The Garden

There's an old hymn, "I Come to the Garden Alone", that I have, respectfully, never understood.

For starters, the words reference "dew" and "roses" and use other word pictures that I don't typically embrace. I do like the refrain, but probably not for the right reasons: it is fun and sing-songy in that old church tent revival sort of way. I sing in an obedient I-wish-I-felt-this-song-more-deeply fashion. I see the younger crowd spout off the lyrics, but the older folk...mmmm... they are my favorite to watch. While everyone is busy singing, their eyes glass over with tears. The tune transports them to another time. They harmonize. They reach deep within their lungs and pull out their best Sunday-dressed notes. It's something to watch.

It's pretty clear to me why I have never understood this hymn. Unlike older generations who were intimate with the earth, who grew up with a little dirt under their fingernails, I am several generations away from this earth-touching population. 

I've planted herbs before in pots. That doesn't really count.

But this year, I was hit with a wave of domesticity that made me want to connect deeply with my past. I planted a garden. 

It sounds romantic to plant a garden. It has its moments. 

Purchasing seeds. Ordering yards of garden soil mix. Patting little seeds in the ground and showering them with the hose. 

To date, the garden hasn't been too much of a burden. But I haven't felt like a true gardener yet, either. I recall my mother using two hands to hold a basket pregnant with squash and beans and all manner of vegetable when she visited her garden. My garden's yield pales in comparison.

I have some leaf lettuce that is doing extremely well. The radishes are touch-and-go. But last night the kohlrabi was ready. The bulbs on this turnip-like plant were full. I reached to pull it out, and it didn't give, not at first. Looked like this was going to be a two-hander. I used both hands and gently, but firmly pulled. It yielded, along with a clump of rich garden soil. 

The one who farms for a living may find this to be old-hat, but I'm a novice and still in the garden-smitten stage. There was something so very, very satisfying about pulling up that kohlrabi. It ignited the senses. I smelled the earth as it clung to the roots. I felt the weight of the fruit ease as I shook off the extra soil. I felt the smooth skin of the kohlrabi and marveled at the many different shades of green a garden can offer. It was a sensual experience. Almost spiritual.

As I put the fruit in my harvest bowl (aka- "colander"), I walked back to the house with a feeling of immense satisfaction. I grew something. 

Months ago I bought the plants, put them in the soil that I ordered, laid them in the raised bed that my husband made and watered them. My part in the life of this kohlrabi was hardly "creator"; I'll settle for "maintainer" or "watcher". But I felt very much like a sub-creator. God allowed me to join hands with Him in bringing this kohlrabi to be in my garden. 

My, oh my.

For dinner my husband enjoyed a side dish of freshly cut kohlrabi. It was no hymn, but it transported him to his youth: He'd take a paring knife to his garden, cut fresh spring onions or kohlrabi and eat it right there with his feet still in the dirt.

The next weeks I'm waiting for something special. It's the equivalent of the grand finale fireworks on the fourth of July: the tomatoes. They're starting to turn color. 

I'm downright giddy.

Why I Should Be Your Mother

My friend "M" is about to be a mother. I'm so excited about her baby shower. She is adopting a little girl from Ethiopia. 

Thinking about "M" reminds me of my firsts as a new mother. I didn't have a lot of confidence. I compared myself a lot with others until I finally realized that I was hand-picked to be Morgan's mother. 

This is a crazy conversation I made up in my head about accepting motherhood.

______________________________

Child to be: "So, I see here from your resumé that you have no experience as a mother."

Me: "Correct. No experience."

Child to be: "Any experience as a nurse?"

Me: "Um, no."

Child to be: "Preschool teacher?"

Me: (Agitated.) "No. And while we're at it, I wasn't Mar*tha Stewart or Big B*ird."

Child to be: (Sitting back in chair): "Okay, You have no real qualifications. Why do you want to be a mother?"

Me: "Does everyone have to go through this interview? This is clearly not what I had in mind. The Baby Gap ads lead me to believe this would be a little more fun."

Child to be: (Nonplussed)  "This conversation is purely from your imagination so enough with the small talk. Pony up the info."

Me: (Thinking) "Okay, I can sew a little."

Child to be: "I'm listening."

Me: "And cook. I can cook, too. Do you like Chicken Cordon Bleu?"

Child to be: "Maybe. Sounds fancy. How do you feel about interruptions?"

Me: "Um, well, I don't like them."

Child to be: "Dirty clothes?"

Me: "(Sarcastic) They're wonderful. Where is this conversation going?"

Child to be: "Give me your day planner there."

Me:"My what? (Hesitant.)"

Child to be: "Day planner. Fork it over."

Me: "Um, okay, what are you going to..."

Child to be: "How would you feel if I poured my bottle all over it?"

Me: "Please don't." 

Child to be: "I wish I could stop, but I really can't help myself. It looks important. I know when things look important." 

Me: "My passport is in there."

Child to be: "Well, you might want to call for a new one because now your name is too blurry to read. I guess passports don't like to be wet." 

Now there is a stare-down... Child is smirking and cross-armed. I am holding my best poker face. 

Me: "You know, your dimples are really cute when you scowl."

Child to be:"My what?"

Me: "Your dimples. They look like your father's. And that way you raise one eyebrow... also like your father."

Child to be: "That has nothing to do with..."

Me: "And the way you hold pencils... I do the SAME thing. They'll try to unteach you in kindergarten, but I'm pretty sure you'll be too stubborn to listen."

Child to be: "So?"

Me: "So? Listen, kiddo... I may not have a perfect calendar with carefully thought out preschool-appropriate games and crafts. I may not feed you organic kumquats imported from South America. And chances are good that your clothes and mine will be stained for the next ten years but... what matters most is not the clock or trends or appearances. What matters is that you were put in my life. I may be far from perfect but I'm the perfect mother for you."

Child to be: "Is that so?"

Me: "Yep. Hand chosen. You're mine."

Child is pondering...

Child to be: "Well, I guess that's alright with me."

Me: "Good. Now come over here and give me a hug, you rascal."

Summer Fun

Eating popsicles on the front porch.

Baby Eve gets her first popsicle.

Sisters. *sigh*

Sugar + Eve

(And no, she's not nekkid... she has a diaper on.)

A very sticky baby wants me to pick her up.

Morgan--Growing Up

Morgan and I made a "countdown to kindergarten" decor which hangs off the mantel.

Thirty-six days to go!

Learning to scoot.

T Shirt Fun

I bought Morgan a plain tshirt and then added this fabric on top. What fun I had!

Foodie Books

I'm reading a book right now that is really popular, Julie & Jul*ia. You've probably heard gobs about it, but basically it's about a woman named Julie who discovers her mother's book by Julia Chi*ld, "Master*ing the Art of French Cooking". She decides to make every recipe in the book (524 of them) in one year. Oh, and she blogs about it along the way. I guess that's where the book comes from.

*ahem*

I'm a foodie at heart. I adore the idea of cooking through a cookbook (more on that later), so when the library told me that my copy of the book was waiting for me, I couldn't wait to get my grubby little hands on it.

Without meaning to be critical, I'm disappointed in this book. The book is quite crass at times and lacks the heart of a true foodie in my opinion. 

A little background: I read a book about Julia Child last year and was immensely impressed with her easy spirit. She seemed to have no trouble rolling up the sleeves on her large frame and telling the formidable Cordon Bleu cooking school that she was gonna learn her some cooking. Oh, and she was in her mid 30s when she discovered this new love. 

So it was with this spirit that I cracked open the beginning pages of this book and found myself in the life of someone who was not particularly a foodie so much as someone drowning in the everyday of life. And because she's bored and stressed with her New York life, she sees fit to write. I'm not finished with the book and I don't know if I will. I find myself yearning for more Julia and less Julie. 

*Let's switch gears*

That being said, Ms. Pow*ell, the author, lends a very attractive idea: cooking every recipe in a cookbook. There's something strangely interesting and ultimately obsessive about reading and doing a cookbook cover to cover and letting its author, essentially, walk with you.

I recently read a delicious cookbook called "Sweet Tea and Screen Doors" by Martha Hall Foose. It's a very approachable book. The recipes are laden with stories and tips in the margins that feel much more like a big front porch conversation than a rigorous study in southern cuisine. And the recipes I tried were, well, unforgettable. Cabbage rolls (which I made into a casserole for the sake of time) that made me cry for my momma. And real Strawberry Buttercream frosting on strawberry cupcakes that tasted like they grew on a vine. I shared them with a handful of friends and the experience of eating them with these precious few was almost religious. 

I returned the library book but I may just buy the thing. I renewed it and must've had the book for 3 months before finally admitting that others may want to read its fine contents. Rats. 

More than anything, I loved walking with Ms. Foose through her southern experience. I've been toying with the idea of making every recipe in her book. And that's saying a lot for me because one of her recipes involves turtles. In soup. 

One of these days, I may buy my own copy, hear the new spine of the book crack gently and lend its pages to my eager eyes. I'll hear her voice invite me to walk with her. I just might.

And... He Graduates

Many, many years ago, my mother and father gathered their tender flock to the living room and told them some startling news. "Your mother is having a baby, " my father began. I remember her sitting as they said this. She smiled. I can't remember our reactions as a group, but I'm sure mine was a bit of confusion (don't we have four already?) and a great deal of joy (Hooray! Babies!)

My mother confessed to me years later that baby five, baptized as Andrew Calvin but known to all of us as "Drew", was not planned. It's not that he was not wanted. He was not planned. There is a difference.

Until that point, baby number 4, "Becky" was still in her adorable, dramatic 2-year old cuteness. Our baby cravings were still satisfied by her.

When life is already quite full, it's hard to know how to let another little life squeeze into the cracks. But it happened. He happened. He came. And I'm so glad he did.

I was 12 when Andrew arrived on the scene. I was every bit the awkward, gawky girl/woman creature that being twelve allows. I wore very large glasses. I didn't really do my hair so much as untangle it every morning. I wore bright, rainbow-y colors. And that particular year, my parents had moved our abode to a more country setting where I would make new friends.

My first years in junior high give credence to all the clichés about junior high. I had a boy ask me out with one of those "check yes or no" letters. And almost every day on the school bus a gang of girls would single me out and whisper "You're ugly" the whole. Ride. Home. It was brutal. I quickly embraced every key of junior high survival by borrowing my sister's too-short-for-me skirts and donning some art supplies on my face as makeshift makeup. I needed to be loved and accepted.

So it was in this time of life that I came home from school, wondering who I was, and cuddled my baby brother Drew. I took care of him a great deal. When he cried at night, I brought him to my mother for feeding. I loved to change him and take care of him. I played with him on the floor. I loved to make him laugh. He needed me but I needed him more. Babies are very healing that way.

Additionally, Andrew was born shortly after my dear, beloved great-grandmother had died of cancer. My mother took care of her and wept deeply when she departed. The spirit of this great women would be dearly missed. Andrew provided healing there, too.

Some children are born with great, great anticipation. Some are never wanted at all, but come anyway. Andrew was the child who we didn't know we needed until he came. Against all odds, our gentle intruder became instantly fused into our crazy web of family in a way that was different from us all.

For one thing, Andrew is athletic. For those of you unfamiliar with my family, that is a stunning statement. From an early age, Andrew would watch baseball (I dunno... some kind of masculine sport?) and keep a ledger of scores and strikes. The kid could barely write, but he wrote that. He seemed to instantly understand every sport he attempted. Wrestling. Baseball. Track. He was good.

Secondly, Andrew is extremely easy to get along with. "Played well with others." That sort of thing. He could tame the wildest bunch with his easy manner. We all love him for this to this day.

Strangest to me is that Andrew has a way of setting his mind on something and running after it. His sweet nature would suggest that he doesn't have ambition. Au contraire. When he wanted a dog as a young boy, he did something about it. Some kids would just beg and whine. Not Drew. He sat for hours in the morning, pouring over books about dogs. He wrote in large, careful handwriting "Boxer", "Dalmation", "Labrador" on his long list of dog-wishes and peppered my parents with these until they finally succumbed. I can't be sure, but I think someone told me that if you pull out the "D" encyclopedia at my parent's house, it will automatically open to the dog section. He looked at it a lot. For the record, he did get his dog: a lab.

Finally, I just love my brother's heart. He loves to love others. He has a sensitive, soft heart that is fiercely protective of family and friends... and little creatures.

And this year, my dear little pipsqueak of a brother persisted in a long college journey and became-- drumroll, please-- a graduate. Somewhere between being the freckled, silly, energetic little boy who followed the older sibs around the house, he became a man.

He has his own dog now. A pitbull named Taj. And now that he's graduated, he will show this world his soft, caring heart, his fierce commitment to friends and his inability to say "it can't be done".

Congratulations, Drew.
I'm proud. And I love you.

These Days

It's 5:30 in the morning. I've been up for an hour. 

I'm normally up at 4:30 to give the baby in her bottle and put her right back to bed. 

But then I saw a great opportunity to talk to my husband; I took it. And, well, now my mind is awake. 

I want to share something really big that is happening in my life. It's something I've come to terms with but you probably aren't prepared for, so brace yourself: 

My parents are divorcing.

(I feel like there should be a great big 10 second pause here.)

I'm not saying this to make others uncomfortable or to ask for pity. I'm certainly not saying it to dishonor my parents. I've just come to terms with this terrible statement. Somehow, by saying it, I take the first step in acknowledging the truth of it, but spurning the sting of it. 

I try not to wrestle this beast because the instant I think I've got a handle on it, I realize that I've used all my strength on the equivalent of its big toe... and there's a whole lot more of it left. 

These situations never come at the right time of life, do they? I mean, this is not a good time of life for me to question the foundation of my family... not as I'm raising my little girls. 

I can think of a much better time of life for this: never. 

Never, ever. 

Not ever. 

A thousand nevers.

The end.

They have a name for adults whose parents are divorcing. They call it "Adult Children of Divorce". There must be enough people suffering from the effects of it that they should give it a nifty label like that. "I have ACD." Um, no. I will not ever say that.

For my part, I have a renewed vision to build my home into a solid place. I pray a lot. 

For me. For my marriage. For my children. 

And I roll up my sleeves a lot, too. I'm doing a heap of house projects. 

I'm sewing. 

I'm Craigs*listing. 

I'm purging. 

I'm trying not to overdo it but the truth is that purging a boat load of "blah" from my house feels as if I'm purging any bad things that might harm my own marriage or household. 

I also have this urge to be very, very domestic. I asked my friend Ann for her family pickle recipe the other day. My friend Beth offered her pickle recipe which is "very easy" and only takes a few hours to cure in the fridge. But, I told them, "I want Ann's recipe. It's one of those kinds that needs to sit in a crock for 3 days. I want the difficult recipe. I don't want it to be easy." Easy things don't last, I reason. 

At the same time, I told my husband that I specifically did not want to use his family's recipe for something (even though it might be better) because I wanted to use my family's recipe. "I guess cooking my family's recipe is my way of holding together the pieces of my past. I don't want your family's recipe for this; I need to use mine." 

It doesn't make sense here (pointing to my head), but it makes a heap of sense here (hand over heart).

Now it is nearly 6 in the morning. My husband is running on the treadmill downstairs. In a few minutes, Morgan's internal clock will tell her to get up and ask me for her morning cocoa. The day will be a series of bottle making, diaper changing and sandwich slapping. 

But sometime today I will pause and thank God for the privilege of wiping a dirty floor; I'll thank him for all the feet that make it dirty. And this evening I'll go to bed. I'll be quite tired and sleep will come quickly. But I'll be thankful. 

My Morgan

Before Eve was born, Morgan was an only child. 

This may seem like a remarkably condescending and somewhat obvious statement to make about our two children, but Morgan was a full five years old before Eve hit the scene. Try as I might to disregard well-meant comments about "How will Morgan do" (said with a slight tilt of the head for effect), when Eve was born, all these people were all right. Morgan was, as one person put it, "dethroned". 

Naturally. 

By the time Morgan was a year old, she had so many pet names that she probably didn't know her given name. 

Pumpkin. 

Lover ducky. 

Squish. 

I even called her "Ging Ging" for a while; it was a pleading sound she made as an infant as she wailed for food. 

A host of other names we had for her but I have since forgotten.

Now before Eve was born, Dan and I had the all important discussion about what to call Eve. Not what to name Eve. What to call her. 

Allow me to expound a moment:

You name your child what you want to see on fancy embossed wedding invitations. "Louis" 

You call them the name they'll keep if they're big sports stars. "Lunkhead"

You name them what you want them to be. "Felicity"

You call them what they turned out to be. "BamBam"

I've sufficiently explained. I'll continue...

As I held and fed newborn Eve, the Morgan I had known and loved became a bit ornery. In fact, when my mother came to visit and held the littlest one, Morgan threw a towel over my mother's head so she couldn't see Eve. 

Some time after Eve was born (it's all a blur, but I'll say at 2 weeks old), I couldn't find Morgan. I wanted to yell after her, but I knew she needed gentleness, so I beckoned instead, "Where's my Morgan? I miss my Morgan." 

A bashful Morgan materialized. 

I put on my biggest smile, "Oh, it's my Morgan! Hooray! My Morgan is here."

Now you can call me exaggerative, but I swear that when I used that little two letter word "my" before Morgan's name, her heart settled. She regained her place of security. If I'm honest, every time I utter that possessive word it seals her sweet spirit a little closer to mine. 

I still use it today. When she's hurt. When she's tired. I draw her close and remind her that she's mine.

My Morgan.