Pruned Down and Branched Out

Easing Back Into the Water

2012-01-06T20:44:00.008-05:00

Where do I begin? I am a non-dancer writing a post about dancing. Because I wish I was a dancer. All of my insides believe that I am a dancer. And when I dance, no matter what the music, I always look like this in my head:

But in actuality, this is my sweet friend Fizz, who has been dancing since she was young and is amazing. Evidently, you just don't look like that naturally. It takes practice. Years. And also, I'm guessing, a bit of pre-baby hip. I will probably never look like Fizz when I dance. There's a good chance that my dancing will always draw snickers. But I'm okay with that. Because dancing makes me happy.

There are short-cuts to happiness, and dancing is one of them. ~Vicki Baum

There is a verse in Ecclesiastes which helps to explain why I've got dancing on my mind. Ecclesiastes 3:4 says "a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance." I am stuck in an odd little spot that encompasses all of these. I have come out of a year that has been filled to the brim with losses...losses that have been painful and scary and very sad.

And yet.

Psalm 107:28

Then they cried to the LORD

in their trouble,

And He brought them out of their distress.

Psalm 27:14

Wait for the LORD;

be strong & take heart

and wait for the LORD.

Every time that I thought I just couldn't take it anymore, my dear tender Father would reach out and comfort me. I never doubted it was Him. He wouldn't let me go under. And the very special thing was that nearly every time, He used a person to help me through. A real, live person with a warm touch or an eloquent look. This proved to me that God truly cares about the smaller needs in my life--like my need for hugs and encouragement.

The crazy thing is that God poured blessings out on me this year in such quantities that I almost couldn't bear it. Right in the middle of the pain.

Jeremiah 30:17

"But I will restore you to health

and heal your wounds," declares the Lord.

Psalm 30:11&12

You turned my wailing into dancing;

You removed my sackcloth

and clothed me with joy,

that my heart may sing your praises

and not be silent. LORD, my God,

I will praise you forever.

I learned things this past horrible wonderful year that I never knew I needed to know. I was healed of wounds that I didn't know were there--and some I did know about. Physical wounds, emotional wounds, and some sucker-punch spiritual wounds. I thought my heart would break with pain, and I wondered once if I would live through the night. But my God has been faithful and I know now that if I was given a choice, I would live it all again because of the way He rescued me and drew me to Himself, time and time again. Isn't that reason enough to wanna dance?

Let us dance in the sun, wearing wildflowers in our hair. ~Susan Polis Shutz

Two Fer

2011-06-28T10:23:00.003-04:00

It's so easy to get bogged down. I pray that today we'll be able to break free of the burdens that so easily entangle us and turn our faces to God. In doing so, I pray that we'll so reflect His glory that the world will whisper amongst themselves and clamor to know what makes us different.

Thanks again, Verse of the Day Calendar:

"When we are chained to fear by worry, Jesus, help us break free. Erase from our minds scary or obsessive thoughts that rob us of the freedom You have given us. Help us to keep our minds free so Your Word can fill them. Give us strength and patience so we won't give in to worry, fear, or bad habits. Amen."

"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery." ~Galatians 5:1

"It is often just as sacred to laugh as it is to pray." ~Charles Swindoll

"I will praise You, O Lord, with all my heart; I will tell of all Your wonders. I will be glad and rejoice in You; I will sing praises to Your name, O Most High." ~Psalm 9:1-2

Day 17: The Rose House Perspective

2011-06-24T08:56:00.003-04:00

Today I am looking back at this past week and grimacing. The excuses have abounded. I have wanted to give up. I kind of did give up. I pretended I was on summer vacation. You know, from everything. My health wasn't the best, and I wallowed, in a bad way. You know, in worry and self pity. And everything went to pot. I decided to show you an example of the problems I have to deal with this morning:

Now pretend the rest of my house looks like that. I know. It's sad. 'Cause it's not pretend. My mom and sister even did the dishes for me the other night. And yet, here I am again.

When I plugged in the camera to transfer this messy picture to my computer, I noticed another picture I'd taken a couple of weeks ago. It was a picture of what I call The Rose House. The Rose House is on a street in our city that has seen better days. The city is trying to revive it, but it's gonna take some time. Most of the houses are run-down rentals and the people I see hanging out in front of them are less than desirable. Well, to me. I'm sure they're full of potential beauty to God. The Rose House is one of these rentals. Underneath the roses, it's yucky. But somehow, during the blooming months, it transforms into a sight that takes my breath away.

Isn't that how it is with Jesus? He pours his sinless red blood over our yucky, rotten, sinful selves and we are somehow transformed into a sight that takes the Father's breath away.

In light of this precious work of love, today I'm going to focus on the One who has transformed me. I'm going to keep in mind a quote that brings me immeasurable comfort:

"Trials are medicines which our gracious and wise physician prescribes because we need them; and He proportions the frequency and weight of them to what the case requires. Let us thank Him for His prescription." ~Isaac Newton

**Side note: To make sure I knew how to spell "wallow" correctly, I looked it up. There I found one definition I was expecting, and one I was not.

expected definition of wallow: to roll oneself about in a lazy, relaxed, or ungainly manner "hogs wallowing in the mud"

unexpected definition of wallow: to devote oneself entirely; to take unrestrained pleasure

Today, I will try to wallow correctly--in the Lord who loves me even when I throw down my bundle and drag my feet. I'm going to pick it all up again, but with light, lilting steps, not heavy, stomping ones.

Day 11: WOE IS ME!!!

2011-06-17T08:39:00.002-04:00

All right. I'm going to be whining today. That's right. I'm getting really real, for realsies.

Week Two has been very hard. I have been, despite my cheery encouragement from the other day, very unmotivated to keep up with the schedule exactly as it's spelled out. I've let a few things slide. I've caught back up, then fallen behind again. Have I mentioned I'm not great at discipline?

The hardest thing has been the bedroom pickups that she recommends. Because in my house, it's very easy to clean the main spaces because all of the toys are just relocated to the kids' bedrooms. But cleaning the kids' bedrooms? Not so fun. You have to sit, sort, put away. And then what happens? Yes, you all know. It looks exactly the same as it did by the end of the day. And you know what? Yes, you all know. IT'S A LITTLE FRUSTRATING!! I can make the kids "clean their rooms" but it's not really effective, because they mostly clear the floor and then I have to go sit, sort, and put away all the toys that are at the edges of the floor.

I'm tired this morning. I fell asleep on the couch last night. Sometime in the night, I evidently decided it was a good idea to move to the recliner (instead of my bed?? I have trouble reclining that chair when I'm awake) and so I slept there, fully clothed, all night. I woke up, stunned to find myself in the chair, feeling creasy from clothes-wearing and crinked from sleeping in a semi-reclined position. (Can you believe my spell-check doesn't believe in the words "creasy" or "crinked"?)

And I might as well admit my other problem. There's really no point in hiding it anymore. I ran out of paper plates on Tuesday. Try to understand, I use paper plates for almost every meal. Maybe one day I'll behave like a "real" grownup and only use paper plates for cookouts and birthday parties, but for right now, I don't have a dishwasher or very much counter space or children who are old enough to do the dishes without breaking them. And let me tell you, the real dishes pile up real quick-like when no paper products are being used. It's defeating.

I know the whole point of this type of cleaning is to see the eternal value of our work as home makers, but I'm having trouble breaking through now that the newness has worn off. I'm going to do something I haven't done before now, because I'm being careful to preserve Sarah Mae's privacy policy, but I think sharing just one day as a sample would be okay. Here's what I'm supposed to do today:

Day 11: Kitchen, Mains Spaces, Bedroom Pick-up, Load of Laundry, Bathrooms

What the what??! See what I mean? Now, if I would've been actually working on the bedrooms one day at a time, like I was supposed to this week, then maybe this wouldn't seem like such a crazy-hard request. But I feel like I'm getting ready to show my house to potential buyers or something. I mean, that list up there? That's pretty much my WHOLE HOUSE. And I still have no paper plates! And I have other things I want to do today!

Have I mentioned that doing jobs partially just doesn't give you the same sense of satisfaction as doing them fully? Like doing the dishes, but not clearing off your other counters doesn't make the kitchen actually clean? Yeah, if this was my paid job, I probably would've been fired long ago for failure to complete projects on time.

All right. I'm done whining. I'm going to go play camping with my son. Then I'm going to start cleaning, hopefully with an eye set on the eternal value, so I don't get caught up in the repetitive mundane-ness of the chores. My encouragement for today comes from my calendar and memory verse #12:

"Sometimes, God, the path before us is difficult. But help us to do our best in walking it. When we are tired, give us energy. When we want to turn around, put up roadblocks. When we feel like we can't finish, encourage us. Steady us when we stumble, carry us when we're weak. Through You we have the strength to keep walking. Amen."

"Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher (emphasis mine) of our faith." ~Hebrews 12:1-2

Memory Verse 12:

Proverbs 31:27 (NLT)
“She carefully watches all that goes on in her household and does not have to bear the consequences of laziness.”

Day 9: The Intimidation of Week Two

2011-06-15T19:23:00.002-04:00

Font disclaimer: My font won't behave. It's in a time-out. I don't know what else to do about it. It makes me look like a bad font-parent. That is all.

It was really hard to get started again this Monday. I admit, I got a teensy bit behind.

I attribute it to being out of town this weekend. So I didn't get to clean on Saturday, then I was directed by Sarah Mae to take Sunday off. Which I mostly did, except for some laundry that absolutely had to get through the washer.

But then Monday came, I looked around my domain, and thought "Ugh. I don't want to sift through this mess. Maybe I pooped out at one week. Maybe I can't keep up the self discipline. Maybe I should give up."

But then a friend called and said "Can we come over and play today?" and suddenly my motivation received the kick in the butt it needed. (Thank you, God for knowing what I need and when.)

"Goals are dreams with deadlines. ~Diana Scharf Hunt"

Yes! That's it! Deadlines. All of the things that this book ("31 Days to Clean: Having a Martha House the Mary Way" if you're just joining me or you've forgotten) tells me to do are things I am already doing. The key for me is that I have to do them every day. She encourages me to confront my laziness now and take it to God, because:

“How soon ‘not now’ becomes ‘never’.” ~Martin Luther

So may I encourage you likewise.

Put off this: (or whatever your guilty pleasure is...)

And get crackin'!

We can DO it!

Day 5: What I Learned From Yesterday

2011-06-10T09:49:00.002-04:00

If you didn't know it, most of the blogs posts I've done so far have to do with what I've noticed from the day before. Such is the case today.

So here's what I learned from yesterday:

1) If I don't do it in the morning, it just might not get done.

2) That doesn't matter, unless you're trying to be consistent.

3) That doesn't even really matter, unless you're part of a focus group that's recording their efforts on trying to be consistent.

4) If I don't have company coming, I have a hard time being motivated in the afternoon. (Wait, is this the same as #1?)

5) I don't have to drop out of the focus group just because I didn't clean a bedroom yesterday. I can clean a bathroom and a bedroom today.

6) I should go clean a bathroom and a bedroom while it's still Today.

Moral of the story: I'm not perfect. It's okay. I shouldn't use that as an excuse to stop trying. Huzzah!

"No one is perfect... that's why pencils have erasers." ~Author Unknown

"Striving for excellence motivates you; striving for perfection is demoralizing." ~Harriet Braiker

Day 4: Overcoming My Tendency to Observe (for my cousin Emma, who says that makes me lame)

2011-06-09T09:07:00.004-04:00

After just a few days, the house is looking much better overall. I think it's the result of being more chore-minded in general. And I love having a list to follow. A list that someone else wrote. A list that feels authoritative. A list I don't have to think about, just follow. It leaves room to think about all those heart issues.

Yesterday I was charged to bring life to my domain. This can be interpreted in many ways, depending on how your domain is defined. I began mulling over how to do this. I already have fresh flowers from my yard placed in my kitchen...I have four children and two cats (that's a lotta life)...I try to do little decorative things...I invite guests over regularly...??? How else should I be bringing life to my domain?

Then I thought about my tendency to observe my surroundings. I have been like this for a long time. I'm not often a participator, unless it involves talking or music. Or reading. But reading isn't often participatory. And it is the same in my home. I try to keep life a little bit at an arm's length so it doesn't have such a harsh impact (face it, four kids whining for breakfast can be harsh). Unfortunately, this isn't the best approach--or even possible--when you have children. So I began to think of ways to put myself in their place and also to benefit them and further enhance their home.

Step One was bringing a water cooler full of ice water and some paper cups out to the backyard. Usually when the kids are playing out in the hot, they come in when they're thirsty, usually interrupting me from something I feel is important. Step Two was to go sit on my swing and be with them in the backyard, something I don't often make time for. Have I mentioned I don't like to be hot? It's hard to make time for things you really don't like, like sweating.

But I noticed right away that the children didn't go in and out of the house at all while I was outside. I think they were so thrilled I was out there, that the 90+ temperature suddenly didn't bother them. Because interestingly, they didn't get that many drinks, either. I would get little visitors at my swing who would then dart back out to the sandbox. Having me within eyeshot was enough. It was my presence they were thirsty for.

I've also noticed that I'm interacting more with my surroundings, not just the children. Being focused on what chores are getting done has made me more aware of the house itself. Normally if I see folded laundry sitting on the dining room table, I walk by thinking, "I really need to put that away." (Observing, but not participating.) Now when I see folded laundry sitting on the table, I think "don't get trapped in the vicious cycle!" and go put it away. When I see dirty dishes, I don't groan and think about how unpleasant it would be to do them. I wash them and smile at my empty counter and shining sink. (See Emma? Interactive! ...I wonder if Emma even reads these...)

My husband is home and I think he'd like me to talk to him instead of typing. See? Life-bringing. Onward!

Day 2

2011-06-07T09:42:00.003-04:00

So here I am...on the journey to a consistently clean home.

I have wandered down this path many times before. Every time, I have retreated in fear of...what? Success? Cleanliness? Order? Discipline?

Ah, discipline. That's probably it. But perhaps it wasn't fear of discipline so much as plain old lack of self-control.

I am usually way too easy on myself. Very sympathetic with my struggles. Very understanding and forgiving if I don't feel "up to" doing any given task. After all, I tell myself kindly, you have a lot of children and you don't get enough sleep. And sometimes, your head hurts. Or you feel kind of dizzy. Or you're really stressed out.

See? I'm full of excuses for myself.

However, after doing some investigation, I've decided that this is not what God wants for me. I am a wife, a mother, a teacher, and a keeper of our home. High orders that call for discipline, endurance, and energy. Whatever else God has planned for my life, these things are not to be neglected. Which is why I'm so glad to be on this journey with someone (thank you again, Sarah Mae) who will tell me what to do for a month. I really need that accountability...that direction...that bossiness. I'm hoping that after 31 Days of following directions I will be able to continue on, fueled by consistency and good results. And hopefully my heart will have received the boost of motivation that comes from the "Mary Challenges" the book offers.

I'm still kinda nervous though, because I've already cheated by cleaning my kitchen the day before the challenge began, so I knew it would get done. I'm much more a "clean it in a whirlwind before company comes" kind of gal. Everyday maintenance has always been my failing point. Even in school, I was a "write the whole paper the night before it's due" kind of gal. Just ask my mom. So I find myself wondering--Am I doomed??

*calming breaths*

Just taking it one day at a time. I'm even trying to not read ahead in the book so I don't try to do in a week what is supposed to take a month. I'm committing to not fizzle. Start strong, stay strong. Slow and steady, people. Slow and steady.

(Photo attributed to ahannon1)

One final issue I'm tackling today is my extreme dislike of putting away folded laundry. And my extreme extreme dislike of hanging clean clothes. Sarah Mae addresses this as well. In fact, based on what she's written, I'm pretty sure she has hidden cameras in my home. She encourages us to not go onto another load of laundry until we've fold AND PUT AWAY the one we've just done. I've tried to do this before, but it never lasts because I'm not disciplined. Because I'm lazy. (THERE, I SAID IT!!) But I tried something new yesterday: I kept a pile of hangers next to my clean laundry basket and stuck the hang-up clothes right on them as I found them. When I was done, they were all ready to be hung. I loved sliding them effortlessly into the closet. If you struggle as I do, you should give it a try.

Well, as fascinating as my house-cleaning sagas are, I think I'll bring this post to a close.

"The best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes." ~Agatha Christie

"We labor to make a house a home, then every time we're expecting visitors, we rush to turn it back into a house." ~Robert Brault

31 Days

2011-06-02T10:12:00.003-04:00

I'm getting ready to take part in a focus group for the book 31 Days to Clean: Having a Martha House the Mary Way. I'm excited. And a little nervous. But the author (the lovely Sarah Mae) promised it would be doable, even with small children.

So I'm working on my motivation. (like the actors do?)

I want my house to be beautiful and organized. I want my family (including me!) to enjoy our home's environment, surroundings, whatnot...every day because it's regularly maintained. I want to keep up with the laundry. Rather...I don't want to see piles of folded laundry sitting around because I don't like putting it away. I want to be more disciplined so I can feel like a real grownup. I want my relationship with God to thrive because I'm pursuing Him and my calling as Mother and Keeper of the Home with dedication. I want the order in my home to reflect the peace and purpose I feel in my relationship with God.

Let's talk about some quotes, shall we?

"I think housework is the reason most women go to the office." ~Heloise Cruse

"I'm not going to vacuum until Sears makes one you can ride on." ~Roseanne Barr

"Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing." ~Phyllis Diller, Phyllis Diller's Housekeeping Hints, 1966

Even way back in 1966 (and before, surely) women were trying to escape work. Do you know what society labels a man who doesn't want to go to work and provide for his family's security? Lazy. Bum. But it's acceptable for women to shirk their duties and complain that they have to do all the housework...when that's their job? We wives, we mothers...we provide for the emotional security of our families when we do our job well. So what I'm hoping for is a dramatic shift in my attitude towards housework. I'd like to focus on the eternal effect of what I do. I'd like to be able to focus on "bringing life to the mundane in order to love well." (Sarah Mae)

Let's replace those quotes with some life-bringing ones, shall we?

"Peace - that was the other name for home." ~Kathleen Norris

"The light is what guides you home, the warmth is what keeps you there." ~Ellie Rodriguez

"I am thankful for a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing because it means I have a home.... I am thankful for the piles of laundry and ironing because it means my loved ones are nearby." ~Nancie J. Carmody

I start Monday with my 31 days of challenges. Hold on to yer bonnets!

Spring Fever

2011-02-18T08:46:00.005-05:00

I'm not really deeply enamored with St. Patrick's Day (Sorry, Sasha) but at the moment, I just have to keep reminding myself that the world will turn green again. After several blissful days of weather in the 50s, I'm just not ready to go back to the real February. So I shan't. I'll keep believing that Winter is merely taking its last, gasping breaths before Spring descends upon us.

And hopefully, it won't snow into April this year.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. ~Hal Borland

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind? ~Percy Bysshe Shelley

It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! ~Mark Twain

See? There's plenty of hope for us all.

My New Friend

2011-02-09T09:15:00.002-05:00

Yum.

If you like eating ice cream for breakfast...if you love honey...if you love anything thick, creamy, sweet, and amazingly delicious...do yourself a favor and go buy a cup (or if you're feeling bold, a bucket) of this yogurt.

I felt like I was getting away with something when I tried it at breakfast this morning. I kept peeking over my shoulder to see if the children would try to steal it from me. But lucky for me, it appeared I was eating my regular bowl of yogurt and there were no takers. Bliss!

Stirred

2011-02-09T00:27:00.004-05:00

I just finished watching Julie and Julia. It reminded me why I love to write. How could it not? An entire movie based on a woman who gives herself a year-long blog challenge and cooks (and blogs) through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Many of the blog entries are narrated, which I love. And I got to see Julie typing them as she narrated, which I loved even more. Reading the written word aloud is delicious to me.

I'm not an amazing cook. I don't love it with all of my being. I am not inspired to follow in Julie's footsteps and blog about a cooking adventure. But I have been nudged to pick up where I left off.

It's the middle of the night. Our family has been battling a variety of illnesses over the past three weeks and I have spent a lot of time inside my house. I am currently unable to chew very much, due to some sort of tooth/sinus infection...so I'm a little hungrier than usual. None of these issues lend themselves to eloquence, but my creativity has definitely been stirred.

Perhaps in the morning I'll have something more interesting to say. And just maybe I'll plop myself down on my tomato red stool and type it out for you.

Until then, my friends.

My Name Is Not Madeline

2011-01-19T09:00:00.002-05:00

And my husband's name is not Jacob. But I want this necklace. Just with different names, savvy?

If you too desire beautiful jewelry procured through dreamy Lisa Leonard Giveaways, please pop over to my farmgirl's blog and leave her a comment. (And for those of you who go to HPC with me, isn't it a little wild that this isn't our Lisa Leonard? The first time I heard about Lisa the Jewelry Designer, I thought she was one and the same as the HPC Lisa and thought she'd been holding out on us.)

For those of you readers who are men and might not have your heart captured by cute clustered necklaces, let me remind you that Valentines Day is right around the corner and that this is jewelry I believe any woman would love. Lots of different styles. Just a thought.

Footsteps in the Snow: Following God

2010-12-18T09:17:00.002-05:00

It's not a new idea, I know. But it hit me afresh last night when I took the trash out. Isn't it funny how the divine can strike you right in the middle of mundane tasks?

I cracked open the back door and peered out into the frigid black night, then noted with relief that there was a trail of husband-sized footprints leading out to the garage. Oh good. I wouldn't have to change into boots.

Of course, sometimes when one is cautiously stepping into deep footprints in the snow, one might not step perfectly into the print and wind up with snow in one's shoe. But one is more careful on the next steps.

Of course, it was my own fault that I got snow in my shoe. The footprints were plenty big enough to see, and there was plenty of room for me to put my foot inside the boundaries. But I wasn't careful enough. After several steps that worked out for me, I got careless and didn't pay as much attention. And yes, I learned from my mistake. It was too late to salvage my socks, but I could keep them from getting wetter.

Such it is with God.

Thank you, Lord, for giving me a path that is easy to see and follow. Thank you that the boundaries are clear and that if I am mindful, I can stay safe walking with You.

The Top Ten Things I Love About October

2010-12-16T08:38:00.003-05:00

Yes, I know it's December. A mere less-than-two-weeks from Christmas. But in my harried mind, it is still October. The last two months have kind of gotten away from me. The days are zipping by at all-time record speeds this year. And the only post I really cared about getting up for October was the one in which I declare the many things I love about that orange-y month.

I think it will be easier for me to transition into December-themed blog posts if I don't leave any unfinished business.

So without further ado, I present you a throw back to our first lavish, glorious days of fall this year:

10. The leaves: on trees, falling through the air, gathered and tucked around my house for fuh-reee!

9. The pumpkins: on front porches, on dining room tables.

8. Apples...and the apple orchards. And the fresh honey.

7. The crisp air.

6. Autumn sunlight.

5. Woodsmoke.

4. Cookouts.

3. Bundling up in scarves just because I finally can!

2. Halloween candy.

1. Beginning my personal countdown to Christmas.

Thank you for bearing with me. I'll try to catch up to real time now.

All Things Harvest

2010-10-03T08:17:00.002-04:00

Well, hopefully my harvest-y pictures from the other day got you into a fall-ish mood...because I'm suggesting you go look at some more. My dear friend Sasha is having a lovely little giveaway and I think that you would enjoy drooling over pictures of her home. I did. But then again, creamy yellow-tinted walls do that to me. And pumpkins, too. Knock yourself out.

http://www.lemonademakinmama.com/2010/09/giveaway-and-harvestizing-my-house-for.html

2010-10-01T14:51:00.003-04:00

Interview with Edie

2010-09-26T17:42:00.006-04:00

Note: the luscious locks pictured in this post are yes, indeedy, Edie's. Taken at a much earlier date and remembered at just the right moment.

What follows is an interview that will hopefully give all my/our faithful readers a peek into what our group camping experience was like. So turn down the lights, grab a sleeping bag, and snuggle up with a s'more. You have my blessing.

Hey, Edie, how many years have you been going on this annual camping trip?

As many years as I've been married. Let's see, that'd be fourteen. Unless it's Tuesday, and it's raining.

What was your favorite thing about the trip this year?

Allow me to be perfectly shallow and brutally honest. I had a great hair day. While camping, people. Do you have any idea what that means?

You have to understand that I have naturally-curly hair. Now, stop hating me. It's a fact, Jack. It just is. As such, my hair on any given day is organized chaos. Like it or not, I've learned to embrace this fact. Some days, I love it. Some days, I loathe it. It is what it is. Love it or leave it. And leaving it is not an option. I hope.

The one thing I've learned about my hair is it is unpredictable. ExtrEMEly. Although I'm not exactly sure of all the determining factors, weather plays a huge role in how my hair looks. Humidity or lack thereof, rather, is king.

On this particular day, Saturday, the eighteenth day of September in the two thousand tenth year of our Lord, if anybody is wondering. Ahem. On this day, my hair had met its perfect atmospheric conditions. What I had were soft, billowing tendrils the likes of which I've never seen before and can only hope to see again. I've tried to recreate what I had. Yes, I have. Only to be left in hopeless, frizzy silence. Despondent? Indeed. Great hope for a bright tomorrow? Indubitably.

But for one day, I had some seriously great hair. The likes of which every woman dreams about for her wedding day. Just to know it is possible makes me deliriously happy.

That was my favorite thing, I am ashamed to say. The best hair day of my life. Of. my. life.

Ahem. (smoothing clothes, scrunching hair)

However, I must say in all honesty that I also enjoyed the rousing and rugged hike on

the trails. That is the main reason I look forward to Turkey Run. The other highlight is the chatter 'round the campfire with my peeps. Those two things make camping worth every discomfort known to campkind.

The other fabulous thing -- and I promise this is the last thing until we move on to the next question. And thank you for sticking with me after that hair falderal. The other fabulous thing was having the sites filled with my peeps nearly as far as the eye could see.

You see, we get the very best sites in the entire park. (Why am I telling you this, Chris? You were a part of us.) Ahem. Fair reader, we get the very best sites in the park. It is a shady cul-de-sac. We had friends and family all the way around the bend and then some. It was reminiscent of my childhood days when we would invite friends and family camping. We didn't have much money, so when we did something, we did it big. We camped in a schoolbus. Yes, we did. Everybody who was anybody was there. A little slice o' heaven, let me tell you. Much like what we had at Turkey Run this year. It was sublime.

What was your least favorite thing about the trip this year? --if you aren't comfortable sticking whatever your answer is up on the blog, (lie like a dog and say something funny) skip it. Use that logic for any of the questions, actually.

The most frightening thing happened on Sunday morning. When it was too late to do anything about it, I knew I didn't have what it takes to make pancakes. I had many mouths to feed and only two-thirds the batter I'd used on days prior. So before that first ladle of batter was poured, I prayed over my provisions in earnest. A lot. I prayed without ceasing. I reminded God of how He fed the five thousand. I told Him I knew He could do it again if only He willed. (I wasn't really kidding.) Lo and behold, I fed more children that day than any other. Some of those pancakes were the finest camping pancakes ever to grace my camp stove. God had indeed made a way.

What was the best part about being the mistress of the pancakes?

Pancakes are crowd pleasers. Children hover around you in eager anticipation when you make pancakes. Little hands love helping. Pancakes make people happy, and they taste mighty good too. And pancake making gives Kellar a reason to hang out with me. What's not to love?

How was the hiking?

Never better. We found the Ice Box. We never find the Ice Box. Collectively we usually tromp right by it not knowing it is there and miss it entirely. One of the children -- Heaven bless them -- remembered where the Ice Box was and led the way. I knew we kept them around for something. The rest of the trail was exhilarating as well. Right down to the last chutes and ladders that we hoisted ourselves up and over and through. Oh my.

How was the sleeping?

Chilled to be sure. When coupled with the right mix of collective body heat, it was quite comfortable indeed. Let's hear it for the buddy system.

How were the campfires?

Toasty, smoky, oft surrounded by wieners, armchair politicians and geeks. Oh yes, and the smores were delightful. Don't ask me how many I ate. I may have lost count.

How was the ice cream?

Oh, now I'm all misty. Vacation just isn't vacation without a little bit of ice cream each day. It touches a place deep inside me that only peanut butter and chocolate can fill.

My favorite dairy treat was a cookie ice cream sandwich with amazingly soft chocolate chip cookies and a band of chocolate chips around the outside of the ice cream. It was a thing of beauty.

Describe your most amusing camp moment.

That had to be watching the horseback riders return from the ride. There was a lot of swankering and swaying going on. And some rubbing and grimacing.

Mind you, I've only been on horseback a couple times in my life, but I don't remember it being all that painful in the end, as it were. Ahem. Maybe I wasn't doing it right. Maybe I didn't tighten my haunches enough during the ride. Maybe I was in eminent peril, and I didn't know it. Or maybe I'm crazy. Crazy like a fox. Yes, that must be it.

A Camping We Shall Go

2010-09-23T09:07:00.004-04:00

Lest you think I've just been lazy the last week or so, let me set the record straight:

I went camping for four days and three nights with four children.

Thank you.

Here's how I used my time during the last week and a half:

Planning

Panicking

Making lists

Buying food

Buying supplies

Packing clothes

Packing food

Packing supplies

Packing bedding

Packing the van

Driving

Getting directions

Driving

Arriving

Watching the kids while the men set up camp

Handwashing

etc etc etc

**Horseback riding--yay!!

Handwashing

Hiking

Handwashing

Braving the bathhouse

Handwashing

Washing children in the bathhouse

Getting children to sleep in the tent

Sitting around a campfire with friends

Keeping children warm through the night

Waking up cold

Dressing children in the cold morning light

Eating breakfast wearing a hoodie, huddled around the fire

Handwashing/Dishwashing

Changing children's clothes as the day got hot

Handwashing

More hiking

Respite from the afternoon heat in the GAME ROOM (yay, airconditioning!)

Panicking

"Saving" children from the ravine behind the playground; they weren't grateful

Handwashing

etc etc etc

Packing, packing, packing

Driving

Unpacking, unpacking, unpacking

Dealing with children who want to be outside all the time, but can't because we don't live in a tent.

Homeschooling while doing lots of wood-smokey laundry

One very unique aspect of this trip is that I didn't take a single picture. I had remembered to bring my camera, sure. And for the first day or so, I kept thinking I should be snapping away at all the beautiful trees, the well-positioned water spout, and the horses. But I just couldn't bring myself to do so. I was afraid that if I started taking pictures, I might be taking away from the experience. My personality is such that I find ways of disconnecting from groups of people and watching from an emotional distance as I do some other mental activity. Although I love people, love talking and interacting, the introvert side of me is very good at "hiding" emotionally, oftentimes without me realizing I'm doing it. So I kept my camera in the van and managed to feel like I'd actually been there. A revelation, for sure.

In lieu of having pictures to share, my plan is to post an interview with my camping buddy Edie.

She filled the role of Mistress of the Morning Pancakes. It should be quite enjoyable, as Edie often is. So wait with bated breath, faithful reader. Satisfaction is forthcoming.

Like a weaned child

2010-09-13T08:54:00.009-04:00

Disclaimer: This post talks about nursing, but in fairly general terms. Just in case you men out there would rather not read about nursing at all. This has been a public service announcement.

Second disclaimer: Blogger is defying all my efforts to make my fonts and spacing normal. Try to pretend everything is normal. That is all.

Early this morning, Dawson, my just-turned-2-year-old couldn't get back to sleep. It was roughly 5 o'clock in the morning and his little molars were hurting and his tummy was empty. It took me more than a few moments to wake up enough to realize this.
The house was dark and everyone would be asleep for another two hours. I knew his tiny body needed more rest, so I shook myself awake and tended to his needs.
Let me back up a little bit. All of my four children have been the crawl-into-bed-with-Mommy kind. Right up until I would have my next baby, and then they'd have to transition to staying in their own bed more often. Only this time, I haven't had another baby yet, so Dawson is still a nightly installment in our bed. The other thing about him being the "baby" (read: youngest, not actual baby) is that he is still nursing. Just a bit.
I never expected to be the kind of momma that would allow a child to nurse much past his or her first birthday. All of my other children were done much earlier with "momma milk." But so far, I haven't had another baby. And the fact that he now asks for "one minute more momma milk" only endears me more to him, even though I know that means the time has come for him to be done. That's a lot of talking for a nursing child. At least, relatively speaking. I know some countries still nurse their babes for years longer, but here at Casa de Floyd, this means he's about done.

I think that we'll be able to painlessly finish the weaning process this weekend when we go camping. Being out of our normal environment should be all it takes.

Why am I telling you all this? Because at 5:28 this morning, while I was sitting with a finally-sleepy Dawson in my lap, I began thinking about this Psalm:
Psalm 131 (NIV)
A song of ascents. Of David.
^{¹ My heart is not proud, O LORD,}
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
² But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
³ O Israel, put your hope in the LORD both now and forevermore.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When I first read this Psalm earlier this year, I found myself wondering over the symbolism of the weaned child. After all, Dawson was still nursing full-steam, and any time he was denied momma milk (as I tested the waters of weaning), he was heartily incensed at my lack of compassion for him.
How could a weaned child be quiet? After all, you couldn't use nursing as a soothing mechanism anymore. I mulled it over and just wasn't sure. Wouldn't a nursing child be more calm with its tender parent?
But this morning, a nearly-weaned Dawson sat sleepy and safe in my lap, covered by a soft blanket, and did not try to nurse. He leaned contentedly against me and finally fell asleep.
And I realized finally what the Psalm was pointing towards.
As young Christians (read: dependent on the milk of the Word, rather than the meat) we are often restless, unsure of God, hoping that He will always be there for us. Still searching for many unanswered questions. But as we get to know God better, we start to feel safe with God. True, there may always be some unanswered questions (my two year old may not be nursing soon, but I betcha he'll still throw a fit when I tell him it's time to leave the park because he doesn't understand he needs a bath before bed...orwhy that's necessary.) but we'll get to the point where we can trust God more fully.
We can lean on Him contentedly, not demanding that He give us everything the easy way.

My baby, learning to go to sleep with a book.

My baby, learning to grow up.

Roasted Pears with Feta

2010-09-07T15:15:00.003-04:00

I peered into my refrigerator at lunchtime today and hoped for something adventurous. Something that would rocket me past an ordinary peanut butter and jelly sandwich and into a slammingly productive afternoon. I saw a small container with a few crumbs of feta cheese. I saw a pear. The back part of my mind told me that it had once seen a recipe combining these two ingredients. The front part of my mind said "Ick. Why would anyone put those two together? That's a little too adventurous for today." But nothing else looked inspiring, so I did a google search on "pears feta" and came up with a very simple recipe: Roasted Pears with Feta. The reason I ultimately tried it was because it's stupid easy and didn't have any extra, fancy ingredients, only the ones I already had.

I halved the pears. I cored them, messily. I didn't have cooking spray, so I slathered the fronts and backs with a bit o' butter. I sprinkled them lightly with pepper and salt, all the while wondering why I was going along with this crazy nonsense. Pepper on a pear??! Unheard of, at least, in my little world. I popped the halves into the oven and waited for 20 minutes, listening to the butter pop and crackle and wondering again if I would have the nerve to actually crumble the feta over the top before eating them.

The timer went off. I pulled out the baking sheet and stuck it on top of the stove. I studied the pear. I sniffed it. I rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and transfered it to a cute plate. I cracked open the container of feta cheese and crumbled it artfully over the fruit. At least it will make a pretty picture, even if it tastes gross, I thought.

I procured a fork and knife and sat the plate gingerly on my computer desk. Siiiiiiigh. Okay, taking a bite...

Oh my.

That's not bad.

In fact (nom nom nom) that's pretty good.

But don't take my word for it:

Roasted Pear with Feta

1 bosc pear

1 1-inch cube of feta, cumbled (or it's container equivalent)

salt and pepper to taste

1. Preheat the oven to 425. Wash, halve, and core the pear. Spray each half with cooking spray (or slather with a bit of butter). Place on baking sheet, skin-side down. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Bake for 20 minutes.

2. Remove from oven. Allow to cool slightly, and then sprinkle with feta.

3. Eat, while feeling incredibly gourmet.

Apples to Apples

2010-09-03T15:20:00.005-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was invited to pick a boatload of not-quite-ripe apples from a neighbor of my mother-in-law. It sounded enticing, picking apples from a tree. I succumbed and soon brought home two grocery bags full of beautiful apples. Apples that I didn't know what to do with because, like before mentioned, they weren't quite ripe. And because they were much smaller than I prefer. Everything I usually do with apples involves peeling and slicing, even just eating them raw, because the kids don't like peels. And who wants to peel and slice a bunch of really small apples? Not I.

But I soon decided that they were good for something else--decorating. They really are beautiful.

So I piled them in one of my new vintage baskets and in no time flat, I had a new centerpiece. I felt brilliant. I felt creative. I felt very Country Living.

I started noticing how the wire of the basket matched the wire on my chandelier...and how that matched the wire on my lanterns. Oh, I was feeling really full of my own magnificence now. So coordinated was I that I could hardly stand the coolness.

Until suddenly, I awoke to one small flaw. My really cool centerpiece, full of not-quite-ripe apples, was irresistible to my two-year-old boy. And because I knew that we wouldn't be eating them, I hadn't washed those beautiful apples. Thus they were still possibly covered in pesticide. And spotted with insect holes here and there (those were undoubtedly the ones my children had "helped" me pick--right off the ground, probably). Basically, they were food, but food that shouldn't be consumed. But a two year old doesn't know that. He just sees a huge basket of summer's bounty, finally placed within his reach. And he thinks "Yay Mama! You're so smart!"

So after two or three times of catching him with a small sliver of apple core, I gave up and removed them from their adorable place on the table. Sure, I could just wash all ten or fifteen pounds of them. But the insect holes would still be there. And two year olds don't know how to check for insect holes.

I am happy to report that my two year old is still healthy, with no apparent signs of poison.

I am sad to report that I haven't found any local place that is selling pumpkins yet. And that even when I do, a pumpkin probably won't look quite as cute in my basket as the apples did.

It's a hard knock life. mock dramatic sigh

A spicy little interlude

2010-08-31T08:40:00.004-04:00

I think is about where we started with the spice rack yesterday.

My spice rack came from a garage sale as well. Many years ago, I was sorting through a variety of somewhat-uninspiring items when I came across this unique little shelf. At the time, it was greenish or grayish or some less-fresh color. The tag said "10" and since I was a novice garage saler, I planned on forking over the full ten dollars for my treasure. As I prepared to pay, I was startled to hear the woman ask me for ten cents. I checked the tag, looked back at her face (sure that she was pulling my leg) and then asked that most intelligent of questions, "What?" She repeated, I handed her a dime, and walked away with a goofy grin and thrill in my heart. Matt spray painted it white and it lived in our bathroom as a shelf for my bath products for several years.

When we added a different mirror to the bathroom, complete with built-in shelves, I decided my vintage darling needed a new home.

Sometime after the relocation, Grandpa Kimble gave me part of his huge bottle collection. More than half of it is still safely in its box. The other half gained acceptance as part of my spice collection. I happily applied some labels I'd been saving and starting the grueling task of transferring all the spices to their new homes. Really, what is better than being able to find a way to use a collection in some practical way? I love being able to use old things. (Which is why it took me so long to plunge into collecting delicate teacups I'd probably never use. But I'm a tea drinker, darn it, and I'm going to celebrate it in my decor.)

Doesn't it just do your heart good to see all those little bottles, filled up with spices? happy sigh

Thank you for ignoring my finger shadow. Oops. Made you look.

Attack of the Teacups

2010-08-30T15:23:00.012-04:00

This is the first of my many new acquisitions from a two-day binge at a local garage sale. My wonderful husband agreed to accompany me the first time, and then the second day, I snuck out at naptime (yes, even Matt was sleeping). I've had requests to show off the goods and I am nothing if not a people pleaser. My favorite thing about these vintage wire baskets is the way they mix practicality with adorability. (Yes, I know that's not a word.) I don't know what to do with all of my baskets yet, but just you wait.

This one demonstrates the beauty of having sides you can see through: perfect for piling textiles in, in this case, summer scarves and flowery hats.

My copper teapot has been a well-loved member of the family for a couple of years now, as has the silver tray. But the tiny creamer and the teacups are all new.

Oh right, the spoons. I have a huge bag of interesting spoons that I don't know what to do with. Most of them have state names on them, but a few are just pretty.

All of my tea cups were 25 cents each. The blue ones below have a castle inscribed with the word Heirloom on the bottoms.

This one is pastoral, but has no markings on the bottom.

I've got two of these darlings from England. I love how so many of my teacups have designs on the inside.

This one is cracked but it's from Bavaria and who can pass that up?

This blue-flowered dame is also unmarked, but struck me as a perfect present for someone close to me, so she got to join the others.

This one appears to be from Japan, and hopefully not in the typical "made in Japan" way. But even if it is, the cup can at least pay homage to Matt's heritage.

This baby is half the size of the others and claims to be fine bone china from England.

This plate is unmarked, but I love tea saucers with a little personality.

I didn't think to take a picture of the delicate pink-flowered French number that I gave away to a dear friend, but trust me, she was the shining star of the bunch. I would've even shown you a picture of the bottom mark, it was so...French.

And finally, a side-ways picture of my spice rack which refuses to turn. Noteworthy are the wildflowers I've so artfully shoved in my hanging basket. My children just have no appreciation for such refreshment, as demonstrated by the way they complained loudly and with vigor when I repeatedly stopped on the way home to gather more Queen Anne's Lace.

And now, some appropriate quotes to close:

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. ~Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

Another novelty is the tea-party, an extraordinary meal in that, being offered to persons that have already dined well, it supposes neither appetite nor thirst, and has no object but distraction, no basis but delicate enjoyment. ~Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste

The mere chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose. ~George Gissing, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft

Tea to the English is really a picnic indoors. ~Alice Walker

Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things. ~Saki

As the centerpiece of a cherished ritual, it's a talisman against the chill of winter, a respite from the ho-hum routine of the day. ~Sarah Engler, "Tea Up," Real Simple magazine, February 2006

The perfect temperature for tea is two degrees hotter than just right. ~Terri Guillemets

Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company. ~Author Unknown

The library

2010-07-16T09:11:00.003-04:00

I love the library. I have always loved the library.

Let me back up. I should not be writing right now. I have places to go, things to do. My children want blueberry pancakes, because they never eat enough breakfast. I have no time for writing right now.

But it's been so long, and I've so wanted to write. So I'm throwing caution and time management to the wind. Besides, I happen to know that the two adults who will be waiting on me if I'm late would really like to see a fresh post on this here blog. In fact, they've probably long ago given up hope that I will ever type another line again.

On we go.

The pictures on this post do not come from the library I'm writing about. I didn't take a single picture, although I wanted to. But there were so many exciting things to do, that I didn't get a chance.

There are two library branches in our town: South Branch and Main Branch. I've almost always gone to the Main Branch, especially in the last ten years or so. But then my good friend Edie told me how wonderful the recently-remodeled (ahem, as in ten year ago) South Branch is. So last week when rain seemed imminent, I packed up the children and headed off to investigate. But I was a little skeptical that anything could surpass my own Beloved Main Branch.

I must say, in general, that I would probably love any library. The shelves and shelves of books, the quiet tables, the children's section. But my Beloved Main Branch has that special smell. Do you know what I'm talking about? Maybe it's just me. I know I'm extremely scent oriented. I especially love the smell of their elevator.

So when I entered the South Branch, I knew that none of those special smells would be there, and I assumed that this would stunt my experience. But then I saw the gleaming wooden shelves, the brilliant organization (which I'm also a sucker for), and the children's section. There was a tree in the children's section. A TREE. (Yes, it was pretend. But it reached the ceiling and looked real.) And a two-level clubhouse that had built in bookshelves, cushions for reclining on, and an observation deck. I never wanted to leave. Oh yeah, and the kids loved it too.

The windows of this library (and I'm guessing, the light fixtures as well) had been inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright, and did a fabulous job of bringing the outside in (that's a Country Living term: "bring the outside in." I'm practicing to be a caption writer for that magazine. Or maybe Better Homes and Gardens.) And unlike my Beloved Main Branch, this library was surrounded by grass, trees, and sky. Not buildings and streets. It was enchanting. Did I mention I never wanted to leave?

There was even a Snack Zone, which seemed so amazingly rebellious to me, because at my Beloved Main Branch, you were never allowed to enter the library with so much as a stick of gum. Cokes were right out. To have an actual Snack Zone (yes, I understand the importance of protecting books from snacks. Yes, I know how many parenthesis I've been using. Yes, and italics. I feel strongly about libraries.) seemed so progressive, so too-good-to-be-true. Because really, is there any better combination than books and food?

Time is getting away from me, just like it did there. The kids have eaten their pancakes and now need to be dressed.

All right, I think I'll end this renegade post with another plug for the dreamy children's book The Library, by Sarah Stewart. All of her books are somewhat magical, but this one is my absolute favorite. Even adults like having it read to them. Go check it out today.

Nelleigh's Room

2010-05-15T23:19:00.037-04:00

I have this adorable teenage friend named Nelleigh. She has the coolest room. She picked the boldest, most glam color of purple for her walls, henceforth renamed Audrey Eggplant (nod to hannaH).

A while back, Nelleigh gave me permission to pretend I was a photographer from Better Homes and Gardens (or Country Living, if that's more your style--yeehaw!) and snap away at her stunning digs.

Black and white photographs pop against the bold wall color while the hydrangeas keep everything balanced.

Her shoes match her room, and incidentally, bridge the gap between playful girl and sophisticated young woman.

Another brief glimpse at the little girl lingering within...

More clean white adds freshness and pop.

Can anyone else feel the love of all things Paris?

Other than the thrilling purple walls, one of my favorite parts of her room is her converted closet. The inside walls have been painted with chalkboard paint and filled with personal chalk inscriptions:

Behind her bedroom door, her necklaces multitask: organization meets decor. Ah now, here's a girl after me own heart.

A curved mirror tops off her antique dresser, both of them helping to balance all the white accents. Near her ceiling are painted Bible verses, keeping them within sight at all times. I love the way the pink paint of yesteryear is allowed to seep through and create a perfect vintage patina. Love.it.

A glowing Eiffel Tower and some white Christmas lights create an ethereal atmosphere.

Ah Nelleigh, thank you dear, for letting us peek into your room. I know that I'll be back whenever I need a little aesthetic refreshment.

"Paris is always a good idea." ~Audrey Hepburn

Songs of Joy

2010-03-21T22:54:00.003-04:00

During my recent unplanned absence from the blog world, I can assure you that I haven't been doing this:

Not too much of this either:

What in the world have I been doing, you ask?

Well, it is true that I received a trip to a masseuse as an ultra-early Mother's Day gift from my amazing mom. But other than that, I've mostly been weathering an Indiana winter with four children who are alternately whiny, sick, fighting, stricken with cabin fever, whiny, sick, disruptive, messy, and whiny.

The last couple of weeks have been somewhat rejuvenating, even though we've weathered two more bouts of sickness. The days have been getting just warm enough for Matt to work in the yard this week, which has allowed the kids run off a smidgen of five months of steam, which has allowed me to actually devote a bit of attention to housework, which has in turn given me the energy and clearer head I need to return to writing.

I also just finished Beth Moore's Psalms of Ascent bible study, which has filled me with fresh inspiration. This study has given my hearts wings and spurred me on to love God with a passion and dearness that I've not experienced towards Him before. I feel like my eyes have been opened a little more to see evidences of the deep love He has for me. He is so tender and patient.

Ending a bible study is always so hard for me...the daily journey in that particular segment of Scripture is over. But this study feels different because it has driven home to me that this Christian road I walk is all about pilgrimage and that I have both travelling companions and a Protector along the way. I know I'm better equipped than I was before.

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship." ~Louisa May Alcott

Psalm 126

A song of ascents.

¹ When the LORD brought back the captives to Zion,
we were like men who dreamed.

² Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy.
Then it was said among the nations,
"The LORD has done great things for them."

³ The LORD has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy.

⁴ Restore our fortunes, O LORD,
like streams in the Negev.

⁵ Those who sow in tears
will reap with songs of joy.

⁶ He who goes out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with him.

When snow falls, nature listens. ~Antoinette van Kleeff

2010-01-15T08:57:00.004-05:00

And now, just so I don't look back in the hazy heat of summer and wish I'd appreciated the snow when I had it...

Brew me a cup for a winter's night.

For the wind howls loud and the furies fight;
Spice it with love and stir it with care,
And I'll toast our bright eyes,
my sweetheart fair.
~Minna Thomas Antrim

Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
~Bill Morgan, Jr. (No, that's not my house. Yes, I wish is was. Yes, it would be too small.)

In winter, when the world is simplified, the subtler and humbler beauties can appear to us...Red holly berries, or rose hips on their dry canes...Even a blue jay stands out. The simplicity and starkness of a winter scene bring to our attention creatures we overlook in other seasons. The beauty of such small and humble things is an especially important expression of holiness for us, who are so easily impressed by size and ostentation. ~David Rensberger (No, that's not a blue jay. No, I'm not color blind. I live in Indiana, so I'm representin' with a cardinal.)

When the bold branches
Bid farewell to rainbow leaves -
Welcome wool sweaters.
~B. Cybrill

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. ~Edith Sitwell (No, I don't have a fireplace. Yes, I dearly wish I did. It's a long held dream of mine to get to frequently use a fireplace. Sigh...)

There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you.... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself. ~Ruth Stout (Quiet stretches? Maybe she doesn't have children. Maybe I should go to the country.)

Have a lovely winter day!

Dear beautiful Spring weather, I miss you. Was it something I said? ~Kim Corbin

2010-01-12T23:21:00.005-05:00

While not a new & original sentiment, these are the thoughts that have been teasing me for the past week or so...

I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet it in a garden. ~Ruth Stout

Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair... ~Susan Polis Shutz

I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck. ~Emma Goldman

Flowers really do intoxicate me. ~Vita Sackville-West

Those who bring sunshine to the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves. ~James Barrie

To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat. ~Beverly Nichols

The really nice breezes blow through my body and into my soul. ~Astrid Alauda

Of course, those open windows don't have quite the same effect in mid-January. But ten or fifteen minutes at a time can do wonders for relieving that trapped-in-the-house feeling.

How to Soothe a Baby...

2009-12-20T23:34:00.002-05:00

...When you're:

4 years old-- Scrunch up face and sing-song 3 inches from baby's face "heeeyyy, babybabybabybaby! It's okay, it's okay, it's okay!"

8 years old-- Insist that you're old enough to comfort the baby. Gaining possession of said baby, bounce her like a rag doll. Upon receiving further instruction, proceed to bounce baby stiffly, while trying to support her head.

12 years old-- Call out "Mom, can you get the baby to quit crying? I'm on the phone!"

16 years old-- Walk bawling baby hopelessly through the house, hoping the pay is worth this.

20 years old-- Mutter something about how cute she is and hand baby hastily back to her mother.

24 years old-- Bounce her stiffly while trying to support her head and wondering if she can wait to nurse until you get home

28 years old-- Bounce baby expertly, while swaying, swooping and talking on the phone to your sister.

32 years old-- Hand her to your older child and instruct her in the art of head-holding whilst bouncing. ...Rescue baby and resume bouncing expertly while cooking dinner.

36 years old-- Demonstrate how to properly bounce a wailing baby, then hand her back to her mother.

40 years old-- Become oblivious to everything but the fact that your teenager is using her newest electrical device in the church service.

44 years old-- Grin at all the wailing babies you come across, thinking wistfully of when your kids were babies.

48 years old-- Start hoping for grandchildren to bounce.

This is based loosely on my own time line. I started kinda young... I was thrilled to share my bouncing skills with another (even younger!) mama this morning. It obviously got me thinking.

Persimmon Pudding: The foodstuff of Legend

2009-12-11T14:24:00.011-05:00

In order to teach you how to make persimmon pudding, you must first be given the answer to this all important question: When are persimmons ripe?

I started my quest with this seemingly simple question several weeks ago. Little did I know what an epic experience it would become. My Aunt Gail, who has been quoted without permission, wrote me a useful, albeit avant-garde answer:

"They are ripe when they are puddles of orange goop that can be scraped up off of the ground. haha. How I get ripe persimmons is by first picking up the ones on the ground that look good. They will be soft. Then, like Steve said, give the tree a gentle shake. If it is a big tree, one can throw sticks at the branches and that will knock off the ripe persimmons (Mom and I did that on the Mville courthouse lawn with Auntie Carol. I think Carol was a bit embarrassed...). You can also pick them. If they practically fall off in your hand they are ripe. Of course, tasting is a good way too. Just squish one a bit and touch it to your tongue. It may have a bit of a bite but overall should taste sweet. If your tongue shrivels up, it is not ripe!"

Because I know this post is gonna be as epic as my persimmon experience has been, I'll go ahead and include the wiki information, which is less avant-garde, and less useful:

"Commercially, there are generally two types of persimmon fruit: astringent and non-astringent.

The heart-shaped Hachiya is the most common variety of astringent persimmon. Astringent persimmons contain very high levels of soluble tannins and are unpalatable if eaten before softening. The astringency of tannins is removed through ripening by exposure to light over several days, wrapping the fruit in paper... This bletting process is sometimes jump-started by exposing the fruit to cold or frost which hastens cellular wall breakdown...

The non-astringent persimmon is squat like a tomato and is most commonly sold as fuyu. Non-astringent persimmons are not actually free of tannins as the term suggests, but rather are far less astringent before ripening, and lose more of their tannic quality sooner. Non-astringent persimmons may be consumed when still very firm to very very soft."

These are Fuyu persimmons. These are not the kind I used for most of my pudding. I used Hachiya persimmons, but I forgot to take pictures of them. They are the same color, only slightly smaller and more pointy at the end. I had to wait for a long, long time for them to get soft and ripe enough to use. Poor Edie burned her throat when she took a bite of one before it was ripe. When they're ripe, they feel like water balloons. Don't try taking a bite unless they seem to be in imminent danger of bursting. The Fuyu persimmons aren't dangerous, but they are harder to pulp properly.

This is persimmon pulp. 2 cups of Hachiya persimmon pulp. Some purists will say you must take off all the skin and take out all the seeds before pulping persimmons in the blender or a food processor. I think I took off most of the skin and took out...mmm...probably all of the seeds. But it was easy. They're very soft and squishy.

I mixed the pulp together with a bunch of flour, milk, sugar and a couple of eggs. I tossed in some baking soda, baking powder, and spices. I mixed it. I thought I could avoid having to wash my beaters and just whisk it by hand...but I ended up having to wash my beaters and my whisk. Dang.

Uh, I should probably mention that once everything was all mixed up, it looked really gross. Really. The picture doesn't really do the grossness justice. Just warning you.

Alas, I poured the cake-like mixture/goop into an ungreased 9 x 13 baking dish and sprinkled nutmeg on top because I'm a nutmeg freak. It's true.

Then the waiting began. 70 minutes. SEVENTY minutes. This was gonna be a long wait...

So I decided to have a little breakfast while I waited...

But that didn't take very long. Not nearly long enough. So I turned my attention to my tea cupboard.

I know. It's a crying shame, everything all stuffed in there. I stumbled across my newest hot chocolate experiment. You should really try it. The dark chocolate version will change your life in a good way.

Ahhh...that's much better. Everything's back in order. What's that? You're wondering why I only have three teacups to drink all that tea and hot chocolate with? Don't worry. The rest of them are right overhead.

Yes, I did arrange them for the picture. Yes, you can get your own adorable snowman mug at Dollar General for a sweet buck.What that's you say? You're getting bored waiting for the persimmon pudding to finish baking? Yeah, you and me both. Okay, we'll zoom to the end.

Oh, it's a good thing. Make absolutely sure you have your whipped cream at the ready, as this stuff just doesn't taste complete without it. You might also want to put some on top of your hot chocolate.

By the way, "pudding" is a HUGE misnomer, unless you're British and accustomed to figgy pudding, bread pudding, and the like.

Yes, I know you're all clamoring for the recipe. I will generously include both the recipe I used and the one my grandmother used when I was growing up. Make sure you don't cover your persimmon pudding with any kind of air-tight plastic wrap or it will get really gooey on the bottom. It's still good that way, but I thought I'd warn y'all in case gooey is not what you're going for.

Ripe persimmons (enough to make 2 cups of persimmon pulp)
3 cups milk
2 cups sugar
2 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Dash of cinnamon
1/2 cup chopped nuts (optional)
Whipped cream

X Instructions

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Remove the skin and seeds from the persimmons and puree the pulp in a blender or food processor. In a large bowl, combine the pulp, milk, sugar, eggs, flour, baking soda, baking powder, vanilla extract, and cinnamon until well mixed. Stir in the chopped nuts, if desired. Pour the mixture into an ungreased 9- by 13-inch baking pan and bake for 70 minutes or until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean. Serve warm with whipped cream. Serves 8.

Grandma Inman's Persimmon Pudding:

1 cup persimmon pulp
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
1 cup milk
3 eggs
3 heaping teaspoons baking powder
1/2 cup melted margarine
spices:
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/8 tsp ground cloves
1/8 tsp ginger
1/8 tsp all spice
1/2 tsp cinnamon
(note from Grandma)
If you don't have all the spices, you probably won't know the difference.

Mix, then bake-- 9 x 9 pan -- 1 hour @ 375

Serve with whipped cream.

An Addict's Confession

2009-12-05T08:08:00.007-05:00

There are a few of you who know exactly what to expect from this post. But for the rest of you who are now a little worried about me, let me hasten to explain: my addiction is milk.

But not just any milk. Kroger milk. 2% Kroger milk. (The blue kind.)

Oh, don't forget the half and half for my tea. Once you've started adding half and half to your tea, you can't really go back to milk. My mother taught me that.

Isn't it beautiful? Yes, I did take pictures of milk while I was shopping.

I'm sure you're all wondering a few things:
1) Why are you so addicted to milk?
2) Why is there so much milk in your cart?
3) Why, if you love the blue kind so much, is there also red in your cart?
4) How do you store so much milk in your refrigerator?

Well, to clear things up a bit:
1) I don't know why I'm so addicted to milk. Growing up, my whole family drank a lot of milk. The five of us would go through about a gallon a day. I seem to be the only one who has carried the obsession into adulthood though, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because of a traumatic preschool field trip to a dairy farm. At the end of the tour, we were served warm chocolate chip cookies, which of course are immediately devoured by preschoolers. After devouring, we then craved milk. Of course. And what better to drink than warm, fresh-from-the-cow milk, right? Yuck. No. No, no, no. But when you've just devoured gooey chocolate chip cookies, you really have no choice. Especially if you're a preschooler. So I drank. And it was gross.
And ever since I've had an issue with any milk that isn't ice cold, from a plastic carton, and of a very particular taste. Every once in a while, I even reject a gallon of Kroger 2% if it tastes like what I've come to term "The Bad Milk." Not to say that it's spoiled. I can just tell a difference and I don't like it at. all. I can drink it if I plug my nose. Let's just suffice it to say that I don't drink milk anywhere other than at home. If I come to your house for dinner, I'm probably drinking water.

2) The main reason I have 8 gallons of milk in my cart is because that's about how much milk we drink in a week at my house. And I don't like to run out of milk. I can't run out. Well, I could, but it wouldn't be pretty. I've been known to send Matt out late at night or first thing in the morning because I must have milk with breakfast. A frequent question at our house is "Do you have enough milk for...(the morning, dinner, the day, etc.)?
The other reason I have so much milk in my cart is because I am greedy with my milk. I've been known to deny milk to guests, children, and my husband if I deem that there might not be enough for me later. On these occasions, I generally have decided that I probably care more about the milk than they do. This, however, flies in the face of my other tendencies, which are very hospitable and generous. So to avoid the inner conflict, we've started buying milk in large quantities. Doing this has also cut down on the amount of ribbing I receive from my loved ones about my insane milk greediness.

3) I have red milk (aka whole milk) in my cart because I have young, lanky children. It's good for their developing brain and I keep hoping it'll help them bulk up a bit. Often Matt drinks whole milk if he's worried he'll take too much 2% and therefore leave me with not enough for breakfast. Poor Matt. Luckily, I've heard that whole milk is delicious. I'm not willing to try it though. It sounds a bit thick and thick is reminiscent of cows. Half and half is different because it's mixed with tea, thus diluting the texture. I knew you'd ask.

4) We store the extra milk in my special milk refrigerator in the garage. No, we didn't buy it for that purpose. Actually, we didn't buy it at all. It's Matt's mom's old fridge. But don't think it doesn't turn my heart over with love when I see it packed to the gills with 8 gallons of milk.

It's a beautiful thing.

Sasha's Favorite Gift Ever Giveaway

2009-11-20T14:55:00.004-05:00

This is my favorite gift ever. It was a close call, as I have had several amazing gifts thrown my way. But this is it: my mom's piano/the bookshelves flanking it that my husband hand-made for me. Yes, I know this isn't the greatest picture. This girl's got some homeschooling to get to.

So if you can pick your Favorite Gift Ever, head on over to Sasha's blog and enter to win another great gift. And tell her I sent you and that I make the best persimmon pudding ever. Or don't. Do what you want.

My runners up included:
1) The enormous painting of a magnolia tree that my husband bought me for our anniversary once
2) My very own copy of The Library
3) The first season of Golden Girls
4) The first season of Frasier (swoon...those were the days!)
5) My first down comforter
6) My silver trumpet
7) My digital camera
8) My laptop

And several more...I love presents! Check out Sasha's blog. If she doesn't love you yet, she will soon...and vice versa.

Crayon Crimes

2009-11-12T20:13:00.001-05:00

A box of new crayons! Now they're all pointy, lined up in order, bright and perfect. Soon they'll be a bunch of ground down, rounded, indistinguishable stumps, missing their wrappers and smudged with other colors. Sometimes life seems unbearably tragic. ~Bill Watterson

Aren't they beautiful? I love a box of new crayons. I'm sure you do, too. How could you not?

And the opening quote is, as we all know, only too accurate. Most children just don't have the proper respect for a brand new box of crayons. The contents of my crayon box looks more like this:

And the sad truth is, my youngest son chews, and sometimes ingests, crayons. Yes, Dawson. Yes, ingests. Yes, I do have proof.

They're non-toxic. That's what everyone keeps telling me when I lament a crayon's --ahem--passing. (No, not an entire crayon. But let me assure you, it doesn't take much to make a vibrant showing.) Non-toxic, which also means "non-digestible."

It just seems like such a waste. They don't taste good, and with the lovely pointed tips bitten off, they're just not so adorable anymore.

I try to stop him. I really don't like wiping crayon fragments off my son's rear end. Surely I care more than anyone else in the house, right? But with three other oblivious children playing with a HUGE box of crayons, there's bound to be plenty of them that end up on the floor.

And now that Dawson can make it to the top of the table, all bets are off.

CMA Chat

2009-11-11T21:47:00.002-05:00

So...I just want to start out by saying that I kinda like country music. Some of it I like a lot, some of it I can't stand. I'm right on the fence. Almost a neutral, really. Just wanted to make that clear from the get-go.

I guess tonight was CMA night--Country Music Awards, for you non-country-music or non-television type people. We were flipping through channels before bed and landed there. Our kids watched with sleepy interest. The following conversation ensued:

Kellar (3) (Watching Brad Paisley perform): That's Jesus.

Me: No, it isn't.

Nadia (4 1/2): And I don't think he's going to come out there right now,because he doesn't really sing.

Me: At least, not country.

I'm not commenting on any possible theology behind whether or not Jesus really sings. I'm just saying.

Pressure

2009-11-04T23:48:00.005-05:00

I was feeling exceptionally cool, because for the first time, I was gonna blog in bed. Oh yes, I know you're all duly impressed. I can hear the oohs and aahs. Thank you for your support.

But then, suddenly, I looked down and saw that my laptop battery was exceptionally low. And do you know what happened? That's right. Pressure.

I knew that I only had a short amount of time before I would no longer be able to blog in bed. Why not plug it in, you ask? Well, that thought occurred to me as well, and I would've been happier than happy to use that suggestion, if it were not for the fact that my laptop cord has three prongs and all the plug-ins in my room have 2 prongs. And yes, I know that I could just get up off my duff and go to the living room, but that kinda defeats the purpose of blogging in bed, doncha think?!

No, I'm not exceptionally bitter over this silly matter, why do you ask?

“The only pressure I'm under is the pressure I've put on myself.”

Mark Messier

Top 11 Reasons I'm Ready to Love This Christmas Season

2009-10-27T23:19:00.006-04:00

1. Christmas music. Soon Halloween will have passed, and when I crank up my Christmas-y tunes, I'll get fewer odd looks. At least, I think I will.

2. Christmas lights: the only thing that combats Daylight Savings Time. If my sunlight runs out by dinner time, I'm darn sure gonna have some extra twinkly lights to keep my spirits up.

3. Candles. My two favorites are Mulled Cider and Yankee's Basalm & Cedar. Oh, my heart! Maybe I should just get it over with and go work for Yankee. It's just possible that would be a more healthy outlet for my scent obsession.

4. A Charlie Brown Christmas. " I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It's not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love." Can a get a holla-holla?

5. We Care Christmas Tree Walk. What could possibly be better than a mall full of a hundred themed Christmas trees? Seriously? I love watching my kids' expressions as they try to decide which ones are in their top 3. Even better to see them try to recreate them when we get home. Priceless.

6. Shopping. I love shopping. I love shopping with my husband. I love shopping with my husband after the kids are in bed. I love getting a drink and a snack from Starbucks and going shopping with my husband after the kids are in bed--lovingly monitored by one of their grandmas, of course.

7. Snow. When I no longer thrill to the first snow of the season, I'll know I'm growing old.

-Lady Bird Johnson

8. Baked goods. I love Baked Goods (yes, capitalized on purpose) with a passion. Any old excuse'll do, but Christmas goodies are even better than the other year-round variety, because they're usually recipes that are brought out solely at Christmas time.

9. Brass groups. My kids are practically holding their breath waiting for the day they get to go to Grandpa's work and listen to the Christmas music his brass group plays. Yeah, yeah, the kids are.

10. Decorating my tree. I've been using mostly paper decorations for the last several years to prevent breakage. Turns out, I may never go back. I love the unique look that delicate snowflakes, red white & green paper chains, and glittery star cutouts give to my tree.

11. It's not here yet. I am therefore free to daydream about it to my heart's content: You see, by December 15th, I'll undoubtedly be freezing cookie dough to use on Christmas Eve. I'll be leisurely wrapping the gifts I made with my own two hands...and making lovely labels to go with them. I'll be perusing candy recipes and trying them while my kids nap. I'll have plenty of time for this, because my laundry will be all caught up.

Otherwise Entitled: How Much Pizza Can I Eat in a Week?

2009-10-22T08:40:00.007-04:00

For Sasha who misses me when I don't blog
For Andrew for whom I tried to keep it short
For Doug and Edie who are always up for a good time
For Donna who has freed me from the Tyrany of the Matched Sock
For Matthew who knows how to show this girl a good time

Last Saturday night, Mr. Floyd and I went out on a date. A real date...you know, where we're gone for more than an hour? That's right. And in a vehicle that had no car seats in it. Ahhhh...

Some of the Super Friends generously provided both the babysitting for our unruly brood, and the car-seat-less vehicle that transported us sleekly down to Indianapolis. It was a most amazing time. One of the perks? A GPS in the car, so there was no need for hastily scribbled directions or last minute panicking as we try to figure out why the parking lot wasn't included in those directions.

Our first stop finished up a sort of pizza tour that took place last week. I'll pause this oh-so-exciting date story to give a brief rundown:

1) Thursday, lunch-- Gas Station Pizza. From Russiaville. Some of the best pizza available in the Kokomo area. Edie never fails me.

2) Thursday, dinner-- A surprise visit to Pizza Hut. Matt's mom called mid afternoon with a plea to have us accompany her here to celebrate a dear friend's 70th birthday. Usually Matt hates Pizza Hut. This was no exception. We made it through, although I was beginning to question my often quoted: "I could eat pizza EVERY day 'cause I love it so much!"

3) Friday, lunch--My mom takes the kids and me to Harvey Hinklemeyers and I feel a bit green as I hear two of my children order pizza. Watching them eat it is no small feat either.

4) Saturday, lunch--The Menfolk are re-roofing my garage. We have lots of people at my house. Lots of kids. Guess what we eat? Oh well, at least it was Papa Johns, but eating it was real test, because I knew we were trying out a new pizza joint in Indy for our date that night.

5) Saturday night--Bazbeaux in downtown Indianapolis. We were definitely some of the least cool people there. The girl in the bathroom had a sprawling tattoo on her chest and one of the waiters had a handlebar mustache. The insanely-cheerful black guy who sat us told us we were being placed downstairs in the "TroubleMaker's Section" where the wine cellar was located. We actually got to sit at a table made for 2 people.

But the pizza! Oh, the pizza! I picked the Garden Pizza, which is really out of character for me, but wait til you hear what was on it: ricotta cheese, artichoke hearts, avocados, fresh spinach, red onion, and black olives. Be still, my heart. I love avocados and artichokes with a passion and spinach aint too bad either. When it arrived, the creamy blend of the ricotta cheese and the baked avocado slices was enough to render all my other senses useless. It was all I could do to sit there and help Matt eat the entire pizza. That's right. I'm not ashamed. If you'd been there, you wouldn't be ashamed either.

So back to the date. After we'd eaten until we were drunk on pizza, we waddled back to the Date Car and drove down Delaware (ha HA! built in alliteration) to the Benjamin Harris Home where we took part (you know, in an audience, fill-in-the-cryptogram on the program kinda way) in a walking play called Ghost Tales of Indiana. It was fun for me, who likes theatre and doesn't mind a touch (all right, a dollop) of corniness. It was fun for Matt, who was the only one who actually solved the cryptogram. I don't think that they expected anyone to actually solve it in the time provided, as was made clear by the fact that our hostess seemed more than a little crabby when I read it out loud for Matt instead of letting her do it. This made Matt very happy. I know, and we call ourselves Christians.

When we arrived home, no one was screaming, flailing, fighting, or bemoaning. We'd had more than two hours in the car alone, a pizza that made us hate all other pizzas, and a fun time annoying corny hostesses. Now that's what I call a date.

Rice Pudding Mishaps

2009-10-09T11:35:00.003-04:00

So I've been on this unofficial quest to make a good rice pudding. Whenever we have gads of leftover cooked white rice, I'm seized with the sudden urge to use it rather than throw it out. (Yes, I'm aware this is dangerously close to the aversion some people have to throwing away "perfectly good" spaghetti, but I press on, because I believe it's my love of sweets and not my weirdness that gives me this irrational desire. If you, like Matt, see this differently, feel free to plan an intervention.)

Well last night was one of those nights. And I was JUST SURE that this time would be different. I say different, because in all the time that I've been feeling these rice pudding urges, never once has one of my puddings turned out to be something that ANYone would want to eat...not even me. Although I did eat one once, because I was JUST SURE that I would like it if I just gave it a fighting chance. But you know, sometimes I'm wrong. Matt spent the week laughing at me as I doggedly comsumed the entirety--all right, half--of the "pudding." It was really more of a rice mass.

Alas, last night was not a success either. I had been dreamily envisioning coming home and serving my children warm rice pudding, topped with a gentle sprinkling of nutmeg, and they would gobble it up and take their showers, and thusly warmed by their caring mother, slip sweetly away to sleep. What happened instead was that we came home, took it from the warm oven, and looked at it, suspiciously so. It looked...eggy. And true, there were eggs in it. But it didn't really look so much like pudding. Matt poked it and declared "I'm not eating any of it." This concerned me, because if my husband won't eat it, I find myself asking Is it just because he doesn't like it? Or because he doesn't feel it's safe to eat? And if it isn't safe to eat, should I feed it to the children? I threw the entire thing in the trash. I mostly lament the loss of 8 cups of milk used to make it. EIGHT cups of MILK! Never again, rice pudding. Sing your siren songs no more. I'm not wasting my dreams or my precious milk on you anymore.

Sure fire signs it's an Indiana Indian Summer

2009-10-06T22:20:00.007-04:00

Cook out food. Definitely makes you believe it's still the height of summer, even when the evenings are getting dark by 8 o'clock.

Kids wearing sandals (or wandering around barefoot) and showing off their popsicle tongues.

Vegetables from the garden...sittin' pretty on my counter.

And then of course, "School" pictures. I love my camera so much that I've more or less decided that we're never doing "professional" pictures again. Besides, my kids sit much better for me than they would for any other person alive. Don't you agree?

Of course, I didn't post the out-takes. They weren't quite as spectacular, although they were much funnier. Chandler sulking because he didn't WANT to take just one more picture. Kellar sticking his tongue out at me. Dawson trying to crawl away. Nadia's hair looking ever so slightly disorganized. Ah, the dance that is photographing children.

P.S.--Abigail and The Cat

2009-10-06T22:14:00.003-04:00

When my family first moved into our new house on Melody Lane East, we had no pets. One day we went to the park. The parents went one way, the kids went the other way. Soon, our (I must clarify, I was one of the kids) attention was drawn to a small, sleek, black dog that was RACING around the playground. She was surrounded by a sprinkling of shouting children, one particular who was screaming that she was a vicious pitbull and was attacking people. Karen and I took one look at her and knew it was a hysterical lie. The puppy looked terrified. We caught her (no mean feat) and decided upon a scheme. Er, plot. Uhhh...plan. Karen was the youngest, and therefore the cutest. She, the Cutest, would hold the cute puppy and put on her sweetest face and I, the spokesperson Big Sister would do the talking. We took her home with us.

We put an ad in the paper to check for owners. Nobody responded and we kept her.

We named her Abigail, after Abigail in the Bible. My mom said that Abigail in the Bible was beautiful AND intelligent. Just like our puppy.

Actaully, she's kinda funny looking. She looks like a little black seal...sort of. She's supposedly a dachsund/lab mix...looks sort of like a long-legged dachsund.

Abigail has been a WONderful dog for the last ten years. She is well behaved, smart, and still very very fast. She's a miniature member of our family.

A couple of years back, in the dead of winter, a scared kitty showed up on my parents' front porch. She was terrified of all people. But she was very cold and hungry. But she was terrified of all people. Very cold. Very hungry. Very very scared. She would sit 20 feet away from the house and meow piteously at us. We would all take turns going out to try to coax her into the comfort of the house and she would take off. After two or three weeks of this craziness, she finally gave up enough to let someone catch her and bring her in.

She's never really warmed up, apparently. She's still terrified of all people...except my mom and dad. And she's not sure about them because they allow my loud, scary, AFFECTIONATE children to visit at least once a week. Oh, the horrors.

Her name is Gatita, Spanish for "female cat." My mom was a Spanish minor. It happens. *grin* We usually just call her "the cat" like many families I know. Abigail in horribly jealous of any affection that is bestowed upon her, but she shouldn't be. Abigail really is part of the family. Gatita really is just The Cat.

New Hair

2009-10-06T22:00:00.005-04:00

I got my hair cut a couple of weeks ago. People have started demanding pictures. I aim to please.

I know. It's short. And I have bangs.

Shazam!

The Chris Post

2009-10-04T22:04:00.013-04:00

My dear friend Edie is of the opinion that The Inman Series will just not be complete without a Chris Post. So I begged my family to write stuff about me. Then the waiting began. Karen--she was ON it:

I don't think Mom and Dad realized there were nights we didn't go to sleep right away. I remember one night we camped out in a little cave/den thing Chris somehow made by the way our bed frames were situated. Chris put the bookshelf under there too and a little seat/bed fashioned out of blankets. We hung out there one night and slept there.

Something I thought was cool was when I came to high school. Chris graduated before I started my freshmen year, but she left me a reputation before I got there. She talked about me in band a lot, but in a good way. She said I was super cool and told all the guys I could beat them up. And they seemed to believe her when I got there. It was nice to be a freshmen and already have some coolness.

One thing everyone seems to have a knack for is confusing the two of us. A stranger once asked us if we were twins. We do look similar, but twins? Typically, I'm the one who is confused for being Chris. Or people tell me I look like my sister. After we sang a song together in church someone told me I sounded like my sister. I get annoyed because I just want people to know who it is they're talking to. Don't you know I can break your face? Get my name right! I'm just looking for competence in other people, but it's really not bad getting confused for someone like Chris.

Chris is someone who I can be laid back with and just be myself. I sometimes am too quiet and hide who I am. Chris can break me out of my shell. We both act really goofy when we're around each other. It's just that only kind of goofiness you can get with a sister.

* * * *

Then my mother, the Writer, told me she was working on it. She told me she'd do it by Thursday, by Friday, hey-maybe next Tuesday. Ah, the intimidation of the blank text box! However, she did not disappoint:

Chris. Social. She likes to go places. Was frequently known to say, "Where are we going to GO toda y?" as a little girl.

On being "Mommy's Helper". "Mommy, the baby was crying," as she carried out her four-week-old sister. She was 4 ½ yrs old. !!!! "Give Mommy the baby, honey. Next time just come tell me when she's crying."

On bedtime. "Chris, stop talking and go to sleep." It never worked. She just talked faster.

On clothes. She would change outfits numerous times a day, leaving piles of clothes strewn about the house. (preschool and kindergarten)

On amusement parks. "See that highest water slide, Mom? Yeah, the one that's almost completely vertical. I just went down that." !!! (high school?)

(Okay, I'm changing to first person here, and I know it.)

On having children. I really appreciate that you wanted me to be with you when Chandler was born. I d on't know if you needed the moral support or if you did it for my benefit. Since the three of you (you, David, and Karen) were born by C-section, and I was completely unconscious, I missed the whole birth experience. That made it even more meaningful to be there when Chandler was born and be one of the first to see his little face as he popped out. :^)

I didn't think I was ready to be a grandmother when Chandler came along, but it really is as great as all the other grandparents say. I feel kinda sorry for my friends who are my age and don't have grandchildren. I can tell some of them wish they did when they hug on my grandkids. :^) And I love it when I run into people around town and can say, "Oh, yes, we have four grandchildren now."

* * * *

Then The Real Waiting began. Oh boys, boys. How I waited for them. Finally when I could stand it no longer, I wrote them an email:

Subject: Calling InMen

Good evening gentlemen. I need to know if I'm waiting on articles that are actually forthcoming. Please respond to this email so I know if I can go ahead and write the Chris post or if I should wait for any of y'all.

I understand that you might:

A) be busy
B) be uninterested
C) be uncertain of your writing ability
D) be emotionally unable to express your deep and abiding love for the wonder that is me.

If any or all of these apply to you, I won't hold it against you. My feelings will not be hurt. Just please let me know, because I'm having blog readers surmise that I've run off to Las Vegas rather than continue the tedious task of writing. (Really, somebody s aid that.)

Let me know!

Chris

* * * *

I waited a little longer. My dad said "Sorry -- forgot (that wasn't on your list). Can't send anything this morning ... I'll try to ponder further ....D." My brother picked one of the options I listed, but he didn't tell me which one. Still I waited. I started feeling like I was just putting it off. I thought perhaps I should just move on to other things, new topics, and come back to The Chris Post when I got a chance. Then I got an email from my dad today and I rejoiced. Woohoo!

But then tragedy struck. Like many Dad projects, he made it harder than it had to be. He painstakingly crafted a lovely flow chart depicting who I am. Witty. Creative. Impossible to upload? Thank goodness I have geeky friends, or none of us would be seeing it right now:

Matt says it's the perfect representation of me. So I guess now you know. And we'll never know what David would've said, but that's okay. Seeing as how he frequently capitalizes on his brotherly right to make fun of me, you might not be missing all that much.

Technically, I'll be finishing the Inman Series with a brief post about our dog Abigail (she's smart AND beautiful). I was planning on moving on to her whilst I waited for the Chris Post to come together, but that was vetoed on the strength of the argument that I am much more important, more relevant, more...sparkly than the dog. Boo-ya, Abigail.

My brother David: And the bells started ringing.

2009-09-15T19:02:00.010-04:00

My brother David.

I will explain a little about what he was like as a child, because the tedious business of surviving high school, excelling at college, and obtaining gainful employment seems to have somewhat subdued his original creativity and feisty spirit. This will give you a more rounded picture of who he is.

My relationship with him has been evolving since the beginning. We go way back. He's only two years younger than me, so the earliest of my memories has him right there, sidled up next to me. When he was very young, he had white blond hair and a devilish grin. I called him "Daving." My mom tried to correct me countless times, "It's 'David,' Chris. Da-vid." But I clung staunchly to my personalized version...until the day she decided to use some reverse psychology. "Where's Daving, Chris?" "Mom. His name. is Da-VID." And I never went back. Evidently the uttering of the special name by anyone else tainted it and made it unsuitable for myself.

During his white blond days, we attended a wedding and were photographed afterwards. Being the motherly type, I felt it my duty to help him smile correctly for the camera. It turned out something like this:

...Which he claims is the reason why, to this day, he doesn't like getting his picture taken.

Except on special occassions, I guess. Like, uh...Thanksgiving, I think this is. Yeah, yeah, turkey really gets him excited.

...No, not really.

Once we were a little older, Karen and I would build "homes" out of card tables and blankets and set up house inside them. Poor David, "house" was too boring for a rambunctious boy, and he would swoop down with a natural disaster to liven things up a bit: tornadoes, fires, blizzards, earthquakes, and dinosaurs plagued our otherwise peaceful homesteads. We'd rant and rave as he tore and shook apart our homes, but to no avail. The damage would be done and the girly whining would begin. Good times.

Once we got to high school, I adopted a new nickname for him: the Spanish version (of course; I was unconsciously preparing for my role as wife to a Mexican)--Dah-VEED. Yes, I'm wimping out and not going through the trouble of learning how to make an accento. Hey! At least I'm blogging tonight! Watch the criticism or I'll just go to bed.

That's right. Don't push me.

My brother David.

He has a hidden whimsical side that delights in well-made movies, movies full of humor and wit. He sometimes sings his side of the conversation, but somehow I doubt he likes musicals. He makes great jokes about computers and math that nobody in our circle gets. It's hard being brilliant.

He is a man of God. He is conservative, incredibly smart, has a great sense of humor. He is patient and reserved, kind and articulate. He doesn't like small talk, but sometimes indulges me. He has an uncanny ability to make me feel so proud and tender that my heart contracts a little and at times, a tear even squirts out of my eye.

My little brother David. I love that guy.

Sista Karen: Not Last THIS Time, Sucka

2009-09-12T23:09:00.006-04:00

My sister Karen is one of the funniest people alive. She does spot-on impressions, and her stories are not to be rivaled. I just do not hold a candle to her. The title is a tribute to her much-repeated lament when we were growing up: "I'm always last!" Whether it was in reference to the line-up, "And these are my children, Chris, David, and Karen," or the way she somehow managed to always be the last to be informed about Big News, she's always felt a little slighted within our family structure.

But she really shouldn't. Her comedic prowess sets her a step above the rest of us mere mortals.

I may be louder and slightly more animated, David may be taller and very very smart, Dad may be...Dad...(wink)...Mom may be Practically Perfect in Every Way, but you, darling Karen, are a star. You have some tremendous gifts and a beautifully powerful personality.

I admire her extreme loyalty. A loyalty that leads her to defend whatever position I take up, especially if there's someone else opposing me. She would've made an excellent Joan of Arc or some such Lady Knight. She can kick serious butt with her martial arts skills, so I always defer to her when I need someone to punch someone else in the face. Not that I need that frequently. Or ever. Riiiiggghht. I never desire annoying people to get punched in the face. It wouldn't be prudent.

I admire her hidden tenderness. I like watching her with my babies. I always feel like she's silently sympathizing with whichever one is the youngest at the time.

I like the fact that everyone makes a huge deal over her when she wears a dress. Her everyday style could easily be labeled "Cute and Comfy Tough Girl Casual."

I love that she's her own scintillating breed of Animal Whisperer. She's constantly finding/taming/expelling animals wherever she goes. I always call her when I have an animal question, although I could so easily google it instead.

I love her ability to take charge when necessary.

I love that she still gives this look. It's a carry-over from childhood, when she used to glare at anyone who offended her. Sometimes she'd really lay it on by folding her arms, tossing her heavy locks past her shoulder, and heaving her adorable little chin in the air. She'd then heave out a well-orchestrated "HMPH!!"

I love all the times we've spent together, just the two of us. There hasn't been nearly enough since I started having kids and she started college. But the comforting thing is that I know she'll always be there. She'll always be my Kare, my hilarious sister, my precious friend.

More than Santa Claus, your sister knows when you've been bad and good. ~Linda Sunshine

A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost. ~Marion C. Garretty

If you don't understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child. ~Linda Sunshine

"Well Karen? Well Chris? Goodnight, I love you, see you in the morning, say goodmorning. You, too. And have sweet dreams. You, too. ...Goodnight. Goodnight."

My Dad: The Executive

2009-09-12T00:01:00.005-04:00

My dad has an Executive style personality. (I don't rememer what the official letters are, although I'm sure someone out there knows.) He is smart, loves learning new things, loves teaching. He can be disarmingly goofy. His head is full of knowledge: some that is useful, some that is fanciful. He is well-liked and knows how to keep a conversation going. He loves God and loves him some commentary--again with the useful knowledge thing. He's so confident he seems dauntless.

My dad has worked at an automotive-technology company since he was sprung from college twenty-some-odd years ago. Before that, he went to college at a parent-approved school and majored in Electrical Engineering. He wanted to be a musician, or maybe a computer programmer. His dad didn't agree with those career choices, so he picked something else. My dad was a good son.

He was the oldest of four children. He feels a great deal of responsibility.

My dad is an Eagle Scout. He is the epitome of an upstanding citizen.

When we were young, he took us on fun vacations, on camping trips. He played the guitar in the evenings. He'd hold up a sheet of paper when he kissed my mom so we couldn't see, and to be funny. He's always had a powerful personality and we loved that about him. Strike that; that's a weak thing to say. Let me try again. What I was trying to say: I love him.

When we were younger, he had a hard time being emotionally available to my brother and sister and me. We knew he loved us, but he didn't really say it. Knowing all that I know now, I can't blame him. His father was self-controlled, stoic, with a chest as hard as a rock. Not exactly embraceable and encouraging. How do you walk in those footsteps?

But then, shortly before my first child was born, my grandfather died. And the Inman clan got all crumbly and sort of short-circuited. The strong personality that had dominated for so long was at rest and nobody knew what to do with themselves.

Time passed, patterns shifted. I had three more children, and like the good mother and daughter that I strive to be, I did everything I could to bolster an affectionate relationship between the young ones and my dad. However, my firstborn is similar in personality to my dad, outgoing but a strong leader who doesn't take much time for cuddles. My next child, my precious daughter, is reserved and introverted. For the first 2 1/2 years of his life, my third child, Kellar the Koala, was uncertain about anyone other than me. He's just now starting to let down his guard. Finally I bore Dawson, a child who is outgoing, loving, funny, and unafraid. Finally I've been able to see my dad lovin' on one of my babies. I'm tellin' you, it just doesn't get much better than that.

I loved my grandfather very much, despite his lack of, er, cuddliness. But I didn't know him, I didn't even know if he loved me much. For all the remarkable things Grandpa Glen was, he was not an outstanding example of family love. I do miss him, but I am so proud of the father and grandfather that my dad is becoming as he learns to walk straight ahead, making footprints of his own.

My mom: Full of Dignity

2009-09-11T00:32:00.005-04:00

My mom is the prettiest woman this side of the Mississippi, and has been her whole life. She is sweet. She is sassy (although most people don't know it). Chances are, you don't know what she's thinking. She's a thinker, this one.

Momma Jane loves to read, loves to write, has an amazing command of "language, situations and peoples."

She has a superb sense humor and she loves being barefoot. Or rather, her feet just don't like to keep shoes on them for very long. As a child, she was allowed to go barefoot all summer long, except for Sunday mornings. She is smart as a whip(Brief side note: Is a whip actually smart? I think not. So what is she as smart as? Dolphins are supposed to be pretty smart...but "my mom is as smart as a dolphin" doesn't sound very complimentary. I will definitely be giving this some thought.). And classy, caring, godly, patient, stubborn. But if I had to pick one word to describe her, it would be dignified.

Main Entry:	dignified
Part of Speech:	adjective
Definition:	honorable
Synonyms:	aristocratic, august, courtly, decorous, distinguished, great, highbrow, highfalutin', imperial, imperious, magnificent, noble, refined, regal, reserved, respected, solemn, somber, stately, superior, upright

She's not actually highbrow or highfalutin', but I'm really enjoying imagining the look on her face when she reads those two...so they're staying in. Oh, she's not really solemn or somber either, as you probably deduced from the picture above.

She is an outstanding mother, a precious and skillful grandmother. She cherishes her children. She's probably crying by now.

Everything you read above is stuff I've mulled over for years. I know it like the back of my hand. I've tried numerous times and in a multitude of ways to put into words and actions everything my mom is to me. I never get tired of it and I never feel I've done an adequate job explaining--to myself or to others--how special she is.

One quick illustration and then I'll sum up.

When I was a child, we had red raspberry bushes that lined the back of our yard, on both sides of the fence. Every summer, my mom would patiently, tirelessly pick raspberries for days and weeks on end. She would make pies, freeze them, and make more pies. They were wonderful.

Thing is, raspberry bushes have thorns. And no matter how careful you are, if your hands are in them several times a week for a few hours each time, you're gonna get some scratches. But there was bounty in our backyard, and by gum, it was not gonna be wasted. So every summer, my mom's beautiful hands and arms were covered with an abundance of thin, spidery scratches, such as raspberry bushes give.

But she never complained. And when we moved to a new house, we transplanted many of those bushes, only to watch them wither and die in the unfamiliar soil. So now she makes raspberry pies with frozen berries from the grocery store. And you know what? They taste just as good. It wasn't the berries, it was the love.

To sum up, I will say what I've been saying for years: If I can one day be half the woman that my mother is, I will be happy.

A daughter is the happy memories of the past, the joyful moments of the present, and the hope and promise of the future. ~Author Unknown

The Inman Series

2009-09-10T23:47:00.005-04:00

This is my family. The Inmans. Or Inmen, if you're feeling cheeky. From the left: Papa Steve, Sista Karen, Bro David, Momma Jane, and Little Ol' Me Chris.

I was feeling a decided lack of Original Bloggy Material tonight, so I polled one of my friends. He brilliantly suggested that I dedicate a few posts to the fascinating members of my family. And they are fascinating.

Well, I'm no fool, so I agreed to give it a go. See what the blank text box had to say to me. And I to it.

We'll open with Momma Jane. She's sweet, she's sassy, she's the most beautiful woman this side of the Mississippi.

Annie Oakley, eat your heart out.

2009-09-09T23:55:00.004-04:00

This weekend, I got to shoot a couple of guns. I've never really been interested in guns much, but neither am I against them. I grew up surrounded by people who thought guns were cool, and so if nothing else, it was a normal kind of thing in my world.

My grandfather had an impressive collection of guns. In the last house he built, he installed a secret room accessible through part of the ceiling. He filled it with his arsenal, you know, just in case of attack. Or something. Grandpa Glen was both a man and law unto himself and he didn't often share the inner workings of his mind. I'm sure it would've been fascinating. When I was about 14 or 15, I got to shoot one of his antique rifles. All I came away with was the impression that guns are extremely hard to shoot, and therefore, no further interest in them.

On Monday, in honor of Labor Day (??) or perhaps in honor of a day of fun, my very manly husband and our country-dwelling friend set out to shoot some stuff. Out in the yard. I'm not sure, but I think that makes us rednecks. *Resigned sigh* But again, that doesn't really bother me. I'm used to it. I have a gun rack in my otherwise Country Living-esque bedroom.

What did start to worry me, though, was when it started to get dark and the menfolk still hadn't come in from target practice. Right around the time I couldn't see them, I took it upon myself to go suggest they wrap it up. Yes, I'm the police. I'm all about responsibility, especially to a point. *Cheeky grin* So I went out into the yard and was relieved to see them loading things back up. I didn't want to actually be the one to break up their fun, as I don't particularly care for the labels that some men give women who "try to be in charge." I've come close to kicking my neighbor, as he persists in calling me "Boss" whenever I come to see what Matt's up to at his house.

Once I got closer to the guys however, they immediately asked if I wanted to shoot. I glanced up at the very dusky, darkened sky and said, "Isn't it too late to shoot?" The reply alarmed me a little, "It's never too late to shoot." Um, okay. I told them that if they hurried, I would shoot, but it had to be fast, 'cause I was ostensibly there to break things up and ensure safety. Gun police, that's me.

They sprang into action, throwing safety glasses and ear coverings at me. Within 60 seconds, I was standing with my hands wrapped around a big gun. I think it was some kind of shotgun. I was given strict instructions to press its butt firmly into my shoulder, which at the time, I couldn't possibly see as being important, but I did as I was told. My husband explained where to put my hands and when to pull the trigger. I obeyed and was rewarded with a sound blow to my upper arm. Evidently there's this thing called recoil...that's when the gun tries to attack the person holding it.You have to hold on tight or you might sustain injury. My arm is bruised today.

Next they handed me a smaller gun, some kind of pistol. This one was fun. After I got used to holding on tightly so it didn't flip back into my face, that is. I started doing something with my wrists that gave me some small illusion of control, which was comforting. And fun.

I came away enthralled and ready for my next opportunity to shoot, preferably at a time when the sun was up and I got to do it for more than 5 minutes.

Then last night, my darling husband wrote a post about me shooting guns. No, I will not give you a link to it, because I'm hoping that no one else finds it. Let's suffice it to say that my face stayed red all evening and that I evidently am a Gun Diva in disguise. I'm feeling some major conflict. I'm not sure what to do about shooting again. I like shooting quite.a.lot. but the thoughts that will be running through my head might disable my ability to keep the gun from recoiling into my body. And my face might be red. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with being a Gun Diva.

Just keeping you on your toes.

"When I'm with a pistol I sparkle like a crystal, yes I shine like the morning sun." --Annie Oakley

We have women in the military, but they don't put us in the front lines. They don't know if we can fight, if we can kill. I think we can. All the general has to do is walk over to the women and say, "You see the enemy over there? They say you look fat in those uniforms."
--Elayne Boosler

I want to be a Woman of Faith

2009-09-08T23:03:00.005-04:00

If you asked me to leap
Out of my boat on the crashing waves
If You ask me to go
Preach to the lost world that Jesus saves

I’ll go, but I cannot go alone
Cause I know I’m nothing on my own
But the power of Christ in me makes me strong
Makes me strong

Cause when I’m weak, You make me strong
When I’m blind, You shine Your light on me
Cause I’ll never get by living on my own ability
How refreshing to know You don’t need me
How amazing to find that you want me
So I’ll stand on Your truth, and I’ll fight with Your strength
Until You bring the victory, by the power of Christ in me

If You ask me to run
And carry Your light into foreign land
If You ask me to fight
Deliver Your people from satan’s hand

To reach out with Your hands
To learn through Your eyes
To love with the love of a savior
To feel with Your heart
And to think with Your mind
I’d give my last breath for Your glory

(Casting Crowns, In Me, Lifesong)

Three years ago, I was recovering from giving birth to Kellar. He was only a couple of weeks or months old and I started wrestling with some feelings. I don't remember if these feelings were brought on by this song, but these lyrics certainly express the outcome of my wrestlings.

Let's go back, shall we?

I do remember that Kellar was just a wee thing, and I started feeling like God was gently pressing a question upon my heart: "What would you do if I asked you to...?" At first, I tried to clarify the question: If you asked me to do what, God? If you asked me to sing for you? Keep leading the bible study? Stop leading the Bible study? Move? Have more children? Be a missionary?

I became convinced that it must be the worst, albeit, most exciting possibility: be a missionary. I say worst because the idea of leaving my family, my mother in particular, my friends, my safe home, my familiar city...and going somewhere new and remote and friendless was terrifying to me. What if I became a missionary and missed my brother or sister's wedding? Or their children being born one day? What if I left and couldn't handle missing my mom so sorely? WHAT IF I COULDN'T GET THE GOOD KIND OF MILK?! (Shaking off the hysteria.) Ahem. All of these questions were relentless and scary. But the questions didn't cease.

I finally realized that God wasn't going to clarify His question for me yet. That the real question was "Would you do whatever I asked you to do...for My sake?" Whoa there. And I thought it was scary before.

Would I be willing to agree now, as a young mother and shaky but dedicated Christian, to do whatever God asked of me down the road. Would I sign over my plans and dreams and move when He told me where to go?

My mom's council was wise and characteristic of her: Pray. If it doesn't seem clear, pray some more. So I did.

And like I said before, I wrestled, because I didn't like the implications this conversation with God held. I picked my scariest possibilitiy, to use for mere example. I implored God, "What if I miss David's wedding?? Karen's children being born?? What if I really really really miss my mom and cry 'cause I can't handle being there without her?" (I never went away to college; it doesn't show much, does it?) But God didn't tell me how He would address those possibilities, He just kept asking if I'd agree no matter what. (No, not with a voice in my head. A pressing on my heart. Let's not get carried away.)

So finally I caved. With tears and choked voice I told Him that I would go where He wanted me to go and do whatever He wanted me to do. But that He needed to understand my limitations, my issues. And that I would agree, but that these issues would be paramount and deeply effect my attitude when the time came that He called. And that I would need His strength and provision to take me where my issues forbade me to go.

Three years have passed, and so far I've received no clear call to change my immediate circumstances. I've agreed to cut back on being on stage during worship time, continued and changed my Bible study leading, gained new friends, shed others, agreed to try homeschooling our children. I've started gaining confidence and drive and peace. I've started really loving people. And I've started writing again.

I asked my mom awhile back if I should try to be a writer. And her council was wise and characteristic of her: you are a writer. Making money doesn't really make it much better, but don't tell the professional authors that. Keep writing and use your craft to bring glory to God. Enjoy it for what it is.

So I have. Oh, the practice and enjoyment I've earned.

All this to say that no, I still do not know exactly what God is preparing me for. But this morning, I thought about one more intricacy that has kept me wondering as I move on down the path of life, "Why has God allowed me to have so many children at such a young age, and in so little time?" Matt and I planned on waiting several years before trying for children, and I knew next to nothing when we started. Each time we found out we were having another, I kept wondering if I'd be ready for it. But at this point, I've started realizing what having children can do to you, if you're willing for them to mold you: they can firm up your squishy, selfish, wimpy parts and soften up your tough, rigid, protective parts. My kids have made me sweeter, stronger, gentler, more patient, more lavish, more modest, more content, more determined, more creative, more motivated, more protective, more loyal, more capable, a better speaker, a better listener, a better musician, a better wife, a better friend, and yes, a better Christian.

Perhaps many would argue that children are not means to an end, that children are precious gifts in and of themselves...and with these wannabe antagonists I would agree. But looking back on the me of 6 years ago, I am quite sure that God has a double entendre in these fabulous kids. He's been getting me in shape. And it doesn't really matter for what. He and I have already had that conversation and the answer is "yes."

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~Anton Chekhov

To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make. ~Truman Capote, McCall's, November 1967

A Playground for Big Kids

2009-09-06T16:26:00.005-04:00

"Yes we are [friends] and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often. I don't want to lose this happy space where I have found someone who is smart and easy and doesn't bother to check her diary when we arrange to meet."

So I've been feeling particularly happy recently. It's been transforming my mind, my actions, my decisions, and my life in general. It's kind of like living with the Party Version of myself. My rigidness is melting away, like crayons left in the glovebox too long.

It's a wonderful, freeing feeling. Like being transported back to high school, just without the insecurity, the drama, and with much, MUCH cooler friends. (Whew, is anyone else feeling overwhelmed by all the analogies??)

Tonight I played at the park with friends and family. Usually I'm just a spectator, but tonight, in response to Kellar's pleading, I agreed to go down the twirly slide with him. I've been trying to play a little more, now that Dawson isn't so tiny and helpless. After the twirly slide, Nadia begged me to go down one with her. I convinced her to go for the bumpy slide instead, as my uber long legs get bent into uncomfortable positions when I go on the twirly slide. (Is that non-fun of me, or WHAT?) I love the bumpy slide, though. It usually flings me off at the end of it, so that I fly, legs straight and poised, to land like an Olympic gymnast in the shifting stones. But tonight, it was not to be. Luckily Nadia has a pretty good sense of humor, because when we sat down on the slide, we scooted off into the drop zone...and sat there. I wiggled, I wriggled, I screeched forward about 4 inches. We sat there. We giggled. After all, we're girls, and girls giggle. Plus, Edie was behind us and I knew that in a moment, she'd be facing the same problems.

Anyway, we finally all scooched off the slide, giggling the whole way. It wasn't a marathon play session, as it was late and the mosquitoes were making mince meat of our small ones. The thing I felt I'd achieved was a carefree spirit. I'd played around, exchanged witty zingers, pushed my friends, and basically been silly. It was GREAT. Seriously, who knew that adults could have this much fun and still be considered responsible?

And one of the best parts about this big happy friendship is that it's upped my confidence in who I am. Largely diminished are former feelings of needing to act a certain way to please others. Until recently, I had no idea that I went so far out of my way to do certain things just because "that's what you're supposed to do." I feel less encumbered and less stressed. I feel like I can finally be myself, not just with these close friends, but with lots of people. And this is coming from someone who has always striven to be authentic.

Well, as I'm in a quote-y mood, y'all get to read some other people's words now. And as I'm feeling and confident and happy, I must say, I feel darn good about this decision. I hope you feel as at peace about it as I do:

"Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heart-ache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, to discover what is already there." ~Henry Miller, Sexus

The best way to gain self-confidence is to do what you are afraid to do.

My heart filled with love, flowing over with joy, my own little drum that I like to march by! ~Gunda Fijnje-Nolan

I feel my body, my mind, weighted down - all is heavy - but my blood, my inner fire, my passion, the little unburdened kid in me, patiently wait to burst free. -Drew Sirtors

**My grandfather has been sending me chunks of scripture in The Message translation. I liked this one particularly for the fresh and happy words it uses, and partially for the funny imagery of heaving bulls onto altars. With it, I bid you a fond goodnight. Ciao ciao, brown cow!

Psalm 51:7-19, The Message

^7-15 Soak me in your laundry and I'll come out clean,
scrub me and I'll have a snow-white life.
Tune me in to foot-tapping songs,
set these once-broken bones to dancing.
Don't look too close for blemishes,
give me a clean bill of health.
God, make a fresh start in me,
shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
Don't throw me out with the trash,
or fail to breathe holiness in me.
Bring me back from gray exile,
put a fresh wind in my sails!
Give me a job teaching rebels your ways
so the lost can find their way home.
Commute my death sentence, God, my salvation God,
and I'll sing anthems to your life-giving ways.
Unbutton my lips, dear God;
I'll let loose with your praise.

^16-17 Going through the motions doesn't please you,
a flawless performance is nothing to you.
I learned God-worship
when my pride was shattered.
Heart-shattered lives ready for love
don't for a moment escape God's notice.

^18-19 Make Zion the place you delight in,
repair Jerusalem's broken-down walls.
Then you'll get real worship from us,
acts of worship small and large,
Including all the bulls
they can heave onto your altar!

Christmas in August: Pandora, Internet Radio

2009-08-31T00:05:00.013-04:00

Bear with me. I am not one of those weird people that start listening to Christmas music in the middle of the summer and get happier and happier as the year progresses and fewer people give out startled/dismayed/disgusted looks.

Oh wait. Yes, I am.

But bear with me. I'm not normally this bad...it's just that I have a new friend this year: Pandora, Internet Radio. And so instead of having to lug out my hefty collection of Christmas cds, all I have to do is point and click. And when some heavy duty cleaning is necessary, you just can't ask for better accompaniment than Jazz Christmas, or maybe a little "Baby It's Cold Outside."

Speaking of which, I love babies. Especially baby boys. And one in particular that I like to pay homage to, no matter the time of year.

His name is Jesus. No, not that one up there. The one of which I speak. Maybe you know Him, maybe you don't. Maybe you believe in Him, maybe you don't. Come along with me whilst I muse over one of the things I find so touching about Jesus.

Before Jesus came to earth as an infant, He knew it would be hard. He'd never done it before, but He knows everything--He's God. Now what gets me is why Someone who is immortal, all-powerful, and all-knowing would choose to come be a person with bruisable, breakable skin and choose to subject Himself to humiliation, beatings, and ultimately, a hideous death on a cross. Even moreso, why God would choose to send his beloved Son to do this. If you are anything like me, you wince a little when your kid gets a papercut. And even beyond that, can you imagine turning away from your child when he's in pain?

But that's what God chose to do when Jesus died on the cross. Turned away so that death could momentarily overtake Him. And it's the why that gets me every time. Because He loved me. Because He wants us with Him so badly, but there was no way we could be close to Him, we being so ratty and nasty, chock full of mean and rotten thoughts and actions and motivations...and Him being so pure and perfect. So He made a way where there was no way, and sent His precious child to take on the challenge of living the way we live--but not sinning, of giving of Himself His entire life--even when it was hard, and ultimately, of accepting our punishment--which He did nothing to deserve. How sweet that not even death could crush Him, what a wondrous, light-filled, love-drenched moment that must have been for Father and Son when Jesus arose to life again.

It boggles my mind and tenders my heart. As I once asked one of my young friends, How could you not love someone who would do that for you?

John 1:1-5 & 9

The Word Became Flesh

¹In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. ²He was with God in the beginning.³Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. ⁴In him was life, and that life was the light of men. ⁵The light shines in the darkness, but the dark ness has not understood it. ⁹The true light that gives light to every man was coming into the world.

Light of the world,
You stepped down into darkness.
Opened my eyes, let me see.
Beauty that made this heart adore you
Hope of a life spent with you
And here I am to worship,
here I am to bow down,

here I am to say that you're my God
You're altogether lovely,
altogether worthy,
altogether wonderful to me.

King of all days,
oh, so highly exalted.
Glorious in heaven above.
Humbly you came
to the earth you created
All for love's sake became poor.

And here I am to worship
Here I am to bow down
Here I am to say that you're my God
You're altogether lovely.
altogether worthy,
altogether wonderful to me.

I'll never know how much it cost
To see my sin upon that cross
I'll never know how much it cost
To see my sin upon that cross
And I'll never know how much it cost
To see my sin upon that cross
No, I'll never know how much it cost

Here I am to worship
Here I am to bow down
Here I am to say that you're my God
You're altogether lovely
Altogether worthy
Altogether wonderful to me

And the Grand Prize was...

2009-08-25T12:37:00.003-04:00

To all of you who may or may not be dying to know what our Grand Prize was for our House Name winner, I present you with this:

It's not the real one. The real one is rust colored and even cooler than this one. But this is basically it. My fairy godmother picked it up for our winner and Miz Amber was pleased as punch about it.

Now you know.

To Feel like Lavender

2009-08-24T22:49:00.003-04:00

When I was 16 years old, my family went on vacation to visit my aunt in Seattle. In her yard she grew lavender, and before we went home, she allowed me to pick as much as I wanted to take back with me. I couldn't take that much, since I'd have to find a way to carry it on board the airplane with me and get it home without crushing it too badly. But I had a small-but-sturdy paper bag from some store we had visited, topped with stiff handles. I cut off what lavender I could, and snuggled it securely down into this bag. Since I was intent on not smashing it, I refused to put it inside anything else, so the smell of it wafted around us--and probably the rest of the plane--and accompanied us on our homeward trip.

The trip to Seattle had been a wonderful, awe-inspiring, tantalizing time for me. We took all sorts of pictures, had all sorts of adventures, laughed and moaned and ate overly-expensive food, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. I really feel like this trip helped me to understand myself better, helped me to start coming into my own. I was without my friends, without a guy to hold my hand, and was able to think and write almost entirely without interruption, since there were few people to distract me. It was magical. To this day, the smell of real lavender does a number on me. It's magical. It somehow represents simultaneous feelings of enthrallment, security, hope, vision, freedom, beauty, and fun.

I have this friend. She makes me feel like lavender.

In the last couple of months, I have been learning a lot about God. I have been learning how much He loves me and that He has some really fun and amazing things that He's going to be calling on me to do. I don't really know what they are, but something amazing has been happening to me: I have started getting happy. A happy that doesn't rely a whole lot on what exactly is going on, a happy that is finally secure because of the love that God has been lavishing on me.

I feel like the last few years--and especially months-- have been this grueling upward climb and finally I've come out on a plateau where I can take a load off and lay in the sunlight and the dappled shade and the fresh breeze. My God has given me these friends that have instilled in me such a refreshment and enjoyment of life. They are very well suited to my personal style of friendship and I am continually amazed that anyone could like me so much.

Isaiah 40:31

but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

That verse is such a well-known one, and yet, until recently, I wouldn't have been able to say that I've seen it in action in my own life. But now I've actually been able to watch my life change as God has given me back strength, joy, and vitality that I've been severely lacking. I feel like He's been giving me a boost, holding my hand, leading me on.

Your love is extravagant
Your friendship, it is intimate
I feel like moving to the rhythm of Your grace
Your fragrance is intoxicating in our secret place
Your love is extravagant

Chorus:
Spread wide in the arms of Christ is the love that covers sin
No greater love have I ever known You considered me a friend
Capture my heart again

Spread wide in the arms of Christ is the love that covers sin
No greater love have I ever known; You considered me a friend

Capture my heart again
Your love is extravagant
Your friendship, it is intimate

--Casting Crowns

The #1 Requirement of Being a Superfriend

2009-08-21T22:52:00.006-04:00

The Superfriends possess many amazing qualities, but the overriding facet is their ability to love the Floyd children. It is so comforting and encouraging to be around them, because they like our kids as much as we do, and not just when the children are behaving.

If you too would like to join the ranks of Superfriends, you must first pass this test: You must love our children not only when they look like this:

...but also when they look like this:

Now in addition to the upset pictures, you have to imagine lots of whining and angry voices. Still love 'em? Yeah, me too.

Yes, this is a shameless excuse to show off my children.

What of it?

Don't you ever feel lazy on a Friday night?

That's what I thought.

And The Winners Are...

2009-08-18T22:30:00.000-04:00

Edie and my mom win the giveaway prizes. I would say contact me to claim your stuff, but the chances that I'll need to be reminded are slim.

The winner of the House Naming Contest was...

Amber! (we had to slightly modify your name since we're not actually Spanish and don't speak it very well. We inserted "casa" for "camara")

The new name of the Floyd home is La Casa de Muchos Ninos (the House of Many Children).

The runner up was Sasha, with Castillo para el Amor Latino (Castle for Latin Love).

Thank you so much for playing our little contest/giveaway! We had great fun and I hope y'all did, too.

(No, Amber, I do not know what your special prize is yet. But I betcha it'll either be from Target or Treasure Mart. Please stand by.)

In case you're dying to know, my nail polish color is called Sunrise Sunset by Sally Hansen and I love it for both fingers and toes.

Carry on dear ones. I'll be back with a traditional post soon.

Winners Coming Soon

2009-08-18T08:54:00.000-04:00

I'll be posting the winners of the contest later today. I've got something very important and fun to do this morning, and much as I love you all and recognize my blog-y duties towards you, sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I'm goin' to Menards.

(A quick aside)

2009-08-16T23:45:00.000-04:00

As promised, the yellow park pictures:

I don't usually wear yellow, especially not bright yellow. I don't think it does good things for my complexion in most lighting.

But on this day, I threw caution to the wind. After all, it was supposed to be HOT and this is a very lightweight cotton shirt.
And once we were at the park, I noticed that I matched the jungle gym perfectly.

And how was I supposed to resist that? After 10 minutes of self-portraits, I was feeling a little silly and self conscious, especially since I was supposed to be helping watch 6 kids. But sweet Edie, she just said she assumed the camera was pointing the other way and I was taking pictures of the pretty tree just opposite the jungle gym.

And then there's this one. Nadia took this picture of Dawson. I had conceded to her demands to use the camera and zoomed it in reallllly close in hopes that she might get something good. Wowza! This is the one I've been trying to capture since I got the camera. I guess all that matters is that I have it now, right?

Showed up by a four year old.

*sigh*

But is that not the cutest picture you've ever seen?! My children are beautiful little geniuses.

Doin' the happy dance.

2009-08-16T22:29:00.000-04:00

I wouldn't have been posting tonight, seeing as how I claimed that I'd be posting the winners of my contest/giveaway tomorrow morning. But I got a very special gift tonight, so in its honor, I will be extending the deadline for the contest/giveaway until Monday at 8pm.

Ummm...that doesn't seem special enough. Okay, I'll extend the deadline AND give away 2 sets of gift tags.

No, that still doesn't seem like enough. Okay. I'll extend the deadline, give away 2 sets of gift tags, and award a special prize to the winner of the house naming contest. No, I don't know what it will be yet, but it'll be special, more special than the gift tags.

Hot diggedy. What more could you want? Tell your friends, people. This will be one for the books.

Three other lucky people will be doin' the happy dance, too.

The post you've all been waiting for.

2009-08-13T23:31:00.000-04:00

Yes, that's right; it's contest/giveaway time! I'm sure you've all been waiting in breathless anticipation since Matthew mentioned that he wanted his contest to be better than mine. I mean, since I hadn't even said I was having one yet. I think, when all is said and done, that you'll all agree that mine far surpasses his, because I'm actually giving something away.

The reason I'm calling it a contest/giveaway is because I'm giving something away at random and someone will be winning my contest. Hopefully, that is. Confused enough yet? Excellent. On we go!

The House-Naming Contest/Giveaway Rules:
In order to enter, you must...
1) Leave a comment suggesting a name for our house. We've decided we want to be cool like the Brits, who name houses left and right. We're having trouble picking a good name, though. We need your help.
2) Leave a post on your own blog/facebook account/bulletin board, announcing my contest/giveaway and how to get here.
3) If you'd like an extra entry for the giveaway, be/become a follower.

The winner of the contest gets the joy of naming our house; Matt and I will be picking that one out based on our own preference. Hopefully we can agree on one. Winning this part of the contest is a pride thing, really. Probably this part will be more popular with my male readers, who seem to be slightly more competitive than most women (except my friend A.W.--you know who you are).

The winner of the giveaway part will win by chance. I'll be writing every entry's name down on cute little pieces of torn-up notebook paper and putting them into a teacup, then drawing one out. Remember, if you're a follower, you get two little pieces of paper.

It's possible the same person could win both. If that happens, I promise I didn't rig it, unlike my husband who does that sort of thing unabashedly.

Here's what you win for the giveaway:

They're little labels for gifts. They're really cute, even if you never use them, but merely sit and look at them, like I often do.

These are punch out labels, also suitable for gifts, or possibly labeling your spices. There are a lot of them.

You will probably never run out. I didn't know this when I bought five packages of them on clearance. Realizing that I would never run out, I decided to share my bounty with my darling readers. By the way, those 88 tags are NOT duplicates. Choosing my first tag to use was a really long, delightful business.

Note on Naming the House: Evidently naming your house takes into consideration the type of people who live there, the type of things they do, the personalities of the dwellers: Cozy Cottage, Chaotic Villa, etc. If you've never heard of such a thing, you might peruse this site, bearing in mind that I've seen all the suggestions on that page already and none of those were quite right on their own. If you need inspiration, you might visit: here, here, and here to see the inside of my house. God speed, dear House Namers!

One More Note on Naming the House: Honesty compels me to tell you that Matt did pick a name for our house last weekend, but I had to veto it due to the difficulty in pronouncing it for everyday use. I'm hoping to be able to say "Let's go back to The Winning Name." He picked out: La Casa de la Gente Ridículo Apuesta, which translated via Babel Fish is: "the house of the ridiculously good-looking people." See what I mean? Just not very homey.

I think I'll run this contest/giveaway until late Sunday night and then post the results Monday morning.

Have a great weekend!

p.s.--No, Doug, you cannot just suggest the name "Bob" with any hope of winning.

***Rule Modification:

If you don't have a blog, facebook account, other public outlet, but you really want to play, you may enter if you tell 2 or 3 of your most computer-minded friends about the giveaway and maybe slip them a piece of paper with my blog address written on it. Assure them that it will be worth their time because I'm just so funny, smart, photogenic, or something like that. Encourage them to find the splinter story if they like gore or the Mexican casserole if they like guys who pretend to be hispanic. That'll do.

Ella and friends

2009-08-10T08:16:00.000-04:00

This is why it's always okay to use a fabulous feather wreath in your decor. Ella Fitzgerald, we tip our hats to you.

An Experience for Even the Most Discerning

2009-08-09T19:31:00.000-04:00

For those of you who either don't know or need to be refreshed, Matt and I are Frasier lovers. We are now the proud and depressed owners of the entire 11 series on dvd. Proud because it's been a long-held dream of ours to be able to watch any episode any time we want to (sad, I know). Depressed because there is no episode that is surprising anymore. The thrill, while not gone, is diminished. We can see the opening scene and instantly play out the rest of that story in our heads. This doesn't bother me as much as it bothers Matt because I love re-watching shows into the ground, while he would prefer to rarely watch anything twice. Nevertheless, there it is. We own them all.

Frasier and Niles (Frasier's brother) are...how do I put it nicely? "Delicate doilies" I believe their father once said. They go to spas, they play squash, they driver expensive cars and own things like matching coffee cup sets from the 17th century. Niles once said,

"I'm learning to be handy. I finally decided I'm too dependent on other people, so I started "doing it myself." And let me tell you, I'm a totally new man. I bought my first work shirt this morning, and tonight I'm tackling the squeaky clasp on my cigar humidor."

Anyway, before I lapse into a big run of Frasier quotes, let me get to the point of this post. Above all, Frasier and Niles love wine. They are part of the Wine Club. They are very hoity-toity. I admit, that like Donna and chocolate, I have always wondered why I don't like wine. It seems like such a very sophisticated, cultured taste to have. I wish I could love wine. Now it's true I've never tried the really expensive stuff, and maybe that makes a difference. But if I have to spend over $100 a bottle to enjoy wine, then obviously this isn't the thing for me anyway. (Yes, I know Niles is holding sherry here, and NOT wine...and now you do, too.)

I received a pair of Italian-styled figurines from my mother-in-law this week, as she was cleaning out her house pending a move. They begged to be put in my already-full kitchen. And they begged for some other Italian-styled items to be placed near them. And when figurines beg, you just can't turn them down. So I picked out a milky white pitcher and decided I would buy some of those crunchy thin Italian-type "breadsticks," which we all know is misnomer since they are not chewy and bread-like at all. But they do give off an Italian vibe, and that's what I wanted. Plus, they're cheaper and longer lasting than fresh flowers unless your husband and children start munching on them. I then thought within my little decorating soul, and decided that I should also buy a cute, but cheap, bottle of wine. Since I could not foresee drinking it, it would be long-lasting too. (My "breadsticks" are not this yummy-looking. Mine really are the crunchy kind, but these looked even prettier.)

So when I was at Meijer, I started perusing the wine section. It's a cute wine section, from a decorator's point of view...although not as amazing as the one directly above. Gosh, I wish I could like drinking wine, but I just like looking at it. Anyhoo, I started at one end--logically--and started reading price tags. When I said I wanted a cheap bottle of wine, I meant like 4 dollars. My budget for frivolous decorating is minuscule this week. All of the bottles at this first end were at least $7 a bottle!! I could've bought an empty wine bottle at Treasure Mart for that much!! So I thought to myself "what the heck kinda wine section am I in, anyway?!" Up above my head, the sign read "Sparkling" and "Italian" and I thought "ahhh, the hoity-toity stuff." I cast my eye down the line and read the following: "French," (no) "Australian," (huh? who would've known there was wine specifically from Australia?) "Import," "Chardonnay," (definitely not) "Merlot," (sounds so elegant) "Pinot Noir," (isn't that French too?) "Pinot Grigio," (ohhh, maybe Italian?) "Domestic," (Niles: Do these chocolate shavings look different to you? ... Well they do to me. I think that they've switiched to an inferior domestic brand. Mm-hm, mmm-hm -- waxy!) and finally..."Economy" (ha ha ha!!! I didn't even know they had an "economy" wine SECTION! But that's what I wanted, all right. Economy wine!) and it got better..."Boxed"(hahahahaha! I don't know why that's so funny to me, except that it was beyond the economy wine. And that boxed White Zinfandel was a frequent wine at my parents' house when I was younger. And somehow...in view of Frasier and Niles, it just tickled my funny bone. So I had to stop and write them all down so I could tell y'all about it.)

No, I didn't buy any cheap wine today. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. After adding a few last-minute necessities to my grocery list (and yes, gentlemen who may be reading/scoffing inwardly, face lotion and half and half for my tea may seem silly to you, but are necessary) there was less money for frivolous decorating. So I re-evaluated my tableau and put to work my unopened bottle of Made in Italy Balsamic Vinegar. Ta-da!

A final scene to end our time together:

A couple of weeks ago, I was telling the kids about my aunt Gail, who was flying from Seattle to Indiana for a visit. Chandler looked at me with round and wondering eyes and said, "but Mom, how can she get from Frasier's world to ours?" Poor child. Don't worry, we've cleared that up.

And yes, to answer the question that is aching in the back of all y'alls heads, yes I did try, very hard, to figure out if it was possible to make the opening picture of a wine glass smaller. And it is. But the sad fact is: I just like it big. Don't worry, it was much, much bigger to begin with. Aren't I kind to you?

Sunset, sunrise

2009-08-05T20:57:00.000-04:00

I'm happy to report that I'm continually gathering the courage to become a hand-raisin' worshiper in a non-hand-raising church. I'm thinking that maybe if just one person did it with some unabashed sincerity and enthusiasm, it might embolden those who also wish they could raise their hands from time to time. And if not, if I happen to be the only one with those tendencies, so be it. Of course, being that I sit in the very back, no one may notice either way...

It is time.

2009-08-05T19:31:00.001-04:00

I haven't written anything serious for awhile. It's not as fun. But you know, there are things that have been marinating, and I just can't go much longer without a long, searching glance into the deeper things.

On the way home the other night, I began thinking. I used to think deeply quite often, but I find that I don't have the brain power to spare at this frenzied point in my life. At least, not often. Therefore, I have trouble processing things.

For a little more than two months I've been processing the disintegration of a friendship that was very dear to me. For a long time I was angry and hurt beyond all get-out and disbelieving. Then I became still more surprised and somewhat blank as to feeling. Perhaps that could be termed incredulous. And at some point in this process, I started noticing the other people who came creeping in. No, that's not true. They didn't creep. They bounded. And I found myself surprised, but in a good, albeit, slightly self-reproachful, way.

You see, I've had these other friends for quite some time. True, they are quiet people who don't like to draw a lot of attention to themselves. But they were very much there, especially if I needed anything at all. They were always my friends. And I have liked them for some long, undetermined time.

The self-reproach comes in when I started realizing that I had let this other friend...let's call her Sue...completely steal the spotlight from my tried and true friends. In as much is possible in a non-sexual relationship, I had become infatuated with her, with my friendship with her. She was insanely warm, energetic, emphatic, enthusiastic, affectionate...and she was mine. She didn't let anyone else in, and I felt privileged. We got along famously, and I let that relationship take full precedence in my life. How wrong is that???

And then, over the small period of a weekend, she was gone. We'd been friends for over a year and then it was over. She and her husband had already been planning on leaving our church and they decided that all contact must cease. Don't ask me why--in a town as small as ours is, it's miraculous that we haven't run in to them. So she took me off facebook, she would not be answering phone calls or emails, and she quit the bible study she was helping me lead. Talk about embarrassing, eh? Since I'm the one who asked her to help me. I would've thought I had more discernment than that. All my stuff that they'd borrowed appeared on a table outside the bible study room at church, and that was it.

For all intents and purposes, she became as if she was dead.

Only with no closure, do you follow? Because it was a sudden, unexpected death, this death of our friendship. And it was by her choice.

It is clear to me now that all of this was part of God's magnificent plan for my life. The friendships I'd neglected have become fiercely important to me, as I finally discern the difference between playing at friendship, and really being friends. What Sue and I had was fun, deliriously fun, but it didn't last. And while my truer friends and I don't exist at frantically high levels of intensity, that's perfectly acceptable to me. Because I know that they're not going to disappear in the night. Because I know that whatever face Sue was giving me, it wasn't completely real, much as I would've liked for it to be. There must've been some other self lurking, for her to able to turn away from me so suddenly and with such decisive measures.

It stings.

And that's my problem. Despite all the amazing good that has come out of this sad, bizarre series of events, I am lacking closure. I never really said goodbye and I am not happy that her last spoken words to me were "You really are a forever kind of friend, not just for a season." How can I get over that?

Well, I'll tell you how.

On my way home the other night, I sat reflecting over the wonderful day I'd had surrounded by my superfriends. And yet, as I thought back further, to Sue, I wondered how I could ever find true closure. Well, silly, if not with her, then with God. Amen? I cannot fully release it yet, but God is the only One who can heal these wounds, baby. He orchestrated it, He let it happen. He brought me through as unscathed as I could expect. He will let it sharpen me and strengthen me and tender me. And then I will be all the better equipped to serve others and glorify Him.

And in these things, I will find my closure, and my comfort.

"The object of our lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the past from this hour."

Psalm 57:2
I cry out to God Most High, to God, who fulfills {his purpose} for me.

Isaiah 43:2
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.

**A shout-out to the superfriends, not disincluding those of you who didn't get an official name from Matthew:

"She was truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will always be."

I adore y'all. You have been faithful even when I didn't hold up my end. You have been shining examples of Christian love. I owe you my sincerest apologies and my greatest appreciation. I couldn't do it without you.

I know it's ridiculous.

2009-08-01T00:53:00.000-04:00

4 posts in one night? I can't help it. I never know when I'll be able to write again, so when it's coming, I just gotta put it down.

I meant to mention this, and I'm so enamored with both my labels for posts section and the link funtion, that I'm thrilled to be able to do so. Stellan's mom, Jennifer (aka MckMama) just posted (7-31-09) a hilarious insight into elevator behaviorism. Check it out here. By the way, Stellan has improved so much that it's wondrous. Praise God!

Now I'm really going, because my baby's awake.

One more just for kicks

2009-08-01T00:42:00.000-04:00

My favorite summer shoes (that frequently hurt my feet) and my adorable 99cent Goodwill scarf (that I have no idea what to do with). Good times.

My Latin Lover

2009-08-01T00:39:00.001-04:00

Getting back to my husband's roots

2009-07-31T23:27:00.000-04:00

For those of you who don't know, I'll let you in on the joke upfront: my husband is not Mexican. But we pretend that he is because everyone who doesn't know better thinks he is. Like tonight, for example. We entered our local Don Pancho Villa, all ready to enjoy some scrumptious taquitos, and the waitress asked my husband in Spanish if we needed a high chair. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. In fact, it happens so frequently that we've just accepted that maybe everyone else knows something we don't. And so we go along with it. Matt's started to pick up on enough of the Spanish that people speak to him that he may be able to pull if off flawlessly before too long. Just call him Mateo. I've always wished for some kind of foreign heritage, especially of the Spanish-type, so it's perfect.

Except that he's actually not actually Hispanic. He's 1/4 Japanese, but he's so big and tall and dark-skinned, that Edie calling him my latin lover--which I just love--is very apt in the looks department. He definitely does not look Oriental. But I digress.

So I will now present to you a casserole that is helping me get in touch with my husband's roots. You know, his imaginary ones.

Mexican Casserole

Here are the players:
(oh, Pioneer Woman, if you only knew how long I've wanted to type that on my own blog! *swoon*)
1-2 lbs chicken, diced according to what size of bites you'd like
1 can each of: Black beans (rinsed)
Sweet corn (drained...does it matter if it's sweet? I don't know)
Spanish rice (not drained)
optional-1/3 c of salsa
No, I'm not going to show you the chicken before it's been cooked. That's just gross. Who likes looking at uncooked chicken? And yes, I do realize that my store-brands don't all match. But don't you just love the cactuses on that Spanish rice?

So you dice your chicken, then you cook it in a bit of oil. I also added some garlic powder, onion powder, and oregano whilst it was browning, but you don't have to. I spice things convulsively. I can't help it; My spice rack is just so cute. When the chicken is all nice and cooked, you open your cans and start dumping things in the very same pan. I like recipes like that. I've tried it both with and without the salsa, and Matt liked it better with. Of course, "his" people generally like their stuff kinda spicy. Don't go read his blog on that. Cook chicken-bean-corn-rice combo for about ten minutes on medium-ish heat. When it's finished cooking, it should look like this, although, truth be told, it looks about the same at the beginning...
Pour the contents of your pan into a 9x13-ish baking dish.

All righty. So now we come to a point where the recipe is joined by two very important new ingredients: tortilla chips and shredded cheese. Mmm...

There are a few different ways you can use the chips. Regardless of which way you pick, you must first crush up the chips...about 1/3 of a bag. You can either stir the chiplets into your chicken-bean-corn-rice mixture, you can layer them on top of your mixture, or you can do both. Pick a way and commit to it. Then sprinkle about a cup of cheese over the whole thing. I would suggest Cheddar or Colby Jack or whatever style the store labels as "Mexican/Taco."

Now slide that baby into a 350 degree oven for 15-20 minutes or until all the cheese is melty and beginning to get brown.

And that's it. It is so amazingly good. The only tiny problem is that you have to eat about twice as much as you think you'd have to in order to feel full. I'm not sure that technically qualifies as a problem though. Except I haven't figured out how to ensure leftovers yet.

For those of you who like having things in a nice, orderly fashion:

Mexican Casserole (as adapted by Chris Floyd)

1-2lbs chicken breast, diced
1 can each: black beans (drained and rinsed; I drained, did not rinse)
sweet corn (drained)
Spanish rice (not drained)
optional: 1/3 c. salsa
optional: sliced black olives, jalapenos, etc.

Brown chicken. Add remaining ingredients. Cook for ten minutes. Transfer to 9x13 baking dish.

Add approx. 1/3 bag of crushed tortilla chips and cover with 1 cup of shredded cheese. Bake at 350 degress for 15-20 minutes. Enjoy!

Shoo-fly

2009-07-30T20:54:00.000-04:00

I forgot the link to Sasha's blog. Consider yourselves all complimented, as I must've assumed you were all so stunningly brilliant in the brains department, that you didn't need some measly link to get you there.

However, I'm a sport. I'm playin' by the rules:

http://sashabrodeur.blogspot.com/

Tada!

Sasha's giveaway!

2009-07-30T08:59:00.000-04:00

My lovely friend Sasha (Lemonade Makin' Mama) is having a fabulous, San-Juan-Island-inspired giveaway. Now while I don't relish the idea of further competition, I do want her to enter my name an extra time, so I'm being "generous" and telling you about it. It's shameless, I know. But the necklace is so darn-tootin' cute I just can't help myself. Did I mention it's made by real live San Juanians!! (We don't think they call themselves that, however.)

Have a splendid day. I'll try to write a real post soon.

PRAYING FOR STELLAN

2009-07-26T23:53:00.001-04:00

If you don't know his story, this is not the time for me to tell it. Tonight, Sunday at almost midnight, baby Stellan needs our prayers. He has heart conditions and you can read more details about his story and current condition at www.mycharmingkids.net. Tonight his pulse is weak, his condition has been making his heart pound away at 230+ beats per minute for most of the past 48 hours. I can only guess that his parents are terrified, but they also appear to be clinging fast to God. I am so devastated for them. Pray with me for their sweet baby Stellan.

While the camera is still attached to the computer correctly...

2009-07-26T23:12:00.000-04:00

These are two of my favorite pictures of my kids. It's hard for me to nail down favorites, but I think you'll agree with me. They are peeking out of the front door of a playhouse at a local hardware store. Nadia took a look and said, "My face is the sun!" It is indeed.

Clearing Throat with a Trace of Embarrassment

2009-07-26T23:09:00.001-04:00

So...a few of my pictures below aren't where they're supposed to be. Actually, none of them are where I would've liked them to be. However, it turns out that my wonderful husband does not know how to intersperse photos with text, so I had to compromise and be glad they got on the blog at all. So bear with me. I'll assume that my descriptions are so magnificently worded that you'll have no problem pairing them with the corresponding pictures. And I'll work on layout another time.

The Reigning Queen...just not of photo layout.

2009-07-26T22:59:00.001-04:00

Continued...

2009-07-26T22:48:00.001-04:00

Continued...

2009-07-26T21:06:00.000-04:00

This is a long-overdue post. In it, I shall demonstrate why I am the reigning queen of the second "R": Reuse. Eat your heart out, my friend. (It's a friendly competition, doncha know.)

To begin with, we have the shelf above my computer. On it sits the top of an old beer crate (the pretty lady) that I found in my friend's garage many years ago. I guess guys don't care about antique-looking ladies on the tops of beer crates. The jars at the base are all mason-types that have been turned into candle-holders. They're full of shells and smooth stones and of course, candles.

Next we have the chess board bulletin board that is nailed directly next to my computer. That one's kind of self-explanatory.

Also in the entryway, right next to the whole computer area, we have a "bench" that is actually three chairs pressed tightly together. They came with our first piddly little dining set, you know, the kind you buy at K-mart? Or that your aunt buys for you at K-mart and tries to pass off as real furniture? And that you accept because you're young and don't have any other real furniture to speak of, much less real dining furniture.

Ah, the piece de resistance of my kitchen. This dresser is now in service as a sideboard/counter. It was an antique when my grandmother bought it for my newlywed parents back in 1980. It was passed around that side of the family for nearly thirty years and right before it was tossed in a dumpster (can you imagine?!) my brother rescued it and later bequeathed it to us, as he didn't want to put in the necessary work to salvage it. The drawers needed fixing, it's true, but my handy husband only spent about an hour with some wood glue and string to put everything back together. It really warms up our kitchen and makes us so happy. And of course, the storage is an added bonus.

Still in the kitchen, we move on to the top of the dresser. Most of these items are a combination of practical & decorative, a personal favorite of mine. We have 1) the mason jar full of cookie cutters, 2) the mason jar full of rolled fabric scraps, the tea "urn" that holds some of my cooking utensils, the milk jug which has a crack in the bottom and therefore does not hold the flowers I had hoped it would, the teapot I bought at my first auction, 3) the food grinder that I also acquired at my first auction and didn't know what to do with until a couple of months ago when I decided to attach it to the edge of the dresser. No, I do not actually grind food in it. Yet, anyway. 4) The glass decanter I used to use as a flower vase and is now gainfully employed as a dishsoap holder, much cuter than the plastic bottle. (In case you're curious as to what kind of dishsoap is such a lovely shade, I'll tell you. It's Dawn Plus, Hand Renewal Pomegrante Splash with Vitamin E. It smells as good as it looks, maybe even better.) 5) A shelf that I bought at a garage sale years ago for...ready?...25 cents. I know. I used it in my bathroom until a couple of months ago, and then transferred it to the kitchen for use as a spice rack. I love it. 6) Also on top of the dresser, the old-timey fan that would suck in and kill a small child if it was actually turned on. So we don't. But it looks cool. So there it sits. 7) Matthew made a pot rack when he found out he was getting nice stainless steel pots and pans a couple of Christmases ago. I recently hung the lantern up there to see if he would notice and because, like the fan, it looks cool.

Now we're in the master bedroom. A glass and wooden tray I got somewhere (no, I don't know where. Underneath and on top are some linens I found in the bottom of a big box of vintage aprons I bought (can you guess?) at my first auction. (Are you sensing a trend? Is it painfully obvious I've only been to one so far?) Also in my room, a make-shift nightstand constructed a la Country Living out of two trumpet cases and a breakfast-in-bed serving tray. Yes, I play trumpet. No, I won't play a little something for background music.

And finally in my bathroom, we have a huge mirror which I believe used to be a headboard in my neighbor's house. She put it on the side of the road (what? tell me you've never picked something off the side of the road?!) and after scouting it out, I convinced my husband to run over and pick it up before anyone else could. It fits the space perfectly and makes our small bathroom seem much grander. I love the little shelves on the sides.

There you have it, my friends. There are probably other examples, but they're not as cute as these. I hope you've all enjoyed this little tour through my house. For all of you who don't care a pile of beans about reusing or (gasp!) decorating, please come back and try reading on a different day. I'm not always this domestic in my ramblings.

Comment Moderation? Maybe not so much.

2009-07-16T12:54:00.000-04:00

Well, last night when I was really tired, comment moderation seemed like a good idea. I mean, I changed the commenting option so that anyone--even anonymous people--could leave comments. That's mostly because my mom's not on gmail and she was having trouble leaving a comment. But then I started worrying that maybe some ill-mannered, unknown, truly anonymous person would leave mean, nasty, disheartening comments and I'd have to delete them.

But THEN I had to moderate a comment from a friend this afternoon and thought to myself "this is no fun. If I don't like waiting for my comment to by blog-owner approved, why would anyone else??" So I took it back off. So if any nasty comments appear, rest assured I'll be deleting them at my earliest possible convenience. Now you know.

Let's all blame Sasha, shall we?

2009-07-16T08:48:00.000-04:00

After all, I was trying to get ready, just thought I'd pop over and read her entry for today--because I always know I can count on her to write even when I myself am too lazy/busy to do so. (That was a really long sentence.) Anyway, so when I got there, there was some crazy game that she begged-er, beseeched--me to play. And I can't refuse her. She's too good to me to refuse. So you don't have to play, but so far I'm enjoying myself, so you might give it a whirl.

Grab the book nearest you. Right now.
* Turn to page 56.
* Find the fifth sentence
* Post that sentence as your comment.
* Don't dig for your favorite book, the coolest, the most intellectual. Use the CLOSEST book! *And now pass it on to the readers of your blog, because you've been tagged...

I thought I'd be reaching for "The Sleepeasy Solution" which has changed my life in many wonderful ways and was sitting out in an obvious look-at-me place. But then I realized that Matt's church bag closer on the bench and figured there was a book in there. How right I was. His Bible was the only book with at least 56 pages in it. It has also changed our lives in many wonderful ways, can I get an amen? So here we go:

Genesis 31:55
Early in the morning Laban arose, and kissed his sons and his daughters and blessed them.

Perhaps I need to cultivate an attitude like Laban--at least in this area. Usually if I'm awake early with my children, I'm most likely to grunt/growl/mumble unintelligably at them to go back to bed. I most certainly do not arise, kiss them, and bless them.

Thought provoking indeed.

All right, perhaps we'll thank Sasha instead of blaming her.

Here's one more that's not part of the game:

Hebrews 4:12
For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.

Now I really must go. I'm supposed to be at the park in an astonishingly small amount of time. Ta-ta!

The Splinter

2009-07-15T08:13:00.000-04:00

(Note: Despite the husband's ruthless mockery, I will continue as I had planned and tell the story of Kellar's splinter. However, if you like ruthless mockery, or even just need a story that makes you spit with laughter when you try to read it out loud to your friends, you should go read his after you read mine. I just feel it's my duty to tell the real story.)

So yesterday I had one of the hardest experiences of my life. Emotionally, physically, and mentally, I was utterly drained when I finished. I would've rather given birth to another child, this time with no meds, than what I endured at my mother's house yesterday morning.

Kellar has this habit of never wearing shoes. He likes the look of shoes, but his toes just don't like to stay in them. So I'm constantly putting them back on, especially in the summer. This is only a problem in restaurants, church, dark movie theatres, and my mother's back deck.

The first morning he went out without shoes, he came back with 8 little spinters in his sweet little foot. And screamed like a banshee when I tried to extract them. So I've become a vigilent supporter of him keeping his shoes on while he plays outside at my mom's house. Everytime they come off, I try to convince him he should put them back on. Now I don't claim to always win, but I try. And I've learned to ignore the vast majority of the resulting splinters because Kellar is both loud and strong for a 2 year old.

Yesterday was no different. He decided he wanted to wear his yellow rubber boots, because, let's face it, they're cool. So cool, in fact, that I routinely let him wear them, even in the extreme heat of an Indiana July. I just usually bring along extra, less sweaty shoe options for when the boots inevitably turn into mini-furnaces and he can't wear them anymore. As I said before, yesterday was no different.

My fatal mistake was when I tried to be a cool mom and let my kids eat lunch outside on the deck. Had I been anal and made them sit inside at the table, this story would not have needed writing. Darn my coolness. It started with Kellar getting a splinter in the palm of his hand. It looked scary, but most of it came out quickly and easily, so much so that I didn't have to stop nursing Dawson to extract it. True, Kellar did not have his boots on by this point, but for the most part, I didn't think it was possible to get a splinter in your foot while sitting down. Another fatal misjudgement.

Several minutes later, he came back over and showed me the heel of his foot. He had a flap of skin scraped half off and beneath it was a much scarier splinter. On closer inspection, I realized that despite--or maybe because of-- its huge size, it would probably come out easily because I'd be able to grasp the end. Which I tried to do. Recall, I had a baby trying to get his own lunch at the same time. Well this splinter was hurting Kellar much more, as it had gone deep, so he wasn't sitting still and I wasn't able to keep nursing. Kellar started whining/screaming and I said (hollered) "everybody take your food and get in the house.(!)" I needed to have a safe place to confine baby Dawson while I pulled Kellar's splinter out, which at this point was all I thought I'd be doing.

As soon as we all got inside and Dawson was place safely in an excersaucer, I picked up Kellar's foot, confident in my misperception that all I needed was free hands to get it out. That's when my morning really took a dive.

In the short time it took us to walk into the house, the big, protruding end of the splinter had broken off, leaving only the big, submerged end deep under the skin of Kellar's heel pad. Dagnabbit.

So I whisked him upstairs to the bathroom with the most light, rooted around to find my mom's tweezers and tiny nail scissors, hydrogen peroxide, neosporin, and bandaids. At this point, I only thought I'd be cutting away that pesky flap of skin so I coul see what I was doing. Ah, blissful ignorance.

After about 5 minutes of clipping, soaking, prying, and screaming (his, not mine), I realized that I was in over my head. While not an emergency room-type of splinter, it was certainly out of my range of experience in it's depth and orientation. So in the panicky sort of desparation that descends upon all good housewives when they realize their husband would probably be doing something different if he was here(like when I very kindly mowed the lawn for him and then when I was done, the mower would not shut off), I called Matt at work. He did not appreciate the consideration I'd shown in seeking his advice. In fact, he sounded overy annoyed. It was almost naptime for four tired children, so his suggestion to call the doctor and see if I should take him in, did not actually help me. My main concern was that while Kellar was kicking and writhing, I would accidently jab him too deeply and infection (probably a deadly one) would set in. What I needed was practical advice, but at this juncture, Matt had not written his illumined blog entry, so I was left to my own devices.

I went back in to the bathroom to wear Kellar was still obediently soaking his little feet and clutching tightly to an oversized stuffed animal. Keep in mind that this entire dance was performed to the tune of Dawson screaming downstairs in his seat because he didn't want to be there. It turns out that 4 and 5 year old do not try to actively entertain a baby when the TV is on. At this point I made Kellar lie down in the carpeted hall, where the light from the bathroom was still pouring onto the operating surface. I got my tools ready and did indeed grasp his ankle between my knees. 15 grueling minutes later, I had cut down to the splinter, pulled back the new flaps of skin, and pulled out the offending wood chip. Not for a moment did he stop twisting, writhing, kicking, screaming, sobbing. I had to endeavor to turn off my emotions, reminding myself that he sounded very similar when I took the miniscule one out the first time. Of course, this time I knew I was actually hurting him, so it was much harder. When my disbelieving eyes saw the empty hole in his foot, I wanted to burst into tears, but instead swooped him into a crushing mommy-loves-you hug and soothed him the best I could. I then poured more hydrogen peroxide onto his foot, dried it, and bandaged it. I had him walk downstairs to see how he put his weight on it (not bad) and cleaned up my surgery theatre. The baby still screaming, I gave Kellar a new lunch (his had melted out in the sun) and then nursed Dawon to sleep. My whole body felt limp and sad. I called Matt's boss and told him dispiritedly to pass on the good news that the splinter was gone.

If I thought the doctor would've had an easier time, I might've taken him there. But without sedation, it would've just been the same thing, only with a three-hour wait first because we'd have been a walk-in appointment. And no TV to distract the older two kids. And we've just now found a doctor that Kellar's not afraid of, and I didn't want to jeopardize that relationship.

Now that you know the real story, you can have appropriate sympathy for me, instead of mocking me like Matthew did. I will admit that I would've liked to have consumed some alcohol during the whole sorry episode, but nursing and tipsy-ness just do not mix.

One last thing

2009-06-24T22:40:00.000-04:00

Oh, and I forgot to mention that we had a living room picnic dinner, complete with cute striped sheet to sit upon. I was in rare form, but I'll have to give God the credit on this one. I'm usually so not this fun when it comes to potential messes my kids could make. Interestingly enough, no messes were made throughout the course of the entire evening.

Hmm...

Pruned Down and Branched Out

Easing Back Into the Water

Two Fer

Day 17: The Rose House Perspective

Day 11: WOE IS ME!!!

Day 9: The Intimidation of Week Two

Day 5: What I Learned From Yesterday

Day 4: Overcoming My Tendency to Observe (for my cousin Emma, who says that makes me lame)

Day 2

31 Days

Spring Fever

My New Friend

Stirred

My Name Is Not Madeline

Footsteps in the Snow: Following God

The Top Ten Things I Love About October

All Things Harvest

Interview with Edie

A Camping We Shall Go

Like a weaned child

The house was dark and everyone would be asleep for another two hours. I knew his tiny body needed more rest, so I shook myself awake and tended to his needs.

Psalm 131 (NIV)

A song of ascents. Of David.

Roasted Pears with Feta

Apples to Apples

A spicy little interlude

Attack of the Teacups

The library

Nelleigh's Room

Songs of Joy

A song of ascents.

When snow falls, nature listens. ~Antoinette van Kleeff

Dear beautiful Spring weather, I miss you. Was it something I said? ~Kim Corbin

How to Soothe a Baby...

Persimmon Pudding: The foodstuff of Legend

An Addict's Confession

Sasha's Favorite Gift Ever Giveaway

Crayon Crimes

CMA Chat

Pressure

“The only pressure I'm under is the pressure I've put on myself.”

Top 11 Reasons I'm Ready to Love This Christmas Season

Otherwise Entitled: How Much Pizza Can I Eat in a Week?

Rice Pudding Mishaps

Sure fire signs it's an Indiana Indian Summer

P.S.--Abigail and The Cat

New Hair

The Chris Post

My brother David: And the bells started ringing.

Sista Karen: Not Last THIS Time, Sucka

My Dad: The Executive

My mom: Full of Dignity

Synonyms:

The Inman Series

Annie Oakley, eat your heart out.

I want to be a Woman of Faith

A Playground for Big Kids

Christmas in August: Pandora, Internet Radio

John 1:1-5 & 9

And the Grand Prize was...

To Feel like Lavender

The #1 Requirement of Being a Superfriend

And The Winners Are...

Winners Coming Soon

(A quick aside)

Doin' the happy dance.

The post you've all been waiting for.

Ella and friends

An Experience for Even the Most Discerning

Sunset, sunrise

It is time.

I know it's ridiculous.

One more just for kicks

My Latin Lover

Getting back to my husband's roots

Shoo-fly

Sasha's giveaway!

PRAYING FOR STELLAN

While the camera is still attached to the computer correctly...

Clearing Throat with a Trace of Embarrassment