Sunshine On Cloudy Days

Benjamin as Will Scarlet with Robinhood

Little Joe

Annie, the Great Lamb Stalker

Here's a smallish update for those wondering where we went. We've spent the past few oh-so-cloudy months seeking sunshine in visits with family, finishing up the school year (we still have a couple of weeks left), and preparing the garden for the summer months. My sister Jessica had her third baby boy (I was blessed to witness the big event), we had a lovely visit with Nonna and Papa (maybe lovelier for us since we sadly sent them home with our colds), and a memorable babysitting stint for a two-day-old lamb named Joe. We also spent hours (and hours) reading some wonderful new-to-us books. Our recent favorite: The White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge (a beautiful, beautiful book). We have much to look forward to in the coming months, including a quick trip to Portland (and a morning at Powell's City of Books) and Jeff's first 100-mile run of the season (Big Horn 100 in Wyoming) — complete with a week of camping and travel. So you see, there's sunshine even on the cloudiest of days. And snap peas, strawberries and sun-warmed faces are right around the corner. I'm sure of it. ♥

Cheerfulness Taught By Reason

In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope
Of yon gray blank of sky, we might grow faint
To muse upon eternity's constraint
Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope
Must widen early, is it well to droop,
For a few days consumed in loss and taint?
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted
And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road
Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread
Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints? At least it may be said
"Because the way is short, I thank thee, God."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Importance of Being Lost

Um...yeah.

I'm often reminded about the dangers of losing myself in motherhood. I receive friendly warnings from well-meaning friends, and read news articles about the importance of maintaining my identity by spending time away from my children. And let me just say it up front: In the world's view, I AM lost. But before you say a prayer for liberty and location on my behalf, please listen:

Nowhere am I more myself than with my sweet children (unless my blood sugar is off, and then I'm another person altogether). When I'm with Benjamin and Annie, I sing and dance. I tell stories, draw pictures and write poetry. I read books I've always wanted to read (Kenneth Grahame's "The Wind in the Willows" was fantastic), memorize poetry, and learn new things about geography and the miracle of birds each glorious day.

On Saturday, Annie and I spent the day together. The boys went up to the mountain, and Annie chose to go hiking and to tea with Rosie (her beloved doll) and me. It was a beautiful, sunshiny day. We walked and talked, had tea and a little raw chocolate (Annie's favorite) at Townshend's, and hit a used bookstore in downtown Bend (we bought a copy of "Ellen Tebbits" to read after we finish "The Secret Garden"). I watched her big brown eyes sparkle as she admired herself in a three-way mirror (she pretended she was playing with her sisters). We sang the days-of-the-week song and talked about the seasons (her favorite is spring). We laughed and held swinging hands for hours. And we got lost in each other. Isn't that lovely?

Most of us spend our lives lost in something: work, play, art, drugs, love, fear, anger — the list is endless. My husband is hopelessly lost in the semi-crazy land of ultrarunning. My mother loses herself daily in cooking shows and the heavenly scented ingredients in her shining kitchen. Benjamin loses himself in battles with imaginary bad guys. And I am lost in my children (so lost, I'm found).

There are, of course, good and bad places to be lost. I was sadly lost in the hallways of seventh grade. Dazed and confused as a freshman in college with a gymnastics prison sentence lasting four long years. I feel lost in most (okay, all) social situations, and I occasionally lose myself in fear (I'm working on this one). I love losing myself in a good book ("The Harvester" by Gene Stratton-Porter...have I mentioned how I love her?). I was utterly lost in love with my husband 17 sweet years ago (most days, I still am). And I was lost in the blue eyes of my newborn son (I honestly forgot that anyone else was in the room).

So don't feel too sorry for me. If I'm lost, I'm the good kind of lost — the kind I hope lasts forever and a day.

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

A Life Worth Living (and the Allure of Silent Film Bangs)

I'm not who I thought I'd be. When I was young, I entertained visions of semi-greatness. I wasn't coveting earthly fame and glory. Posthumous literary prominence suited me better anyway. I pictured a solitary Louise Brooks writing inspired literature akin to Kate Chopin's The Awakening or Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I imagined rosy-cheeked, angelic babies clad in white vintage dresses crawling beneath my antique writing desk in a home straight out of the pages of Sense and Sensibility. I saw a romantic, sophisticated life full of meaningful conversation, thoughtful prose, and silent film bangs à la Ana May Wong.

And then I had a baby. That morning my thoughts turned to simpler things: When will he poop? Did I already nurse on this side? Have I brushed my teeth today? When was the last time I showered? Life became necessarily simpler. And yet never more hectic. Nearly eight years into my sweetest adventure, I'm thinking beyond nursing and diapers (though I long to experience those moments again). Now I wonder how many times in a row I can serve the same chicken-vegetable soup before someone complains, I think about which letters my four-year old is and isn't pronouncing, and I question why Annie submerged put my eco-lipstick in a sink full of water (in her words, "my didn't think you find out"). Everything has changed. Even my name is different. I'm mommy-may-I-have-a-glass-of-milk, mommy-Annie-needs-to-throw-up, and sometimes hi-sweetheart-what's-for-dinner. Don't get me wrong. I love all of these names. There's a story in each one: a day filled with every emotion imaginable and the hearts of those I hold dearest in this world. And I'm realizing that therein lies the meaning. My life isn't sophisticated, the prose is always rushed and rarely thoughtful, and white-clad children grow dirty in seconds. But mine is certainly a life worth living. To be there when Annie is feverish and scared, to watch (with wonder) as Benjamin learns to read, and to stand at the finish line as Jeff completes yet another 100-mile run. Playing Memory with blue-eyed Benjamin (and reminding him that cheaters never win), making healthy chocolate cake with wild Annie, and training my children in the way they should go...these are the things of life. My extraordinary life. And I can always cut bangs.

The Books I Once Loved:
Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Gilman (short story)
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
A Room of One's Own by Virginia Wolf (essay)
O Pioneers! by Willa Cather

Books I Love Now (some of them):
The Keeper of the Bees by Gene Stratton-Porter
The Harvester by Gene Stratton-Porter
The White Flag by Gene Stratton-Porter (okay, EVERYTHING by GSP)
Treasures of the Snow by Patricia St. John
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
A Charlotte Mason Companion by Karen Andreola
A Child's History of the World by V.M. Hillyer
Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder (the whole series)
Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Montgomery

Freaky Family

Thanksgiving with my family in Seattle, Washington