Selfie Explosion

Our local newspaper recently had an article in it regarding toddlers and how they get a hold of their parents phones and take "selfies" of themselves.

It was cute.

I want to know when they're going to run an article about your college freshman son getting a hold of your camera and surprising you, when you download your photos, with a whole lovely run of "selfies" himself.

Kids.  ::sigh::

Lessons Learned from a Baby Shower

#1 - DO arrange with the baby to be born on the very day the shower is planned, thereby allowing you a full two weeks to do all the cleaning, decorating, and cooking that you should have had done by the original date.

Thank you, Baby K!!

#2 - DON'T fixate upon attempt baby shower decor you have never tried before.  Certainly not something you have found online that flat out lies and claims it is able to be completed in a mere 15 minutes per flower.  And, of course not an item you begin to tackle less than 24 hours before said shower.  Never wise.

#3 - DO hire help.  It is best if this help is related to you by blood and can be compensated by unlimited Rice Krispy bars with white chocolate drizzle.

#4 - DON'T forget to vacuum the rug in the eat-in area of the kitchen.

The one everyone will need to walk over to see the gifts.

The one 2 feet from where all the guests will sit.

The one where the dogs sleep  23 of the 24 hours of the day.

The dogs who have a 5-inch thick undercoat that goes through a weekly molting.

Yes, you.

Yes, that rug.

::sigh::

#5 - DO enjoy everyone who walks through the door, swoon over all the beautiful, tiny girly items, hold the baby every chance you get.  And when everyone leaves, put your feet up, bask in the clean house, and ladle yourself many large cups of coffee punch.  Many.

Giddy!

I am smiling.

Actually, I'm giddy.

Youngest Daughter found out about sewing classes being offered near our home, and she..wanted..to..learn..to..sew!

I can sew.  I like to sew.  I don't do it often.  It's certainly not a passion.  But for some reason, it makes me feel all bubbly inside to think that one of my girls would like to sew.

I loved watching her learn.  Lift the presser foot, roll the needle toward you, pin perpendicular, begin with backstitching.

::sigh::

And when she was done with her first class, she wore home a very cool fleece hat with a lime green band.

Not quite sure why, but I was . . .

. . . giddy!

Christmas Un-decorating

I am always amazed by those who can put up and take down their Christmas decorations with speed and efficiency.

"Oh, I got Christmas put away today," they say glibly.

TODAY??  Meaning one day?  All done in a 24-hour span?  I feel dizzy.

No, that is not me.

The children took down the tree ornaments and railing garland/lights on Tuesday.  They are currently mounded up on the leather sofa, defying anyone to even consider sitting.  Yesterday I got the lights off the various trees and hubby took down the outside wreaths.  And there they sit in comfortable little piles.

Christmas decorating takes on an organic feel for me.  From the moment the boxes get lowered from the attic and the first ornament goes on, I am "deciding how to decorate" throughout the holiday season.  And little vignettes and additions come about on a weekly basis.  By the time Christmas has arrived, the house may, quite possibly, be the way I would like it to look "this Christmas."  Quite possibly.

I guess Christmas un-decorating takes on this same slow, organic feel.  The decorating that distractedly wove itself together in December, rambles again through a slow unraveling in January.

Pine needles make a leisurely exit into the dustpan, ornaments relax themselves into their boxes, and an assortment of woodland animals wait patiently to be wrapped, tucked into bins, and tugged back up the attic stairs.

Christmas un-decorating.  Definitely as much of an undertaking as that of decorating in the first place.

And now I'm off to engage in more of that exercise so that perhaps those with whom I live, who are not as in tune with the concept of the "organic unraveling of Christmas," may be able to feel that they are back in their right minds by this weekend.

Perhaps.

A Perfect Night for a Fire Pit

On Friday, Youngest Son surveyed weather, date, and occupants of the house and pronounced it a perfect night.

A perfect night for making a fire in the fire pit.

Weather - clear and cold.  Mom can, therefore not make the excuse "too wet" or "too hot."

Date - no school in the morning.  Mom can, therefore, not say, "No fire pit on a school night."

Occupants - no older siblings home.  Therefore, no all-knowing brothers to be telling Youngest Son how to build a fire, tend a fire, or put out a fire.  No smugly confident older siblings to criticize the accidental burning of marshmallows, sparks on the deck caused by over-zealous stoking, or an entire 2-weeks worth of newspapers crumpled and added to the blaze.

No, altogether a perfect night for a fire in the fire pit.

The building and tending of a fire is a wonderful, earthy experience.  Bringing out all the primal feelings of joy in the ability to put together gathered wood (okay it came pre-wrapped from the local market), set it to burning (yes, we were helped out by the Diamond Match Company),

nurse it through its fitful starts and stops and then through much blowing and poking and arranging and sighing suddenly come up with a magical source of warmth to all around its circle . . . holding forth against the 33 degree air at our backs.

Of course there were marshmallows and gooey fingers, faces that got too hot and backs that got too cold, smoky hair and eyes that got red and teary.

And when the discomfort of the gooeyness, heat, and stinging eyes overcame the delight of the stoking, roasting and warming hands, we all headed inside and sipped home made hot cocoa and agreed with Youngest Son.

It really was a perfect night for making a fire in the fire pit.

Home Made Cocoa

Pour the following ingredients into a blender. 

4 cups of whole milk (sorry, but if you want the full, decadent flavor, you've gotta use whole!)

1/2 cup of sugar

3 teaspoons of vanilla

5 tablespoons of cocoa (I used Hershey's)

Blend away on highest speed. The frothiness this creates makes the beverage even more delectable!

Pour into a pan, heat to desired heat, serve to adoring children and/or adults . . . or yourself!

The Dreaded Family Photo

Please tell me if anything strikes fear into your heart as much as the prospect of prepping for a family photo!! Last month it was time.  Time for a family photo.  Time for 7 individuals with separate work, school, and volunteer commitments to get their schedules all coordinated and clothes pressed and smiles on.

The caveats started upon the announcement of "family photo time."

"I'm not wearing long pants."

"We better not look match-y."

"I'm not smiling."

Aha.

Clothes were laid out, analyzed, reworked, discarded, replaced.  Until the "no match" daughter and the "must coordinate" mother could both be pleased . . . or at least worn down in their resistance.

Hair was combed, teeth brushed, shoes found, attitudes adjusted.

We headed to a cow pasture.

Literally.

The photographer said the land was for sale and that no one would mind if we used it for our family photo.

Apparently no one ran that by the cows.  One cow was especially upset that we had moved into his herd's grazing area and let us know in no uncertain terms that we were not welcome.

And then we smiled and posed and teased each other and talked to the cows.  And when all was said and done,

we never had so much fun at a family photo session . . .

ever.

Old Calendar::New Calendar

And so, in traditional New Year's Day fashion, the 2011 calendar was removed and the 2012 put in its place.

Wow, it was so past time for a new calendar.  The 2011 calendar had had it.  Over the course of the year, ripped from its cover, scribbled on by little hands, hanging hole ripped through repeatedly and taped, re-taped and then re-re-taped to keep it together.  Plans made, plans crossed out, things scheduled so quickly that the writing was illegible when the date arrived, and we were left scratching our heads and wondering where exactly it was so important to be at 5:30 p.m. on that day.  Knocked down, spilled on, glued, and yet, somehow still holding together on December 31st . . . if only barely.

A fitting metaphor for our life as a family, really, not just this year but every year.  Rips and mends, schedules and changes, messy scribbles side by side with neat script, always a slight bit of confusion (at times more than others!), and yet, amazingly, still holding together at the end of the year.

And now, up goes a spotless, fresh calendar, with all the promise of empty boxes in which to write.  A scrumptious new calendar of porches, looking out over landscapes of Italy, Montana, Maine, Greece . . . ::sigh::

A year to write on, mess up, fix and correct.  May we find ourselves, at the end of the year, still holding together.

No, not holding together . . . but instead, held together!

He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together!!

Choosing Home

2011 said "good night" in a blaze of fuschia, orange and gold.  And surprisingly all but one of us are home!!  We had a NYE party invitation . . . fun times out in the country, munching on "breakfast for dinner," warming ourselves by a roaring bonfire.

But this year, I wanted none of it.  I wanted the calm four walls of my house, where I could sit and stare at one of those four walls if I so chose.

As it turns out, I am instead choosing to play King's Corner; layer crumbs, pecans, chips, coconut and sweet milk for the ever-popular Magic Bars; and watch the glittery ball drop at midnight.

It's good to be home tonight.

Good night, 2011 . . . good morning 2012!

Pickles!

So, company came and company left.  And one thing they left behind was pickles.

Pickles sent along from My Husband's Mom.

They aren't just pickles. 

They are legacy . . . journal . . . memory.

90 year-old mother-in-law is not canning pickles anymore.  She stopped several years ago when she stopped planting her sprawling garden.  And with that stopped the legacy of Mom M's canned pickles.

She grew a certain kind of cucumber in her own garden.  She grew the dill in her own garden.  And she had a magic recipe that included this produce, vinegar, and water.

Oh, the water.

Husband and his siblings have memories of going down the road to pump well water to be brought back for the canning of the pickles.  Well water . . . not flavor-marred piped water.

Over time, when she lost her well-water-fetching work force, she did condescend to using piped-in water.

The source of the water was carefully noted on ripped-off pieces of masking tape, stuck to the jars. 

Which brings me to the "journal" aspect of Mom's canned pickles.  As she canned, she made note of interesting life events, quantities and experiments, and, of course, the water source and its effect on the final quality of the pickles.

These little ripped masking tape "journals" show what was on Mom's mind as she canned:

"Too much salt?"

"1 inch rain - thankful"

"Nieces at 2000 World Fair"

"Pastor thinks too much vinegar"

These old Ball jars with their rubber rings, zinc lids, tightly fitted cucumbers and clusters of dill squished in the bottom are a connection to family history.  A tongue-tingling sour memory of a Mom's gift to her family.

I now have 4 jars of these pickles on the shelf of my pantry. 

I don't want to open them.

Saturday Bagel Mornings

When all the kiddos were little, a family tradition was born.  Bagels on Saturday mornings.

About once a month the Man of the House heads out early, early to fight the crowds and bring home the prize . . . still-warm, mouth-watering, teeth-exercising bagels from the local bagel shop.  Everyone gets their favorite:
Man of the House:  Salt.  Topped with copious amounts of crunchy, Kosher salt.  How can this possibly be desireable?
Youngest Daughter:  Asiago Cheese.  Ripped into little pieces.  Cream cheese spread on all the little pieces.  Extremely time-consuming.  There's a reason babies of the family grow up to think life is all about them.  ::sigh::


Youngest Son:  Cinnamon Sugar.  Sticky.  Gooey.  Delicious.


Middle Son:  Cinnamon Raisin.  A classic.
Oldest Son:  Jalapeno Cheese.  And any other kinds that he can ferret out during the course of the day.  Can easily down a half dozen.  Burns it off playing basketball and generally keeping his 6'5" teenage body fueled.
Oldest Daughter:  None.  Gluten-intolerant.  Knows she'll pay for any gluten indulgence.  Walks away from it.  Disciplined . . . tough.
Me:  Sun-Dried Tomato/Spinach.  Gluten-intolerant.  Know I'll pay for any gluten indulgence.  Gobble it down spread thickly with cream cheese and a tall glass of orange juice.  Pathetically undisciplined . . . horribly weak-willed . . . hopelessly in love with Saturday Bagel Mornings.

Just the Way Your Family Likes It

Jumbo Tin of Virginia Peanuts - $ Not Cheap

Double Bag of SunMaid Raisins - $ Pricey

Deluxe Size Jar of Salted Almonds - $ Steep

XXL Bag of Milk Chocolate M&M's - $ Expensive

Supersize Can of Cashews - $ Costly

Getting To Make Trail Mix Just the Way Your Family Likes It - $ Priceless

Not A Good Way To Start The Year

No one should have to start the New Year mad!

Even less should one have to start the year mad at their dog . . . you know man's best friend and all that stuff.

But that is exactly what happened in this household.  The details are a little sketchy.  After all, the dogs still aren't talking about it much.  But this is what fell out, the best I can deduce.

White Dog and Brown Dog were left home alone on New Year's Eve.  This made Brown Dog decidedly grumpy and started off the evening on a bad note.  To make matters worse, fireworks began to go off in the neighborhood and Brown Dog found himself nervous, disturbed, and feeling very, very alone.

 

About this time, Brown Dog spied something he had not yet noticed in all the holiday festivities.  Down under the Christmas tree was a large, soft, white flannel sheet, used as a tree skirt.  It looked very, very comforting . . . for a dog who is nervous, disturbed and feeling very, very alone.

Brown Dog began eyeing the sheet.  White Dog smelled trouble and warned Brown Dog to mind his own business, be content with his cast-off quilt, stick his paw pads in his ears, and be a good dog, which of course only encouraged Brown Dog all the more to have . . . that . . . soft . . . sheet.The fact that Brown Dog was on his leash, which was attached to a pillar two feet from the tree mattered to him not in the least.  In fact, it served only to heighten the challenge of having . . . that . . . soft . . . sheet.

And, so he pulled, he tugged, he threw his body at the tree, he twisted, he jumped.  And by gum he got that sheet.

White Dog, meanwhile hid his head under his own well-worn, cast-off comforter, put his paw pads in his ears, hummed loudly and said, "I don't see what you're doing.  I can't see a thing.  I know nothing that's going on."

That is how it came to be that as the 7 of us walked in to the house, bleary-eyed, in the wee hours of New Year's morning, we found the tree, rotated 90 degrees, bottom 2 rows of expensive artificial tree foliage bent to the ground, a veritable shower of artificial tree "needles" on the floor, ornaments scattered about . . .

. . . and a very sentimental, hand-crafted, 25 year-old ornament smashed on the floor. 

Have I mentioned that no one should have to start out the New Year mad?

After a cup of tea, my emotions were back in check, I had decided that Brown Dog could live in safety for another year, and I was beginning to believe that 2011 might actually turn out to be quite a satisfactory year.

It was at this point that Youngest Son approached me tentatively, eyes wide, gesturing in the general direction of the dining room table, mouth moving but no syllables coming out.

Yes.  Vintage glass ornament.  Part of a set from the 1930s.  Handled with care by my German grandmother for years and then passed down to me.  Smashed.

Children don't understand these things.  It's round.  It must therefore be a ball.

If things don't turn around quickly here, I'll be the one in bed, covers over my head, waiting for 2012.

Have I mentioned that no one should have to start out the year mad?

Time for more tea.

Quiet

After the swirl of people, the crush of deadlines, and the hyperactive fun that was Christmas (and the days before and after) I was so glad that today slowed down, and

I

could

just

be.

Be still.

Be quiet.

Be unwound.

Or as much as is possible in this household.

I found peace in diving back into the daily living.

Making hot chocolate for cold, snowy boys.

 

Attacking the mounds of towels that breed in our bathrooms and laundry room.

Playing a few stimulating rounds of "Feed the Kitty" with Youngest Daughter.

And even starting a new dishcloth to replace the tattered shreds that are the remainders of several old cloths.

Yes, altogether a very satisfying day.

No expectations, goals, or lists.

Just . . . quiet.

One Decade

It was ten years ago.  My husband was enthusiastically watching a college football game.  I'm sure I was doing something child-related.  At that time, we had a 7 year-old, a 6 year-old, a 4 year-old, and a 9 month-old.  So, of course I was doing something child-related.  I was probably making a snack, breaking up a fight or changing a diaper.  We really didn't need any more commotion to the family . . . no more wildness in the house.

At that moment, 2 tiny puppies wriggled their way between the boards in our fence, entered our yard, and entered our lives.  We found a little grassy nest back behind the fence where they had huddled for warmth before bravely looking for a home.  One looked like a German shepherd; one looked like a golden retriever.  But because of their age and the way they were nesting together, the vet determined they were brothers . . . brothers dropped off in a neighborhood in hopes that someone else would take on the responsibility that their owners reneged on.

We may not have needed commotion and wildness, but we got it.  They lived in the kitchen.  They chewed up cupboards, pooped on the floor, ate cookbooks, gnawed table legs.   For years, our house had the faint odor of puppy-ness, and the value of all our furniture dropped dramatically.

But they became family, as surely as anyone to whom I had given birth.  They wriggled their way into our hearts that day.  And, just like family, they alternately frustrate and delight, annoy and endear.

 

They have been known to warn of intruders, comfort sad little hearts and obediently stay off all couches, chairs and beds. 

And they have been known to pee shamelessly on silk curtains, gnaw stacks of expensive Post-It Notes, and gobble up a warm pan of lasagna.

But they're family, and we couldn't imagine life without them.  I'm so glad 10 years ago two little puppies looking for a home found ours.