MommyCoddle

Little things, two of them incredibly cute

Oh, people. Remember my list of "Things That Are Stressing Me Out"? Well, last night at dinner the girls said to me, "Guess we can cross off 'check if sheep are pregnant', and 'find out what I need for lambs' birth', and 'set up lambing pens' "!

Totally unexpectedly, and probably for the best, I was greeted at my bedside very early yesterday morning by my breathless husband...."You've got lambs. Two of them!" He was on his way to work and just as he was pulling out, remembered something he forgot, and as he stepped out of the car to get it, he knew that the sounds he was hearing from the sheep shed were most definitely NOT Penny or May.

We have babies, people! 

I pulled on my boots and went out to the barn in the dark of yesterday morning to discover two sweet and still-wet baby lambs being every so carefully cared for by Penny. 

Those first few hours were nerve-wracking, I tell you. Watching them struggle to nurse and latch on. Me, lying under a very patient Penny and making sure her milk was starting, trying to direct teats into tiny mouths...(yes, I may have over-managed this a bit.), but little by little, under my nervous eyes, all is well. Though one is smaller, they both seem to be nursing. Dan and I took turns checking on them throughout the night and we made it with no problems. 

I couldn't have asked for a better mother. Penny is patient and calm and just the right amount of protective--that stamp of her foot at the cats wandering into her pen, or when too many people are visiting her, lets us know she needs her space. 

And the babies, keeping with the tradition of naming them with the same letter as their mother, are being called Pete and Paige. A boy and a girl. 

Next comes May. Maybe Penny's little ones will trigger something in her. She is definitely keeping a watchful eye on everything. 

Spring is most definitely just around the corner.

In other news....

I was most-honored to be asked to write something up for new-to-me site 3ThingsForMom. Joined by other lovely contributors like Heather of Rookie Moms and Pilar Guzman of MS Living (hello!?!) I shared my 3 things this week--a truth, a tip, and a find. I think some of you may recognize my truth. It was a lesson that needed some serious re-visiting in my life these days. Be sure to check out Lauren's lovely site. It is a well-crafted collection of mama-wisdom. 

My favorite way to procrastinate is to pour my energy into all the wrong things. Case and point, I'm about to do a major move and redesign of this blog. I'll be moving to a new host which requires pushing the figuartive "big red button" and moving my eight years of writing over to the new space. So if things look wonky or strange for a few days, bear with me. I hope to have things ironed out soon. 

We have a moving date! The Woodlawn house will be HOME beginning the weekend of March 9. Ack, just over a week away. Perhaps it's time to pick out a faucet for the kitchen sink? We're living in the land of chaos, but every time I step foot in that sweet old house, my heart thumps in my chest with anticipation and joy of calling it home. I can't wait to share more of the process and projects with all of you! 

Happy weekend. Happy March 1st. More soon....

 

Being brave when you're afraid

I'm probably not writing this post from the best of places. It's been a long, hard week. Parts of it, horrible. But other parts filled with those moments when you look at your children and admire their strength and bravery in the midst of things that are just plain hard.

I've questioned how much of this story to tell here. When we first moved back to Maryland and lived on my grandmother's farm, my uncle once said to me, "Life on a farm is tough." And indeed, we've learned that lesson many times over in our little family. 

I'll start at the beginning and share briefly without digging into the details that I've had to rehash over and over this week. 

On Friday morning, my girls were in the kitchen baking muffins for breakfast. We always leave the doors to our mudroom open during nice weather. The dog has her bed out there and we like her to be able to come and go--she's a good watch dog and always investigates anything that seems "off" around our house. 

But this Friday morning, Ruby was inside, lounging in the kitchen, most likely taking advantage of the sloppy baking going on. When Mary heard something crying, she went to the kitchen door to discover a raccoon on the mudroom. She frantically came to find me and when I discovered it, I blasted through the door to yell at it and get it off our porch. 

The worst part of all, was that the raccoon was killing our kittens, just about 8 weeks old. When I ran after it, it dropped the one in its mouth. The girls, coming out behind me, didn't realize the kitten was dead and begn to pet it to comfort it. 

Throughout the course of the rest of the day, we'd find the mother cat, badly injured, and the rest of the kittens, dead....all except for one that we named Cora. Cora was loved on and spoiled for the rest of the weekend. Her mother nursed her some, napped with her occasionally, but was pretty badly hurt and not her mothering self. But Cora was scooped up by our family, loved on, spoiled. We brought her in to the kitchen where the girls set up a special corner for her, with food and water and a pillow to sleep on. It seemed like all the grief was poured out in love for Cora, even my own sadness and disgust for all that had happened. Loving on her made everything feel okay. We had Cora. 

In the wee hours Sunday morning, I woke up with a thought that kept me from sleeping for the rest of the night. Though the raccoon on the mudroom was fluffy and healthy, it suddenly occured to me that the girls had touched the dead kitten that was covered in the saliva from the raccoon. Though they washed their hands, who knows in those minutes between if they touched their mouths, rubbed their eyes? 

Then there was the mother cat. We eventually made the decision later in the weekend to put her down. But was she injured by the raccoon? For safety reasons, we had to assume that yes, she was, and for this reason, she'd now exposed Cora, the kitten we'd been loving on all weekend. 

So with dread, I sent my pediatrician an email Sunday night, explaining the situation to her. She wrote me back right away--the girls, especially Mary and Elizabeth, who touched the dead kitten would have to be treated for rabies. And the rest of the family, would most likely have to be treated too, because of the interaction with Cora. 

So I called her husband, who happens to be our vet. Yes, our veterinarian and our pediatrican are married. I wonder what their conversations were that night around the dinner table. The vet confirmed what I worried would be true, the whole family needed to be treated. We needed to go to the ER. 

And worst of all, we had to face what needed to be done with Cora. 

So Monday morning, I spent hours on the phone, with doctors, vets, the health department...telling my story over and over. Hearing recommendations, some that completely contradicted another. I got texts on my phone from other family vets while in the ER with more questions, more possible scenarios, more recommendations. 

But rabies is something you can't take chances with. We all got treated. Though the chances our whole family was exposed to rabies is probably miniscule, who wants to flirt with the alternatives? 

Treatment for rabies involves shots, lots of them. The first day of treatment Dan and I had 8 shots, the girls had anywhere from four down to two, for Birdy. Mary and Elizabeth especially are mortified of shots. Even that description seems like an understatement. It was horrible. 

Yesterday we went back for round two. We'll go again, two more rounds to go. 

In the meantime, I feel wiped out. I feel drained. I can't finish the story, the Cora part because my kids don't know how the story ended yet. But I think that part, hurt me the most. You know? She was that one bright spot. 

But you know, my kids are amazing. Though they may buckle at times, and we've all had our moments, they are so strong and resilient. It's remarkable. They clench their teeth, they cry and ask if it could be some other way, but then they face the reality and handle it with bravery despite their fear. 

So, thanks friends, for listening to this long story. Keep our little family in your thoughts, prayers. 

xo.

 

getting the girls married

The girl sheep, that is.

Wednesday night, I kind of felt like I needed to throw a bachelorette party. After a few months of searching, and through the help of a 4-H friend we finally found suitable husband material for the sheep. Being the old-fashioned girl that I am, I've been referring to this little rendevous as taking the sheep to get married. 

Thursday morning, bright and early (and with a vomitting child to boot!) one of Dan's wonderful customers and farmer-friends showed up with his trailer and helped us load up the sheep to take them off to a breeder a few counties away. 

Danielle, who owns the ram, and I have talked on the phone several times to figure out plans for this day and for her to field a lot of my questions. Do they need to bring anything with them? An overnight bag? Toiletries? Just the sheep, she assured me. 

For the next two months, the sheep will live with their new ram friend at Danielle's farm where they will ahem, get married and (fingers crossed), pregnant. Sheep have a gestation period of about 145 days, so if all goes well, there will be new little lambs in early spring. 

Meanwhile, things seems strange around here without the girls. There were some tears at bedtime last night--worries about them in their new home. How much they are already missed. Requests to visit them next week. I have to admit, I really miss them, too. I keep looking up at the clock when it strikes five and wondering if Emma has fed them yet. And should I haul over a bucket of water? And did they romp around before you let them back into their pen? 

After dinner last night I told Dan, next year, I think we should host the wedding.

cat naps

Whirlwind

A post from Mary...

As usual, the summer is flying by. We are down to the final few weeks before we will be forced back to somewhat of a routine. And the kitchen re-do? It has kind of been at a stand-still this summer. It will get done. In time.

We survived a full eight day county fair, and actually, we are still recovering. Our fair overlapped with Molly's fair, and we probably found ourselves watching this kind of action at the same time.

There were lots of high points, like watching Abby bravely handle her big dairy steer, that weighed in at 1300 pounds.

And here, Edey winning best in show with her sweet Clementine.

And Caleb, polishing Buckley to a winning shine for the show ring.

But also the lows, as the market animals were paraded one last time in the ring, for sale to the highest bidder.

It's never easy to say goodbye to the animals we have loved the past few months. Selling the steers was hardest for all. We have had them since they were only a few days old and when they sell, they are about 20 months old. Caleb's big black dairy steer was bought by some farmer friends. And while the end plan for him is still for consumption, he has a little more than a month on their farm to relax. We went and visited him this week.

I know many of you will want to comment about this part. How do we do it? How do our kids handle it? Why are we knowingly putting our children through this? I'm here to say it isn't easy. I had a hard time with it myself as a kid. I was one of the few kids that openly cried when I had to walk my steer onto the trailer heading to the processors, and only come back to the barn with a halter in my hand. I could get emotional about it even now. It was hard.

But as I tell my kids, you have to think about the good. The fact that those little calves were spared a frightening and stressful trip to the sale barn at only a few days old. Instead, they came to us, and had a warm, clean barn and the best of care. They were loved on...scratched in all the right spots, treated with fly repellant in the summer, got to lounge under a big shade tree in the heat, never missed a meal. It was a good life. And it ended. It's just the way it is. And we will remember them. And we will start it all over again in a few months. New faces to love. New curls of hair and new spots of color to get to know. More to love, again.

 

Coming off the county fair high

I'm not even sure where to begin with this post. I think we're all still recovering from last week's hot, exhausting but oh so fun week at the fair. There are still sheep blankets and halters on my mudroom, coolers in the corner of my kitchen, extension cords in my dining room. 

From Tuesday on, it felt like we touched down at home long enough to change clothes, shower, collapse on the sofa for twenty minutes and then get back in the car and do it all over again. 

But of course, the big highlight was our inaugural year of showing lambs. 

I grew up in 4-H. Showing my sister's lambs before I was even "legal" 4-H age all the way until I became too old when I was 18. So going through this now, with my own children has been a pretty special experience. 

On Friday, Emma stepped into the showring for the first time, in a novice Showmanship class. If it was ballet or tap, I think I might be labelled as one of those "dance moms". Sitting there on the bleachers watching her show it took every once of self-control for me to not blab frenzied, whispered advice from the sidelines. I will admit to giving her a few exaggerated reminders in sign-language form to keep her eyes on the judge when her sweet wandering eyes were paying more attention to what was going on outside the ring, than in. 

But even without my frenzied coaching from the bleachers, my sweet Emma won her showmanship class. She was a pro out there. Cool and calm. Smiling. And working hard. I was proud. (And so was she.)

The hardest part of the fair, comes at the end. To clarify, the lambs Emma took to the fair, were not the girls from Sarah. These were two lambs that we got in May, raised specifically to be part of the 4-H Market Lamb project. 

I tread lightly here as I tell the rest of this story. The end of the fair for a market lamb means just that, it is time for market. Saturday night, the animals are auctioned and sold. And they don't come home. 

Emma and I had talked about this long before we made the decision to get the lambs. We talked about whether or not she could handle it. I explained to her that she was giving the lambs a wonderful home--with love, attention, care, green grass, fresh hay. A much better alternative to some generic feed lot type of existence. In the end, she decided she wanted to do it.

I admit, there were tears early on. But as summer progressed she seemed to settle in. Then the girls arrived and they soothed the concern even more. She'd always have May and Penny.

I was suprised Saturday night, as I sat in the front row of the auction how emotional the whole thing would be for me. I'm sure it was the long week of exhaustion as much as anything else. But I found myself fighting back tears for several moments. The sounds of the auctioneer. The 4-Hers walking their animals through the ring. Another mother taking pictures of her son, with his grand champion animal, getting teary-eyed behind her camera lens.

I'm sure for many people, from the outside, it seems like something too hard to handle. But I can tell you that these kids work hard and take good care of their animals. They know them. They've cared for them. If anything, it's more respectful and respectable. And the people there, the buyers, are there more for the kids and the community and the small farms than they are for the animals. Better prices can certainly be found other places. There's much more behind this sale. 

I stood outside the showring Saturday night with Emma, waiting with her for her turn to go in. Everything seemed okay, until I suddenly felt the thump of her head into my chest. And then the tears began to flow. She didn't want to do this. Lily had been so good. She had won the blue ribbon for her. She didn't want to sell her. It wasn't fair.

Of course, being the strong, calm and collected mother that I am (not really) the tears began for me, too. I remembered all of this. I had done and felt and experienced all of this as well. We talked through it again and despite wanting to snatch up that lamb and take it home with me, I sent her into the ring. Through tears she put on her smile. 

When she walked out, the lamb was sold. To our local Senator, active in our fair, our community and for our county's farmers. He was working at the auction and had been serving as a superintendent of the fair. He pulled Emma aside and told her he had a field of nine lambs, and one more would make it ten. He was taking Lily home to his farm. 

I'm convinced it was a little gift from God to Emma. A sweet blessing. 

I really can't imagine a better way for her first year to go. Her "what if I don't want to do this next year" has changed to "when we do this next year....". I'm not sure what form it will take--breeding sheep, market lambs, but we'll definitely be hanging our sign in the sheep barn again. 

As always, thanks for sharing in these stories with me, friends.

More soon....xo.

(P.S. Thank you to my cousin Katie, for being chief photographer during the show, so I could, you know, sit on the sidelines and coach.)

choring

I've been covering for Emma while she's been away at camp this week. I have to admit, I've really enjoyed taking over her usual morning tasks. She often rises before anyone else in the house and heads outside to work her way around to all the animals. All is quiet outside until the animals hear the tell-tale slam of the mudroom door. Then the whinnying and maaing begins. The barn kittens swirl around feet as you scuffle your way to the shed for their food. The pony stomps in her stall and chews impatiently at the fence. 

The 4-H lambs have learned my routine and wait at the gate to be let out for their grain, which they get outside the pen. They need to grow, my other sweet girls, need to watch their waistlines a bit. 

Birdy has become my righthand man and before I can even give her direction she's picking up green feed pans and trying to hook them on fences. Walking to the stone barn for a slice of hay. Trying to pry open the can of chicken feed. Climbing the coop steps to throw out the eggs for me. Oh yes. 

Tonight we'll pick Emma up from camp. She'll hug her baby sister and carry her around on her hip, showing her off to all her friends. She'll most likely be flippant about missing us. But tell me how much she missed her pony and how are her lambs doing? When we get home tonight, I'm pretty sure I can bank on the fact that she'll make the rounds just before bed. 

Everyone will be happy she's home. 

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.

an end and a beginning

I was planning to sit down at my computer this morning and write a post about all our goings on...

But instead I find myself sitting down at this screen with tear stained cheeks.

Emma lost her cat Henry this morning. We found him on the road in front of our house just a few hours ago. He was the cat that came with us from Wisconsin, to live in the apartment on my grandparent's farm when we moved to Maryland, and finally here to Thomas Run. He was the first of what has grown into many pets and animals and cats for our family. But he was always there. Showing up at every morning round of chores. We are so heart-broken. 

But with every end their is a new beginning.

There is a story that I have been waiting to tell all of you. Anxiously holding the news close to my heart for the last two months as details have been worked out. But I also knew that it wasn't my story to tell first. 

I hope you'll take a moment to read Sarah's words, and learn of the new and the good for our family. And what brings tears of gratitude to my eyes this morning as well. 

Sorrow and wonder, all in the same breath.

(We are heading to the ocean...Dan is caring for the animals, and diving into some variety of house projects while we are away. More from me next week.)

xo, my friends.

Molly

The second, and final, installment

The last goat kidded this week. I know that sounds like a really big goat farm, but we only have two breeding age goats. The second, and last goat, LuLu, went into labor like clock work. I read somewhere that goats tend to kid at the same time of day each year. Remembering that she had birthed in the evening last year, I wasn't surprised to see the tell-tale signs start at about 6 pm. We were all excited to see what she would have. LuLu is what they call a "paint" Nubian. Like the horse, she has a lot of white. And last year she had triplets. This year, she had gotten really big, but then seemed to shrink a bit towards the end, but was still obviously pregnant.

We gave her some privacy as labored progressed, but hustled to the barn when we heard the sounds of her really pushing, sounds just like one might hear in the halls of the hospital maternity ward. Out popped one small little girl, and we were in business.

Because the first was small, I wasn't surprised to see Lu lay back down for another go 'round. But something seemed different now. Sadly, she popped out two small and very much dead twins. My girls, brave and inquisitive ones that they are, and not at all queasy, analyzed the still, lifeless forms. Pictures were taken. Seems as though the survivor, little Molly, was all that was meant to be. And thankfully, she survived. And the fact that Lu seemed to get smaller at the end, now made sense.

So today, little Molly and LuLu got some time out in the fresh green lawn and some special attention. She may be small, but she is a little firecracker. And for us, although the usually joyous experience of kidding season has ended with a tinge of sadness, the promise of a new batch of babies and the anticipation of watching them grow, training them, and showing them at the fair, has outweighed any sadness.

 

 

To Market, To Market.

I couldn't resist.

Let me just back up by saying I am a girl with some of the coolest uncles around.  I have many hard-working, get to the heart of the matter, would-do-anything-for-you type uncles.  And as with most of them, anything with Uncle Bud is an adventure.  So when he called me yesterday in search of piglets for his annual family Easter picnic, complete with petting "zoo", I made the usual phone calls to any pig farmer I knew.  In the past, our barnyard has pretty much made up the whole zoo.  But piglets are something we don't have, and they are hard to come by.  Most pig operations these days are under a quarantine operation, and pigs that leave, don't come back.  No borrowing allowed.  Even if it is for the kids.  So that left us with one final option.  The sale barn.  On the phone, I warned my uncle of the possible scenarios: Watch out for hernias.  Look for diarrhea.  Nothing with crusty looking skin.  Next thing you know, a plan was in place. I was going to go with him.  And at the last minute, so were all four of my kids.

Now, if you have never been to a livestock sale barn. It is not for the faint of heart.  Lots of livestock. Some not in the prime of their lives.  Lots of dust.  Interesting clientel and audience members. Most are covered with a fine layer of dust as if they haven't ever left the joint. I think I saw Santa Claus there, too.

We got there a bit late. The sale was starting.  We wove our way through a multitude of gates to the rear of the barn where the pigs would be found.  Found a pen of nice young pigs.  I lifted each one up for inspection.  No problems.  Looked healthy.  Unlike the scraggly, lice ridden group in the next pen over.  We made our way back to the stands.  The bidding was beginning and when our pen of pigs came into the ring, I glanced over at my uncle. The price was getting too high.  But his eyes were locked on the auctioneer and I knew we were here to buy pigs.  After a rapid fire war of the dollar, he was the owner of four pigs.

He went up to pay so he could take them home. I went out to the loading dock with my four year old who, by now, was so covered in dust, I could barely make him out from the ground itself.  And then we saw them.  A newly unloaded batch of 40 tiny piglets.  Just 3 weeks old. Perfectly pink.  In talking to the owner, a brief exchange of a few small bills and we picked out two more piglets.  Now we had six.  After we had the four loaded, I shut the passenger side door of the truck, hearing the grunts and squeals of each of the smaller pigs, clutched in the laps of my two daughters. Riding shotgun with their uncle in his big work truck.

By 9:30 that night, the piggies were home from market.  Resting comfortably in a newly configured stall in my  uncle's barn.  They were ready for some quiet shut-eye. So were we.

The plan for the pigs post Easter is still unclear.   They are still suffering from a bit of post traumatic stress disorder from the whole ordeal.  But they are lucky piggies for now.  And will await the warm laps and gentle scratchings by a multitude of kids on Easter day.

 

walking her home. again.

Happy Weekend, friends.

xo.

Molly

Love, Jemima

You know it’s coming.

The date has been circled on the calendar for five months now.

The paper chain hanging over my daughter’s bed, counting down the days, is all but gone.

All the prep work has been done.

She’s been allowed out of her pen, just her, each night to jump up on the milking table, and received a treat each time she has done it. She had her hooves trimmed a month ago. She got her vaccinations at the perfect interval. She was put in her own special pen a week ago. The one with her own hot pink water bucket that clips to the side. Her own feed pan, single serving sized.The pen where golden fresh straw was fluffed just right.

 

And the signs were all there. Her udder had grown to almost impossible seeming proportions.

Yet as I checked on her before leaving for a morning of appointments, she lay there happily chewing her cud. Her deep brown eyes said to me, “No worries. I’m good. You go.”

And is the part that always makes my heart skip a beat. Just for a second.

 

The coming home to two, brand new, warm, dry babies in the pen with her. Up on their feet. Licked clean. Drinking heartily.

 

Then the other best part.

Hearing the bus roar up the hill. Hearing the stomps of their sneakers hitting the deck. A brief second of quiet as they take in the note taped to the door. It reads: “Come to the barn. Love, Jemima” The ear piercing screams of glee as back packs are dumped and they race to the barn. Gently picking up each new arrival and thoroughly inspecting them. Noticing every spot and freckle. Scratches and praise for Jemima. A walk outside for the best spring grass. Laps for the babies to sit on and warm themselves in the bright sun.

 

The newness of the season.

 

The delight of new birth.

The hope of a new life.

All of this will never get old around here.

 

 

Today on Thomas Run

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