Catching up With the Calendar

Somehow, in the midst of September's doctor appointments and ultrasounds, summer managed to slip quietly out the back door without my even noticing.  The seasons have shifted and the page of the calendar has turned to a new month, and I find myself desperately needing to catch up with it all.  To recognize the adventures we've had during those final weeks of summer that managed to get tossed aside and left behind in the craziness.

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Fair Season

One of the first hints that summer is near its end and autumn lies closer than I even realize, is the arrival of the Harford Fair. Each year Jon's company sets up a stand, and on the days that Jon has fair duty I tag along to keep him company.  The tent sits directly across from the bingo hall, and all afternoon we hear "B4, that's B4...N15, that's N15"  Bingo letters and numbers float around in my dreams on the nights after I spend an afternoon at the fair.

Last year Milani was only three months old, and she slept for most of the afternoon on a quilt in the corner of the tent, but this year she wanted to go, go, go.  We walked and walked, checking out the rides, and greasy food stands, the tractors and farm animals.  As we were toddling steadily along the walkway, Milani did an abrupt 180 and hightailed it in the opposite direction.  It took me a minute to figure out what caused the about-face when I noticed a yellow balloon in the sea of people ahead, bobbing along behind a little boy.  Sister had her sights set, and she was closing in, fast!  We asked the boy's mother where they got their balloon, then marched straight to the People's National Bank stand to score our own.

Milani could entertain herself for hours with a balloon.  She talks to it, strings it along like a close friend, and tugs on the string to reel it in for a hug.  With balloon by her side she climbed bravely up the stairs of the empty grandstand.

We also visited the Wyoming County Fair, where Milani fostered an instant attraction to the carousel.  She stood in awe, pointing and squealing at the horses as they bobbed past.  Oddly enough she was most interested in the only non-horse, weird rabbit creature on the entire ride.  She would search it out and point to it, making sure I saw, every time it passed.  So we got her little hand stamped, and she and Jon went for some rides.

I had to throw this one in for comparison.  The apple doesn't fall far.

We stayed until the sun sank well below the horizon and the sky deepened to a rich navy.  The rides cast a glow that could be seen for miles as we drove toward home on winding roads with an exhausted, sleeping baby in the back seat.
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The Butterfly House

With the Mom's Group, Milani and I took a trip to visit the Creekside Gardens Butterfly House.  The house, a wooden frame covered in netting and filled with butterflies and gorgeous flowering perennials, was nestled in the gardening center surrounded by eclectic planted urns and hanging baskets.

Inside the house, we learned about the life cycle of the butterflies, and the kids got a sugar stick to attempt to attract and feed a butterfly.  Milani was content to stick close to my side and watch the butterflies eat watermelon.  Every now and then she would trow a peek back in my direction, looking for feedback as to whether she should be excited or entirely wigged out by the butterflies.

After leaving the butterfly house, we spent some time in the children's garden, surrounded by eclectic, colorfully whimsical welded creatures, and some bubbling stone fountains.  Milani loaded truck after truck full of pebbles from the pebble garden.  Scattered throughout the ordinary, gray pebbles were pretty, colorful, polished rocks.  Stumbling upon one was like discovering hidden treasure and made all the digging and hauling of rock even more rewarding.

Creekside Gardens hosted a butterfly release event at the end of September, and all the little butterflies began their long, fall migration south to Mexico.  We will definitely be visiting the butterflies, and the children's garden again next year.
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Flooding

Right about the time my inner world was erupting into turmoil, bubbling over with the fear and anxiety of my pregnancy issues, when ultrasound after ultrasound were dumping entirely too much emotional weight for me to process, the skies dumped entirely too much water for the river to handle.  My inner turbulence was eerily reflected in the rising, brown, angry water that spilled over the banks.  So many neighbors, people living within walking distance from my house, found their homes or businesses flooded, completely destroyed.

My heart breaks as I drive through these areas and see the piles on the curbs of damaged belongings that used to be parts of the homes, and see people courageously and desperately working to regain their footing, and their lives.  It makes me wonder why these things happen, why disastrous and heartbreaking circumstances surface in our lives.  I really can't come up with the why but I have come to believe the truth in the fact that what doesn't kill us does indeed make us stronger. 

Maybe when we struggle through a pregnancy, or loss, or flood we are actually being given a precious opportunity to rise up and overcome.  To unite with one another and become stronger individually and as a community.  To arrive at a place with more wisdom and richness and a greater reverence for life than the place we left behind. 
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 Sunny September Sunday

The last Sunday in September was gorgeous.  The skies were powder blue with gorgeous white clouds, and the sun was warm on our skin.  We spent the afternoon enjoying the fresh air at the playground. 

Milani is fearless at the playground, climbing rock walls and crossing wobbly bridges, and while the swings are still her favorite the slide is quickly gaining ground.  It doesn't matter how steep or fast, she flies down with an open mouth grin.

At home, we spent the rest of the day in the yard and the garden.  It's always a little sad to see the end of the season drawing close, knowing that all the planting, and weeding, and harvesting is about to end.  To watch the tomato plants slowly turn brown, and to know that we might only get a handful more cucumbers and peppers before the first frost.  

Usually Milani just wanders around the garden popping green cherry tomatoes off the plants and into her mouth, trampling anything in her path.  This time she took a sincere interest in the soil.  She found a spade and cultivator and meticulously moved dirt from one spot to the next, her concentration unwavering.  

It's so heartwarming to watch her gain interest in the things that I find rewarding.  I will always give her to space to nurture her own individual interests, but won't mind if she digs barefoot in the dirt next to me every summer.

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The crispness on the breeze and changing leaves are unmistakable, autumn is in full swing and I can't say that I'm disappointed by summer's end.  I certainly love the hot, sunny summer days and all the fun we've had this year, but for some reason I am most optimistic, happy, and at peace in the fall.  I love the colors, and the weather, and anything that tastes like pumpkin, and I am ready to embrace this new season.

Exhale...

Holy. Emotional. Roller coaster.

The last two weeks have chewed me up and spit me out, leaving me entirely uncertain whether I'm coming or going, right side up or balancing on my head. I've drifted between being distraught, worried, happy, relieved, and back around to each one at least twice more.

For the entire first half of this pregnancy I felt pretty amazing.  When people asked how I was feeling, my usual response was "I almost don't even feel pregnant".  That's honestly how good I felt, and believe me I thanked my lucky stars every day that I wasn't battling morning sickness, or serious fatigue, or the debilitating migraines that plagued the first trimester of my pregnancy with Milani.

Then we arrived at the half way point, twenty weeks, and my ultrasound confirmed that our little one was developing beautifully.  It also revealed that my cervix was a little short for how far along I was in the pregnancy, and although I dreaded hearing it, I wasn't surprised.  I've known all along that I am prone to encountering this obstacle.  In defense of my poor cervix, it's been through the ringer in the last handful of years, racking up a laundry list of risk factors, each increasing the likelihood of a weakened cervix, most of which are well out of my control.  And while the findings of the ultrasound weren't fantastic, they weren't particularly dreadful either, warranting only that I pay attention for any contractions, cramping, or pressure, and a follow up ultrasound to check on things.

That was the hinge, the turning point in the pregnancy.  That was when I went from "I almost don't even feel pregnant" to a tentative "I'm feeling pretty good".  When every pang, and twinge, and sensation set off a panic alarm; Was that a contraction? Is this preterm labor? Would they consider that "pressure" and how much "pressure" is normal? I mean I have a baby suspended in mid air above my cervix OF COURSE I feel some pressure!!!

I walked on eggshells, wondering if I was doing too much, pushing myself too hard, lifting Milani too often, weakening my tender cervix with every sneeze.  My mind raced, every possible negative outcome crashed around my skull, and truth be told, I'm certain most of the discomfort I was feeling in my body originated in my head.

The follow up ultrasound showed that my cervix had shortened further, and that's when the emotional roller coaster gained serious momentum.  I went from the ultrasound to my midwife's office where she reported flatly that I would need to report immediately to Labor and Delivery to be monitored over the next twenty four hours for contractions, and administered steroids to stimulate the baby's lung development in case of premature delivery, and started on antibiotics in the case of any infection.  Upon discharge I would need to remain on strict bed rest.  She said things like "This is when we pull out the Big Guns" and "If the baby were born tomorrow, it would be viable but would have a loooong stay in the NICU" and "We'll try to get you to twenty eight weeks, and if we make it there we'll try for thirty weeks".  She made it sound tragic, and dire, and certain that I would have a two pound preemie on my hands in no time.  And I melted, sobbing, into her big leather chair.

So I reported to Labor and Delivery, stat, where the nurse told me that the Doctor under whom the Midwife practices had called over, and that he wasn't nearly as concerned.  He had told them to hold off on the steroids, and antibiotic, and that I may not even need to stay overnight.  The panic, and anxiety loosened a little, the fear weakened, I could breathe a tiny bit easier.  I spent a couple nerve wracking hours attached to monitors, awaiting the doctor and his verdict, my sentencing.  When the doctor finally arrived he confirmed that he wasn't terribly worried, and that while he wasn't prescribing bed rest, he cautioned that I needed to find a way to slow down, rest more, take it easier, and tune into my body.   He warned that if I pushed too hard and found myself hooked back up to monitors in Labor and Delivery again it would mean absolute bed rest, and steroids, and the big guns for certain.  I was discharged and set free, and was never more uncertain of anything as I was leaving the hospital.

The Midwife had sounded the alarm, and the Doctor had extinguished the flames, and this was the health and life of my sweet little babe being volleyed around, and I had no idea what I should or shouldn't be doing.  No idea who's opinion was more sound.  No idea what exactly it meant, or how to rearrange my life so that I wouldn't end up back in the hospital.

I can admit that one of the main sources of stress on me physically, is work.  I run laps around the restaurant, refusing to say no to anyone or anything, refusing to let my pregnancy slow me down, ever determined to prove (mostly to myself) that I can pull my weight and do it all, bulging belly or not.  I wasn't even convinced that I really needed to stop.  Maybe if I just drop a shift, or try not to work on consecutive days, but I think God or the Universe or whoever is keeping track of our fate and destiny knew that I needed to drop the gig, and so people and circumstances intervened in my life and aligned, resulting in my leaving work.  I keep telling myself that it's for the best, the health of my baby is nothing to gamble with, and that I must need to be spending this time with Milani and Jon, that it may just be a blessing in disguise.  And I fight the urge to carry a banner with "I AM NOT WEAK!" blazoned in neon, because although there are some who would relish the opportunity to be excused from the daily grind, it is far easier for me to work through backaches and swollen feet, than to admit that it's probably best that I stop working and appear like a fragile pregnant lady who can't hack it.  It all circles back to that stubborn and irrational need to prove (mostly to myself) that I can do everything.

Then comes the irony, that after another visit to another doctor for yet another opinion and just one more ultrasound for good measure, I am told that I have basically nothing to worry about.  That yes my cervix is a little short, but not short enough that this doctor would ever have even brought it to my attention.  It makes my head spin, really, to think these three practitioners could have such varying takes on the length of a cervix.  To think that I might not really have had to stop working, or perhaps this all transpired because, for some reason unknown to me, it's still best for me to be spending this time at home, taking it easier. 

So, maybe I'll be picking up some shifts at work, but certainly I'll be taking it down a notch, because this whole escapade was nothing if not a wake-up call to cool it a little, and listen to my body.  I'm relieved to know that I'm not in the danger zone, and feeling better by the day.  While I'm past the "I almost don't even feel pregnant" phase (because every cell in my body feels pregnant, if the massive bump weren't enough of a clue) I am definitely feeling pretty good, and I guess I'll never really know whether it's the result of my time off from work, or the peace of mind I've gained allowing my body to relax.  Either way, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and knocking on wood that this roller coaster has passed all its loops, and dives, and that I'll be coasting smoothly right up to my due date.

Sweet Anticipation

Jon and I are expecting again, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a new little sweetie come late December, and while this isn't breaking news, I haven't had the urge to write about the pregnancy until this week.  I'll admit that it's taken me completely by surprise that I haven't been bursting at the seams and overflowing with prenatal anecdotes and updates.

My first pregnancy was like a wild fire, charged with electricity, evolving a life of its own.  I would have broadcast on national television, and radio, and from the highest mountain just to hear the words "I'm pregnant" come out of my mouth, as if hearing them made it more real, more concrete. It was like that week right after you get engaged when you find yourself peeking at the new diamond sparkling on your left hand just to remind yourself that its real, and you aren't dreaming.  And the first time around I had nothing more important to occupy my every waking thought, so it consumed me and became my identity for those months.

But this time it didn't come thundering into my life, elbowing its way to the forefront of my awareness.  Instead it rolled in like the changing tides and found a home in the stillness beneath the hustle and bustle of everyday life.  This pregnancy has had a quieter and more peaceful presence, and has patiently taken a backseat as I continue giving Milani the majority of my time and attention. 

Every pregnancy brings with it an intrinsic sense of worry, a laundry list of fears and anxieties and doubts.  Every pregnancy feels a little bit delicate, a little fragile, like for nine months I am teetering between unsurpassed joy, and unbearable heartbreak.  It feels, for nine months, like I am carrying a butterfly that can at any moment fly away, and I want to hold onto it tightly, and closely, to fiercely protect it, to make it stay, but pregnancy doesn't work that way.  And we are so lucky and so grateful that our pregnancy scales so far have been tipped heavily in favor of blessings, because I know that on the other side of that scale is pain and disappointment that I couldn't even imagine.  My heart breaks for friends who have felt the weight of such loss, and I feel guilty, like an imposter, when I try to offer words of sympathy or encouragement.  All I can do is provide my love and support, and then bow my head and ferociously thank the heavens above for this little girl sleeping beside me and the tiny one tumbling within.

To be honest, it took some time for me to embrace this pregnancy, to really feel excited and enthusiastic about it.  In a way, I feel like a terrible, horrible mother for not being elated right off the bat, and it's an unusual thing to feel a little bit like I'm betraying the angel we already have by bringing along another; to feel the need to protect the one I've grown to love so wildly from feeling any resentment or hurt from the arrival of her sibling.  But my sweet Milani will be an amazing big sister, of this I have no doubt.  She is so kind and so loving, I think having a younger sibling will only make her shine brighter than she does already.  I can't wait to watch their relationship grow and their friendship unfold.

I plan to savor these last couple months of afternoons spent together with my girl, just the two of us, two peas in our pod, while we make room in our pod and our life and our hearts for the new arrival.  And I will thank God for every little kick, and wiggle I feel as our little one grows, knowing that each movement is confirmation that our peanut is growing strong and healthy.  Until December my tiny darling, rest easily and comfortably, and know we love you and can't wait to meet you!

To Market, To Market

I know that it's no secret how much I love the farmer's market; it truly is the highlight of my summer.  It's the thing I look forward to the most once the weather starts to turn, and is a source of happiness and well being right up until Thanksgiving.

I can't even really explain why it's so nurturing to my soul to walk up and down the isle, taking in the vibrant colors and beautiful textures; the diverse display is like art.

 

Milani and I visit the market at least twice a week, even if it's only an excuse to get out of the house and enjoy the open air, but we manage never to leave empty handed.  Lately we've been devouring peaches and nectarines.  We bring some home every single market visit, and they vanish within days.

 

And in keeping with my grand canning plan, I canned a half bushel of peaches.  They sit on the shelf, all golden and sweet in their shiny jars, patiently waiting to fulfill a winter peach craving some random day in December.  I will probably can a peck more, now that I know how quickly peaches disappear in this house.

During the months that the farmer's market is open, I don't even visit the produce section of the grocery store, and we don't miss it.  Chiquita Bananas and Dole Pineapples can't hold a flame to local peaches in season.  Soon enough we'll be on to pears and apples, probably putting them down the hatch as quickly as the peaches.

During our market visit today, the sky was the most gorgeous powder blue, and soft white clouds drifted in a breeze that carried the unmistakeable crispness of autumn.

I can't help but feel a little sad as the end to summer draws near, but at least my market will be open until Thanksgiving, keeping me company when the first frosts blanket the lawn.

Lazy Sunday

Sundays are the one day a week we get an entire day together as a family, from the first rays of morning sun until all six of our eyes are closed peacefully in slumber.  I anticipate them the way some anticipate Friday nights, and start looking forward to the next by the time Wednesday rolls around.

They're not typically too exciting, most are spent at home with something simmering in the kitchen filling the house with mouthwatering smells, and the sound of a sporting event drifting from the T.V.  This Sunday was no different, and it was perfect.  The dark clouds blanketing the sky produced quiet showers all afternoon, and cast the house in a cozy, dim light while a couple candles flickered offering their golden glow.   Random applause sounded through the living room from the PGA Championship, and homemade tomato sauce spent the afternoon thickening on the stove.

The highlight of our lazy Sunday came shortly after lunch and not long before nap time when we all gathered in the kitchen to make pizza dough.  I assumed the role of event coordinator, walking Jon through the recipe and giving tips on his dough kneading technique, and helping Milani play in the flour. 

You're not making dough correctly if you don't have smudges of flour several places on your face, and flour hand prints randomly smeared across the seat of your pants.

And by the time the dough was set aside to rise until dinner, Lulu and the kitchen were both covered in a dusting of flour, but the pizza that we devoured that night was some of the best we've ever made.  I think it was the contribution of all three of us that made it tastier dough than I've made on my own before.  

Sometimes on these uneventful Sundays I wonder if we should be planning more, and doing more, and going more places.  I wonder if it would be better for Milani to spend the time out seeing new things, and having exciting experiences, but to be honest the quiet Sundays spent at home together are amongst my favorites.  I hope that maybe they'll be some of Milani's favorites as well; that she'll cherish these little traditions like making homemade pizza dough, and relish the times we enjoyed the simplicity of each others company.  They certainly have a special place in my heart.

And a totally random picture of Milani stuck in a box, just because it's too cute not to post.  Yep, that's her angry face because I'm taking pictures of her before rushing to her rescue.

Only Worry in the World is the Tide Gonna Reach My Chair?

I have a theory that it is impossible to be in a bad mood when you are within sight, or sound, or even the salty marine smell of the ocean.  Something about it's rhythmic breaking of the waves on the sand, constant breeze, and vast size stretching out indefinitely until it melts into the horizon, makes it very restorative, and therapeutic to me.  It grounds me, and centers me, and fills me with a deep sense of peace.  I was in desperate need of time at the ocean.  The last time I saw it was in 2008 and the amazing perspective it gives me was slowly fading and weathering in the daily grind.  And I couldn't wait for Milani to get her first taste of salty ocean water, and golden sand.  A little part of me was certain she would love it since we discovered her name while honeymooning in Maui.  I mean, that practically makes her a Hawaiian baby.  A child of the black sand beaches, and lush palm trees.

My golden beach baby proved me right.  She's right at home covered in sand from head to toe, and doesn't hesitate to run right up and flirt with the breaking waves.

She got to spend time with cousins that she doesn't see nearly often enough, and she watched keenly as they collected shells, and played in the surf, and dug holes.

I don't entirely understand the fascination with digging holes at the beach, maybe its a boy thing, but sure enough as you scan down the shore, holes are constantly being dug and deepened and barricaded from the rising tide.  And another boy thing, or should I say father thing; swinging your fourteen month old daughter around like a monkey.  I cringe and envision a trip to the hospital with a dislocated shoulder, and I warn against the guilt he'll feel once her face is stained with salty, sandy tears.  But to no avail.  He loves to swing her and she loves to be swung.  She giggles and squeals and begs for more, and I just keep my fingers crossed that fooling won't lead to crying.

I love that at the beach, you are expected to do nothing other than enjoy yourself.  You can read a book, flip a magazine, play in the water or sand, nap lazily, talk about anything or talk about nothing.  There is no such thing as an awkward silence, just a break in conversation filled by the churning surf and the shriek of gulls and the innocent chatter of nearby children playing.

We took an afternoon to visit the Cape May Zoo.  This zoo found its way into our hearts the first summer Jon and I started dating.  During a short vacation in Stone Harbor that summer, we visited it not once, but twice.  It is one of the neatest, cleanest zoos we've ever visited.  Milani stared open mouthed and wide eyed as we visited the different animals.  (Apparently so did her father)

yes this is a goat laying under an umbrella

Interestingly, Milani's favorite animals on this vacation weren't the monkeys, or tigers, but the seagulls. She can reproduce the most realistic seagull squalk, and loved giggling and chasing them down the shore.

I think my girl is meant to be near the ocean and a part of her spirit is reignited by the waves, and I know Jon lights up at first sight of the ocean.  I think we need to make sure that we spend some time at the shore every summer, so that we can look out over the blue expanse of water and re-frame our lives with the humble perspective.  And because I'm absolutely certain that it's impossible to be in a bad mood at the shore.

"I Can't Believe It's a Girl..."

It's a double post kind of a day, because this news and these pictures are too sweet to sit on for a week!  

We should have known when she insisted on staying put for an extra week and five days, only a little princess could command such a dramatic entrance.  Fashionably late, and in a swarm of excitement.  It's the only way she would have it.

**for the full effect, read the next paragraph into a tape recorder and play back on high speed**

I got the text from Ariana Monday morning at 6:51 asking if I was still up for watching the boys, and at 6:55 the text telling me to "take my time."  And so I did.  Until 7:05 when my phone lit up with a call from Jake, "Get here quick!".  I've never changed a diaper, dressed a baby, dressed myself, put in contacts, brushed my teeth, and packed an entire days worth of food and diapers for Milani so quickly.  As I pulled into Grandma Andrea's at 8:00 to drop off Milani I got a text from Jake "Baby's Coming!"  S^&@#T!! I quite literally jumped out of my car and into Andrea's and took off like a bat out of hell, to pull up at their house, and sprint up the stairs, bursting into the front door.

At 8:20 a perfect, gorgeous, tiny baby girl was born.  By tiny I mean 10 lb 0 oz.

From the moment I found out she was pregnant, I thought Ariana was having a girl and I stood firmly by my prediction, never wavering.  A couple months back we were standing around in Ariana's kitchen each defending our gender predictions, and I can remember her saying, "When I look into my future I just can't picture myself as the mother of a girl.  I just don't see it happening.  I think I'm meant to only raise boys"  And on Monday, I know it still took a little while to sink in.  I think I heard Ariana mutter "I can't believe it's a girl" or "I can't believe I have a daughter" about twelve times.  Now I'm not the type to break out into an obnoxious victory dance, or rub the I told you so's into one's face, but you can't say I didn't give you fair warning that you'd be delivering a little lady.  And it'll be sweeter than you could ever imagine.  Your little girl.  I promise. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET PAISLEY!! 

EENA LOVES YOU!!

Sweet Summertime Continued

Forth of July

On the average day, I have to admit, I don’t really think much about what it means to be an American.  I’m not exceptionally patriotic, and don’t involve myself in politics.  I typically scurry around in my little corner of the world, blissfully naive and pathetically ignorant to most of the inner workings of the country I call home.  But on one pinnacle day a year, when we’re all called to drop the petty differences that separate us into “I” and “you”, and “us” and “them”, and instead join hands with our sisters and brothers in stars and stripes to become “We the people”, well that I can get on board with.

Our day was filled with family and friends, sunshine and tasty treats.  We splashed in the pool;

And played;

And nibbled on goodies until we were stuffed. 

It was the quintessential Independence Day celebration.  And because we had already been dazzled by the Pittston fireworks, we headed home before the sun set with a little girl who wasted no time passing out from exhaustion in her car seat.  Jon and I watched the fireworks erupt across the horizon as we drove, ready to pass out from exhaustion in our bed, thankful to be American living in the land of the free and the home of the very brave. 

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Backyard Splashes

The sun has grown strong and the temperatures are soaring, and while we love to branch out to visit nearby pools or the lake, sometimes we find ourselves going only as far as the back yard.

 

Milani loves water.  Bathtub water.  Lake water.  Even baby pool water.  She's even climbed into her baby pool in full clothing.  It makes no difference as long as she gets to splash and swoosh, and fill her blocks only to dump them again.

Maybe someday we'll have a real pool, or a boat, or a house on the beach (wishful thinking) but in the meantime we'll beat the heat splashing in the backyard.

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Blueberry Picking

I know I've already preached my sentiment on these plentiful summer months, my love of harvesting the fruits of our labor, and sometimes other people's labor.  And that craving for the satisfaction of picking produce with my own hands, and finding ways to preserve it to be savored months from now, is the reason we've raided the blueberry patch twice already.

We visited Bill's Blueberries, a quaint little gem of a blueberry farm, run on an honor system by a friendly old man (who I can only assume must be Bill) and his sweet wife.  Handmade signs mark the driveway and decorate the shed, and rusty antique farming equipment adorns the lawn.

Random trinkets like old milk jugs in a rusty wire rack, a weathered barrel, dirty leather yolks, that would look like trash anywhere else, fit perfectly into their places around the farm lending an air of nostalgia.

From a single speaker, oldies drift faintly across the farm, carried on the breeze so that songs seem to fade in and out as you pick.

True to standard picking procedure, pounds of blueberries plunked into our buckets, and an ounce or two (or three) went directly down the hatch.  Milani climbed among the trees, and sampled some green blueberries.
 

 

Curious to understand what was so appealing to her about those little green blueberries, I sampled one, and oh my goodness are they beyond sour.  The awful aftertaste lingered for hours, and I can't imagine how she managed to continue popping them in her mouth one after another.  Let's just assume she's still developing her palate, and of course she still managed to eat her fair share of blue ones from the bucket.

The boys found other ways to fill their buckets.

Bill even has a little patch of raspberry bushes, and I managed to scour them for enough berries to turn into sweet and tart raspberry jam.

Another preserve checked off my grand canning plan.  And as soon as the sweltering temperatures return to a more bearable level, blueberry lemon preserves are next on the list.

Ok, so maybe I have one more rant about canning, but I can't freaking help it, I'm hooked!  Every time I pull my little jam jars out of the boiling water, and listen to the lids pop down one by one as they cool, I gain such a sense of satisfaction.  It's like I've sealed away a piece of this summer.  Like I've filled a jar with sweet memories, and a little sunshine.  Like I've managed to capture the love and fun and energy of these days, and tuck it away for a cold rainy day.  And since fewer people can and preserve these days than was done years ago, I feel like I'm part of an effort to resurrect a dying past time.  To stand next to a massive pot of boiling canning water, stirring bubbling jam the way my grandmother or great grandmother might have, is pretty satisfying in itself.  End of sermon.

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Dalton Carnival

Jon and I used to visit the Dalton Carnival beer tent every summer.  We used to drink pitchers of Miller Lite from little plastic cups, and catch up with friends we hadn't seen all summer.  We used to stay long after the stars came out, and the families with little ones headed home to read bedtime stories, and strings of little yellow bulbs illuminated the tent.

Maybe out of habit, or an attempt to hold true to tradition, we headed to the carnival last week.  We went on a Thursday instead of Saturday.  We arrived at six instead of nine, and left well before sunset.  Water was the only beverage we guzzled.

Milani enjoyed a sampling of roast beef, potato pancakes, and pizza.

She looked wide eyed at the lights, and rides, and games with bright colored prizes.

This year she was content to observe, but next time I'm sure she'll be begging to ride the rides, and play the games.

And my girl is a flirt!  She will scan a crowd for anyone who will make eye contact, and then girlfriend turns on the charm.

She grins, and laughs, and plays shy.  She'll spin, and dance, and put on a show for anyone who will give her the attention.  We stayed long enough for her to elicit some smiles and chuckles, and headed home with a full belly and bolstered ego.

To be honest, I didn't even miss the beer tent.  I'm happy to forge new traditions, and I enjoy watching my girl soak in new experiences.  And I love that we've become the family with a little one who heads home well before the stars come out to read bedtime stories.

Sweet Summertime

This post wins the award for longest post ever, but summer has taken over and we've been drinking it in heartily.  So I'm going to play catchup on just a few of the sunny adventures from the last couple weeks.

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Strawberries

For the better part of the long, gray, northeastern winter I anticipate summer.  I dog ear pages in seed catalogs.  I daydream grand plans for our yard and our garden.  I imagine biting into a warm ripe tomato straight off the vine.  Opening day of the farmer's market has an affect on me similar to that of Christmas on a six year old.  In April and May I grow a little antsy as the sun gets warmer, and trees and flowers begin to blossom.  The spectacular display seems a little like a tease.  I wait anxiously for the goods, for the opportunity to reap what I sow, and enjoy Mother Earth's generous bounty.  And look out when I get word that Pallman's Farm has opened for the strawberry picking season.

We gathered our buckets and bowls, and headed to the strawberry patch.  The sun warmed our shoulders and enormous white clouds drifted above.  The leaves of the strawberry bush were still cradling tiny puddles of rain from the downpour that passed.  Strawberry after strawberry plunked into our bucket, but you know the ripest and sweetest of the berries didn't make it into the bucket.  Milani wandered up and down the row, sometimes popping a berry off the bush, other times sneaking one out of the bowl.

The evidence was smeared across her crimson face, framing her content grin.

Sister already knows that nothing compares to a berry plucked right from the bush and popped into your mouth.  We abandoned our post only when the bowls and buckets grew heavy with berries.

Some of our berries got frozen.  Many of our berries were gobbled up.  And the rest of our berries were turned into sweet strawberry jam and preserved in glass jars to last us until we pick again next June.

 

I can look forward to popping the lid off of a jar of jam on some bitter January day, and I know that out of that jar I will get so much more than strawberry jam.  I will get the sweet memory of picking berries with people I love.  I will picture Milani's face streaked with strawberry juice.  I will get the goodness of fresh, ripe local produce, picked with my own hands, and turned into jam on a warm Saturday morning.  It will be packed with the life, and love of Mother Nature and the satisfaction of making something delicious in my own kitchen.   No jar from a grocery store shelf can even begin to rival the rewards of canning my own jam.  So much so that I've decided, this summer, to can and preserve as much of this sweet summertime as I can.  Blueberry preserves, peaches, peach butter, dilly beans, tomato sauce, salsa, applesauce...Oh my plans are grand indeed.

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Our Garden
 
I was flipping the pages of Martha Stewart Living magazine this morning.  It wasn't any Martha Stewart Living magazine however, it was the Special Gardening Issue from March 2008 given to me by Andrea.  As I studied each page, I have to admit I was turning green with garden envy.  I'm aware that it is absolutely absurd to be jealous of Martha's massive plot, because I'm sure the woman has an entire team dedicated to its planning and planting, maintenance and upkeep.  But oh my goodness is it spectacular.

Every year we start our seeds in early spring with high hopes and good intentions.  Remember, I've been planning this garden in my daydreams since the first frost.  Yet somehow life gets away from us and our execution ends up somewhat mediocre.  Flower beds get overrun with weeds.  Seedlings are left to wither.  Seeds are sown four weeks later than they should, leaving us with measly cucumber and squash plants.  So I'll probably flip through those shiny pages for the sixth time, and soak in every tip, trick, and detail.  And maybe Milani and I will take a walk to the library and pick out a gardening book.  There is so much to learn, it's almost overwhelming.

But the point of our garden isn't to feed an army or outdo Martha, and the fact is, we've already pulled out a fair amount of peas, and our tomato plants have taken on a life of their own.  We will make salads with our lettuce, and soup with our leeks, and enjoy every bite of the things we harvest.  Each year we will strive to execute it a little bit better, learn a little bit more, and harvest a bigger crop, but in reality the current view from our garden rail isn't all too shabby.  Our gardening journey is off to a pretty good start and we'll only get better from here.

This year's bounty is slowly emerging.

leeks                                                                                                                           snow peas

red romaine lettuce

some of the sweetest grape tomatoes

bees pollinating the funky flowers that bloomed atop the onions and leeks

It's starting with snow peas and sugar snap peas, though we seriously underestimated how many vines we needed to plant.  We only get to pick a pathetic handful of pods every couple days.  We anxiously watch for each pod to ripen before we pluck it and devour it right in the backyard.  Lulu knows when she sees me scouring the vines, and she toddles her booty over to the garden fence and demands her share of the snap peas with those massive brown eyes and toothy grin.  How can I resist!?  I love that my girl loves the things we grow in our own soil.  I love that she gobbles down the sweet green peas, and then insists on chewing on the pod until all the sugar is sucked out.

If she thinks the pod peas are good, wait 'till she gets a glimpse of the massive amount of grape tomatoes we're about to be assaulted with.


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At the Lake

Many of my fondest childhood memories are set against the backdrop of Lake Wallenpaupack.  I remember playing with cap guns around the camp site, saddling up on one of my imaginary horses and riding through the brush.  I remember long days spent bobbing atop the waves, anchored in our cove, making up water games, and reading magazines in the sun.  We sucked down fresh squeezed lemonade, and boxes of Yoo Hoo.  Spit cherry pits from the side of the boat and watched as they plunked into the water.  Man, there are so so many good times tucked away in my memory from our days at that lake.

Which is why its so amazing and emotional for me to watch Milani splash and play in the cool early summer water at Lake Winola.  My girl didn't hesitate as the chilly water lapped at her toes.  She loves to be in the water, I think it's in her genes.

She scooped up buckets of cool water and shiny pebbles and dumped them enthusiastically back into the small waves.  She watched her cousins play with squirt guns.

It won't be long before she's asking to go tubing, or taking her first stab at waterskiing.  Maybe her memories of days spent at the lake will be some of her fondest.

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Stay tuned for more summer adventures, we're only getting started!  Happy Thursday!

Smokin' Hot Celebration

Lately I haven't been able to keep stride with the ferocious pace of the passing days.  The lag between when I'm snapping the pictures and when I'm publishing the posts is growing.  Don't get me wrong, I am a firm believer in there being no such thing as too much fun, and the cookouts and parties keep coming one after another.  I'm just a little bit overwhelmed with the pace of life this summer.

At any rate, two handsome gents provided good reason for celebration as Jadon celebrated his fifth birthday and Landry is about to land on his third.  And so the clan gathered together at the park again to play in the sun, and eat good food, to talk, and laugh, and enjoy each others company.

We feasted on all the requisite summer cookout goodies like potato salad, and pasta salad, dogs and burgers, and of course wedge after wedge of sweet ruby watermelon.

We grilled with such charisma that the Dalton Fire Co. stopped by to check out our hot dog smoke as it spiraled toward the clear blue sky.

 

Ok, I lied.  Some generous firemen from the Dalton Fire Co. stopped by with the fire engine so that the kids could climb aboard and put their hands on the steering wheel.  So that they might feel like brave heroes waving from the window of the gleaming truck.

 

There was a playground at the park?  What playground?  Who needs a playground when you have a fire engine!

I think the kids even managed to forget about cake and presents as the firemen put on a demonstration of their gear.  Both kids and adults were entranced and amazed as a regular guy transformed into a fire warrior.

Only after the firemen waved goodbye and pulled away in their yellow engine could we light the candles and open the presents.  The carrot cake was so delicious, some of us may have snagged extra pieces.  And nothing beats that cream cheese frosting.

The wrapping paper flew, and toys were waved in the air like cherished prizes. 

It was a first rate summer celebration, a smokin' party, and two happy birthdays.

Happy Birthday Jadon and Landry!!

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

There is a delicate silver line that I gingerly tiptoe each time I gather my thoughts, photographs, and emotions together to write a post.  I snap the pictures, string together the words, and publish the posts to stretch my creative muscles, let family and friends eavesdrop on our corner of the world, and create a keepsake of the way we pass our days.

On one side of the line is honesty, truth and transparency, and in that respect I desperately want my posts to accurately reflect our lives.  On the opposite side is gratitude, optimism and discretion, and I find it refreshing and uplifting to challenge myself to seek out the beauty that is abundant in my life amongst a world rife with heartbreak and disappointment.  In this post, blogger Susanna Conway vents her frustrations about the lack of grit and honesty in the blogging world, and one of my favorite blog authors, Kelle Hampton, defends her rose colored glasses here arguing that Van Gogh chose not to paint toilets and dumpsters.

So I've been searching for the balance in my posts between finding the silver linings and painting an honest picture.  I am making an effort to view my life through rose colored glasses and find little miracles to be grateful for.  I have also been choosing not to focus on the negatives, insecurities and shortcomings.  I'm not in the market for smoke and mirrors, embellishment, or illusions of grandeur nor am I interested in airing my dirty laundry, complaining about small misfortunes, or showcasing my toilets and dumpsters.

Just in case my tendency to favor writing about the brighter side of life has anyone fooled into thinking I do it all, have it all figured out, or that I never have a bad day, here is a sample of the good, the bad, and the ugly; There are often dirty dishes in my sink (and on my counter, and kitchen table).  For the past three days I have rummaged through a basket of clean laundry for underwear rather than folding it and putting it away.  Given the choice, I will always pick time playing at the park, in the backyard, at the library, or farmers market over any sort of productive housework.  I rarely use Milani's nap time to get any respectable work done, if I'm not snuggled up next to her napping myself, I'm usually editing photos, reading, writing or (gasp) facebooking.  There was cat yak on the carpet in my bedroom for the better part of today (I swear it's easier to clean up once it dries.)  Jon can attest that its not at all uncommon for me to me to deliver an Oscar Award wining meltdown, and I am notorious for igniting my Italian fury and provoking a good fight.

Not so long ago I would rather have walked on nails than admit any those details even to myself,  and consider it a huge accomplishment to be able to embrace the gritty truth about myself.  I have to declare it a major victory over the nagging voices in my head that try to convince me that I should be investing huge amounts of energy and time into keeping a tidy house, and a level head.  I'm finally learning that a spotless house and perfect organization are not what make me a good mother or wife.  Instead it's the ability not to sweat the small things, to sweep the crap under the rug, and take the time to enjoy the million tiny sparkling moments that add up to a rich life.  I'm determined not to let them slip past unnoticed while I'm elbow deep in dishwater, or whining about the things that don't go my way.  So I'll keep putting off the mundane chores in favor of tea parties, and picnics, and afternoon bike rides;  I'll continue finding the silver linings and brilliant lessons hidden in the crappiest of days;  I'll continue carefully selecting the most exquisite moments to capture in pictures and words; And I'll continue my effort at being self-deprecatingly honest about the fact that, let's face it, I've got loads of room for improvement.  I guess I will keep teetering on my fine line serving up a heaping portion of optimism and humble gratitude, with a side of blatant reality.

And in an effort to divert the attention from the smoldering pile of wreckage I unloaded above;

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I cannot get enough of this girl!

 

I can't kiss her enough or hug her enough.  Can't hold her closely enough or breathe in deeply enough the sweetness from the top of her head.  And it seems as though every single thing she does is mesmerizing, and entertaining, and endlessly spellbinding to me.  I want to sear every moment and every image into my brain, because I never want to forget exactly the way she looks as she eats her bananas or tediously teeters across the room on wobbly legs. (Note to self: take more videos)

When I break out the camera, my trigger finger goes insane. 

I have to capture her laughing.

And studying the other kids with a furrowed brow.

And doing her twisting twirling version of a ballet performance on the ground.  I don't want to miss anything.  Which is why I end up with 241 pictures every time and wonder how I will ever narrow them down to the handful I end up posting.

Nothing beats watching her figure out her world.

As she swishes her hands back and forth in the pool for the first time, or tastes the water, or fills and dumps out her blocks, it's as if I'm seeing the world for the first time through her eyes.

Everything is fresh, and interesting, and warrants further exploration.  And when my girl smiles, lookout, because everything is suddenly right in the world and I expect the heavens to open and angels to sing.  Ok, that may have leaned a touch on the melodramatic side, but I just can't get enough of this girl!

Memorial

**Playlist no longer automatically plays when you open this page, so you have to scroll down and hit play in order to hear the music with the post**

There is something amazingly refreshing about breaking away from the day-to-day routine.  About abandoning everyday life and stepping into nature.  Changing the scenery and changing the pace.  Leaving behind cell phones, laptops, and obligations.

Over Memorial Day weekend we traded our house and our bed for a tent and sleeping bag.  Our neighbors were towering hemlocks and an expanse of blue sky and matte clouds served as a roof.  We gathered with family around a picnic table instead of a kitchen table and laughed by the flickering light of the campfire instead of a TV.  It was our annual Memorial family camping weekend.

The weekend is a collection of activities strung together by custom and popular vote, and the atmosphere is relaxed, where at anytime, anyone can opt out of the current adventure to swing lazily in a hammock kept company by the dogs.

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Being Milani's first camping trip, I wasn't sure how she would  like it, but girlfriend rocked it!   

She jacked her crawl into four wheel drive and scoped out the campsite, scavenging under the picnic table for treasures, examining the underside of rocks, and sifting fine gray dirt through her fingers.

She enjoyed time with Grandma Debbie, accumulating hugs and kisses and cuddles.

And tried out some new shades.

Big cousins taught little cousins how to throw, and catch, and the way to blow bubbles.

Big cousins showed little cousins how to hug and kiss and love on each other. 

And cousins exchanged tumbling fits of contagious laughter.

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Sunday afternoon we hiked over wooden bridges and past thorny brambles to set eyes on Little Falls, debating over the identity of each three leaved plant along the path (Poison Ivy), and the species of origin of a pile of...droppings (Bear).

I was sure that Milani would have been rocked to sleep on Jon's back as we hiked, but those big chocolate eyes didn't miss a thing.

She lounged in the carrier, comfortable as could be, and took everything in.

We finished our hike next to the lake and enjoyed our picnic lunch with our eyes glued to the treeline, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the resident bald eagles prowling for fish.

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Certainly no camping trip would be complete without the men tapping into their caveman instincts, attempting valiantly and exhaustively to start a fire by rubbing sticks together.  Their best efforts produced a few promising wisps of white smoke, but no glowing embers or orange flames. 

 

So we busted out the lighter and stoked the campfire to cook our ceremonious feast of burgers and dogs.  The picnic table was loaded with a smorgasbord and we heaped our plates with pasta salad, green salad, and fruit salad, nibbling on pretzels and chips and Memorial Day cookies.

Despite the gross amount of food we consume at dinner, as soon as the sun dips below the horizon we break out the marshmallows, Hershey's bars, and graham crackers.  We share our tips on roasting the perfect 'mallow, and making the best s'more, and play musical chairs to avoid the campfire smoke.  We take turns throwing wood on the fire, and poking the embers, and discussing how each log burns.  We share new stories and recite familiar old stories that still produce an eruption of laughter, until one by one we retreat to our tents.

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We drifted to sleep under a clear star filled sky, and Milani slept like a log until we awoke at 3:45 to distant thunder, and managed to cover the tent minutes before the rain came.  The wind howled through the trees and the rain fell in sheets, and I worried my girl would get frightened.  I worried this thunderstorm would make her hate tents and sleeping bags and all things camping related, but she proved me so wrong.  Sister just snuggled in close to me, clinging like a koala, and listened to the storm.  Her big eyes scanned the tent and watched quietly as it bowed in the wind, never a peep or whimper or cry, and just as soon as the storm started to pass she fell peacefully back to sleep until 8:30. (Why doesn't she sleep like this at home??)

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Monday morning we headed back to the lake with fishing poles and some of us actually fished, displaying the patience and persistence of reeling and casting, watching and waiting.

But some of us just fished for seaweed, and tossed pebble after pebble into the rippling water.

And the rest of us just watched and played and savored the fresh air.

 I'm not sure how many years an annual event must occur before it can be titled tradition, but if our Memorial weekend family camping trips haven't hit tradition status yet, I sure hope they will.  I hope maybe Milani will someday fondly look back on the memories forged on our weekends in the woods; the laughter, and hikes, and time spent with family.  Sure someday she will be sharing her own funny stories around a campfire, but maybe they'll include stories born on some future Memorial weekend where she and her cousins laughed until they cried.  Maybe our family camping trips will transcend the title traditional, and truly embrace Memorial.

Nuggets of Joy

I love reasons to celebrate.  Reasons to strap on my funky heels, swipe on my favorite lip gloss, and put on massive earrings.  Reasons to spritz on perfume and break out the smokey eye.  To toast to life and love with golden glasses bubbling with champagne.  To bust a move with good friends, laugh at old memories, and etch new ones into our hearts that will last a lifetime.

One of my dearest and sweetest friends, Jackey, got married, and gave us good reason to celebrate.  To fight back tears as she gracefully walked down the isle.  To applaud joyfully as she became Mrs. Terpak.  To hug tightly and congratulate sincerely, because no one believes more deeply in true love, or deserves boundless happiness more than Jackey.

 

And to spend the evening talking, laughing, singing and dancing along side another one of my dearest and sweetest friends, Rachel, well I couldn't ask for more.   We laughed heartily as we reminisced the good ol' days.  Times like when the three of us got pulled over but didn't realize that the cop was behind us for at least a mile because we were belting out Free Falling so loudly we couldn't hear the siren.  Or the time we had to make an impromptu emergency visit to the Nitney Mall hours before Rachel's wedding because a certain maid-of-honor forgot to pack underwear.

 

Someday we will look back at Jackey's wedding day and laugh heartily over stories like how we wisely positioned ourselves not only right next to the bar, and the table with the stationary hors d'oeuvres, but right where the waiter came out with each new tray of passed appetizers.  And how he always came to us first because he knew we were a sure bet to sample everything he had to offer.  How he left each tray with the leftover appetizers right next to us, and how we usually polished it off.  I'll never forget how, when the waiter didn't know how to describe a particular appetizer, Rachel's husband Dom named them "Nuggets of Joy" and how we overheard the waiter telling guests further down "Big man at the end calls these here nuggets of joy".  There were no nuggets of joy leftover for us to snag.  We'll laugh about the Portuguese priest who hijacked the speaker system and interrupted AJ's toast.  And about how we belted out Mr. Big's To Be With You like the true divas we are, never missing a high note, or backup chorus.

Yep, I managed to capture all three with the same priceless expression confirming that we did, in fact, stuff our faces.

The day was amazing and the bride was beautiful. It was the perfect day for the perfect wedding and celebrate we did.  We danced until the music ended and went home to collapse into bed with one of those satisfied sighs that says "Ahhh...that was good."  Thank you Jackey and Chris for letting us be a part of your day.  We wish for you a lifetime of true love, and laughter, and boundless happiness! A lifetime absolutely littered with nuggets of joy!

Where'd My Baby Go?

She used to sleep swaddled tightly, in a soft cocoon.  Now she sleeps sideways, diagonal, upside down.  Stretched out and twisted, constantly wiggling and flopping around.  Her head ends up near Jon and her mini puffy feet kick me in the head.

She used to roll sweetly from her tummy to her back, and back to her tummy.  Blinking those huge chocolate eyes and soaking in the world from her quilt.  Now she crawls and stands and cruises.  I know that any moment babygirl will start to walk, and when she does I will be overjoyed.  I will proudly celebrate her success, and the accomplishment she's been working so hard toward.  But there is a little part of me that is hoping she takes her time.  A little part that is clinging dearly to the sweet little crawling baby.  A tiny little part of me that feels like those first steps signal the beginning of toddler-hood and the closure of her baby-ness.  And that part of me is constantly pondering "Where did my baby go?" 

My baby is one year old.

Last week we celebrated her first birthday.  All day long Jon and I enthusiastically wished her "Happy Birthday!".  I'm sure she didn't entirely understand what all the commotion was about, but she seemed to bask in the attention none the less.

We baked a cake, and we lit a candle, and we sang to the sweet birthday girl like there was no tomorrow.  Jon and I both fake blew at the candle to teach her how to blow it out herself, until I accidentally fake blew it out.  Milani didn't mind.  Her mini fingers swiped a handful of chocolate icing, and she slowly savored bite after bite of her cake.

Then, of course, came the presents.  Her favorites were her musical instruments and shopping cart.  Girlfriend can bang out a sick beat, and shake the maracas like nobody's business.  She did laps with the shopping cart, and as one who always does things in her own style, with a little Lani-flair, the shopping cart went around sideways.

And last weekend we gathered with family and friends at the park for Milani's first birthday party. 

 

We stoked up the charcoal until burgers and dogs sizzled, and enjoyed bright watermelon as the juice dripped down to our elbows. 

 

And as one who always does things in my own forgetful style, with a little Eena-flair, I forgot the birthday candle.  Ariana raced to the rescue so we could sing with a pink candle atop a pink ice cream cone cupcake.  We had a lot of great helpers to blow out the candle, and a lot of great helpers eager to unwrap the gifts.

We saw rain, and sun, and a little sun-shower, but the air was warm and the day was perfect.  I even caught a glimpse of a rainbow in the evening sky.  I couldn't have planned it better.

My baby is one year old. 

Milani may no longer be that tiny little newborn baby, but she growing ever more beautiful and strong, confident and funny.  She is just as perfect today as she was the moment I first saw her, and there's no greater pleasure than watching her grow, and thrive, and blossom.  I fondly remember the tiny baby, and anticipate the joys to come, while I embrace every moment of our precious time together today.

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I just realized that I haven't been receiving, or been able to view any comments left on my posts.  Unfortunately any comment left before Friday May 20 I never got to read, and can't figure out how to recover them.  The problem should be fixed from here forward, but I'm bummed I missed those comments.  If you feel like re-posting any comments you left, I'd love to read them.  If not, that's all good too.  So Sorry.  Thanks for reading!!

One Year

One year ago.

I anxiously and nervously awaited your arrival.  I couldn't wait to hold you in my arms.  To shower you with hugs, and kisses, and tears of joy.  At the same time I knew I'd mourn carrying you safe and snug inside.  I would miss the you and me time, with the kicks and flips and hiccups.

I was terrified of labor and delivery.  I was also terrified that the labor and delivery would be the easy part.  I was afraid I wouldn't know how to care for you.  I was afraid I wouldn't know how to love you.  I was afraid I didn't have an ounce of maternal instinct in my body.  Oh and dear God what if I hated motherhood? What if I ended up regretting the decision to have a baby.

One year ago you were born and my world was turned upside down.  Every uncertainty and insecurity dissolved one by one.  Caring for you was a joy.  Loving you came as naturally as breathing.  And as for maternal instinct?  Baby do I have it, and its fierce!  I love being your mother more than anything, and the decision to have you was the best one that I have ever made.

This past year flew by in the blink of an eye, but it was undoubtedly the best year of my life.  You taught me how to love unconditionally.  How to step back and breathe.  How to fight through the tough times.  And how to stop and enjoy the little blessings that surround me daily.  To marvel at the little things I would normally have taken for granted. 

If I had been struggling for purpose before you came into my life, I can rest easily now knowing that you are purpose.  To have brought you into the world so that everyone can know you, and love you, and see your light, well I'd say my purpose is met.  I am so unbelievably blessed to have you for a daughter, and enormously grateful to be the one you call mother.

Happy First Birthday to my Little Angel!

I Love You!

On Heartbreak and Gratitude

Heartbreaking things happen to good people.  It's a fact that I hate.  I hate knowing that a friend is hurting, and knowing there's nothing I can do to help.  My heart is heavy and saddened.  But in the sad, painful times, I am reminded to embrace the blessings I have.  To lend a hand or an ear or dollar.  To hug like I've never hugged before.

I couldn't help but notice what a beautiful day it was.  The sun glistened before a powder blue sky.  Soft white clouds drifted in the breeze.  The trees were waving and bowing.  And if I had to guess, I'd say that the reason it was so lovely outside was because the heavens fondly welcomed a superstar with the warmest of embraces.  He's peaceful, and happy, and radiating his love from above so that his family can be sure he arrived safely.  So I will lift my face to the sky, and offer up my love and deepest gratitude.

My gratitude for the beauty of the season.

My gratitude for getting to spend afternoons with my bug.  Enjoying the playground.  Enjoying her company.

My gratitude for my family and my friends.  And for the blessing of getting to share my life with them.

Unfortunately I can't erase the heartbreaking, painful experiences in life, but I will notice how they make the good moments sparkle.  I will notice how they make me pause, and savor every second.

Love you M.

Springtime Symphony

I'm not sure what it is about the first warm sunny weekends of the spring that leave such a vivid impression on me.  There are certain characteristics that are present every year, a consistent set of ingredients that produce this springtime symphony.  The blue sky, and warm sun.  A coolness to the breeze that reminds me that it isn't quite summer yet.  The birds chirping and lawnmowers humming together in a flowing chorus.  The occasional throaty rumble of a motorcycle, and eclectic playlist compiled from each passing car's stereo.  And that amazing barbecue smell that drifts on the breeze when everyone realizes it's the perfect day to grill.

I can remember weekends like this from when I was young, and my father would be tilling the soil, and planting the garden.  He would work hard and long until his skin was dusted with dirt and beads of sweat were gathered on his brow.  I was eager enough to help, but never accomplished much before my attention wandered and I was on to the next thing.  I don't think I ever really understood why he worked so hard on what looked like a whole mess of trouble just so that we could have a garden.

Now I get it.  Sure, the sugar snap peas, cucumbers, and endless tomatoes are reason enough.  But they aren't the reason.  There's a certain satisfaction to a day spent sowing seeds and moving earth.  To feeling your muscles work and stretch, and working up a sweat.  When you step back to survey at the end of an afternoon of weeding and confirm that every last weed has been evicted and your little plot has never looked better.  It's all therapeutic, cathartic, even meditative.

Maybe someday Milani will want to help.  Maybe her attention span will only last three minutes before she's off on the next adventure.  Just to be able to look up and find her playing in the yard is lovely enough. 

 

To observe as she goes from one ball to the next;

And then on to the fence;

 

To hanging with dad;

And back to watching me.  Her spirit is radiant and her presence invigorating.

And after a weekend spent both working and playing hard, nothing feels better than collapsing into a cozy nap.

Now our weekend is over, and the sun is hidden, but the traces of dirt still under my fingernails are evidence of the afternoons spent in the yard.  We will survive the coming string of chilly wet days by anticipating our next weekend in the sun.

Happy Monday!

The Best Kind of Days

I can hear the low rumble of thunder off in the distance, and the constant pattering of the rain on the roof and window.  The wet swooshing of tires on the street.  The clock is telling me it's almost 10 am but the house is dark.  The lamp on the dresser is blanketing the room softly in a warm golden light.

The rain is falling steadily in silvery sheets.  The sidewalk is adorned with shiny puddles and the garden is soggy.  Tiny beads race one another down the window. Even the warm  breeze smells saturated.

On days like today I always feel like baking.  Something about the smell of warm chocolate chip cookies, and the heat from the oven that combats the dampness.  Except that I know that I'm out of chocolate chips.  Someone ate them little by little, by morsel and by handful.  I wasn't able to capture her picture in the act...my hands had been full at the moment.

It's a good day for pulling things out of drawers.

And playing in drawers.

And the best kind of day for napping.

Sometimes these days, the ones that seem ordinary and uneventful, are the best kind of days.  They come quietly and slip past subtly, but they leave me feeling cozy and content.

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.  Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.  Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.  One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.  ~Mary Jean Iron
 

Uniquely Beautiful

I am the type of person who has a stream of continually shifting and evolving interests.  All of which I enjoy.  None of which I am particularly good at.  One day I want to be a seamstress, the next, a photographer.  I want to craft and decorate, bake and knit.  I want to perfect the art of being a mother, wife, daughter, sister, and friend.  I wear many hats in an assortment of hues.

And as I set out to learn my new skill du jour, and devour page after page of sewing patterns, photography tutorials, recipes, craft and decorating ideas, and mom blogs, I sometimes find myself quickly descending from I wish I could take a stunning photograph like her to She is so much better at life than I am!  I drift pathetically into the murky grey waters where my own life stops seeming adequate enough.  Where I stop seeming adequate enough.  Floating along playing the If only I were as good a seamstress…or photographer…or mom game.  The She has the perfect hair…body…career…house…life! game.

Sometimes it's easy for me to talk myself down, and let all sorts of imagined shortcomings fill me with anxiety.  And as a recovering perfectionist and people pleaser, I get to feeling that I have to become an expert in every area of interest. 

This is when I force-feed myself a hearty helping of reality.  None of these other amazing and inspiring women who write the recipes, articles, tutorials, and blogs are perfect.  They aren't experts at everything, or even pretending to be.  They are just waking up every day, comfortable in their own skin, basking in their own uniquely beautiful lives.  Learning as they go.

It isn't even a matter of looking for the silver linings in my life, because I'm living under nothing but clear blue skies!  In those inevitable moments of doubt and insecurity, I am reminded to live purposefully and present within my own life.  To marvel at the daily miracles that grace my world.  To live and learn, laugh and love.  I have a beautiful baby bean and a loving and kind husband.  An amazing family with its own lovely quirks, and friends who are no less than exquisite.  A job, a home, and my stream of continually shifting and evolving interests. All of which I enjoy.  None of which I am particularly good at, but all contribute to who I am and my uniquely beautiful life.

Today the miracles that are gracing my world;

These golden beauties blossoming out of bulbs that for the last two years produced nothing but leaves;

And the buds that are unfolding into blossoms to decorate every tree limb;

 

Our first afternoon spent in shorts.  The warm spring breeze and blue sky.  The sun kissing our cheeks and sidewalk masterpieces.

This stunning chalk flower courtesy of Justin.

Bubble goatees

And bedtime kisses.

That's right, the sky is blue and the miracles are bountiful.

Wet and Wild

I am constantly amazed at the way that motherhood twists and turns, evolves and grows a life of its own.  Just as soon as I congratulate myself for figuring it out, or arriving at a place of rhythm and balance, the game changes. 

The current challenge; a shower for mama.

Since Milani learned to pull herself to stand, she insists on being an active participant in my shower.  No sooner does the warm water start running down my back, but there is a little hand flinging the curtain open and up pops a little tub side spectator.  By the end of my shower, I have a very soggy baby.  I've learned it's easier to towel dry Milani than strip her out of dripping clothes, so sister sports nothin' but a diaper while I shower.

 

She squeals and giggles when the water sprays her.  Splashes and smears the little puddles that gather on the edge of the tub.  She slurps up water and blows raspberries.  All while getting drenched and standing in the growing puddle on the bathroom floor.

And when I open the bathroom door, setting loose soggy headed diaper baby, well that's when the real fun begins.  She scoots around in her diaper.

And rolls and wiggles in her diaper.

But I think for the moment we have the shower situation contained, at least until she can reach the doorknob.  We'll cross that puddle when we get to it.

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Moses faces his own challenges being the big dog of the house.  I desperately want to let him have free roam of the house whenever I'm out, but Moses is having some difficulties respecting our boundaries.  Not only does he make our bed his bed while I run errands, but I come home to find our comforter in one corner of the bedroom, the sheet strewn another way, and a hole in the fabric covering the mattress.  He's left me with no choice but to re-erect his crate in his corner.

I don't think he minds.  He will voluntarily lounge drowsily in his crate all day long.  Except that he's quickly learning what it's feels like when someone has difficulties respecting his boundaries.

Sometimes it seems like Moses enjoys the company, someone offering attention, and a buddy to snuggle alongside.  But there are those times when Milani kicks it into four wheel drive to get across him, and he takes a little foot to the snout and a tug to the ear, that I'm certain he'd evict her if he could.  Or the times he gives up and hits the road, giving Milani sole rights to the crate.  That's when Lala really lives large and lets loose.

And of course, kickin' it in the crate is another one of those things she'll even do with a wet head sportin' nothing but a diaper.

So Milani will keep making up the rules, and calling the shots; and Moses and I will keep rolling with the punches, learning the game as we go.  Because it's so much more fun that way.