When Mama Takes a Sick Day

We've all had those days. You've had a great time hanging out with friends. You get home and get the kids tucked into bed. You feel fantastic - until, suddenly, you don't. Of course, when they wake up in the morning, the children who went to bed with a completely healthy mama, are a bit confused. But soon, they see an opportunity.



When mama takes a sick day, Audrey takes over. She begins the day creating a tablecloth and place mat-lined pathway through the kitchen on which to host a dance party for herself and her brother.


She makes her own breakfast: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, heavy on the blueberry preserves, with an extra layer on the top slice of bread. "You've never seen a sandwich like this," she says taking a big bite. She's right.

She gets her story time in with Scholastic's Video Collection and a little side-by-side coloring in mama's bed, in which she directs which colors should go where on the pages of her new Disney coloring book (thanks, Boo & Beth!) while Nate naps. I hear her in the kitchen with Daddy once he gets home, helping him make me some noodles in chicken stock. Nate toddles over to couch and rubs his forehead into my side trying to snuggle. And, we get by, the kitchen a bit messier than normal, the had-been plans for the day put on hold for a little while. As for me, I think I turned a corner last night. I'm braving toast this morning, hoping for the best. I have kids to get back to chasing and dancing parties to join.

When You Take a Box to Dinner...

Some actions are ordinary: you go shopping on a Monday; you select a gift and ask the store clerk if he can put it in a box; you wrap yourself in the coats or scarves of the season and go out for dinner, box in hand. You go about the daily routine of nourishing: feeding your body with food, your soul with company, your mind with shared ideas. You partake in the gifts of the ordinary day.

But some actions are not ordinary: you go shopping on a Monday, yet-to-be-seen ultrasound picture secured in an envelope in your purse; you pick out two gender-specific articles of clothing, hand them with the envelope to the store clerk (along with a small wad of cash), and ask if he would mind putting the outfit that corresponds with the ultrasound results in a box while you leave the store; you wrap yourself in the coats or scarves of the season and (with your spouse) take a box out to dinner. Before you've deliberated for even five minutes about when you should open the box (you've been known to hold out until dessert or at least until the pause between appetizer and main course), you pull off the ribbon and peer inside before any food has arrived. You go about the daily routine of nourishing yourself: feeding your body (and the body of a little one in the making) with food, your soul with thoughts of the company to come, your mind with shared ideas of dreams that have yet to be. You nourish your heart (and smile when you break open your fortune cookie to reveal the Chinese word for "family" printed on one side). You partake in the extraordinary gifts of an ordinary day. It's a boy!

Avocado Blessings

Lately, we find ourselves a bit of a mixed bag. Christmas lights in 65-degree weather. Christmas lights on before Thanksgiving (the four-year-old, and four-year-old in the rest of us, can't help herself). Contemplating carving pumpkins the week of Thanksgiving (we never managed to work in that family pumpkin carving night before Halloween this year). And, avocados in late fall. Yes, it's not really the time for avocados. But we've been hoarding a little avocado at our house. Actually, I've been told he or she may be closer to the size of a turnip now, but we tend to grow our babies small (and we discovered in California that Nate likes avocados) so we have our minds set on avocados. And spring, when this little turnip will be joining us. (Right now, some of you are remembering all those days I missed writing posts in the last few months and things are becoming a little more clear - see, I did have an excuse).

We have been spending the last several months with one foot planted firmly in the present and the season, scents, tastes, and joys around us and one foot stepping forward, dreaming of spring and our family to come. But both feet are wearing shoes of gratitude, for the blessings of today and those of tomorrow. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. I'll be back in a couple days.

A Little Catching Up

My little sister made an improptu visit from California last week. Like most good surprises, it had me leaving the dishes, the laundry, even the camera (except for one day trip to the orchard with all the cousins) be while we let the other parts of life seep in and rush over us. This morning, my sister and nephew caught a flight back to the setting of their everydays, while the rest of us began to get back to ours. I have some catching up to do, here as well as at home. But not tonight. Tonight, I'm catching up on a little something else. Sleep.

Family Game Night

We held our first family game night last night. The game is Uno Moo, a gift from a friend for Audrey's birthday last year. The principles are the same as those in Uno, only instead of matching numbers, you match animals (sheep, cows, skunks, dogs, chicks, and farmers are wild). It's Uno with props.

And extremely zealous little fingers handling the pieces. Especially when they're winning.

Fairytale Realities

Isn't there a fairytale about a slumbering giant? The details are fuzzy, but I seem to remember a story in which people didn't realize they had stumbled upon (quite literally) a giant until he awoke. That once still hill was not at all what it had seemed, rather something full of life and bigger than they. Spring is like that giant. I am writing from behind the view of a backyard teeming with green leaves and slick blades of grass, sprouts of thyme, blossoming raspberry bushes, and bright orange marigolds. Just months ago, this yard was still a slumbering giant. A quiet mass of subdued whites and smoky grays. During that lull of hush and snow, we crept quietly - blanketed - unaware of the giant just below the surface. Now roused, the snowy sleep shaken from the corner of his eyes, we realize - even more this year - the magnitude of spring: heralded by a call to life - in our family, a very specific newborn life. Saturday, I was given a new nephew (I suppose I will share him with the rest of this excited family - if I must).

Today, he is new. But, parenthood (like spring) carries its own distinct muscle memory. Today, his cry will be a signal of the unfamiliar: calls for requests brand new. But soon, my sister will find herself gazing into the face of her four-month-old son: long lashes and firecracker eyes a well-studied masterpiece. He will laugh at her and with her. As he shares his opinion in smiles and encouraged coos, his parents will swear that somehow, someway he has always been: this body of untapped hope and potential - full of life and bigger than they. A quietly slumbering giant. Welcome to the world, Greyson.

*The picture above is not of Greyson (since I didn't ask permission) but of our own four-month-old slumbering giant.

Before the Rains

Quietly Rising

Shouts are still emanating from the playground - the type that suggest a game of tag has broken out. It has been that sort of day. A much celebrated warm thaw. The neighborhood gave thanks in the only way we know how, by trickling out in pairs or trios all day long - venturing out to the playground or creating bases on the lawn. Or, staying in to make yeast rolls. Ahem.




I know, I know. The thermometer read eighty degrees for crying out loud. Everything about the day screamed strawberries and crisp salads and pink lemonade. But, somehow, we found ourselves mid-afternoon at the center island wrist-high in dough. And, somehow, it felt right.

It began simply enough. I was going to make risotto. I wanted some bread that could be used in lieu of spoons (you know, in case one should decide to ditch the silverware and get scrappy with one's food). Running to the store was not on my agenda. Running through the indexes of my favorite food blogs - that I could do. I found this recipe. We had everything on hand. While pounding out dough wasn't something I had planned for the day, the hour and a half wait for dough to rise sounded like the perfect excuse for an outside recess to me.

We rolled up our sleeves, manned our aprons, and opened some windows. Audrey mixed ingredients with gusto until she noticed dishes in the sink and decided to "wash" them. While she washed, I found myself kneading dough alone at the counter. Somewhere chimes were ringing. A breeze was blowing. All sounds were those of the outdoors. We could have been anywhere - my grandmother's kitchen that smelled of yeast rolls or cinnamon rolls or some such handiwork of the day.

Audrey washed and I kneaded and thought of my grandmother who once told me, "I know my grandchildren." And, she did. All seven of us. She could tell you our likes and dislikes, our talents and our trials. I visited her shortly before Jason and I married. I don't remember if we were already engaged at this point or if I simply knew we would be. I told her she had met him once. As I spoke, she pulled out a photo album. She turned the pages. She pointed to a picture. There we were as high school seniors, Jason and I sitting on a boat dock in my grandmother's photo album as if the picture had been taken for just this moment in her living room.

As I pressed dough firmly against my palms, working it into a malleable ball, I couldn't help but linger on her memory. She had a gift for things that took time: baking bread, bird-watching, threading a needle, learning the people she loved. Today as the breeze shushed us, the distant chimes soothed us, and Audrey calmly and quietly poured water from one cup to another, (with me rhythmically kneading) my kitchen felt like that.

Weekend Blues

Yummy.

Toasty.


Cozy.

Funny. (He calls this his action shot).

Filled with things that may be, whimsy

and wonder.

Sometimes the blues are oh so good.

A Quick Update

Thank you to all of you who have been sending your thoughts, prayers, and generous offers of help our way. We are doing well. Jason was blessed with a wonderful surgeon, helpful medical staff and a quick surgery. (And a HUGE thank you to Julie for hosting a sleepover, which lasted well into today, for Audrey last night and to my parents for entertaining her tonight so she didn't clobber Daddy with too much love, and to that little guy of ours who slept from the moment we went to bed until our alarm went off at 3:30 am - a whole SIX hours! - this kid's a keeper.) Everything looks good at this point. We are home and resting as much as we can, and hoping that Jason will make a full recovery soon. Poor guy, he's in for an achy few days. So if you have a few good thoughts or prayers to spare, send them his way, would ya? Thanks. You're the best. Now back to that resting...

It's A...

Yes, those of you who noticed the allusion to a "he" in yesterday's post weren't just seeing things. We've been told to prepare for a little boy to join us this winter. This is the type of news that most find out at the doctor's office. But we prefer to receive it over a nice dinner with a good view.

Someone gave Jason this idea when we were pregnant with Audrey:

Rather than hear the news from our doctor or ultrasound tech, we asked them to write down what we were having and seal it in an envelope. We took the envelope shopping. Yes, shopping. At a children's store we picked out a girl's outfit and a boy's outfit. We handed both outfits, the envelope, and some cash to the sales associate. Then we told her we were leaving the store. We asked her to open the envelope; ring up the corresponding outfit; and gift wrap it, the envelope, and our change in a box that we would come pick up in ten minutes.

And then we took a box out for dinner. Somewhere, between courses and watching the waves come in (I did mention the good view, didn't I? We did this back in Florida for those wondering) we opened the box. Suddenly, the talk shifted from unknowns to concrete ideas: what color we would paint his room; how Audrey would act as the sister to a little brother; and what new activities he might bring into our lives. And, as easy as the unwrapping of a gift, our picture of who this little one (and our growing family) will be came one touch more into focus.

Shoes to Fill

Those of you who know me, or have passed me on the street, know that we're anticipating a little arrival this winter - one that will change our family and our lives in ways that we can't even imagine yet. We are trying to prepare in the only ways we know how: painting this little one's future room; stockpiling and reorganizing baby supplies, and talking to Audrey about what it means to be a sibling (and, of course, I've brought out the knitting needles).



But having become a mother once, I now know that what we need to prepare for most is to be surprised. The physical changes hit first: feeling the weight of a baby in my arms as opposed to kicking me from the inside; the unexpected back pain when I changed from an upright well-postured adult to one incessantly bending over a child; the zombie-like days of sleep deprivation (and the wonder and relief of catching second winds that kept us coping) that I believed would happen (I had heard the horror stories) - but hey, there's reading about Rome and there's actually being in Rome.



But it's the non-physical changes, the ones that have shown themselves gradually, that have stuck with me and altered me the most. We were only a few months into parenthood when I began to feel as if Audrey had always been a part of our family. Dynamic things come wrapped in very small bundles, and this vibrant one was going to leave a mark. And she has. I could not have imagined the courage, strength, and full-blown love (not to mention comedic relief) that comes in a three-foot blond with dirt under her nails and hummus slathered in her hair. But here she is, surprising me daily.



So I busy myself, making tiny shoes that will be too big for this new baby, and wondering just who this little one will grow to be. I don't know how he will change us, enrich us, or teach us. The only thing I know for certain is: he will.




~ The shoes were made using Lion Brand Fisherman's Wool in Nature's Brown. I used the Beginner Booties pattern in Melanie Falick and Kristin Nicholas' Knitting for Baby (A new book! What?! I know friends, it's a new day).

Long Weekend

:: A country setting

:: small hands in big

:: something to celebrate

:: time to sit

:: and one more joy of childhood - finding your new favorite toy is something old just laying in the yard.

Back Home Again

We're home from our 4th of July vacation. We actually arrived home late Monday night, but I suppose I took one extra day to try to get things settled back into place. We spent the holiday weekend at a state park in Kentucky, nestled snugly against a lake, a place where we spent many a weekend with my grandmother while I was growing up, but hadn't been in recent years.



This was Audrey's first trip, one that I anticipated more than she did, I'm sure. She only knew she would be spending the weekend with her Mamaw, Papaw, aunt, uncle, and cousin - and that there was a pool. She heard these facts and quickly decided she was in.

I, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking of the activities I had enjoyed as a kid and hoped that Audrey would love them, too: the afternoon with Albert Bauman, the pottery guy who is an amazing and unconventional teacher of all ages (yes, that is a car you see in the photo above, and if you look beyond the blue bucket, one of those "utensils" in the cup is a Barbie leg).

Here are our drying mother/daughter pots. Audrey's is in the foreground. (Right now they are sitting on the kitchen island waiting until I get the laundry done and house cleaned up to find a proper home. I'm not sure what they will hold, but sometimes I think that the use isn't nearly as important as how they came to be and where they've been).

The trip to Miss Patti's 1880s Settlement. This place has a bit of everything: amazing food served at Miss Patti's or Bill's Restaurants; a putt-putt course; a wedding chapel; model boat racing; movies played outdoors on Friday and Saturday nights; oh, and animals like peacocks. I just couldn't get over how vibrant this peacock's feathers were (and couldn't help but wonder, would we have believed we could create such vibrant colors if we hadn't seen them in nature first?).

Oh, and Jason and I were the only ones who didn't get the memo. It was family wears stripes night at Patti's.

Each year, a fireworks show is shot from the lake's public beach - showers of light reflected by lake water. Boats crowd the water's surface, adding their own red and blue lights to the show, punctuating the night between firework blasts with the approving sound of honking horns. This year, the show was sponsored by local businesses and performed on the Third rather than the Fourth. We spent a rainy Fourth evening tucked safely under the wooden beams of my parents' hotel room, making our own "fireworks" show of sorts when Mamaw pulled out a package of bendable glowsticks.

It was a full trip: golf for Jason; plenty of swimming, playground time, and hikes for Audrey; and even a few solitary run/walks along the water for me. Some quiet. Some fireworks. Some sunshine. Some rain. And one car full of exhausted riders and dirty laundry for the long drive home. Lots of memories, and a few lessons from our first vacation at the two-and-a-half-year-old stage. Here they are, in no particular order:


Always unpack your luggage the night you get home. Always. Even if it's midnight and you're exhausted. No matter what. Otherwise, your child might find the bag containing the sunscreen before you do, and to a toddler, sunscreen is as good of an artistic medium as any.


Be prepared to decipher old vocabulary words said in new ways in case your observant/absorbent child picks up the language of the locale that you visit. These are a few things we heard on the way home:

"Tah-hyme oww-oot" (time out)
"Dah-dee" (Daddy)
"Nah-howw" (now)


If you bring healthy snacks, you won't feel so bad when the only thing your child wants to eat at each meal is french fries or ice cream.


If your child has determined to only eat ice cream at the evening buffets, watch out for adult men who get overzealous with the ice cream machine handle, causing delays in ice cream production as your child worries over her dessert, which may never come. You may need to shoestring tackle said man in order to get to machine first. Or, reintroduce your child to chocolate cake. (No ice cream-loving gentlemen were harmed in the pursuit of our desserts).


Expect changes. The outdoor park grills that were there every year for 25 years may not be there anymore when you lug out the supplies you brought to make S'mores. Adjust. Find a microwave.


Never try to cut corners to get ready for dinner faster by putting your toddler in an unfamiliar shower with you rather than giving her a bath. Head injuries (as you stand up without looking after wrestling the shampoo from her before she dumps it down the drain) are imminent. (Try to learn this the first time. Not the fifth).


Hope your weekend was full of fireworks, ice cream, good friends, and only funny lessons.

Today

Eight years ago today, I married my best friend. On that day he told me, "It only gets better." I couldn't see how. Sometimes, the man just knows what he's talking about.

To Those Who Do the Heavy Lifting

Dad, I have a confession. Remember all those road trips or all-day shopping trips when we would get home after dark and I'd be asleep in the backseat? You'd scoop me up, carry me upstairs, and tuck me in bed. Well, I was only asleep half the time. The rest of the time, I'd lean my head over and clamp my eyes shut right when we got into town and stay as still as I could. What can I say? Sinking into you as you lugged me up the stairs felt like a warm extended hug. I couldn't think of a better way to settle into bed. I probably owe you a trip to the chiropractor.


My parents worked hard and did without certain things because they wanted to provide for my sisters and I. Our pantry had an abundance of snacks for us and whatever neighbors might be over to play; I always had the athletic shoes I needed (even when I decided to play four sports a year); I was even given the money to attend basketball camp each summer (sorry about your return on investment there, guys); and college, well, according to my Dad, I was going and that was final.


I appreciated those things, and as a parent now making decisions about what things we should give up in order to enable us to give others, I appreciate them even more. But the biggest advantages Dad gave me never came from his wallet. He coached our softball and soccer teams, and showed up at every track meet. He was the first man to show me what it looks like when a guy feels you are worth his time. At dinner, he asked about the school day, or sports practice, or choral auditions. He was the first man to show me what it looks like when a guy is genuinely interested in you. And after dinner, when he watched tv, he would leave a small space at the back of his chair just big enough for me to squeeze into. He was the first man to show me that when a guy loves you, he will always make room for you. So while the stocked pantry was nice, when it came time to head out and find someone to build my own pantry with, these other provisions fed me a little more.


I snapped the shot above last night as Jason carried Audrey up to bed (of course, as soon as she heard the camera click, Audrey's head popped up and I decided that bedtime might not be the best time to take pictures). She likes those extended hugs, too. Jason is always willing to stop what he's doing to give them. And last night, like so many nights, as I watched Jason carry her upstairs, I thought of how lucky she is to have a provider in every sense: someone who not only buys the books, but reads them to her. Our Father's Day was a simple one. One that probably did not do Audrey's father justice, but one that perfectly exemplifies who he is. Jason volunteered his Father's Day to help a friend install some laminate flooring. Audrey and I spent the afternoon at the zoo visiting with the other man's wife and son. When we got back, per the Dads' requests, we ordered a pizza for dinner. I thought of the lessons Jason is already teaching Audrey: no day is ever too special to keep you from helping your neighbor; and the elegance of the food isn't nearly as important as the company with which you eat it.


I hope your Father's Day was as meaningful as ours. And, for all of you fathers who give and give and give, and then get out your wallets, I thank you (just in case your little boy or girl forgot).

Walking Through a Nursery Wonderland

Our adventures this weekend included a trip to the nursery where Audrey's Grammy works. While there, we found a few expected things to explore and some not so expected, like the crate of kittens! We didn't bring one home, but we did give them lots of love while we were there.

Audrey also found a watering can, as adept at holding a collection of rocks and fallen flower petals as water.

And the pond, good for dipping toes...

and hands.

Oh, and there were plants and flowers, too. But more on that tomorrow.

(Toes in the pond pic by Jason.)