-08:00

You scored as Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan. You are an evangelical in the Wesleyan tradition. You believe that God's grace enables you to choose to believe in him, even though you yourself are totally depraved. The gift of the Holy Spirit gives you assurance of your salvation, and he also enables you to live the life of obedience to which God has called us. You are influenced heavly by John Wesley and the Methodists.

Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan

79%

Reformed Evangelical

57%

Fundamentalist

57%

Emergent/Postmodern

54%

Neo orthodox

39%

Roman Catholic

39%

Charismatic/Pentecostal

36%

Classical Liberal

36%

Modern Liberal

14%

What's your theological worldview?
created with QuizFarm.com

...What's funny is that the results indicate I'm more Reformed than my husband, which we both know is not true. Other than that, not much of it interests me. Pretty simplistic quiz for the complexity of the results, in my opinion.

The ripping out of carpet has finished. The wood floors have been refinished and are beautiful. We're painting windows and baseboards and door frames. I'm sore and very tired of being so busy. We've decreed that, once we move in, no home projects will be attempted for at least a month.

But even in my exhaustion, I am excited. A home again!

Not quite dead yet.

2007-01-25T20:36:00.000-08:00

Hi, I'm not dead. Just wanted you to know.

My mom retired, my babe switched from two naps to one, and suddenly there's less time for writing during the day. Also, I'm knitting sweaters for babies like one obsessed, which takes up evening time that isn't spent working. Also, I've been ripping carpet and ancient linoleum out of a 90-year-0ld house with my bare hands.

(No, we don't own it yet. I'm a house-half-bought optimist.-- get it? Glass-half-full? Oh, never mind.)

So this little spot's being neglected.

But not forever. I'll be back in a week, maybe less. I semi-promise.

Thrumming. Caveat. Family. Poverty.

2007-01-06T22:58:00.000-08:00

I should be working right now.

Instead, I'm sitting here thrumming inside, thinking about all that still needs to be done to get us into the house. Much to do, many inspections to schedule, money to be obtained and spent.
But, oh-- to have my own house again. To make my own coffee in my own mug and sit on my own front porch and drink it. Utter bliss.
~~~
I'm a little nervous about my New Year's post. I won't take it back, and I'm not sure I want to delete it, but I do worry that it's possible for people to find it who might be hurt by it. I truly don't want to hurt anybody. But the vast internet can be a small place sometimes.

So, you: you who have read it, have some connection to the situation described, and are hurt or shocked or similarly affected:

Please ask me questions before you make assumptions about what you read.
(You know what happens when you assume, after all. And who wants to be one of those? Not me. And not you.)

Thanks.
~~~
Happy thoughts tonight:

We moved when the bird was just five months old. Bird's grandparents saw her first steps, heard her first words, fed her her first cookies. They will help teach her to read, help teach her to garden, and teach her the value of family.

She has a great cloud of family surrounding her-- from both her dad's and her mom's side. Every few weeks, she gets to visit (or be visited by) a cousin, an aunt or uncle, or other family. As she grows up, she'll not just hear about how much she is loved by her family-- she will experience it. I won't be telling her stories about her extended family-- her extended family will. She'll know their faces, their voices, their laughs-- not just their pictures-- by heart.

I know not all babies are as blessed, and not all families are conducive to this kind of joy in relationship-- but she has a wonderful thing going here. And the brother or sister (or multiples thereof) that follow will enjoy the same blessings.

Even with all the upheaval, financial stress, and life-reordering, I would still do it again in a heartbeat for even half of the benefits we're receiving because of it. I am, in a sense, deeply thankful for all the hurt and betrayal and conflict and disenchantment and misunderstanding we've experienced-- because it has led us back here.

Isn't that amazing. God intended it all for good-- for the most wonderful, rich, amazing good.

Fabulous.
~~~

My husband went a-thrifting today and came back a little dismayed by the poverty he saw-- using thrift stores, not as a source for hipster fashion, but as a source for basic needs.

There are many families who live desperate and isolated lives here, especially out in the mountains. I know that poverty existed in Orlando, but something about the layout of its neighborhoods isolated and hid the need there. We were insulated from all the hurting people. They had their own grocery stores, their own parks, their own missions and churches.
Here, the need walks right past you at wal-mart, or bumps into you while you're hitting the garage sales. It's a bit disorienting, just like the men in overalls were the first night we arrived and stopped at Walgreens.

Or maybe the better word would be "reorienting."

I hope that there's something we'll be able to do to help.

Consumption.

2007-01-02T14:59:00.000-08:00

Hmm. Linky links:

This recent post, from a favorite blog.

And this, about a commitment I've been interested in all through 2006.

And this.

I know I can't buy nothing new, since we'll be moving into a new house.

But how close could I come to it?

Hmm.

Happy New Year.

2007-01-01T14:00:00.000-08:00

My husband and I are not big resolution types, but here's one that we have lying around on hand for just such an occasion.

From this year forward, we strive to be unremarkable, ordinary, unworthy, unobserved Christians. No more fronting Jesus Rock Bands for hundreds of screaming fans. No more speaking at retreats. No more breezy PR newsletters to financial supporters full of carefully chosen (and excluded) details about the remarkable results of our Life In Ministry.

(What would those newsletters have looked like if we'd been honest? In a nutshell: "We aren't getting full paychecks, and couldn't live on them if we were. My wife is having panic attacks, and our leaders could care less as long as I'm still productive in my church work. Speaking of those leaders, I am being manipulated and lied to by men that I thought were my friends and role models. Our church just committed to a building that is going to cost it its financial security and become an idol to be worshipped and sacrificed to. That same hipster church makes most of its members feel unhip and unwanted. Many of the mature members are leaving, leaving mostly spiritual babies behind. We're finding it difficult to do our jobs-- draw people into a church-- that grosses us out. We're standing up for what we believe is balance and truth, and we know it's going to risk our career in ministry-- and also our future, because now I'm having my own anxiety attacks that dwarf my wife's by comparison, my blood pressure is through the roof, and my health is shot to hell." Hooboy, would those have been interesting reading.)

Back to that resolution. We want to learn contentment-- no, joy-- in living out the gospel daily without a Master Plan of Spectacular Results-- or a spiritual heirarchy above us doling out approval or disapproval based on our usefulness to its own Master Plan. We will be love, salt, light to the "least of these" even (and especially) if it will not advance our own causes, popularity, power, or sense of piety.

...From Jim Palmer. I haven't read his book, but I'll likely check it out after seeing this:

“God has been trying to free me from the burden of doing something spectacular for him. It has a way of distracting you from the opportunities to be salt and light where you are…I’m starting to recognize that I am immersed in a sea of hurting people every day. If I simply pay attention and follow the promptings of the Spirit in all these little ways, my life is ‘ministry.’” What is at the bottom of our need to do some “great” thing for God? Why do we tend to discount or not value how God works through us along the everyday paths of life?

Hoorah for the everyday dirt paths. No more spiritual tollways for us-- the price is just too high.

Yurty yurt yurt.

2006-12-20T00:04:00.000-08:00

2006 is the year of many things for me.

The Year of the Move Back to Our Roots.
The Year of the Baby Bird. (She was born in November, 2005)
The Year of Nomadic Life.

All of that is fairly obvious to anyone who knows us.

But it is also, for me, the year of Yurt Dreams.

My first yurt-sighting was in the documentary about the Weeping Camel. Amazing film, but the homes of the families kept snagging my eye. Beautifully mobile, simple but with richly painted supports and beautiful textiles. I was intruiged.

Then I looked up yurts online, saw the modern versions, and was absolutely smitten with the architecture and light and space. I started seeing yurt references everywhere. There were even yurts on LOST last summer. I felt haunted by the idea.

I researched yurts as vacation lodging, yurts as vacation homes, yurts as full-time homes. I researched prices, builders, building code issues. At one point, I started drawing floor plans.

Why I want so much to own a yurt is beyond me. I know it can't be as fabulous as I imagine it to be. I've seen pictures of everyday yurt living, and it looks kind of cluttered and awkward-- straight furniture butted up against round walls. I know there can be moisture problems, heating and cooling problems.

My husband laughed at my obsession, and I've pretty much abandoned the idea.

But then I see pictures of their ceilings, and something in me, again, sounds that clear note that I feel when I discover or learn something that's pivotal. (He's going to laugh at this paragraph, too, when he sees it.)

But why do I feel like that?

This idea from a British mom on Flickr who messaged me recently makes me tear up tonight.
Children, gardens, bread, and a yurt as community playspace.

Hmm.

I hope he fed his children with that $150.

2006-12-19T22:08:00.000-08:00

Our realtor called today-- first time in months he's called on his own initiative. Offer-hope rose trembling in my heart until I heard the tone in his voice, and I could tell it was not good news.
Our a/c unit, located in our backyard, has been vandalized. Busted into, the condenser coils stolen for scrap metal. The thief makes about $150, and we're out a $2,000, two-year-old a/c unit.

Can you believe that? No fingerprints due to rain, no evidence. Our homeowners' insurance should cover it, but there will be a big ol' deductible. I'll call tomorrow to find out how much. So frustrating, when the house is already bleeding us dry financially.

The more frustrating issue is, once we've had it repaired, the house is still basically untended. The thief could very conceivably return and double his money. We're going to have to lock the back gate in hopes that that will be enough to keep it from happening again.

Oh, God, please sell our house. We need to be out from under this.

~~~

Other than that, life's been good. The babe is a total joy, other than her persistent desire to eat houseplant dirt and play in the dog's food and water bowls. The holidays have been fairly simple, due to my family's decision to white-elephant the giftgiving this year. And we're enjoying our perhaps-church-home more and more as we keep going (on the weekends we're in town, anyway). We have a New Year's invitation to a party with people our own age, which feels nice, and I have a couple of nice surprise gifts for my husband and daughter, which is fun.

I went to a Christmas service underground on Sunday night, in a local (tourist) cave. Flute and female voice only. Absolutely beautiful acoustics. I will reuturn next year, with friends.
(I love our area's limestone caves. So amazing, to know that underneath our calloused, unknowing feet are caverns and rivers and waterfalls and all sorts of wonders that we are never aware of. This one had been used for moonshining, so its ceiling was blackened in one area, and many of the stalactites were broken off for souveneirs decades ago-- but it's still astonishingly beautiful, even abused as it's been.)

~~~

Oh, and that house? Yes, we're going the home-equity route. Financially, it's not the cheapest move, but life is not all financials, dadgummit. Consider this:

We have been living in my parents' basement for eight months. EIGHT. LONG. MONTHS.

My husband longs to be "the man" in his own household again, and I long for it for him (although it's far easier for me to live in my childhood home on my parents' dime than it is for him).

We deeply miss our stuff, our winter clothes, our other pairs of shoes, our own pictures hung on the wall, cooking our own food. It is amazing how much we missing the little beauties and comforts of the life we've built together over the past eight years. I cannot put words to the ache we both feel, but we both feel it.

We miss time alone with our child, and the joy of having friends over for dinner and hangouts. Both of those are awkwardly difficult to impossible to achieve while living here.

We've found a house we love, a house that now has other interested potential buyers. In the year I've been hunting for a home in this little town, I've seen nothing that suited us as well. If we don't "rent to own" it now, another family is clamoring to do so.

The decision's been especially hard because my parents are not going to completely understand. My dad is the king of thrift, and he thinks this is wasteful-- to say nothing of his opinion on buying a 90-year-old house. And I hate to displease him.

We are deeply thankful to my parents for their generosity. We are happy and comfortable here. We love them dearly, and still love them, and have been blessed financially and emotionally by our stay with them. But all that doesn't change the fact that we feel a real need to establish our own household here.

The day that we pretty much made our decision to pursue this, a friend called who, like us, has escaped Florida ministry and found a new life in business in his parents' hometown. He and his wife rented an apartment, then found their perfect home (also an old house). They're paying double right now-- rent and house payment-- because they didn't want to lose the opportunity to own the house. They're completely at peace with this.

"Life is not all dollars and cents," he said, and something in my heart sounded a clear note. (So much of our hearts sound a clear note with theirs-- we love being their friends.) There is peace in this decision for me, even if it costs us some money. In the five years we've owned houses in central Florida, we've made more than a little money. We have some to spare, and I'm okay with "wasting" some on this.

It's hard to displease my parents, but I am thirty-two years old. You can't live your life to please your parents forever.

And oh, how we love that house. We will be so happy there... even though our lifestyle, until the house sells, will be an exercise in How Cheap Can We Possibly Live to keep that home equity line of credit as low as possible.

We'll be eating beans and rice, wearing layers, stripping ugly wallpaper, staying home and playing board games on the weekend, but we'll be in our new home.

...it sounds just lovely to me.

First steps today.

2006-12-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

I am so proud. She's so excited, big grin on her face as she totters her few steps, soon falling.

She's brave. She gets up and tries again, not just when we prompt her. She wants to learn this, and it's working.

Life changes now. My tiny baby, she toddles. Goodness.

(We also took her this morning to get her picture taken with Santa-- a fundraiser for Children's Hospital. She didn't cry or even reach for me when I plopped her on the big man's lap. What a sweet, curious, brave girl I have.)

I'll figure out later what on earth I'm going to do now that she's completely mobile-- and beginning to shriek when she can't have her way. For tonight, I'm just proud of my little Bird.

To remember.

2006-12-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

You'd woken suddenly, two hours into your nighttime sleep. You screamed in that way you scream when you don't know why you're awake, don't like being awake, and don't know how to quit being awake. I held you as you struggled, trying to whisper and sing to catch your attention, stop the crying. Nothing was working.

And then I had a thought. And we stepped over to the window, turned the plastic rod on the blinds, and the grand, soft, white world was shown to you. White hillsides, black trees, soft gray sky.

You froze, settled your head on my shoulder, and sighed a little tiny sigh. I held you, mesmerized, as I watched you drink in the beauty of your first snowfall.

A few minutes later, I turned you away from the window, just to see. You lifted your head, shifted your weight, and laid it on my other shoulder-- your face now pointed toward the window again.

I didn't move again for quite a while.

Bird, you saw what I see in the snowfall tonight.

That was pure magic for me. Thank you.

Here comes the ice, doo de doo doo....

2006-11-29T21:22:00.000-08:00

The house is shaking with the ferocity of the thunder as an absolutely amazing arctic front moves into town tonight. This evening after dark, it was still over sixty degrees. It's still pretty warm at 51, but we're supposed to get down to 36 by midnight, and 36 is the high for Thursday, with 18 being the low. I think that means that it will only get colder and colder and colder.

At least 1/4 inch of ice, followed by 2 to 4 inches of snow, they say. I'm not planning to drive, that's for sure.

It's bad form to glory in bad winter weather around here-- Dad's worked for the highway department for 35 years. When the roads are bad, he has to call his employees away from their families and endanger them. He hates it.

So imagine me whispering when I say this:
It is so fun to have snow coming and nothing to do but cozy up with some hot chocolate tomorrow and watch it fall. Yay.

Our first snow in five years. Bird's first snow, ever.
~~~
I've been buying Christmas gifts for parts of our families this week online. It's fun. Spending money online is always fun to me. You ever wanna blow some money, just hand me the cash.
I found out that my brother-in-law's six kids (four adopted) rarely get personal gifts from their extended family. People tend to buy them all a few movies to share, or give their parents gift cards to spend on them. We decided, come hell or high water or dwindling bank account, that we were going to make sure those kiddos knew that we love and think of each of them individually this year. I've been shopping amazon and the disney website and ebay for them. I'm finally finished-- and now I know what Hannah Montana is can say that I've bought a Japanese comic book online.
~~~
Buying Bird gifts is also fun, although it's challenging to find something that she'll love and play with long-term. She changes so fast. I've gone a bit retro with her this year-- I bought her some beads that remind me of some I had as a baby, a set of cardboard "bricks" that have been fought over in kindergarten classrooms for decades, and about seven hours' worth of 1970s Sesame Street episodes (ie, NO ELMO until she's old enough to request him herself-- let's delay the annoyance as long as possible). I think I'll enjoy them all at least as much as she does.

It took him a while to hit the floor, but he got there.

2006-11-28T22:33:00.001-08:00

Toddler tantrums are amazing things to me. As a mom about to enter this phase, I view them with a combination of curiosity, dread, fear, and horror-- not unlike the universal desire to peer at the carnage of a wreck as one drives by. Because in a very literal sense, THAT COULD BE ME. Soon.

But this particular little Halloween tantrum is so well-documented that it mostly just made me grin. Don't you feel just a little sorry for him? After all, he'd been told that there WERE no Stormtrooper costumes. And obviously, once they reached the party, he could see that his momma had told him lies. LIES. Oh, the injustice!

...and his momma snapped pictures the whole time. I love it.

Flashback.

2006-11-26T23:24:00.000-08:00

In either high school or junior high, I adored this poem. Can't remember which.

What a wonderful bird the frog are!
When he stand he sit almost;
When he hop he fly almost.
He ain't got no sense hardly;
He ain't got no tail hardly either.
When he sit, he sit on what he ain't got almost.

-Anonymous

I have not thought about it once in probably fifteen years. Came across it online tonight, and it brought a wide grin to my face. Then it occurred to me that other people may have seen my delight in these kinds of things a little odd.

I've never been one of those people who are wired to modify their behavior based on what other people think. Even in junior high, that most agonizingly self-conscious period, I shrugged if something that intrigued me was considered "uncool."

I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure this poem would have been one of those things. I also wrote long notes to my friends in rhyme, had a pet pink JcPenney's shopping bag (rolled into a poofy ball) named "Durf," and made knotted friendship bracelets from embroidery floss a full year before the craze hit my school (which made me uncool at the time, but cool a year later when I was an expert and could design my own patterns).

I remember losing a friend in eighth grade because I refused to say that her bulimic vomiting and dare-based makeouts with Popular Boys was okay with me. I wouldn't answer questions about my sexual experiences (in seventh grade!) at a slumber party. Uncool. I kept on being a girl scout through high school despite its obvious uncoolness. I never did curl my bangs into an enormous Hairspray Cliff. And I didn't care if the popular people liked me or not, which was perhaps the greatest Uncool of them all.

Other than being smart and a girl.

...but I had a happy adolescence. I enjoyed my friends, had my secret crushes, excelled in band (flute) and academics and attended various gifted enrichment programs in the summer. A few guys liked me, and I generally didn't like them back, with one important exception who's downstairs sleeping in my bed right now. And I emerged from adolescence pretty much unscathed.

And really, I still like that silly poem.

Ah, life with a bambino.

2006-11-20T14:44:00.000-08:00

Really, all you can do is shrug and laugh after a while.

But if Dante had it right, and hell has creative levels of agony as he described, one level certainly involves having to tend to a grumpy, phlegmy, hoarse one-year-old through an endless night where she cannot go to sleep because of the snot dripping down the back of her throat.

While the caretaker has a bad case of the same cold, no less.

Poor little gal. At least I understand that I have a cold, and know how to blow my nose and clear my throat, and am not terrified beyond all reason of the rubber nosesucker.

Failing.

2006-11-17T23:54:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry, this post-every-day thing has been a total flop. I'm trying, truly. It's not working, but I'm trying and guilting and now I'm posting even though it's past 1am and I really need to sleep.

~~~

I got a flu shot today, being a good little worker bee who Believes the Government that these things are good and helpful, particularly when Living in the Same House with a Small Child. My daughter is also being periodically shot full of vaccinations and such, because I in my heart am a good worker bee who wants to believe in doctors and science and the government and society and all that. Every time we go, I wonder if I'm wrong, and how on earth anyone knows who to believe about this and every other parenting decision.

I mean, really. How do you decide? Cribs are Good. Cribs are Bad. Breastfeed for Years. No, Stop At Twelve Months, You Freak. Time Outs. No, Spanks. Juice. No Juice, Ever. Soft Shoes Help Babies Learn to Walk. Soft Shoes Make Their Feet Misshapen.

It never ends. Guess it's good for my sense of control-- ie, I am never in control, I can't make all the best decisions, even though I want to.

So, we get the shots, and hope we're not giving her ADD or asthma or any other widespread childhood abnormality by doing so. She sleeps in a crib, and wears soft shoes, and doesn't drink juice, and is now being weaned, and I hope that all those things, if not the RIGHT decision, will at least not hurt her. I hope God makes allowances for good intentions in these things, and will catch her and sustain her where we let something slip.

~~~

My dog looks awesome in her sweater. Kinda lumpy and matronly and silly, but nonethless, awesome. And as expected, she loves it. I'll share a picture once the last cuff is sewn on. I bought floofy yarn for the Bird's first sweater last night. Onward!

~~~

Weaning is a sad thing. During the two times a day she's now allowed to suckle, she clings to me fiercely, intent and focused. No more giggles and games and squirming; she values her time there. It breaks my heart a little, because now I'm taking away something she obviously still enjoys. I wish she'd stayed flippant about it.

She has her first runny nose and a fever tonight. Part of me wants to go wake her up and hold her, just out of love and my desire to hear her breathing, but that would be stupid.

Time to go join the sleeping husband. There's a baby monitor down there by the bed; if she needs me, I'll hear her sooner down there than up here, fretting and surfing the internet.

adios.

Financial Conundrum.

2006-11-16T00:11:00.000-08:00

I really, really hate this.

See, there's a house we've found-- a beautiful 90-year-old house that's almost untouched, has pocket doors and a grand staircase and four bedrooms and a playroom and a mudroom/laundry room all packed into less than 1800 square feet. And a basement. And nearly two acres of land on three lots, much of it planted in old bulbs and shrubs.

I adore it with all the white-hot houselove in my nest-oriented little heart. I want to sit on its front porch in the swing with my coffee. I want to raise my babies there. (I want to conceive more babies there.) I want to shuffle up and down those stairs in my old age. I want to be the person who has its floors refinished and its kitchen modernized and its walls painted, taking care of it so it'll be there in another hundred years.

(Did I mention that it's had two owners in those 90 years? Just TWO?? And that, other than some ugly paint and wallpaper and siding and shag carpet, easily changed, it is basically completely original?)

And, based on what we believe our Florida real estate is worth, we can afford it-- even though it needs its floors refinished, its walls painted, a dishwasher installed, etc etc. But the owner needs to sell it, and we don't have the moolah yet because our property hasn't sold.

We first saw this house last June. It has been for sale by owner since then; no one has bought it. But she is about to list it with a realtor.

And I am so afraid that we will lose it. She offered this week to rent it to us with all the rent going toward the purchase price when we are able to buy it. It's a generous offer, but we still can't afford that along with our other mortgage/utilites/etc in Florida.

Do we take out a home equity loan to do this? Is that a really stupid idea? That's what I'm trying to figure out. And it's so hard to gauge financial risk like this when your heart's all pitter-patter for the 16-pane-over-1 windows and the window seat in the dining room.

...sob...

Wage Peace.

2006-11-12T11:32:00.000-08:00

I had almost forgotten about this poem. I'd been told it was by Mary Oliver, who is amazing, but now (upon Googling to find it) I learn that it's from a poet who lives in New Mexico, Judyth Hill.

I like that she lives there.
I like that her name includes the word Hill.
I'll have to check her out.

This is the kind of person I want to be. Sometimes I hold the rubble and terrorists and confusion in for far too long, dwelling on it, letting it poison me.

I want to be able to release it and instead relish all that's here to be enjoyed. And there is a LOT to savor.

WAGE PEACE

Wage peace with your breath.

Breathe in firemen and rubble,
breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds.

Breathe in terrorists
and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.

Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.

Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.

Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.

Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.

Make soup.

Play music, memorize the words for thank you in three languages.

Learn to knit, and make a hat.

Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,
imagine grief
as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.

Swim for the other side.

Wage peace.

Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious:

Have a cup of tea and rejoice.

Act as if armistice has already arrived.
Celebrate today.

Knitting=crack.

2006-11-11T09:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, I gave up on the pumpkin, as the baby's being born Monday and the SOLE source of knitting supplies in town (the wonderful Wal-Mart) had neither an orange yarn soft enough for a baby hat OR the right size OR style of needles.

So I found a spot online where I could put in a few custom measurements for our sweet canine(along with my yarn gauge) and it spits out a customized dog sweater pattern.

How cool is that? All her jackets and such are bured in our storage unit, so she could really use a warm sweater for the winter that's knocking at our door now.

And I've stayed up WAY late twice working on it. It is so simple and rewarding to see it grow. I have the top finished; the rest should follow fairly quickly. It's a pretty multicolored wool in rose and teal and purple and tangerine, and it's set off by Claire's black coat beautifully. I'll come back and post a picture at this spot when it's finished.

Plus, I ordered this and now I'm all jazzed about knitting a sweater for the Bird. I almost bought yarn today but forced myself to wait until I finish this project. I could easily become one of those knitters with six thousand skeins of yarn and unfinished projects. I want to fight that urge.

We're going to be driving for four hours today, and I'm all excited because that means four hours in the car with my dog sweater parts!

One Year Old.

2006-11-09T13:41:00.000-08:00

A year ago, she was six hours old, and we thought she had breathing problems and an infection. She laid there, hooked up to all kinds of wires, and I nevertheless thought that she was the most perfect thing that had ever been.

A year later, she's giving me kisses and standing at the window waiting for her daddy to come home from work and dancing to music and loving the Price Is Right because it gives you lots of chances to Clap With All The People.

People told me it would go fast.

I had no idea what that meant.

I'm a little weepy today, thinking of all that this year has meant to me. I must ready the house for a little birthday celebration tonight. I'll try to share more in the next day or two.

What I'm doing online that keeps me from writing in my blog.

2006-11-07T19:38:00.000-08:00

Only a few days into the month, and I'm having trouble getting my posts entered on time. I'm going to stick with this-- the point is to get back into the habit, and of course that will take a little work-- but I'll try to be creative with my brief obligatory posts. I'll also quit pointing out that they're obligatory after this paragraph.

There, I'm done metablogging for a while. Yay.

Here are a few of my current fascinations:

Awakened: nature-loving, hill-living mom with a baby boy just Bird's age. Love the simplicity of her life and writing.

Sundry Mourning: working mama of another baby boy just a little older than Bird. Very funny, recovering alcoholic, brutally honest about the frustrations and joys of motherhood.

Knitted Brow: Kim's an old friend (that I've never met) from my Diary-x journaling days. A teacher, a lover of good food and long walks and dogs and spirituality and many other things that I like too. Plus, now she lives in Hawaii, and her scenery fascinates me.

Sara's new preemie Isaac has me checking daily for updates on his progress. I've loved Sara's spunky, honest-yet-irreverent site for years-- anyone who would sell WTFWJD merchandise has my undying devotion-- but Isaac just makes me relive all the joy and terror and love of Bird's Intensive Care days that first month. Plus, she knitted that squee pumpkin hat that I must make.

Harris Chronicles: An old high school friend, now living as a military wife to her high school sweetheart, who's stationed in Iraq. Her posts of moose and snow (she's in Fairbanks, Alaska) entertain me, but I really stop in to watch her baby girl photos and check to make sure Alan's doing fine. He should be back next month, thank God.

Homesteading Bloggers: I've found a whole nest of them at homesteadblogger.com via my friend Beth. You need to be registered to read them, I think, but they speak to all my latent loves of gardening and composting and my desire to raise chickens and grow my own food and (possibly) teach Bird at home when she gets old enough. There's a huge range of philosophies that cause people to choose this lifestyle, and I find that fascinating too.

Mir's Want Not blog. She posts at least twice a day about various fabulous bargains she's found on the Web. She's funny. She makes me want to buy stuff. I have to watch this-- I currently have 16 servings of dehydrated soup that I bought for $2.99 from Canada, no shipping. Do I need dehydrated soup? No. But Mir blogged it, and so I wanted it. Arrgh. But regardless, I love her. So pretty. (I find it weird that I'm all attracted to The Compact and the Brown Dress and the Simple Way while also being a daily visitor at a shopping website. Guess I've yet to work through some of the changes I'm feeling called to make.)

Tabblo. This review describes its features in detail, so I won't do that. But be assured: It is addictive. It makes me feel like I'm part of this big worldwide community that celebrates the beauty of life via each other's photographs. That sounds completely cheesy, but it makes me happy that some young photographer in Italy thinks that I've taken a really wonderful photo of my daughter, and that I get a chance to see what he saw on his way to work last week. It's also a great way to share baby photos with family and friends-- I make a tabblo, and include the link in an email to them. Flickr is dull by comparison.

...and I could keep listing things. But I'll stop there to keep from revealing the embarassing extent of my online habits. It's something I need to curb, but also something that brings me a ton of joy and satisfaction and connection to the outside world.

Hopefully, as I get back into recording my life online, this will become a source of joy and satisfaction as well.

Almost vapid post, saved by Vacations.

2006-11-05T23:20:00.000-08:00

Grr. That Ebay order got canceled because the little racer's on backorder. (I thought if they said they had an item, they HAD it, not had access to it via their supplier...? But whatever.)

I canceled and ordered it from the evil Wal-Mart's website in hopes that it might actually arrive before Thursday's birthday events. It's a long shot, but let's hope.

Not that you care. Not that I think you care, or want to record this for posterity. But I promised to post every day.

Yeah, this is pretty weak.

...

Okay, here's a tidbit that has a bit more substance:

If I could vacation anywhere, I think I'd go back to Ireland, rent a thatched cottage on a cliff by the sea, and get myself an old bike with a wire basket. I'd spend my days pedaling through the mist, nearly killing myself because I'd forget to ride on the correct side of the road. I'd take pictures, eat brown bread and tomato sandwiches with salt, write, read, bike, and hang out in little village pubs. I'd take rubbings off old Celtic gravestones. I'd drop stones down the cliff and listen for them to hit water. I'd climb up to the top of a lighthouse. I'd find my mom's relatives. I'd hope that my coat would grow moss like Frank McCourt said it would. And maybe I'd take a class on Irish lit or the Irish monks during the dark ages (they saved civilization, after all-- or so I've been told).

(This is sounding more like some kind of a sabbatical than a vacation. But whatever. That's my dream.)

If I could vacation anywhere in the US, I'd haul my husband's butt off to New Mexico so that he could experience everything I love about it. We'd attend a festival day at one of the pueblos, buy me lots of lovely silver jewelry, and eat green chili food until it altered our-- um, output. We'd take that amazing drive that took me past desert and snowy fir-covered mountaintops and Indian reservation and cliff dwellings and Los Alamos all in one afternoon. We'd explore that ghost town that the artists have reclaimed as their own out in the middle of nowhere. And we'd eat enchiladas flat while we watched The Milagro Bean War.

Then, so I could do something new for me, we'd rent a car and drive out Route 66 to the Grand Canyon in Arizona. We'd stay in either the concrete teepees or the vintage trailer motel. We'd rent llamas and do a little hiking, mostly just so we could rent the llamas. (They would not spit their carrots on us like the ones behind my old house in Florida. Hey, this is MY fantasy, I have the Llama Control here.)

Of course, I could always combine the two, and we could hike with llamas through the Irish hills while looking for concrete teepees, trying to take photos of Native Americans, and downing Guiness and hot tea with our green chili enchiladas.

Eww. It just doesn't sound as nice when you combine 'em.

New hobby?

2006-11-04T18:03:00.000-08:00

I have about six books here that I want to read. I'm about six months behind on album-ing our post-Gracie photos (a task I swore I'd keep up with once she was born, as I want us to be able to look at the photos together rather than storing them on a hard drive unseen). I hardly communicate with friends or family (except via email, which not all of them use).

But do I want to work on any of these already-established projects? NO.

I want to create Sara's gaspingly squee newborn pumpkin hat for my friend's new baby boy, who could be born any day now.

No matter that I haven't knitted anything since 1995 or so, and that I've never knitted anything that wasn't rectangular (scarf, blanket).

Am I nuts?

I have this terrible itch to go get yarn and needles. NOW.

After all, if you don't keep learning new things, life gets dull, right? And dull is definitely something to avoid.

Primary-colored plastic = my heart's desire.

2006-11-03T19:32:00.000-08:00

I am all atwitter.

Bird's first birthday is next week, and today I ordered her Big Present.

This is a weird time for us financially. So far, we've been able to make the payments on the Florida house, but they're not small, and our income's not as big as it was when we were there. We're living with the knowledge that things are Okay Now, but may be Not Okay Soon if the house doesn't sell.

It makes me feel unsteady about my spending decisions. I recently passed up on a $6 clearanced Halloween costume for Gracie at Old Navy, feeling thrifty. (Old Navy is a good 45 minutes away from here.) Then I spent a week and a half regretting the decision. Was it right to not spend the money, or did I miss a chance at a wonderful memory (for us, for her via pictures) by deciding that she'd never remember it anyway? Don't answer that; it's done, and I don't want to know.

Part of my indecision comes from living with my parents and wanting their approval of my spending practices. Nobody, I mean NOBODY, I know is more careful with money than my parents. I respect that, but it is a hard act to follow. Dad reuses paper plates if they're not too dirty, for pete's sake.

Anyway, thinking of the Halloween regret, I decided this week that I really wanted to get Gracie a nice present-- not just a 99 cent book and a new (practical, needed) outfit or two from the consignment shop.

I had money sitting in my PayPal account from selling my grand old 1950s spaceship bike before we moved. Money that was mine, not the household's. Money that, so far, we haven't had to dig into to make our ends meet. I decided to spend some of it on Bird.

I'm realizing that I'm defending and justifying this minor purchase, to myself, by writing this. Amazing.

(I will try to keep this blog from being a wearisome list of purchases and near-purchases and fretting about money and houses. That is a large part of my subconscious these days, though; you've been warned. And I do intend on writing about The House sometime soon. But I'll try to keep it in check.)

Let me refocus. Here's what I want to say:

She is going to LOVE this little vehicle. I can't wait to see her toddling around the house, holding onto its back handle. There is so much joy in buying her little things that she will need or use or learn from or enjoy.

There's fun in bargain hunting, too, which is why visits to the consignment shop and Ebay and even an occasional thrift store have become one of my few active hobbies these days.

But mostly, I wanted to record a new experience for me: I'm getting my thrills off of buying a Little Tikes plastic toy on Ebay.

(It's true. Everything changes when you have a baby.)

Disfarmer.

2006-11-02T09:30:00.000-08:00

I can't believe I had to stumble upon this man's images in Flickr to learn about him.

Why, with my interest in the Ozarks, in history, in photography, in rural culture, has no one ever told me about his pictures?

There are worlds written on the wrinkled faces in his photograhs.

Fall has fallen.

2006-11-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

It passes so quickly.

Last week, the hills were on fire with reds and golds and oranges. The cemetery filled with maples took my breath away. I gaped at the beautiful four-color maples (my favorite is that brief time when they're all colors- red, orange, yellow, and green-- swirled together as the tree just begins changing colors). I wanted to go hiking (which is pretty impossible with a baby), take forest photos, see the Elk down in Boxley Valley in the midst of all this color.

But this week, the scenery's already shifted to the coppery colors of late fall. The leaves are falling off the trees in earnest, and many of them have bare tops already. The temperature will be in the twenties tonight (lower than I've experienced in the last four years).

It's shocking how quickly autumn passes.

***

My dad turns 61 this week. Next January, he and mom will have been married 40 years. Life expectancy is-- what? 75 years or so?

I have maybe 15 years left with my dad. Who knows-- maybe 5, maybe 30. A friend's dad had heart surgery this week, and it reminds me how fragile our parents' lives are, how possible it is to lose them even at this stage when they still seem healthy and relatively young.

It's shocking how quickly life passes.

***

Last week, we had our ninth anniversary. We knew each other for nine years before we married, so now I've known my husband for eighteen of my thirty two years. More than half my life.

In some ways, it feels like we have always been married. In others, I can't believe it's been this long already. If we live long enough to be married for 50 years (and many don't), we've already experienced 18% of our marriage.

My husband went to deathclock.com and determined his approximate age of death, which he has placed on his Google calendar as a reminder of his mortality. I stare at it when he leaves his Google homepage up on the computer.

How quickly it's going to pass.

Is it weird that all of these numbers and statistics freak me out?

It's not as if I don't have an expectation of life continuing beyond death. I do, and I believe it will make this corrupted, aching place look like misery by comparison. But already have this fear that I'll not use my time well somehow, that somehow I won't quite be ready when my or my family's time comes.

I want to relish the blazing of the leaves. I want to relish the last of my parents' time with us. I want to relish my marriage.

The brown-copper of the hills brings all this to mind today.

Blasted.

2006-10-26T00:11:00.000-07:00

In case you're wondering, no, we haven't had an offer.

In other disappointing news:

I was insulted roundly tonight. That doesn't happen very often.

I've been searching for a certain type of vintage stove for months. On Ebay, on Google. Trying to find a decent deal.

A Kansas woman contacted me after seeing a post of mine on a forum. Offered me a stove for about twice what it was worth. I politely, gently showed her similar sales on Ebay. She revised her expectations, suggested a price that was on the high end, but fair. She cleaned up her stove, and it looked much better.

Then I didn't email her back for a couple of days, and she listed the stove on Ebay, thinking I was a flake. I understand, but I still really wanted her stove.

So I offered her her suggested price, she agreed, and then (tonight) I offered to have a friend make the 350-mile trip to pick it up so that she wouldn't have to drive it down.

...and she removed the stove from Ebay, and returned $50 that I'd paypal-ed to her to prove my intent, and told me that she would not sell the stove to me, that I was rude to ask for proof of her identity and address, and rude to plan to have the stove cleaned when it was in good condition, and rude to have someone come pick it up when she and her husband wanted to make the trip.

I mean, she RAILED on me, and told me not to email or call her any more, goodbye.

And I can't figure it out. My ideas:

1) She completely misinterpreted every underlying attitude in my emails-- thought I was picky instead of cautious, presumptuous instead of trying to be helpful, et cetera.
2) She was somehow trying to rip me off and flew off the handle deliberately when I asked for proof of her identity.
3) Someone else bought the stove from her, or she decided not to sell it at all (why remove the stove from Ebay when you need the money so badly, just to keep from selling it to little old me?)
4) She is nuts, or completely stressed out and acting that way. She and her husband are opening a convenience store and they desperately need cash to fill its tanks with the first load of fuel. It sounds like a make-it-or-break-it situation.

And I am sitting here at 2 am, feeling like I'm a bad person because some unknown internet woman thinks I'm a turd and won't sell me her gorgeous old stove. WHY?? Why should I feel guilty? I certainly didn't do anything deserving of that diatribe.

Oh, well. Perhaps 5) should be GOD DOES NOT WANT YOU TO SPEND THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS ON A STOVE WHEN YOU CAN'T SELL YOUR HOUSE, DUMBASS.

It was so pretty, though. SO. PRETTY.

An offer? Can it be?

2006-10-17T22:34:00.000-07:00

Someone wants our Florida house. Maybe.

Technically, it's been on the market since April 4, when we packed our bags, left keys with our relator, and drove our (then oh-so-tiny!) Bird north to the Ozarks to move into the (grand)parental basement. Six months of waiting, two different realtors, only one laughably cruddy offer.

(In actuality, it's been on market since January, since that was when we stuck the FSBO sign in the front yard and tried to sell it ourselves. Yeah, that didn't go so well. We overpriced it and wasted precious time while the housing market continued to deteriorate.)

Several times, our hopes have been raised as this or that couple looked at it, looked twice, requested disclosure statements, and in some cases indicated that an offer was coming. We'd hold our breath, pray, count our chickens before they hatched.

Then nothing would come.

Because of that, I hate to even record this, for fear that it's another false alarm. But why not record a false alarm, since it's part of the anxiety and heartache of selling a house in a stalled market?

When we moved in there in January 05, I thought I wouldn't leave for years. Our daughter was conceived there; we brought her home there from the hospital. I love that house, every quirky artsy unusual square foot of it. Nothing but returning to my mountains could have pulled me away from it happily.

But now, I really want to be shed of it. I want the mortgage payments off our backs, the profits available for our next home, and someone else living there who loves it as much as I once did.

It's hard to know how to pray about this anymore. Obviously, we've been praying for quite a while that the house sell. We've asked many others to pray that it sell. It hasn't. Obviously, God knows who needs this house, knows when we need to sell it, knows that our timetable might not be the best one for us. (For instance: If we had our moolah now, we'd write a contract on a grand old American Foursquare built in 1916 that needs major updating. We want to do this. But does God want us to do this? If not, could He be delaying the Florida house sale so that we can't jump headlong into this enormous undertaking?) Surrender has taken over inside my heart. These days I tell Him, "do as You see fit, not as I see fit," and try my best to mean it.

But I am speaking my heart's desire tonight. To sell the house, Lord, to someone who loves it and will not tear it down and build condos on it.

Please, little house. Keep charming them, even as they learn that we don't know how old the roof is and that there have been squirrels in the attic...

... there was a showing a couple of days ago to a California couple that are relocating to the area. They love the unique style of the house & the
overall space that it has. Their agent has shown them several homes in the area.... nothing else so far is attracting their attention. The potential buyer wants to have a space for a home office, and the downstairs area would suit for that quite well. The man's only issue is the somewhat low ceiling down there.

The agent will be taking them around to see another potential property this Friday, and she anticipates a re-visit to the Kaley house...

Will drop a line as soon as I hear anything from the agent...

Little white pearls of misery.

2006-10-09T23:03:00.000-07:00

Her teeth are adorable, and I hate them.

She grins now, and all four five six of them burst out of her smile like little happy marshmallows. She puts Cheerios into her mouth with gusto, happily busting each one into pieces with a loud crunch via her four front choppers. She chews seriously on an apple slice and actually makes progress, pulverizing it in record time.

I am so proud of those little teeth. (I need to start brushing those little teeth. Note: buy baby toothbrush. Do they stock those in Toothbrushes or in Baby Gear?) However, those teeth cause me grief, and not just in Toothbrush Momguilt.

Those Gerber "teething biscuits" only earn me a few minutes of kitchen work instead of half an hour like they did last month. She sometimes appears to be chewing studiously on the wooden end table with her top teeth, and I'm pretty sure that could be doing some kind of damage to my mom's furniture. (Don't look closely, and you don't know and don't have to confess.) She can now bite the snot out of my fingers when I'm feeling for new teeth or applying the blessed Walgreens-brand Orajel Knockoff to help her get back to sleep at night.

But more than my fingers, my conscience, or any other part of me, my nipples take issue with this sudden appearance of her pearly whites. Particularly those front four.

I decided long ago that I was going to breastfeed Bird past the one year minimum recommended by the Pediatrics Association. It's so good for her, I thought. So simple and pure and inexpensive and good for my body and hers. Who wouldn't do this if they could?

And besides, it was lovely. Bird snuggled up to my chest, fingers fluttering around my breasts and shoulders and jawline like little butterflies as she ate. The feel of her body relaxing as I gave her what she needed, straight from me (without bottles and sterilizing and heating and shaking and stirring). Watching her fall asleep in my arms, completely sated and at peace. Lovely, I tell you.

My doctor plowed along doggedly at her nine-month appointment, handing me papers about Weaning and generally implying that Everyone, Everyone Weans At One Year. I smiled thinly and mentally sniffed and plotted our rebellion. We'd go fourteen months AT LEAST, I thought.

But of late, nursing has become a pit stop in the great race of Bird's day. Let's get this over with, quick, because there are toys on the floor and power cords along the walls and Cheerios in the kitchen and a dog who needs to be harassed and books and windows to look out of and musical buttons to be pushed overandoverandoverandover again, and what exactly was it that I was supposed to be doing? Oh, yeah, drinking milk. Right.

And about then, after she's barely settled down for two minutes of suck-gulping, the teeth kick in. A micropause in her eating warns me and gives me just enough time to get my finger headed toward her mouth to break the chomp. Her tongue slides out of the way, and pow. Momma jumps through the roof every time. So far, Momma's still managing to insert finger, remove the maligned nipple, and not drop the child who has caused this unjust agony.

For a few days, I tried thumping her on the head to try and dissuade her. Her brow would wrinkle in confusion. Then she'd flinch as she bit, anticipating the thump. Then she started to laugh as the thumping followed, delighting in the cause-and-effect. Obviously, this wasn't working. I'm not willing to inflict anything more painful than the thump-- it was hard enough as it was for me to try just that.

So now, we have a two-bite rule. One bite, Bird gets a stern warning. Two bites,and the boob goes byebye. You bite each boob twice, and your meal is over.

It's not really helping. Either it doesn't compute, or she doesn't care enough about the milk anymore to give up the joys of Momchomping. I know she has no concept of how she's hurting me, but still-- it hurts me, both physically and (a bit irrationally) emotionally.

One month until she can safely drink cow's milk. My boobs are counting the hours, but I'm mourning the loss of my peaceful snuggle-feedings.

Damn teeth.

Everything comes round again: The Whys

2006-10-05T20:44:00.000-07:00

Why write here, now?

I used to write on a site called diary-x. It died a horrible unexpected death and I lost almost everything I'd written. That somehow zapped all my desire to write online for quite a while (along with, oh, Giving Birth and Moving Across the Country and other minor timesuckers). But I feel a need to record these days again, as my daughter's changing almost daily and our lives are in complete upheaval. So, a blog. Perhaps temporary, perhaps not.

Second, Husband and I have once again thrown caution (and church unhealth) to the wind and uprooted our lives in search of greener pastures. (Don't doubt me here-- the grass IS greener over here-- can't get much browner than the old place had become for us.) The reasons may or may not be revealed later. I don't care to rehash them now.

New (old) town, new (and old) friends, new (or old) church, new (hopefully old) house, new garden. Lots to record for posterity, especially now that we have a posterity-- our (new) six-month-old daughter. Who is, of course, the most beautiful and brilliant child in all the land.

Third, we're returning to a small town that we fled without a backward glance as we went to college. I don't regret that, as we're different and broader people because of our adventures in bigger places. But the more we stayed away, somehow, the more attractive the simpler, slower life of our hometown looked. Can a young big-city couple reestablish themselves in a small-town community without some rocky times? I doubt it.

There will be spiritual musings and churchhunting.There will be proud-mama posts.There will be househunting.There will be gardening. I can't imagine that this little spot would be of interest to anyone but me and a few close friends, but if you've stopped by to watch me muse and record and laugh and rant, you're welcome here. Just say hello and let me know you're reading.

Rootsome.

2006-10-05T19:16:00.000-07:00

I'm rootsome these days-- on many levels.

Roots, as in one's own roots, the place from which you come, geographically or genetically. We just moved back to an old hometown of ours-- my parents' town-- after 14 years or so of sowing our geographical oats. We're near much of our extended family. This feels right on so many levels. (More, I'm sure, on this later.)

Roots, as in "digging around for truffles." I'm a rooter. I love to discover new knowledge, play with the ideas for new projects, scheme and search and dream and diagram. You'll see me do this about our houses, our future, sustainability issues, and whatever kitchen appliance we're about to buy. It sounds a bit piggish, but I love to get my nose into something and go hunting for more of it.

Roots, as in those things that hang down beneath plants. I find great joy and great wisdom in gardening-- I love and live the garden as a metaphor for life. God communicates with me best when I'm all covered with dirt and compost. I'm all about those planty spiritual metaphors.

Roots are vital, but hidden. Most people don't know much about them or bother to appreciate them properly. Without them, though, the trees and plants of my garden and my beloved mountains would topple, and the earth would erode away.

Without the roots that tethered me to my sources over the past few years-- my family, my Ozark hills, my Christ-- I too could have been eroded away. I survived, but just, and now I want to strengthening those strands that held me in place. They're absolutely vital.

I'm trying to pay more attention to matters of rootedness these days. It's making life richer and more lovely than it's been in a long, long time.

And I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your hearts as you trust in him. May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous love.
And may you have the power to understand, as all God's people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love really is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is so great you will never fully understand it.
Then you will be filled with the fullness of life and power that comes from God
(Ephesians 3:17-19 New Living Translation).