Kiddieland

Was fun. Way fun. 

The End.

Eve Pics

She's one happy 7-month old.

And she desperately wants to crawl.

(In due time, my dear. In due time.)

For Andrea

These pics are for my friend Andrea.

Who calls my produce pics "Food P*rn". 

Because she is in Antarctica.

And yearns for fresh produce.

And now I'll stop.

Chopping up sentences.

Aunt Becky

Aunt Becky came to visit. She's fun to play with in the rain.

Umbrella attack!

The face says it all: Aunt Bex is a hit!

Rain friends.

Eve is unsure about Aunt Becky. But she did smile for her. Just not in this pic. 

Morning Prayer

Dear God,

Let my heart be where yours is.

If your heart is telling me to call a friend, please let kiddo nap time be successful.

If your heart is telling me to be still, give the courage to do so. Even in the midst of chaos.

If your heart is telling me to release my hold on money or "organization" or any other false securities, then please give me the resolution to live with less.

Amen.

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."