MommyCoddle

The long way home

There's a road the girls and I travel pretty often around here. We call it "taking the long way home".

In the humid, unbearable days of summer, I've been known to pack the girls in the car for a chance to sit in the cool of the air conditioning for a few minutes. Cooling our bodies, renewing my sanity, we'd take the long way home. 

In the fall, we'd take the long way home--an excuse to escape through the woods and note the changes in the colors of the trees. After a storm, we'd take the long way home--to see how high the stream got. 

The road is mostly unpaved, winds along the creek and is tented in trees. It passes by the farm where Emma rides each week. And takes a sharp turn at the edge of a hill that I've heard my grandfather refer to as the best view in the county. 

After so many trips down this road, the girls and I have each sort of chosen a house along the way that's our favorite. Elizabeth loves one that "needs some work." Because she likes to work. Emma's picked one with plenty of room for horses. And secretly, I have this little favorite one, too. 

A white house with green shutters that sits way back off the road. You can't see much of it from the road, but I've always felt like it looks like something set in a dfferent time, a different place. It's been my favorite all along. 

At the beginning of this summer that house became empty. The husband and wife that lived there for years, passed away. The rest of the family was ready to let it go. And through connections and family and God's good grace, that little house, that favorite of mine, found it's way into our little family. 

The process has been a long one. Since the beginning of summer we've been talking and waiting, planning, then waiting. There were long conversations leaning against fence posts. And in parking lots of the convenience store at the corner. Things to arrange. Ideas to throw around. Hurdles to overcome. And lots and lots of waiting.

And then that same week that we were dealing with the stress and sorrow of the rabies incident, it all fell through. We had to walk away. And honestly, I was pretty devastated. It had been such a long road. I thought we were so close. And then everything fell apart. But I had to trust that there must be something else. And that this was the right thing to do. 

But something about the walking away turned everything around. And within weeks there were a few more conversations and a handshake and here we are...we're leaving Thomas Run and moving a stone's throw away, to that house I've always loved.

The local history books tell us it's name is Woodlawn. It smells like my grandmother's house and reminds me of the home I grew up in. In its day it was immaculate. Turns out my grandfather played tennis on the courts there (now buried under grass) with Monroe, whose silver tennis trophies covered almost every bookcase in the house. And family friends used to go there to play bridge. And Emma went there with our neighbor once to collect a load of hay. Today, Woodlawn needs some love and attention. But her bones are beautiful.

I've been waiting a long time to share this news. I suppose after such a long, emotional journey to get to this place it's still hard to let myself believe this is really happening. But with paint colors picked and a gutted kitchen and boxes being packed, it seems as though it's really happening. And my heart, that I've been holding close despite it's thumping in my chest with excitement, can finally be let go.

We've found the long way home, indeed. 

I declare

I've declared this week to be the week of good things. Things that are uplifting and happy. Behind the scenes, we're hanging in there. The outpouring of encouragement from all of you has been amazing. Even yesterday, when I posted this little shot on Instagram of all of us, while hanging out in the ER waiting for our next dose of the vaccine, it was flooded with good thoughts and wishes, and "I wish I could come out there and buy you all a milkshake!" But the good news in all this is one more round to go! And to quote Elizabeth, "Then I can finally get back to a normal life!"

In the meantime, a few good things around the webby-web-web:

Probably the only time in my life that my name will appear in the same article with Brooke Shields, Gwyneth Paltrow, Tom Cruise and Alanis Morrissette....and proof that among mothers, some things know no bounds of language, race, location or income. We all need to ask for help when we need it.

Something about this post hit me in a good spot this week.

This place is always light, fresh, inspiring (and good for my french).

I'm pretty sure warm bread makes everything better, right? This week, probably this one.

I think my girls have earned some of these to stitch on their sleeves.

And tomorrow, another good thing to share with you that gets me all itchy to have the girls back home...

xo, friends. and thank you.

molly

 

 

hello, girls

There's an old VHS video clip I have of my grandmother, walking out to her sheep in the pasture, "Hello, girls." she calls to them in that voice I miss hearing. Immediately, they respond--a mix of warbled baa's from lambs who have their lips pressed to the earth ripping out clumps of grass and others strong and clear who already noticed her coming. Deep throaty baa's of mama ewes who know her voice so well.

My first lamb, when I was eight years old, came from my Grandmother's flock of Hampshires, Dorsets and Southdowns. I remember well, picking out Buttons that day. I picked him not because he was going to win blue ribbons in my first county fair, but because he came up to me and started nibbling and tugging at the hem of my sweater. He had been one of her bottle-fed projects. Now he would ride home with me purely for the fact that we'd become immediate friends. Standing in that barn while sheep and lambs swirled around us and a border collie crouched anxiously outside the gate.

For the next ten years I would show lambs in 4-H and state fairs. We'd win some years. Other years we'd learn lessons the hard way--like never tie your lambs to Japanese Ewe bushes while they wait in line to be sheared. All will be lost.

When I would graduate and go off to college, my mother would still keep a few lambs on the farm. She loved them as much as we did. She was the sheep lady whenever she'd speak at churches, garden clubs, and women's groups.

But eventually, the farm would be sold. I'd get married. And have children of my own.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, maybe the back of my heart, I'd dream and hope for the day, when things would fall in to place again. When the time would come again, when my children would get their first lambs.

Once we moved to Thomas Run, I'd try to figure out ways to make it work. Ways to afford the fencing we didn't have anywhere. The buildings we'd need, that didn't seem to exist.

Then a pony would come in to the picture and horse fence would go up. Fence that wouldn't work for lambs. And I thought maybe we'll end up being horse people. Maybe lambs won't be their thing. The pony was definitely meant to be.

My husband, who likes to remind me of how I should just trust him on this, has always said that I need to just sit back and wait. That the right things, at the right time, will fall into our laps. The doors will open when we're ready. When the time is right. We needent force anything.

So I sat back. And waited. Sometimes I let it go. Other times a sight or sound or memory would make me want to work and work to make lambs happen again.

But then, in a matter of weeks, the door would open. Out of nowhere. I'd look at a building on our farm in a completely different way and suddenly see potential. I'd get drawn into a conversation at a 4-H meeting that would get me thinking. I'd make one mention of it out loud, that I almost didn't say, because it just seemed too impossible to admit. 

Then, there'd be an email. 

And here we are a few months later. 

I waited. Not always patiently, I admit. But now it's here. It's happening. And it couldn't have arrived in any better of a package. At any more perfect of a moment. 

I am in love. We all are.

Hello, girls. Hello.

7 lovely things

Good morning and Happy Valentine's my friends. Oh, I missed this place. I'm completely procrastinating on things like laundry and school work and showers and a huge mess in the kitchen from pink chocolate chips pancakes. But, it's been too long. So, hello. How about a list this morning, shall we?

1. I cashed in on my Christmas present this past weekend. A girls weekend away with two of my bestest cousins. We had grand plans of doing important things like historical tours and traditional working-farm visits--but it happily and comfortably turned into lounging and knitting in hotel rooms, long dinners out and antique shopping. It was perfect. And while, you know, I fought that mama-guilt about being away, it was such a good weekend. So so good. I have made it official that my husband can give me the same gift every year.

2. Do you see this aisle of goodness I stumbled upon in the very back of one shop? I may have had trembling hands when I took this picture.

3. First tractor-driving lessons with her great uncle. The report is that she's a pro and only stalled it out once. Learning to drive a tractor is on my to-do list. I think she just beat me to it. When asked if she wanted to trade in her pony for a tractor, we only got a roll of the pre-teen eyeballs.

4.  My new favorite and also perfect Valentine's listening: Us & Our Daughters (with a hat tip to my music soulmate. You know who you are.) On their site they share that last year was a tough year for them and their love. But they took to songwriting as their therapy. It pulled them through and this album is the fruit of that time. It's beautiful. 

5. Some love of the 4-hooved variety.

6. This knitted lovely is going in the queue. 

7. Some love it's good to remember.

xo.

Molly

farriers & angels

When Ariel came under our care one of the first things we had to tackle was dealing with some of her drastic weight loss. We'd come to find out that she had Lymes Disease (ironically, so did Emma. Doubly ironic, they're on the same antibiotic), and another illness called Cushings Syndrome that was pretty rare for a pony of her age. 

So every day, along with her grain she gets 40 pills to deal with the Lymes (Aren't you glad you don't take pony-doses of medicine??!) and a liquid medicine by mouth. And I watch in awe as Emma administers it. Slipping an arm over her head, reaching her finger in her mouth to pull out any grass or hay and squeezing in a dose of medicine, that the pony hates. I don't get involved, because if I did, Ariel would know something was up. It's better to keep things calm and relaxed so she doesn't get worked up. 

And now the improvements in Ariel are really starting to show up. She's losing her bony look, there's even the bulge of some muscle in her back end, and we can tell--by the new spunky side she's showing--that she's feeling better, too. 

Last week, Ariel had her first farrier visit here at our house. Brooke, who, along with her husband, is the farrier at the barn where Emma rides, Ariel's temporary home before she moved here--showed up to take care of Ariel's hooves. 

It's a pretty neat process to watch. 

And Brooke's encouragement about Ariel's progress and how she just "looked happy and content" is always good to hear.

It's funny, through the big decision of taking Ariel and the learning curve (mostly mine) of having a pony under our care, I have felt more than ever that so many people are on our side. That people are rooting for us, helping us, supporting us. 

Last week, I got an email about Ariel's vet bill. The bill was a doozy. A horse-sized bill that makes one sputter and gasp just a bit. But I also knew this was part of the package. In that email I found out an "anonymous angel", who read my blog post about bringing Ariel to our home, had covered almost all of the bill. People are amazing.

God is good.

I just keep thinking for all the years of wishing and wanting and hoping that went on before Ariel was even a possibility, that patience and trust really pay off. When I get anxious about things, or want to force them to happen, my husband often reminds me to take the approach of waiting and knowing that the right doors will open. At the right time. We could have forced this pony thing to happen, or the fencing, years ago.

But we didn't.

And when the right door opened, there we were with open arms, ready to answer. 

the new calm

Last Tuesday marked the Offical First Day of homeschool for us.

I love the start of a new school year in the same way I love January first. The fresh start. Time to make new plans, new resolutions. Time to get organized and simplify. (An excuse to buy a new calendar, moleskine and favorite pens .)

But last Monday, as the "first day of school" loomed ever closer, I was a crazed madwoman. I felt this pressure to have everything in place before the Big First Day. I needed every detail worked out and decided. I needed to have every paper copied, every hole punched, every note read. 

On top of that, I needed my house to be perfect. Clutter gone. Floors mopped. Floorboards wiped. Closets cleaned out. Every speck of laundry washed, folded and put away. (that never happens.) One would think I was preparing for a real estate open house, or perhaps, to have the queen for tea. A tea in which she also happened to open every closet door and inspect under my bed. 

No, silly, it's just the first day of school. 

I don't know where it was coming from, but there it was--a suffocating feeling that this was my last chance to get everything together. That if it wasn't done by bedtime Monday, it was doomed to never be accomplished. Ever. Apparently my life, as well as my ability to accomplish any mothering task outside of the classroom was somehow going to cease the moment I slipped back into my teacher-mama clothes. 

But then, hallelujah, in a moment, sitting on the edge of the tub watching a chubby baby splash carelessly in the bubbles, it struck me. That this craziness was nonsense. Big time. That I needed to move forward at my own pace. That I needed to find MY rhythm. Our rhythm. 

I've often heard it said (okay, really only once, but I remember it often) that when a person starts their own business they must prepare themselves for the fact that it takes a good five years before they really have their feet under them. 

And I've always found myself applying the same logic to homeschooling. 

Last year, I wholeheartedly jumped in to a curriculum that was going to give me the structure and discpline that I felt our days so desperately needed. I wanted someone to tell me exactly what to do. I wanted a plan and a vision. I wanted to get on a path and systematically walk my way down it.

This year because of budget and because of the way that path seemed to go up a really steep hill at the end, and we got really tired and burned out, I decided to bag it. 

Instead, I consulted a good friend who knew me and my children and my needs pretty well. And who also happened to be educated and gifted in curriculum design. 

And late one night I sat in her little school room, at a tiny little kid-desk, and together we hammered out my year and figured out what seemed to fit just right. 

But what fits even more, is the sentiment behind everything we're doing. It's the new calm. 

That first day, we just jumped in. Instead of feeling the tug of the clock, we tackled bedrooms and laundry before we opened any books. It felt good to work to the hum of the washing machine running upstairs. And the sloshing of the dishwasher from the pantry. Instead of feeling the push to tackle lessons in every subject, I just let it be. We did Math, until Math was done. We read, until we didn't want to read anymore. When we got hungry, we ate. When it seemed like a good time to go check the pony, she did.  When there was an itch to practice piano, we scratched.

It's funny, how much we got accomplished. How nice the day felt. How good it is let go. How comfortable it is to seek out our rhythm versus some contrived and conceived pressure from who knows where. 

If only I would learn this lesson I apparently need to learn multiple times in this parenting journey. That so much of this happens naturally. We don't have to work so hard at it. Yes, it's work. But we're doing it. Naturally. There's goodness and learning and priceless, indespensable moments and experiences happening in every single day. Homeschool mom. Public school mom. Private school mom. It doesn't matter. It's happening for all of us. 

It's the trusting enough to let go. It's the freedom to find your own rhythm. It's the new calm. It blows through every day, if we'll only take a moment to feel it brush against our cheek. 

joy in the sorrow

Last May, I shared about the passing of my friend and neighbor, Sarah. 

But one thing I didn't tell you in that story was my last "conversation" with Sarah before she died. 

Just days before, she sent me several messages through twitter (of all places) curious to know if we had any interest in her pony, Ariel. 

If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know that my daughter Emma is a horse girl. From her depths, the girl loves horses. Childhood "passions" come and go, but Emma's love of horses has only grown deeper roots in her little heart. 

She has been riding and taking lessons since we moved back to Maryland. I watch this video of her, four years ago and I am reminded that she has been waiting for "a pony of her own" for quite a long time. 

But a pony is no small commitment. If I had a dollar for every time I answered the question, "When do you think I'll be ready for a pony of my own?", I'd have enough dollars for seven ponies by now. Aside from being old enough for a pony, or having enough know-how, the big, glaring issue was right outside my kitchen window. 

A farm with no fencing. 

You can ask any of my close friends to know that I've been trying to figure out ways to get this little farm of ours started, to find the money in our squeezed-tight budget for fencing. (It is SO expensive!) Should I do something on kickstarter? Should I get a job? Should I make stuff and sell it on etsy?

Meanwhile, I'm telling my anxious daughter that some day the time will be right. Pray, I say. God knows your heart. And He already knows the perfect pony for you. And He knows when the time will be right. 

I often needed to remind myself of the same things. 

When Sarah sent me those series of messages, asking if we were interested, something jumped in my heart. 

Little did she know, that many of our errands brought us driving right past her house. That Emma would often get quiet in the back seat, hiding her tears--not just for a pony, but for Ariel. "She's the perfect pony for me. I don't think they have anyone riding her right now. Do you think they'd ever sell her?"  And I'd give her my same words of wisdom, which by now she could probably recite to me by heart. Pray. Wait. When the time is right....

That morning, when Sarah asked me, I immediately got on the phone with Dan. Teary, nervous. I had no idea that Sarah was just days from the end of her fight, but I knew this was one of those things she needed to settle. 

Dan simply said, "Tell her yes. We'll just have to figure the rest out."

We didn't tell Emma anything. The heartbreak if anything fell through would have been horrible. 

The man who owns the barn where Emma has been riding for the last several years said to bring Ariel there. She could stay until we were ready. For free. A gift.

But for a handful, Emma spent every morning this summer at the barn--taking care of Ariel, learning from the wonderful people who work and board their horses there, from my stepmother, who has taught her everything she knows. 

Eventually, with all this planning and fussing, she began to put the pieces together. 

"Is Ariel going to be mine?" 

Finally, last week, in the middle of the aftermath of Hurricane Irene, Ariel arrived home. 

By perfect timing (and God'd faithfulness to Emma's prayers, I believe) we found the funds for fencing. While we were in Virginia, a team of Amishmen descended on our farm and installed it.

Everything has come together. The timing is finally right. 

And there, in the midst of the sorrow of losing Sarah, is the big, bright glow of joy. She's sitting bareback on a pony grazing in my back yard. 

 

for the ones you love

Last weekend, while I was in Bellport, I got some hard family news. My brother found out that he had melanoma on his cheek. A tiny, almost insignificant spot, smaller than the end of a pencil eraser. The first thing my sister and mother said to me was "Don't google it." For many people, the outlook with this type of cancer is grim. 

The news really threw me for a loop. Surrounded by family that weekend and trying to digest what I was hearing, the fear of the unknown, really put a heaviness in my heart. I fought back tears the whole weekend and into the coming week.

Surgery was scheduled for last week and then the waiting game began as we all waited to hear if the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes that they also removed. 

When my mother called me on Friday, she was crying. But it was tears of relief. God is good. It did not spread. The doctor was confident he removed all the melanoma. Radiation will follow, but mostly as a precautionary measure. 

Last week, I made an appointment to see a dermatologist. I carry the "red hair gene" which makes me 4x more likely to get melanoma. 

One bad sunburn before the age of 18, doubles your chances. I've had a few of those. 

I write this post today, not to scare or be overly dramatic but mostly because I wanted to share. And I wanted to share a video that my brother's wife sent to me. Please take a moment to watch it for me. Follow the links, and stay informed, for all the ones you love. 

lessons in mass

We went to Easter Mass this morning. Actually, our family is not Catholic, but often times we run pretty close and feel pretty content among the liturgy and ceremony. On these holiest of holy days, we enjoy the pomp and circumstance, and often find ourselves walking through the doors of my grandmother's catholic church. 

As I sat there this morning, wrangling a squirming baby, watching families file in, searching for enough seats together in a row, I enjoyed seeing the blending of generations. The constant whine of a baby somewhere in the church, the chatter of teenagers, the dainty nose-blow of the petite old lady in front of me.

It is something we don't get enough of. This mixing. This being together, shoulder to shoulder with someone half or twice our age. We have so much to learn from each other.

But the longer I sat there, and the more time I had to people-watch, I was struck by the teens and younger people around me. I watched the boy in front of me, blasting through levels of a snowboarding game on his phone. I watched the girl in the pew just down from our family, aimlessly scrolling her thumb back and forth across screen after screen of iphone apps while she uncomfortably glanced around the church and bobbed her crossed leg. 

A boy across from me was sending a last-minute text. 

Beside him a lady, greying and old, sat. And did nothing. She flipped through the missal, smiled at people as they found their seats, stared up at the light streaming through the stained-glass windows. 

Another man, closer to the front was kneeling, head in his hands. Doing what I imagine was quieting his heart and mind for the coming celebratory service. 

And it occured to me, in those moments how nice it must be to be part of that generation. To not be bogged down and distracted by apps, and texts, and emails. To be completely unavailable for whole chunks of time. To have no anxiety over what you're missing while you're "away". No worry that someone may have wanted you and you weren't there to answer the call. To have no other "world" to check in to. To be fully present in the life you are living. 

The truth is, our reality is much different than theirs. And for most of us, life requires us to be connected in some way. And for many of us, this connecting is completely enjoyable and good. But just for a moment, don't you ever wish you could turn it all off? And just experience life that much more simply? To know what it's like to be unavailable, and undistracted?

There is something to be learned, I believe. If nothing else, those moments in the pews reminded me to take chunks of time and turn off. To disconnect. And as overused as the saying is, to be more present.  

And like the incense of the Easter Mass that clung to our clothes as we left the church, I hope this lesson clings to my heart and mind as I step back into my life this week. 

livin' on love

I'm singing the same old, tired tune I've been singing on and off for what feels like years, "money's tight". We sit and talk about all the "unexpected" things, the fuel bills that make me cringe every time I hear the thud of the furnace kicking on under my feet in the dark, damp basement, the repairs, the bills...blah, blah, blah. Blech.

We are fortunate though. We are blessed. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

But for now, we are having to cinch our belts so tight, it is sometimes painful. 

As the main spender in this family, the person who basically controls where, when, how and on what our money is used, I've had to step up and tighten my belt the most. 

And so, the grocery budget is the primary place that I've made major changes. 

To be honest, I can't even remember the last time I went to the grocery store and did a major, formerly-typical shop. I think it was sometime around new year's day. I have been forced to get seriously creative in the kitchen. If I've been to the store, I've been able to carry all my purchases in, with one trip. No loading, unloading, unpacking.

I am using what I have on hand.

I am digging deep, very deep into my pantry shelves.

I'm pulling out cans and boxes and bags of things that I usually pass by and am "not in the mood" for. 

I've forced myself to figure out how to cook up cuts of meat that have been sitting in the bottom of my freezer, looking at me with intimidating eyes.

I've found forgotten goodness stashed in bottom freezer drawers, in the backs of cupboards.

I've discovered that if we want it, oftentimes, I can make it from scratch. Soft pretzels? I have a recipe for that. Warm rolls? I can handle that. Cereal? How about a batch of granola?

I've learned to make the mundane special. Candles at dinner. Cream for oatmeal (again) in tiny pottery pitchers. Dinner tables set with nice dishes and linens.

I've learned to use less meat. To use it for flavor and protein instead of bulk. 

I've learned to make my grocery list and then examine it again. What really is necessity?

I've learned that flour, sugar, butter, milk, cheese, eggs and beans go a long way for a little money.

I've learned that we really need a milk cow.

I've learned (again) that soup makes a great meal and can have so many variations it doesn't get old. Especially with good homemade bread or biscuits.

I've learned that if you let your children get hungry enough, everything looks and tastes good to them!

It's funny, when we first were married, my husband was the best person to cook for. He'd moan and groan and 'ooh' and 'aaah' about my cooking. But over the years, his exclamations have quieted a bit. (He forgets how good he has it.)

But these past few weeks, when we are eating on a shoestring, when I'm putting together meals that are made up strictly from the things I'm finding in my cupboard, those moans and groans have returned. When things are pieced together, whipped up with less, suddenly everything tastes really good. And I have to admit, I've made some pretty good meals, I might even dare to say a few of our best. We sit down at the table and say, "Look what we did with almost nothing!"

I've pushed myself. I've changed my perspective. When I go to the store--we still need milk, cream for coffee and some fresh fruit and veggies now and then--I look at what I buy so differently. Before I buy something I think about how flexible it is, how many meals I can get out of it, how far I can stretch it. 

But don't be fooled, it isn't this daily great experience. I don't go skipping into my kitchen each afternoon, ready to tackle another creative dinner. There are days I'd trade my youngest child for takeout. (kidding! she's too cute and she doesn't add much to the grocery bill.) There are days I stand in front of my open cupboard doors and want to scream, "I'm so sick of this!!!!!!" But in general, I've been up for the challenge. 

I don't know how much longer we'll need to live like this. The state of our cupboards, freezer and refrigerator is pretty Old Mother Hubbard-ish. Eventually, I'll need to replenish. But like I said, there is light at the end of the tunnel. But I need to hang on for a little bit longer.

The good part of all this, is that I feel like my perspective has changed. I've learned a lot about my grocery shopping habits. I've learned that I can do a lot with less. I've learned that we can survive. 

And I've learned that we are rich in so many other ways.

motherhood

With all the baby talk around here, it seemed somewhat appropriate that this mama would drop her calf yesterday morning, just inside the fence on the edge of our property. She belongs to our neighbor, but my girls "adopt" these calves as if they were our own. 

There was much concern over this calf. Lots of checking in. Lots of reports coming in to me in the house. And a handful of stern warnings from me about nervous mama cows who need to protect their new calves. And the flimsy piece of barbed wire standing between you and that mama.

The patient nudging of this mama cow reminded me of where I was last week in my feelings about motherhood. I found myself in another season of feeling at the end of my rope. Feeling like nothing I was saying or doing was making a difference. Feeling like I somehow was failing at guiding my children in the right direction. Feeling like none of my children were inherently wanting to make the right and good decisions. Feeling like I had a house full of attitudes, that unfortunately and embarrassingly, probably matched my own. 

I shot an email to my husband at work -- what do I do? How do I handle this? What should I say to them? 

He gave me a few ideas. But a few minutes later he wrote me another email. Just remember, he said, it takes a long time to train a child. It’s like doing the dinner dishes. I get upset at the girl’s lack of attention but they are slowly (very slowly) getting better. It will take time for them to get in the habit of doing the job with the right amount of focus. Then it will take a while for them to learn how to do it right. Then it will take a while for them to anticipate what comes next so I won’t have to tell them. But this all takes time.

I keep reminding myself of that first and last line. It takes a long time to guide and train my children. This all takes time. 

Telling them once, doesn't equal a change in heart or an automatic change in the way they do things. They need to be reminded. Reminded again. Taught. Shown. Guided. Encouraged. And reminded again. 

Change comes. But it often comes slowly. Much more slowly than I'm willing to allow. But it does come, and is coming, if I look closely. 

If I give up, get frustrated, get angry, then no one is learning anything except the wrong way to handle a situation that requires resilience and endurance. And I wonder why I'm not seeing any change.

But the changes are there.

They're not leaving the sofa cushions on the floor when they're done.

The boots are (generally) making it back into the boot box.

She's trying to walk away from the situation instead of reacting in anger.

They're drying the dishes without complaining and reminding.

She's talking it out with her sister, before raising her voice. Sometimes.

This all takes times. 

It is the mantra that breathes an extra portion of patience into my mothering. 

weathering the storm

Stuck to my fridge are two sheets of paper ripped out of a spiral notebook. They are scribbled with notes and words, addresses, appointment times. Some scary words that I don't want to think about. Some possible procedures and roads that I hope we don't have to travel down. 

Without getting in to a lot of the details, every day last week found us in another doctor's office or lab. We are trying to piece together some of Mary's medical history and make sense of what might be the root of some of her troubles. The migraines. Some issues with her feet. The Lyme's Disease.

It's funny, but I find that I'm not overly worried yet. At least I don't think so. But I'm anxious for answers. Tomorrow we head to John's Hopkins to see a few specialists. I'm grateful to have such great medical care at our back door. 

But I would be lying to say that all of this isn't weighing me down. The back and forth to doctor's offices. Mary's deep fear of each new person we see, each blood test we have to take. It's agonizing. Even things like when do you fit in the grocery shopping? suddenly become extremely complicated issues.  

On Friday, I felt myself snap. All these worries, and exhaustion and back and forth suddenly came spilling out as I found myself lashing out at my children. It was totally uncalled for. It really had nothing to do with the problem at hand but had everything to do with my need to relieve some of the pressure bubbling up inside me. 

After sitting at the kitchen table alone for awhile, letting some of it go, I finally got up, took a breath, found them and apologized. On the outside, I was better, I was okay, but this aching funk still lingered on the inside.

It seems my first reaction in these kinds of moments, days, weeks is to walk away from this blog. It feels like the last thing I could muster up are words. I'm good at learning lessons and reflecting after the days have passed, but when I'm in the thick of it, I don't want to talk about it or think about it. But these days have got me thinking about what exactly it is that pulls me out of these funks. How do I shake the cloud hanging over my head?

I still don't know the full answer. 

But one thing I do know, is that there is healing and relief in writing it down. There is value in telling your story. There is comfort in putting words and sentences together, even if it is only a few. 

There is something about writing it down that sheds light on the situation -- whether it is a lesson learned, a new perspective or a releasing of some of that pressure. 

And still, still, in the midst of all of this, there is still so much to be grateful for. As I sit here at my desk and the sunset is hitting the cornfields and the little stone church across the road, after a day of grey and clouds, the light is already changing. 

2009 : in photos + words : april

: 26 april 2009 :

| Grateful To The Last |

I hold those two years we lived on her farm close to my heart. I find myself frantically searching my mind for memories, moments we shared. My family, my children became part of her routine ....

The question for the old and the dying, I think, is not if they have loved and been loved enough, but if they have been grateful enough for the love received and given, however much. No one who has gratitude is the onliest one. Let us pray to be grateful to the last. 

: 16 april 2009 :

| Black Walnut's Home Birth |

: 12 april 2009 :

| swarm and settle |

....sitting atop a grassy green hill, looking out over his field dotted with black cows and their calves. Watching the grackles swarm and then settle in a different spot in the field. Swarm and settle. Chuckling at a calf whose slipped under the fence, kicking up its heels at its freedom. Watching the collies as they work over the bulls, who are only slightly bothered by their presence ....

: 7 april 2009 :

| little mysteries |

: 5 april 2009 :

| living a complex life |

I get tired of working, working, working, and figuring out how to make work-time into family-time. I wonder if there will ever be a weekend where there isn't a major project on the agenda. 

I wonder if I'm cut out for this...

In so many words, Wendell Berry says that this life we are leading or striving for, so many people refer to as the "simple life" or "living simply". But in reality what we should be striving for "is the complex life"....

: 20 april 2009 :

| chicken picnic |

lessons from the landscape

Sometimes I wish I had it all figured out. That I'd learned all of life's lessons so that I didn't need to be taught anymore. I wish my well of patience was overflowing and that when faced with annoyances, stresses, messes, unwelcome news, I could handle it with more grace and calm.

Yesterday my car broke down.

My laptop keyboard broke, leaving me to type this post at an excruciatingly slow speed.

I missed an ultrasound appointment.

My vacuum cleaner broke.

I felt the heavy strain of the same thing that always wears on me lately.

My two year old is waking way too early, napping way too briefly, and taking way too long to fall asleep.

And my house feels dirty and disorganized.

I can hear my mother's voice in my head, "this too shall pass." And I've said to my husband many times that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, yet for some reason we're on a treadmill.

Yesterday afternoon when Elizabeth woke up from her nap, crying, I went in to hold her, hoping to lull her back to sleep. I wrapped her in quilts and we sat in the chair, in her dark quiet room. Within seconds I felt the heaviness of her little body against mine and I heard her breathing switch to the raspy rhythms of sleep.

As I sat there in the chair, I tried to talk myself out of my mood. I tried to regain perspective. I prayed. But man, I just couldn't. I so wish I could have gotten that fresh breath, that new perspective, but it just wasn't coming. And I knew that I was being faced with one of those days where every reserve of patience is required. But I was either finding my reserve empty, or I was just unwilling to dip into it.

I have to say, I'm learning as I type this post. That sometimes on the hard days it feels easier to just rage against all that's wrong in your life. It feels easier to be in a bad mood. To snap at your children. To curse the mess. To allow yourself to believe that everyone else has it all together, has everything in their house working, has every load of laundry folded and put away. But if that is the path you choose it leaves you feeling worn out, exhausted, disappointed and does absolutely nothing to change the situation.

I've been thinking lately how the view out my window has changed. In what feels like the blink of an eye, the trees have shed their leaves, the zinnias flower heads have turned brown and gone to seed. But now, with the landscape stripped bare, it is amazing what hidden beauty comes into view. The trees are littered with nests. Tiny works of woven art. If I stand in the girls bedroom and look out the window, I can see the shimmer of the sun hitting the stream that runs at the back of our property.

When stripped bare, the landscape is revealing its inner beauty. When taken back to bare bones and twigs there is still something to behold.

In a small sense, yesterday stripped me bare. Some of my leaves were blown from the tree. And unfortunately, afterward, there wasn't much beauty to behold.

But I'm still learning. I'm still a young tree. I'm growing. And maybe next time when things seem to be falling down around me, there will be a little more beauty to behold on the inside.

am I a modern mom?

Does your library have these newfangled "playaway" devices? These digital audiobook recordings that you can check out? Well, our library has recently introduced them--a hand held ipod-looking device that has a book already loaded on to it. You just plug in your earbuds and listen.

My children have been hounding me about them since the posters started going up in the library and I've really been dragging my feet. I rarely allow the girls to listen to my iPod, though they beg all the time. They have to be really sick, or really pathetic-looking in order for me to give in. Just the sight of them walking around tuned out to the world, plugged in to something else kind of gets to me. It's similar to the whole zone-out in front of the TV thing.

But last night after a homeschooling meeting at the library, I was browsing for some things to bring home to the girls, and there in front of me was the "playaway" for A Cricket in Times Square, the book Emma and I just finished reading, and another easier-read that Mary would be able to enjoy.

And I folded. I stuck those little devices in my bag and checked out.

You can imagine the squealing and excitement that "mom brought iPods home from the library!" when I arrived home last night before bed. Batteries were checked and replaced, earbuds were untangled, buttons were explained, and "ipods" were set out carefully on bedside tables for morning.

This morning, two girls emerged at my bedside, talking extremely loud with wires trailing from their earlobes. Ugh! Am I a modern mom? I don't think I'm there yet.

I'm reminded of this fantastic post by Stefani. Now I just have to think of my "hook" to bring them back to my "little house on the prairie"-fantasy world that I want to live in.

On a more serious and important note, I hope you will take a moment to check out the important NieNie Auction going on at design mom. Amy asked me to share it with all of you. She thinks highly of you all, my dear readers, and hopes you can take a moment to help out. I was unfamiliar with Stephanie's story until this week. She tugs at my heart and demands my continual prayers. Please take a look.

Wishing you a wonderful, long weekend. xo.