We All Scream

On January 29, 1924, U.S. patent No.1,481,813 was issued to one Carl R. Taylor (of Cleveland, Ohio) for an ice-cream-cone roller. Fascinating information. And what does it mean to a couple of kids exactly 86 years later? It means this:

We can't believe Mom's letting us eat Luna & Larry's Coconut Bliss
healthy ice cream in organic, non-GMO cones!

Where, oh where did we unearth such historically significant information? We were recently introduced to The Learning Calendar by our friends at Amazon.com. And we love it. At our house, daylight brings a freakishly healthy smoothie and a more exciting (and quite possibly more filling) scientific/historic factoid (like Tsar Peter I of Russia and his tax on bearded men, or Amelia Earhart's 19-hour solo flight from L.A. to Newark, New Jersey). It's a fun way to start the day. So, inspired by our newfound knowledge, we danced, we ate ice cream in January, and we were merry enough that it wasn't easy to go to bed. Thank you, Mr. Taylor. Here's to ice cream cones. And to little children who love them.

The Benefits of Cloning

Baby Annie in her sunny spot

Jeff was reading to the kids this evening (The Adventures of Dr. Dolittle). Teeth were brushed, pajamas donned, and I was tidying up the nursery (really just our little bedroom crammed full with a king-size bed, twin bunkbeds, and an aisle barely suitable for walking). Between chores, I glanced at a picture of 6-month-old Benjamin. Now, I've looked at this picture a thousand times (everyday for the past 7 years). It's the silliest picture...gigantic blue eyes peaking curiously out of a perfectly round little face. It has always made me laugh out loud. But tonight it made me cry. And do you know why? Because parenthood is strange. You fall in love with these sweet little children over and over again. Each age brings something altogether wonderful and completely new. Terrible tantrums, learning to talk, little legs newly walking, riding bikes, teeth falling out, and personalities unfolding with the rising sun. And I want them all — each age and every experience. I want Benjamin and Annie as newborns, at one, two, three, four, five...and beyond. By the time Benjamim reaches 18, I'd like 18 of him. Is that so much to ask? Near the end of my grandmother's life, she asked me if I loved her as much at 26 years (the year before I had Benjamin) as I had at three. I laughed and told her I loved her more as an adult because I knew her more deeply than I did as a child. She said she loved me more at three. The woman was dying of lung cancer. I figured she could say whatever she pleased, and I hid my slight sadness at her answer. Perhaps I went downhill after three, but I think I understand what she meant. I didn't love Benjamin more at two than I do at 7 1/2. But I love both of them. My big-boy Benjamin with his battles and loose teeth, AND my little guy that loved muccas (motorcycles) and pink (boy did he love pink). Annie's sweet kisses at two and her incredible pictures of princesses (pitas) now at four. I love getting to know my littles on a deeper level than I could when they were very young, but that doesn't erase the beauty that was (almost) everyday since the moment they were born. And sometimes it seems that memories aren't quite enough. Every once in awhile I'd like all of those little people with me at once. Especially on the days when funny pictures make me cry...

Annie (1) and Benjamin (4)

A tearful 4 1/2-year-old Benjamin with a toy stuck on his finger
(olive oil didn't work and I eventually had to saw it off)

Modern-day dress-up

These Are The Things I Love (and More)

Benjamin pretending to be a human rug (like a bear rug...get it?)

I love sitting by the fire on cool winter evenings, having well-behaved children beside me as I read a lovely classic (currently, the contemporary classic James and the Giant Peach by Ronald Dahl), and coloring (which children love too, so it works out fine). I love homeschooling, being pregnant (every moment of it), going for an occasional coffee with my sweet husband (children in tow), and dreaming about the most adorable 1940s-style wardrobe imaginable (I'm working on my sewing basics). I like reading in the dark with a headlamp, smelling my children's heads, and doing pull-ups. I enjoy writing poetry for my family, reading the vintage and most magnificent novels of Gene Stratton-Porter, and pouring over the poetry choices of Helen Ferris Tibbets (Favorite Poems Old and New: Selected For Boys and Girls). I love watching my babies sleep (even at four and seven), finding something fabulously antique and dirt-cheap at the thriftstore, and listening to Django Reinhardt's melodic masterpieces over and over again. I like knitting with eco wool or organic cotton (and bamboo needles), walking through downtown Bend with my family (and running into people we know), and watching Woody Allen films with my obliging husband. I'm thrilled with early 20th-century French settees, 1950s-style dishes (without the lead), and the contented purring of a good cat (ours is named Gussie).

I have a good life. But if it seems I'm constantly trying to convince myself of my wonderful life, maybe I am. Because while I'm thrilled with my wood stove (and everything else), I desperately want a baby. One more would be great, two would be better. I've been told (on more than one occasion) that it's time to "give up" my dream of more children. But I can't. I watch with genuine joy as women around me (near and far) conceive and bear children with great velocity. And as years pass (and so quickly they do), I have conceived only miscarriage and near-death experience since my two miraculous beauties. Yet I don't completely regret those then-negative experiences. Out of them have come a more exact nutrition plan, a plainer view of the important things in life, and a deeper understanding of the sheer miracle that comes with each being born on this planet. But that doesn't take away the fact that I'm waiting for a child. And each month that passes without a positive test adds another month to my constantly increasing age (35 years, 4 months and counting). I daydream about babies being left on my doorstep (with a romantic note pinned to their hand-sewn, Victorian-esque clothing), I pray for twins (one boy, one girl upon Benjamin and Annie's request), and I buy pregnancy tests and ovulation kits in bulk (anotherblessing.com). As years pass, I've had to learn to juggle my current life with my hopes for a larger family. I don't want my children to have a memory of me always waiting for something more. I am happy now (and I let them see that). But that desire hasn't left despite prayers that it would. This is quite possibly more information than any of you want. This is, I know, the uglier side of life. The side none of us expects to see. But this is my life. And as always, it boils down to this. Whether or not I am blessed with another child, I AM blessed. I have two of the most beautiful children (inside and out), a devoted and caring (albeit running-obsessed) husband, and a God who loves me. I live in a beautiful place with lovely people all around me, and I am truly thankful. But regardless of what the world tells me, I'm going to keep on hoping. After all, babies have been left on doorsteps before.

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1)

Central Oregon snow day

Christmas miracles