I'd rather be knitting.

Darn.

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

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

Swirl. Swirl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ice Storm cometh.

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

The forecast is grim:

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never do these things.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

15. RED OR PINK?
Red.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

28. EYE COLOR?
Green/blue.

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

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

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

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

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Blue

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Winter.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Depends on who from.

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

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
no idea.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
no idea.

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

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

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

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

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles.

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

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

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Arkansas

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

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

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

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

Open windows in January.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other goingson...

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

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

21. Her songs.

Oh, how I love this girl.

Thirteen months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As are you. Happy Birthday, buddy.

More gratefuls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold me, Jesus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday night. Leafthought.

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

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

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

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

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

Good Work, Good Messes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday night gifts

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

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

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

A new take on this tired ol' blog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without further ado, my first Gifts:

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


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

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

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

New.

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

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

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

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

Lack of focus. Changes brewing.

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

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

Value your personal time. I mean it.

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

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

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

Home is where you get bruised and sunburned.

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

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

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

It just felt like home.

Six months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two and a half.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where we goin', Mommy?"

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

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

"Where are we goin', Mommy?"

"Grammy's house, honey."

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

(beat)

"Where we goin', Mommy?"

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

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

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

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

(beat)

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

"Mommy, where we goin?"