Today was the first day that made me really feel that winter is just around the corner. We've had unseasonably warm weather this fall, in fact it was 70 degrees on Monday - not quite a record high, but certainly far above average.
But today? Today I woke to gray skies and a chill wind. I could smell the cold snap in the air. What was lovely and colorful and amazingly clear two days ago has been dampened by the rain, shuttered down.
The winter is coming. It is creeping in to the Western part of the state tonight, skirting around us like a stream diverted, and sneaking back on Wednesday. Soon the howling winds will try to carry away the last vestiges of summer growth, chasing the leaves from our yard across the road to their hiding place in the fields yonder.
The animals know. Our dogs have been making fast trips outside instead of languishing in the autumn sun. The cat has stuck close to home, preferring the windbreak of the garage and the easier-than-hunting cat food we've left for him. Even the chickens are adapting, laying eggs with thinner shells as they use more energy to keep warm.
And we know. This morning as I snuggled deep into the couch with my children, I flashed forward to winter mornings, bright with fresh snow, filled with anticipation for the holidays. I kissed their sleepy warm heads and, for a moment, wished that today could have been the first day of winter break -- that our day could have been filled with the promise of crafts and hot cocoa instead of work and daycare.
Those days are coming. My soul cries for them each year -- the time spent hunkered down in the house, not needing to go anywhere as we simply enjoy the gifts our life brings us. This winter will be filled with expectation as my belly expands to make room for our wee ones. My children will get to feel their siblings moving as they sing to them made-up songs about their day. We will all huddle together watching a movie, our cold toes whispering secrets to each other as they dance under the blanket.
There is so much peace in the silence of a country winter, the solitude is fortifying and welcome.
So come, winter. Come with your dancing snowflakes and singing wind. Come, bring us the rest the earth needs after working so hard to sustain us. Come, bring the quiet and still. Let us refresh ourselves in the white of repose.
Come winter, and then come spring.
Showing posts with label country living. Show all posts
Showing posts with label country living. Show all posts
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Newest Member of the Family is Purrrrfect!
So, if you know anything about me, I am unabashedly a dog person. I melt over fluffy soft puppies, giggle endlessly as clumsy adolescent dogs trip over their feet, and appreciate the overwhelming affection from my own dogs. Yeah, I complain about them waking me at night and pooping the floor, but I'd complain about anyone who woke me at night and pooped on my floor, so don't even think about it! OK?
I am not a cat person. It's not that I don't like the animals, but my histamines think they're deadly and I can't stand the itching and sneezing and wheezing that comes with feline exposure.
However, I detest mice -- enough that my loathing for rodents has overpowered my allergic instincts. This lead to last weekend's great cat caper.
My mom (a cat person... and a dog person) captured two farm cats from her friend's farm -- two animals used to living outdoors and mousing -- exactly what we needed. Better yet, one of them appears to have been neutered at some point, so bonus for us only having to spay/neuter the other. And they have their claws -- completely necessary for outdoor living.
Grandma arrived with the cats, one of whom has pooped in a carrier and one of whom has puked in another carrier. We gently extract the poopy cat, turns out he's the neutered one. I gave him a once over and promptly named him Tabi because he is gray and has white socks. Tabi is the traditional Japanese toe-sock shoes and it completely looks like he's wearing them. Not to mention, naming a cat Socks is so Bill Clinton circa 1992 and that's not quite retro enough for me.
The other cat needs much more persuasion to exit the carrier. It takes one look at the five of us standing around (me, Scott, kids and Grandma) and bolts into the flat bean field behind out garage, flying across the road and disappearing into a cornfield. We have not seen this cat since then.
But Tabi? Well, he's a friendly little fellow, cries when we all go in the house, runs to greet us when we get home, weaves between our legs purring. He likes us. My kids adore him, particularly Violet. Since coming to live here, Tabi has caught two mice (of which we know). How do I know? Scott has stuck his head into my shower to let me know, like a news bulletin or something.
So maybe this old dog-girl can learn some new tricks after all -- like liking a cat. Will wonders never cease?
Oh -- in case you're looking for a picture of the fellow, I haven't taken any yet. I'm lazy that way. Maybe someday...
I am not a cat person. It's not that I don't like the animals, but my histamines think they're deadly and I can't stand the itching and sneezing and wheezing that comes with feline exposure.
However, I detest mice -- enough that my loathing for rodents has overpowered my allergic instincts. This lead to last weekend's great cat caper.
My mom (a cat person... and a dog person) captured two farm cats from her friend's farm -- two animals used to living outdoors and mousing -- exactly what we needed. Better yet, one of them appears to have been neutered at some point, so bonus for us only having to spay/neuter the other. And they have their claws -- completely necessary for outdoor living.
Grandma arrived with the cats, one of whom has pooped in a carrier and one of whom has puked in another carrier. We gently extract the poopy cat, turns out he's the neutered one. I gave him a once over and promptly named him Tabi because he is gray and has white socks. Tabi is the traditional Japanese toe-sock shoes and it completely looks like he's wearing them. Not to mention, naming a cat Socks is so Bill Clinton circa 1992 and that's not quite retro enough for me.
The other cat needs much more persuasion to exit the carrier. It takes one look at the five of us standing around (me, Scott, kids and Grandma) and bolts into the flat bean field behind out garage, flying across the road and disappearing into a cornfield. We have not seen this cat since then.
But Tabi? Well, he's a friendly little fellow, cries when we all go in the house, runs to greet us when we get home, weaves between our legs purring. He likes us. My kids adore him, particularly Violet. Since coming to live here, Tabi has caught two mice (of which we know). How do I know? Scott has stuck his head into my shower to let me know, like a news bulletin or something.
So maybe this old dog-girl can learn some new tricks after all -- like liking a cat. Will wonders never cease?
Oh -- in case you're looking for a picture of the fellow, I haven't taken any yet. I'm lazy that way. Maybe someday...
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Bounty
Our hens have begun laying. Their first eggs looked like this,
but they soon became this
which, if we still had roosters, could have become this
that was served with these
to feed these!
And there is the bounty of our lives! Our eggs, our chicken, our green beans, our kids...
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Meditation
I touched the earth this weekend, opened it wide to feed my family and nourish my soul, walking through the circle of life to take my place in the heartland, my fingertips grazing the ghosts of prairie women past.
With my own hands I plucked feathers from my flock, gripping the feet of a still-warm bird in the deafening silence of the yard, cicadas and the flapping of a thousand wings orchestrating my first butchering experience. As I shook damp down from my hands, a butterfly alighted on the plucking table, her languishing wings dipping gently in the breeze. She stayed there a moment, then fluttered off, leaving a breath of thanks with the chicken I held.
This wasn't an easy experience for me, I flinch at the sight of roadkill, avert my eyes when my husband and his brothers show proud pictures of their hunt. I do not like to hurt animals, but have felt a driving need to be able to bring things to my table that we have cared for ourselves, that we have nurtured and selected and weeded and plucked. I do not want my children to grow up in this land of agriculture thinking that their meal comes in wrapped styrofoam, resplendent with antibiotics and growth hormones and mega-syllabled chemicals.
I thank the earth for her bounty. I thank her as I tease the stubborn grass from the onion shoot, clearing a space around the food so that it can breathe. I thank her as I separate the squash from the vine and again later as I slice it with my baby onion to feed myself and my children. I thank her as my son's sturdy hands find hidden green beans, plucking them in a joyful scavenger hunt. I thank her as the wind rustles through my corn like a friend hiding. I thank her for my land, my water, my sunshine, and my life.
I thank her for being a place to teach my children about their place in the vast universe, their place on our postage stamp farm, in our food chain and as caretakers of the earth to come.
With my own hands I plucked feathers from my flock, gripping the feet of a still-warm bird in the deafening silence of the yard, cicadas and the flapping of a thousand wings orchestrating my first butchering experience. As I shook damp down from my hands, a butterfly alighted on the plucking table, her languishing wings dipping gently in the breeze. She stayed there a moment, then fluttered off, leaving a breath of thanks with the chicken I held.
This wasn't an easy experience for me, I flinch at the sight of roadkill, avert my eyes when my husband and his brothers show proud pictures of their hunt. I do not like to hurt animals, but have felt a driving need to be able to bring things to my table that we have cared for ourselves, that we have nurtured and selected and weeded and plucked. I do not want my children to grow up in this land of agriculture thinking that their meal comes in wrapped styrofoam, resplendent with antibiotics and growth hormones and mega-syllabled chemicals.
I thank the earth for her bounty. I thank her as I tease the stubborn grass from the onion shoot, clearing a space around the food so that it can breathe. I thank her as I separate the squash from the vine and again later as I slice it with my baby onion to feed myself and my children. I thank her as my son's sturdy hands find hidden green beans, plucking them in a joyful scavenger hunt. I thank her as the wind rustles through my corn like a friend hiding. I thank her for my land, my water, my sunshine, and my life.
I thank her for being a place to teach my children about their place in the vast universe, their place on our postage stamp farm, in our food chain and as caretakers of the earth to come.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Got My Head Up My...
I think I have my head wedged tightly up my bum. Seriously...
I totally forgot to call my Dad on Father's Day. Who does that? Me... I did text him when I remembered it, but that was at 10:30 last night -- and he's on EST, not CST like me. Sorry, Daddy...
And then, I realized that I changed purses and never mailed a Mother's Day card to my Grandmother. Sigh... I am clearly not going to win "Most Favored Granddaughter" status this year. Sorry, Grandma...
What is going on with me?
I think the end of the academic year came rushing at me like a freight train on speed -- recovering from that has left me floundering, my head spinning right round like a record, baby. When you add in the amazing traveling husband, the t-ball playing, birthday partying boy child and the potty training girl child you get a mama about as organized as my Mom's junk drawer. Oh, yeah -- there's the chickens, house, laundry, cooking, cleaning, bill-paying, weed-filled gardening and trying-to-lose-weight-by-running, too.
I don't really have an excuse because when said hubby isn't traveling or working a show during the evening, he's a pretty darn helpful guy. Unfortunately, June has seen one opera, one trip to Texas, and the current week-long sojourn to Nebraska for this poor, overworked daddy. Poor fella spent Father's Day in a rented van driving through thunderstorms to recruit aspiring thespians.
And then, when I did get a chance to talk to him, I groused about the four empty ice cube trays in the kitchen. No one else uses ice, ice, baby. Just him. And the wonderful wife that is me took the opportunity to complain to him about it in Father's Day. Sorry, honey...
So, yeah... I've got a big ol' head wedgie right now...
I totally forgot to call my Dad on Father's Day. Who does that? Me... I did text him when I remembered it, but that was at 10:30 last night -- and he's on EST, not CST like me. Sorry, Daddy...
And then, I realized that I changed purses and never mailed a Mother's Day card to my Grandmother. Sigh... I am clearly not going to win "Most Favored Granddaughter" status this year. Sorry, Grandma...
What is going on with me?
I think the end of the academic year came rushing at me like a freight train on speed -- recovering from that has left me floundering, my head spinning right round like a record, baby. When you add in the amazing traveling husband, the t-ball playing, birthday partying boy child and the potty training girl child you get a mama about as organized as my Mom's junk drawer. Oh, yeah -- there's the chickens, house, laundry, cooking, cleaning, bill-paying, weed-filled gardening and trying-to-lose-weight-by-running, too.
I don't really have an excuse because when said hubby isn't traveling or working a show during the evening, he's a pretty darn helpful guy. Unfortunately, June has seen one opera, one trip to Texas, and the current week-long sojourn to Nebraska for this poor, overworked daddy. Poor fella spent Father's Day in a rented van driving through thunderstorms to recruit aspiring thespians.
And then, when I did get a chance to talk to him, I groused about the four empty ice cube trays in the kitchen. No one else uses ice, ice, baby. Just him. And the wonderful wife that is me took the opportunity to complain to him about it in Father's Day. Sorry, honey...
So, yeah... I've got a big ol' head wedgie right now...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
We hoed some rows last night! Eight rows, if you're counting (I was). Six rows of corn -- two each of Kandy Korn, Silver Lady, and Japanese Hull-less popcorn; and two rows of green bean bushes. Wa-hoo!
It was an interesting evening, to say the least. Scott and I marked off the rows, he hoed a trench, I dropped the seeds, then we both covered them up. Repeat that seven times and that's all of the seeds planted so far.
Except we had two little water babies dancing around the yard, skipping under the feathered fan of the sprinkler, too. Until they flipped the sprinkler and daddy had to fix it so it no longer sprayed straight underneath itself. Until Violet decided she wanted to swing, begging us in her best howl to "Push me, pleeeeeease?????" Until Milo wanted to help cover the seeds, wielding his hoe like an axe and nearly scalping his father.
That's about the time Scott found the toad. Poor little guy was doing his best to blend into the dirt, and actually succeeding pretty well because Scott barely missed him. He yelped, "Oops! Sorry Mr. Toad!" and continued on, hoeing the row. When I caught up with my bean seeds, the toad was still there, trying to breathe imperceptibly so that I didn't nearly squish him as well. I could have passed him by, but thought better of it and gently scooped him into my hands, carried him to the wheelbarrow and set him softly into its dusty cavern.
The kids were instantly transfixed. They watched him hop in there. They touched him. We had to convince Milo that emptying his bug house and giving it to the toad as a new apartment was a bad idea. They held him as they went down the slide because, "He's never been on a slide before -- he'll LOVE it!"
Poor toad. Thankfully, he seemed like a relaxed fella as he went up and down the swingeset, inside and outside and under. Finally, as we were finishing the last few feet of the last row we were planting, the kids talked about where to release him. I suggested that they place him in the nice wet grass where they had just been a-sprinkling so that he could get a drink after all of that playing. Although my suggestion was ultimately accepted, it was nearly overridden by "Let's put him in the tall tower of the swingset because it's neat up there!" Yeah, and in two days it will be even neater when you have a stinky dead toad up there, too.
So Mr. Toad was released into the marsh created by the sprinkler. As soon as his little feet hit the grass, he hopped under one of the big blue spruce trees and away from my children who had nearly killed them with their love.
And then my kids went inside while Scott and I finished cleaning up. They came back outside, both of them buck naked. Because that's apparently what you do when mom tells you to go inside and get a towel.
Oh, hey, don't forget to vote for me in the Scholastic contest!
It was an interesting evening, to say the least. Scott and I marked off the rows, he hoed a trench, I dropped the seeds, then we both covered them up. Repeat that seven times and that's all of the seeds planted so far.
Except we had two little water babies dancing around the yard, skipping under the feathered fan of the sprinkler, too. Until they flipped the sprinkler and daddy had to fix it so it no longer sprayed straight underneath itself. Until Violet decided she wanted to swing, begging us in her best howl to "Push me, pleeeeeease?????" Until Milo wanted to help cover the seeds, wielding his hoe like an axe and nearly scalping his father.
That's about the time Scott found the toad. Poor little guy was doing his best to blend into the dirt, and actually succeeding pretty well because Scott barely missed him. He yelped, "Oops! Sorry Mr. Toad!" and continued on, hoeing the row. When I caught up with my bean seeds, the toad was still there, trying to breathe imperceptibly so that I didn't nearly squish him as well. I could have passed him by, but thought better of it and gently scooped him into my hands, carried him to the wheelbarrow and set him softly into its dusty cavern.
The kids were instantly transfixed. They watched him hop in there. They touched him. We had to convince Milo that emptying his bug house and giving it to the toad as a new apartment was a bad idea. They held him as they went down the slide because, "He's never been on a slide before -- he'll LOVE it!"
Poor toad. Thankfully, he seemed like a relaxed fella as he went up and down the swingeset, inside and outside and under. Finally, as we were finishing the last few feet of the last row we were planting, the kids talked about where to release him. I suggested that they place him in the nice wet grass where they had just been a-sprinkling so that he could get a drink after all of that playing. Although my suggestion was ultimately accepted, it was nearly overridden by "Let's put him in the tall tower of the swingset because it's neat up there!" Yeah, and in two days it will be even neater when you have a stinky dead toad up there, too.
So Mr. Toad was released into the marsh created by the sprinkler. As soon as his little feet hit the grass, he hopped under one of the big blue spruce trees and away from my children who had nearly killed them with their love.
And then my kids went inside while Scott and I finished cleaning up. They came back outside, both of them buck naked. Because that's apparently what you do when mom tells you to go inside and get a towel.
Oh, hey, don't forget to vote for me in the Scholastic contest!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Plantin' in the Dark
So this is how my blog is described over at Scholastic: A dose of Midwestern scarcasm from a mom trying to get healthy while raising two children
Didja notice the typo? Or maybe it's not a typo... Maybe I am super-scary. My kids DO look at me like I have three heads sometimes. And, for some reason, I intimidate a couple of my hubby's cousins so much that they won't talk to me. Right now, my fingernails are kinda long, so they could be mistaken for talons. And my hair is normally VERY scary -- wavy and windblown on the mildest of days.
It's OK, though. I won't let the notoriety go to my head. You ain't gonna change me, maaaan!
I am admitting to checking out the competition. And following them. Some competitor I am...
Dadcentric is huge. And male. And it might be hairier than I am. Maybe.
The Adventures of Bean and Goobs reads like my bloggy twin. Except that her kids are a smidge younger than mine and they're both boys.
To turn back towards me (hello, spotlight!) for a moment I'm going to share some of the misadventures of the last 10 hours:
Scott and I split a bottle of wine and watched the Lost series finale. You may have caught my mid-broadcast tweets. Though I wanted to, I did not chuck a shoe at the screen. We did, however, grab a couple of lanterns and head out into the dark of the back yard to plant our blue spruce fingerlings.
"You and me goin' plantin' in the dark..." Hey! I'm not using that as a euphemism -- still mid-miscarriage here, OK? But yeah, there we were, stumbling around the yard, inhaling far too many gnats to consider it a coincidence, planting the 9 free trees my mother got from the Arbor Day Foundation. Don't worry, I did clip the baby monitor to the front of the wheelbarrow, so if the kids needed us, we could have rushed back into the house, leaving a trail of topsoil behind us.
This morning, I discovered that the crazy mutts have perfected a new trick: one poops on the floor, the other eats it to clean up the evidence. Might have worked had the snacker not stepped in it before dining. I can just picture the two of them pulling off this caper. No, on second thought, I don't want to picture that.
Don't say I didn't warn you -- there is a disclaimer right there under my picture that says I might be talking about poop. It's not even in fine print...
Didja notice the typo? Or maybe it's not a typo... Maybe I am super-scary. My kids DO look at me like I have three heads sometimes. And, for some reason, I intimidate a couple of my hubby's cousins so much that they won't talk to me. Right now, my fingernails are kinda long, so they could be mistaken for talons. And my hair is normally VERY scary -- wavy and windblown on the mildest of days.
It's OK, though. I won't let the notoriety go to my head. You ain't gonna change me, maaaan!
I am admitting to checking out the competition. And following them. Some competitor I am...
Dadcentric is huge. And male. And it might be hairier than I am. Maybe.
The Adventures of Bean and Goobs reads like my bloggy twin. Except that her kids are a smidge younger than mine and they're both boys.
To turn back towards me (hello, spotlight!) for a moment I'm going to share some of the misadventures of the last 10 hours:
Scott and I split a bottle of wine and watched the Lost series finale. You may have caught my mid-broadcast tweets. Though I wanted to, I did not chuck a shoe at the screen. We did, however, grab a couple of lanterns and head out into the dark of the back yard to plant our blue spruce fingerlings.
"You and me goin' plantin' in the dark..." Hey! I'm not using that as a euphemism -- still mid-miscarriage here, OK? But yeah, there we were, stumbling around the yard, inhaling far too many gnats to consider it a coincidence, planting the 9 free trees my mother got from the Arbor Day Foundation. Don't worry, I did clip the baby monitor to the front of the wheelbarrow, so if the kids needed us, we could have rushed back into the house, leaving a trail of topsoil behind us.
This morning, I discovered that the crazy mutts have perfected a new trick: one poops on the floor, the other eats it to clean up the evidence. Might have worked had the snacker not stepped in it before dining. I can just picture the two of them pulling off this caper. No, on second thought, I don't want to picture that.
Don't say I didn't warn you -- there is a disclaimer right there under my picture that says I might be talking about poop. It's not even in fine print...
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Smiley Times!
So, I'm having a bit of a rough time right now, but here are some pictures that have brightened my last week!
This was the one of the last days the chickens were in the basement.
The strawberry pyramid and the rabbit Violet picked for the garden.
The coop before it was enclosed.
The view the chickens have. Not bad, eh?
Peek-a-boo!
A bunch of bird brains on top of a chicken coop.
A caterpillar with girl and grandma.
She's just following the instructions on her shirt!
Every princess needs a crown.
Doesn't everyone wake up this happy?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Feelin' Like Photos!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wanna Live in My Swing Set?
So I have referenced the "Swing Set the Size of a Small House" a couple of times, either here or on facebook or one of my mommy boards, but here is a photo of the model of swing set that my darling Scotty (with a little help from me) has installed in our back yard. I supposed that I should state that this review wasn't solicited by the swing set manufacturer or distributor -- it is just our experience with the product. So, yeah, I'm not paid to review this product in any way. I hope that works as a disclosure...
This took him the better part of the week to put together, but we're thrilled with the result and can't wait for the wood to dry out enough for us to stain it. We've heard tale that these particular swing sets, the Playstar Superstar Gold model, are tough to put together and might have doomed more than one marriage, but my very handy fella had few troubles with the directions and didn't need to re-do anything that he installed. Rock on, Scott! He did, however, comment that "The instructions were clearly created using AutoCAD; I wish they included the electronic file so I could rotate the image." I'm guessing that his skill level might be a touch above the average consumer...
It was pretty interesting to see us right the tall tower -- Scott said "Lift from your legs!" and I sure did -- I could feel those legs for three days after playing He-Man and She-Ra.
On to the chicken coop! The hens in the basement ran out of space in the brooder box, so we had the surprisingly fun task of sorting the flock into layers and broilers. Layers are for laying eggs, and broilers are for, ummm... eating. There was one hen that Scott and I had decided (separately) was the first candidate for Broiler of the Year. She's the aggressive one that pecks at us when we tend to her box, a straight-up chicken-bitch. She's gonna be yummy...
The layers were relocated to a kiddie pool from which several have escaped. So now when I approach the basement, my first task is peeking at each group, counting heads. Fortunately the ones we selected as layers were selected because they were less excitable, friendly, even. One in particular always comes running when she hears me approach. I've been calling her "Curious" because she watches my every move, then ducks her head under my hand for a pet. Yep, I've been petting chickens. Will the wonders never cease?
This took him the better part of the week to put together, but we're thrilled with the result and can't wait for the wood to dry out enough for us to stain it. We've heard tale that these particular swing sets, the Playstar Superstar Gold model, are tough to put together and might have doomed more than one marriage, but my very handy fella had few troubles with the directions and didn't need to re-do anything that he installed. Rock on, Scott! He did, however, comment that "The instructions were clearly created using AutoCAD; I wish they included the electronic file so I could rotate the image." I'm guessing that his skill level might be a touch above the average consumer...
It was pretty interesting to see us right the tall tower -- Scott said "Lift from your legs!" and I sure did -- I could feel those legs for three days after playing He-Man and She-Ra.
On to the chicken coop! The hens in the basement ran out of space in the brooder box, so we had the surprisingly fun task of sorting the flock into layers and broilers. Layers are for laying eggs, and broilers are for, ummm... eating. There was one hen that Scott and I had decided (separately) was the first candidate for Broiler of the Year. She's the aggressive one that pecks at us when we tend to her box, a straight-up chicken-bitch. She's gonna be yummy...
The layers were relocated to a kiddie pool from which several have escaped. So now when I approach the basement, my first task is peeking at each group, counting heads. Fortunately the ones we selected as layers were selected because they were less excitable, friendly, even. One in particular always comes running when she hears me approach. I've been calling her "Curious" because she watches my every move, then ducks her head under my hand for a pet. Yep, I've been petting chickens. Will the wonders never cease?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Little House on the Prairie
If you are visiting from the Ultimate Blog Party 2010, click here for my post!
I have always, always, always, thought myself to be an urban chick. I totally dig the city vibe, love the city sounds, the culture, the ability to get good sushi in minutes. That kind of stuff. I pictured myself taking public transportation to work, stopping in for yoga on my lunch break, and getting the chance to see limited-release films in a theater when they open and not through my Netflix cue. Well, I probably imagined seeing those films on VHS because Netflix wasn't around 20 years ago.
But I find myself captivated by my life right now. I can't wait to get home and shove my children out the door so that we can explore our yard, our world. Our own little bit of Earth. Maybe it stems from my girlhood adoration of the "Little House" books. Maybe it is the push for Community Supported Agriculture. I'm not sure, but I am awakening.
I have lived in Iowa nearly all of my life. I have been surrounded by agriculture for 30 years. It always felt like a backdrop, like the scenery for a play. This is my life, it is set in Iowa and we know that because there are cornfields. And livestock. And tractors rumbling up the gravel road. But the action of my life has always taken place indoors -- in a theatre, in a classroom, in my home.
I am suddenly so very excited to look into my summer -- to see my huge vegetable garden spreading wide, reaching deep into the earth to find nutrients, sucking them from the soil into their ripe flesh. I hear the chickens clucking as Scott plucks their brown eggs from their nest boxes. Serving venison stew from the deer that he and his brothers hunted. I imagine entire meals cooked from ingredients we raised -- the vegetables, the starch, the fruit, the protein are all from our own hands.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that if I am not buying produce, chicken, stew meat or eggs, I can afford the fancy, organic, non-hormon-ed or antibiotic-ed socially responsible milk and cheese for my kids. I don't have to walk by the organic whole-grain pasta staring longingly at it any more. I wonder about what it would cost to buy a side of organic free-range beef or pork. I think I'll research that tonight... I imagine churning butter from organic cream -- I have left cream whipping in the mixer for just long enough that I accidentally made butter, what if I could do it on purpose? Maybe there's someone who would barter milk for eggs? Homemade ice cream with lusty red raspberries bouncing in the bowl.
My country life is bursting and bountiful. At lease I hope it will be. I could run completely out of steam when I need to weed the garden yet again in July when it is 95 degrees out and my allergies are insufferable. Or I could thrive like the plants in this Iowa soil, no longer seeing my earth as a backdrop, but as an integral part of my identity. I have always wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder, maybe this is my chance.
I have always, always, always, thought myself to be an urban chick. I totally dig the city vibe, love the city sounds, the culture, the ability to get good sushi in minutes. That kind of stuff. I pictured myself taking public transportation to work, stopping in for yoga on my lunch break, and getting the chance to see limited-release films in a theater when they open and not through my Netflix cue. Well, I probably imagined seeing those films on VHS because Netflix wasn't around 20 years ago.
But I find myself captivated by my life right now. I can't wait to get home and shove my children out the door so that we can explore our yard, our world. Our own little bit of Earth. Maybe it stems from my girlhood adoration of the "Little House" books. Maybe it is the push for Community Supported Agriculture. I'm not sure, but I am awakening.
I have lived in Iowa nearly all of my life. I have been surrounded by agriculture for 30 years. It always felt like a backdrop, like the scenery for a play. This is my life, it is set in Iowa and we know that because there are cornfields. And livestock. And tractors rumbling up the gravel road. But the action of my life has always taken place indoors -- in a theatre, in a classroom, in my home.
I am suddenly so very excited to look into my summer -- to see my huge vegetable garden spreading wide, reaching deep into the earth to find nutrients, sucking them from the soil into their ripe flesh. I hear the chickens clucking as Scott plucks their brown eggs from their nest boxes. Serving venison stew from the deer that he and his brothers hunted. I imagine entire meals cooked from ingredients we raised -- the vegetables, the starch, the fruit, the protein are all from our own hands.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that if I am not buying produce, chicken, stew meat or eggs, I can afford the fancy, organic, non-hormon-ed or antibiotic-ed socially responsible milk and cheese for my kids. I don't have to walk by the organic whole-grain pasta staring longingly at it any more. I wonder about what it would cost to buy a side of organic free-range beef or pork. I think I'll research that tonight... I imagine churning butter from organic cream -- I have left cream whipping in the mixer for just long enough that I accidentally made butter, what if I could do it on purpose? Maybe there's someone who would barter milk for eggs? Homemade ice cream with lusty red raspberries bouncing in the bowl.
My country life is bursting and bountiful. At lease I hope it will be. I could run completely out of steam when I need to weed the garden yet again in July when it is 95 degrees out and my allergies are insufferable. Or I could thrive like the plants in this Iowa soil, no longer seeing my earth as a backdrop, but as an integral part of my identity. I have always wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder, maybe this is my chance.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Country Life on a Monday
If you are visiting from the Ultimate Blog Party 2010, click here for my post!
Here's a Monday update -- the chicks are about four times as big as they were when Scott brought them home a little over two weeks ago. They are also starting to really get their feathers, so they are supremely gangly and awkward right now -- like us at 13 or so. These are definitely not Easter egg chicks any more. Their combs are starting to grow and they are bigger, so they make bigger poops. Which means Scott has been addressing the bedding more frequently.
I prepped a bunch of mini-greenhouses and will be starting some of the more fragile seeds: tomatoes, peppers, broccoli, and cauliflower tonight. We've sort of figured out how we're going to lay out the yard -- Scott will till the garden area in the next two weeks or so and I'll get to planting the early seeds (carrots, radishes) and the hardy ones (corn, beans, squashes, pumpkins) soon after he's got out patch turned over.
In the mean time, we will be a-building! Putting up a big swing set for the kids to play on and occupy their time while we garden and tend the flock. Building a chicken coop. I've asked that I can paint the outside as our house is white and square and our garage is white and square, so putting something colorful in seems right. Maybe I'll ironically paint a chicken on the coop...
Here's a Monday update -- the chicks are about four times as big as they were when Scott brought them home a little over two weeks ago. They are also starting to really get their feathers, so they are supremely gangly and awkward right now -- like us at 13 or so. These are definitely not Easter egg chicks any more. Their combs are starting to grow and they are bigger, so they make bigger poops. Which means Scott has been addressing the bedding more frequently.
I prepped a bunch of mini-greenhouses and will be starting some of the more fragile seeds: tomatoes, peppers, broccoli, and cauliflower tonight. We've sort of figured out how we're going to lay out the yard -- Scott will till the garden area in the next two weeks or so and I'll get to planting the early seeds (carrots, radishes) and the hardy ones (corn, beans, squashes, pumpkins) soon after he's got out patch turned over.
In the mean time, we will be a-building! Putting up a big swing set for the kids to play on and occupy their time while we garden and tend the flock. Building a chicken coop. I've asked that I can paint the outside as our house is white and square and our garage is white and square, so putting something colorful in seems right. Maybe I'll ironically paint a chicken on the coop...
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Ultimate Blog Party 2010
Hello! Although I am not really a new mom blogger (I have been blogging since August of 2008), I am a sort-of-newish public blog mama since February of 2010. Don't ask me why I felt the need to suddenly go public with my blog, I'm not sure I really have a reason for it. I do know that it seems like a fairly healthy way to have a midlife crisis, right?
Anyway, if you are dropping by to join the party, please overlook the dog fur and kid toys -- I've got two of each and trying to pretend they don't exist is pointless. Grab a seat, but don't be surprised if my son begs to play Star Wars guys with you or my daughter drags you to the kid-sized table where she's sticking glittery stickers to a piece of pink construction paper. Or if my husband kidnaps you to the basement where we're keeping our first brood of Buff Orpington chicks, at least until he gets the coop built. Did you know that they have automatic chicken coop doors? I didn't know that until yesterday, either.
My life is pretty ordinary, and I'm sure that is the biggest reason I didn't go public with my blog when I first started writing. I was a good student, married my college sweetheart, moved to a mid-Atlantic state when he was in graduate school, returned to Iowa when he was offered a job about 35 miles from where he grew up -- a big surprise for us because he's a theatre designer and this is, well, this is Iowa. We got a dog, bought a little house, gutted it, got another dog, and renovated the house.
Then we decided to start a family. After an ectopic pregnancy, we had our wonderful son in June of 2005 and made him the big brother of a little sister in September of 2007. We are currently battling unexpected secondary infertility. I swallowed my first dose of Clomid about an hour ago. I don't feel any more fertile yet...
This past November, we bought a big old farmhouse out in the country. This has been a bit of an adjustment for us (mice. Mice. Mice! MICE!), though we are eager to put in a gi-gundous garden this spring and, as I said, we have a small flock of chickens started in the basement. Because organic brown eggs sound super, don't they?
Here are some of my quirks:
1. I like to be funny. Sarcastic, even -- I know, SHOCKER! If you don't want to read a blog where the author admits her shortcomings and pokes fun at herself, you shouldn't read mine.
2. I like to write. I've never hosted a give-away, nor have I monetized my blog. Yet. If I end up pregnant with Clomid quintuplets, I might have to change that policy.
3. I am a fan of the chain description: words-tied-together-with-hyphens-to-make-a-funny-run-on-point. Yep. I like me my hyphens... And ellipses...
4. I like comments. OK, who doesn't. I follow up diligently. Really, I do!
5. I'm a lunch-hour blogger, so if my schedule gets keee-razy, I don't get a chance to give my blog or bloggy friends the love. I hope you can forgive me, but I gots-ta pay the bills. My hubby works in arts education, 'nuff said.
6. I try to be positive and witty and clever, but the struggle we've had trying to conceive baby #3 has stretched my good humor to the limit. Some of my more recent posts were a little darker than I would normally write. But, since I am above all an honest blogger, writing something that was all cheery and rah-rah-rah when I was feeling blah-blah-blah was resoundingly fake, so I didn't do it.
Here are some of my most favorite posts:
Malfunctioning Bedroom Devices
Brontophobia: Fear of Storms
Sleep
In case my blog gets pulled for a prize, here are my top three choices:
US6 – Hand Stamped Personalized Necklace valued at $48 The Double Stacked A Lot Of Love.
Provided by: Kristen’s Custom Creations I lved this design and don't have any mother's jewelry!
US97 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade wire and colorful bead necklace from the mission-driven company, Ana Patricia! just thought this was so much fun!
USC 10 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade glass pendant with their choice of chain. The piece is made by me with care using glass and paper. The design I will give away is called “Lilac“. I fell in love with this -- so very pretty!
Other prizes in which I'm interested: US39, US44, US66, US110, and USC19. My son is 4 and daughter is 2, so anything appropriate for them is fine, too!
Anyway, if you are dropping by to join the party, please overlook the dog fur and kid toys -- I've got two of each and trying to pretend they don't exist is pointless. Grab a seat, but don't be surprised if my son begs to play Star Wars guys with you or my daughter drags you to the kid-sized table where she's sticking glittery stickers to a piece of pink construction paper. Or if my husband kidnaps you to the basement where we're keeping our first brood of Buff Orpington chicks, at least until he gets the coop built. Did you know that they have automatic chicken coop doors? I didn't know that until yesterday, either.
My life is pretty ordinary, and I'm sure that is the biggest reason I didn't go public with my blog when I first started writing. I was a good student, married my college sweetheart, moved to a mid-Atlantic state when he was in graduate school, returned to Iowa when he was offered a job about 35 miles from where he grew up -- a big surprise for us because he's a theatre designer and this is, well, this is Iowa. We got a dog, bought a little house, gutted it, got another dog, and renovated the house.
Then we decided to start a family. After an ectopic pregnancy, we had our wonderful son in June of 2005 and made him the big brother of a little sister in September of 2007. We are currently battling unexpected secondary infertility. I swallowed my first dose of Clomid about an hour ago. I don't feel any more fertile yet...
This past November, we bought a big old farmhouse out in the country. This has been a bit of an adjustment for us (mice. Mice. Mice! MICE!), though we are eager to put in a gi-gundous garden this spring and, as I said, we have a small flock of chickens started in the basement. Because organic brown eggs sound super, don't they?
Here are some of my quirks:
1. I like to be funny. Sarcastic, even -- I know, SHOCKER! If you don't want to read a blog where the author admits her shortcomings and pokes fun at herself, you shouldn't read mine.
2. I like to write. I've never hosted a give-away, nor have I monetized my blog. Yet. If I end up pregnant with Clomid quintuplets, I might have to change that policy.
3. I am a fan of the chain description: words-tied-together-with-hyphens-to-make-a-funny-run-on-point. Yep. I like me my hyphens... And ellipses...
4. I like comments. OK, who doesn't. I follow up diligently. Really, I do!
5. I'm a lunch-hour blogger, so if my schedule gets keee-razy, I don't get a chance to give my blog or bloggy friends the love. I hope you can forgive me, but I gots-ta pay the bills. My hubby works in arts education, 'nuff said.
6. I try to be positive and witty and clever, but the struggle we've had trying to conceive baby #3 has stretched my good humor to the limit. Some of my more recent posts were a little darker than I would normally write. But, since I am above all an honest blogger, writing something that was all cheery and rah-rah-rah when I was feeling blah-blah-blah was resoundingly fake, so I didn't do it.
Here are some of my most favorite posts:
Malfunctioning Bedroom Devices
Brontophobia: Fear of Storms
Sleep
In case my blog gets pulled for a prize, here are my top three choices:
US6 – Hand Stamped Personalized Necklace valued at $48 The Double Stacked A Lot Of Love.
Provided by: Kristen’s Custom Creations I lved this design and don't have any mother's jewelry!
US97 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade wire and colorful bead necklace from the mission-driven company, Ana Patricia! just thought this was so much fun!
USC 10 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade glass pendant with their choice of chain. The piece is made by me with care using glass and paper. The design I will give away is called “Lilac“. I fell in love with this -- so very pretty!
Other prizes in which I'm interested: US39, US44, US66, US110, and USC19. My son is 4 and daughter is 2, so anything appropriate for them is fine, too!
Friday, April 9, 2010
Green
Today Violet and I walked around the yard, peeking at the beginnings of green. She gripped my right ring finger, tugging me gently from one mound of sprouting green to another.
"What is dis, mommy?"
"That will be a tulip. It's a flower."
"Oh, my like it! What color will it be?"
"I don't know yet -- it's too early to see."
"My think it will be ownge, or wed, or lellow, mommy!"
"You're probably right, sweet pea."
She stooped close to the tulip bud, he nose hovering a bout an inch above it.
"My can't see the color yet, mommy. My want pink!"
We moved into this house in the doldrums of November, everything was dry and brown by then, so we do not yet know the treasures of our perennial landscaping yet. I cannot guarantee that the tulip will be an acceptable pink any more than I can guarantee just about anything right now.
The lab results from our initial fertility testing have been returned. All of my labs are within the normal range, a little on the low side of normal, but normal yet the same. The results of my pelvic ultrasound were normal. I am ovulating. Unfortunately, though Scott apparently produces a prodigious number of sperm, only about 40% of them are moving. The ones that do move are in great shape, so that's good. I'll start Clomid tomorrow. We'll schedule an IUI the next time I detect a hormone surge. The nurse will rinse and spin the spermies, then thread a delicate catheter into my uterus, depositing the sperm there in hopes that the sleepy swimmers can get that much closer to my eggy goodness.
Looking at the lush green all around us, who knew that fertility could be so fragile?
"What is dis, mommy?"
"That will be a tulip. It's a flower."
"Oh, my like it! What color will it be?"
"I don't know yet -- it's too early to see."
"My think it will be ownge, or wed, or lellow, mommy!"
"You're probably right, sweet pea."
She stooped close to the tulip bud, he nose hovering a bout an inch above it.
"My can't see the color yet, mommy. My want pink!"
We moved into this house in the doldrums of November, everything was dry and brown by then, so we do not yet know the treasures of our perennial landscaping yet. I cannot guarantee that the tulip will be an acceptable pink any more than I can guarantee just about anything right now.
The lab results from our initial fertility testing have been returned. All of my labs are within the normal range, a little on the low side of normal, but normal yet the same. The results of my pelvic ultrasound were normal. I am ovulating. Unfortunately, though Scott apparently produces a prodigious number of sperm, only about 40% of them are moving. The ones that do move are in great shape, so that's good. I'll start Clomid tomorrow. We'll schedule an IUI the next time I detect a hormone surge. The nurse will rinse and spin the spermies, then thread a delicate catheter into my uterus, depositing the sperm there in hopes that the sleepy swimmers can get that much closer to my eggy goodness.
Looking at the lush green all around us, who knew that fertility could be so fragile?
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Pop Quiz: Answer
Friday, March 26, 2010
Pop Quiz!
1. What is a buff Orpington?
2. Why do I have 25 of them in my basement?
Stay tuned for results... and pictures... and stories...
2. Why do I have 25 of them in my basement?
Stay tuned for results... and pictures... and stories...
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Judgment Day
It is judgment day, at least for me.
I've got a 12:15 appointment with my OB to start figuring out why, after two very successful and easy pregnancies, I can't get pregnant with my third baby. We've been trying for a year now and it is weighing heavier and heavier on me each day. I can feel the weight sitting on my sternum, sometimes it is so crushing I can barely draw a breath. Each week that slips by erodes my confidence further, taking with it a glimmer of hope and the last vestiges of my personality. I feel so helpless and completely responsible all at the same time. I am stifled by my overwhelming despair, it has begun spilling into places in my life where it shouldn't go, like work and play.
I am buoyed by my children, their sweet pink-cheeked faces bring a cascade of joy. But it seems unfair for them to carry the burden of my happiness, so I do my best to just love them. To encourage and guide them, to lift them and hold them and inspire them. They are both so very happy right now -- living one moment to the next, seeking the new life of spring, cradling it in their inquisitive minds.
They have discovered that our apple tree is a perfect climbing tree, it's lowest sturdy branches fanning away from the trunk nearly parallel to the sodden turf. They have been pruned for climbing, each fashioned into a cradle for children small and large. Scott has hung a swing in one of the boughs, it hangs straight without needing much shimming, swinging in a graceful arc as a squealing blonde babe whooshes by, her golden ringlets dancing in the wind.
I have ordered seeds and plants for the garden, I wait excitedly for fresh strawberries, green beans, carrots, peas, potatoes, and raspberries. I pored over the Gurney catalog, trying to figure out which varieties would best serve us, novice gardeners. I ordered three varieties of pumpkins for my Halloween-loving hubby. Broccoli for Milo. Blue potatoes for Violet. And two different kinds of raspberry bushes for me. I picked the sampler pack of carrots for their novelty: orange, yellow, white, purple, and red. A rainbow of carrots. We will freeze and I will learn to can and, hopefully, the $100.00 spent on seeds and plants will at least pay for itself in produce.
We face another judgment this evening: Milo's first parent-teacher conference. I wonder what the teachers will say about him... Will they notice his aptitude for math? He counts to 100, to 100 by twos, and 1000 by tens. He recognizes all of the letters and knows their sounds. He's starting to read. He listens carefully to directions and figures so many things out all on his own. Will they see that? Or will his performance anxiety give them pause to recommend he not enter kindergarten this fall. I think he's ready, but then again, I'm not impartial nor fair when it comes to him.
And so I wait, anxious and occasionally dizzy, my fingertips buzzing. I fear that bad news will send me diving off a precipice into a lake of sorrow. I fear that I may be drowning already.
I've got a 12:15 appointment with my OB to start figuring out why, after two very successful and easy pregnancies, I can't get pregnant with my third baby. We've been trying for a year now and it is weighing heavier and heavier on me each day. I can feel the weight sitting on my sternum, sometimes it is so crushing I can barely draw a breath. Each week that slips by erodes my confidence further, taking with it a glimmer of hope and the last vestiges of my personality. I feel so helpless and completely responsible all at the same time. I am stifled by my overwhelming despair, it has begun spilling into places in my life where it shouldn't go, like work and play.
I am buoyed by my children, their sweet pink-cheeked faces bring a cascade of joy. But it seems unfair for them to carry the burden of my happiness, so I do my best to just love them. To encourage and guide them, to lift them and hold them and inspire them. They are both so very happy right now -- living one moment to the next, seeking the new life of spring, cradling it in their inquisitive minds.
They have discovered that our apple tree is a perfect climbing tree, it's lowest sturdy branches fanning away from the trunk nearly parallel to the sodden turf. They have been pruned for climbing, each fashioned into a cradle for children small and large. Scott has hung a swing in one of the boughs, it hangs straight without needing much shimming, swinging in a graceful arc as a squealing blonde babe whooshes by, her golden ringlets dancing in the wind.
I have ordered seeds and plants for the garden, I wait excitedly for fresh strawberries, green beans, carrots, peas, potatoes, and raspberries. I pored over the Gurney catalog, trying to figure out which varieties would best serve us, novice gardeners. I ordered three varieties of pumpkins for my Halloween-loving hubby. Broccoli for Milo. Blue potatoes for Violet. And two different kinds of raspberry bushes for me. I picked the sampler pack of carrots for their novelty: orange, yellow, white, purple, and red. A rainbow of carrots. We will freeze and I will learn to can and, hopefully, the $100.00 spent on seeds and plants will at least pay for itself in produce.
We face another judgment this evening: Milo's first parent-teacher conference. I wonder what the teachers will say about him... Will they notice his aptitude for math? He counts to 100, to 100 by twos, and 1000 by tens. He recognizes all of the letters and knows their sounds. He's starting to read. He listens carefully to directions and figures so many things out all on his own. Will they see that? Or will his performance anxiety give them pause to recommend he not enter kindergarten this fall. I think he's ready, but then again, I'm not impartial nor fair when it comes to him.
And so I wait, anxious and occasionally dizzy, my fingertips buzzing. I fear that bad news will send me diving off a precipice into a lake of sorrow. I fear that I may be drowning already.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Tailgating (and not the fun kind)
It is always an adventure getting out of the house in the morning, even on days like today where things work pretty well. After we're all loaded into the car and have each kissed daddy as he circles the car, opening both rear doors to give us "one more kiss, daddy!" we pull out and head into town. We never meet any traffic until we're off the gravel -- fine by me -- there's a 25 foot stretch around an uphill curve that has gotten narrower and narrower all winter as the plows heap the snow into taller and taller walls. It's down to a lane and a quarter, so meeting someone headfirst around the blind curve would be, well, not good.
In fact, we rarely meet any traffic on our way in most mornings. It's probably because most families are a little better about getting out of the house on time than we are. Occasionally we'll pass someone going the other direction, but we seldom follow anyone into town and it's even more unlikely that anyone follows us.
This morning, however, someone did follow us. Actually, this driver wasn't so much following, but tailgating. Considering I was already driving five over, I was none too happy to see in my rear-view mirror, the driver sighing impatiently and shaking his head. I double checked to make sure that this fella wasn't a volunteer firefighter/ambulance responder, but he didn't have a flasher going and he was so close I couldn't see his front license plate.
About this time, Violet starts calling, "Look, mommy! My shoe is not tied!" After the fifth time, I answered, "Violet, mommy cannot tie your shoes while she's driving."
"Mommy, just look! Please look! I not tie my shoes. Please, look?"
Normally I wouldn't consider a quick glance into the backseat a driving hazard, but the driver behind me was closing the very small gap between our cars. I lifted my foot from the accelerator to slow down as we exited a "no passing" zone, hoping that he would pass me. I saw him make that ultimate of impatient driving gestures, the Steering Wheel Pound. And yet he would not pass me.
"Mommy! Mommy! Please, my shoe! Mommy! Look!"
"Violet, mommy can't look right now. There is a bad driver behind us and I need to be safe."
Just then, the exasperated driver decided to FINALLY pass me. Finally. Not like we were a quarter of a mile past the end of the double yellow lines or anything. Sheesh...
Milo observed, "Hey, the bad driver is in front of us now! You can see Violet's shoes!"
And I glanced back to see that Violet, had, just as she said she had, untied her pink tennis shoes. "I can't tie them when I'm driving, sweet pea, so let's sing some songs instead!" She readily agreed and we all happily sang along to the Phineas and Ferb soundtrack. "He's Perry... Perry the Platypus (You can call him Agent P)."
We pulled up to the railroad crossing just as the end of a long train was clearing the intersection. Who was in front of us, having likely watched the entire train go by? Mr. Patience himself. I guess it was worth tailgating a mother and her two small children to get to watch more of the train, huh?
In fact, we rarely meet any traffic on our way in most mornings. It's probably because most families are a little better about getting out of the house on time than we are. Occasionally we'll pass someone going the other direction, but we seldom follow anyone into town and it's even more unlikely that anyone follows us.
This morning, however, someone did follow us. Actually, this driver wasn't so much following, but tailgating. Considering I was already driving five over, I was none too happy to see in my rear-view mirror, the driver sighing impatiently and shaking his head. I double checked to make sure that this fella wasn't a volunteer firefighter/ambulance responder, but he didn't have a flasher going and he was so close I couldn't see his front license plate.
About this time, Violet starts calling, "Look, mommy! My shoe is not tied!" After the fifth time, I answered, "Violet, mommy cannot tie your shoes while she's driving."
"Mommy, just look! Please look! I not tie my shoes. Please, look?"
Normally I wouldn't consider a quick glance into the backseat a driving hazard, but the driver behind me was closing the very small gap between our cars. I lifted my foot from the accelerator to slow down as we exited a "no passing" zone, hoping that he would pass me. I saw him make that ultimate of impatient driving gestures, the Steering Wheel Pound. And yet he would not pass me.
"Mommy! Mommy! Please, my shoe! Mommy! Look!"
"Violet, mommy can't look right now. There is a bad driver behind us and I need to be safe."
Just then, the exasperated driver decided to FINALLY pass me. Finally. Not like we were a quarter of a mile past the end of the double yellow lines or anything. Sheesh...
Milo observed, "Hey, the bad driver is in front of us now! You can see Violet's shoes!"
And I glanced back to see that Violet, had, just as she said she had, untied her pink tennis shoes. "I can't tie them when I'm driving, sweet pea, so let's sing some songs instead!" She readily agreed and we all happily sang along to the Phineas and Ferb soundtrack. "He's Perry... Perry the Platypus (You can call him Agent P)."
We pulled up to the railroad crossing just as the end of a long train was clearing the intersection. Who was in front of us, having likely watched the entire train go by? Mr. Patience himself. I guess it was worth tailgating a mother and her two small children to get to watch more of the train, huh?
Monday, February 22, 2010
Kissing Monday
Why, hello, Monday! You snuck up on me, there...
It was a pretty good weekend around our house, save for a coughing boy, a barfing dog, and that I ran out of time to clean anything, sigh...
Well, OK, we did get the laundry done and mostly put away. I have a basket of towels that has been in my family room for so long that I'm afraid to move it, lest I awaken all of the wildlife that has taken up residence in the cool confines under the basket. It's been there over a week -- long enough for moss to start growing on the northern side.
Scott and the kids made a snowman, the first snowman on our new yard. It's cute because instead of facing the road to greet people driving by, it's facing the walk to the driveway to smile at us as we come and go. There's not enough traffic for it to have much of an impact on our neighborhood (which consists of us and the guy next door). The kids had fun building it and I did snap a few pictures before I went to rehearsal last night.
Rehearsal went pretty well. I've got some memorization to work on, but I am feeling pretty good about how the scene is going. It appears that I am no longer scaring the poor gay man I have to kiss, but I'm also not "feeling" the kiss, either. Must do some work there to make it seem like we've known each other for longer than four hours as we're a couple fighting after 9 years of marriage. Gonna have to see what I can do to make that more real...
I have to admit, that before I was married I was a "social kisser." As in I would kiss pretty much anyone for any reason, particularly if there was alcohol involved. So kissing someone onstage isn't a big hairy deal for me. In fact, it was the thing in the script about which I worried the least. My character is, on paper, a crazy shrew of a woman. Screaming, beating up a teddy bear, that kind of stuff. The real challenge is finding a way to make her somewhat likable so that people aren't turned off entirely -- no one wants to watch even 8 minutes of mean harpy lady. Working on it...
It was a pretty good weekend around our house, save for a coughing boy, a barfing dog, and that I ran out of time to clean anything, sigh...
Well, OK, we did get the laundry done and mostly put away. I have a basket of towels that has been in my family room for so long that I'm afraid to move it, lest I awaken all of the wildlife that has taken up residence in the cool confines under the basket. It's been there over a week -- long enough for moss to start growing on the northern side.
Scott and the kids made a snowman, the first snowman on our new yard. It's cute because instead of facing the road to greet people driving by, it's facing the walk to the driveway to smile at us as we come and go. There's not enough traffic for it to have much of an impact on our neighborhood (which consists of us and the guy next door). The kids had fun building it and I did snap a few pictures before I went to rehearsal last night.
Rehearsal went pretty well. I've got some memorization to work on, but I am feeling pretty good about how the scene is going. It appears that I am no longer scaring the poor gay man I have to kiss, but I'm also not "feeling" the kiss, either. Must do some work there to make it seem like we've known each other for longer than four hours as we're a couple fighting after 9 years of marriage. Gonna have to see what I can do to make that more real...
I have to admit, that before I was married I was a "social kisser." As in I would kiss pretty much anyone for any reason, particularly if there was alcohol involved. So kissing someone onstage isn't a big hairy deal for me. In fact, it was the thing in the script about which I worried the least. My character is, on paper, a crazy shrew of a woman. Screaming, beating up a teddy bear, that kind of stuff. The real challenge is finding a way to make her somewhat likable so that people aren't turned off entirely -- no one wants to watch even 8 minutes of mean harpy lady. Working on it...
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