::: doing it all: how to enjoy a perfect christmas :::

Last night, my mother-in-law called. In the course of our conversation, she told me about some traveling she'd like to do that just isn't going to pan out this Christmas. She was disappointed, but she'd come to terms with it. My father-in-law had given his oft-repeated advice:

"You can't do it all."

"That's a lie," I told her. "You most certainly can do it all."

Of course, I was joking.

Kind of.

I don't like being told that I can't, and I usually choose not to believe it when people say it. As a matter of fact, it kinda spurs me on. I mean, what if Mother Teresa had believed those words? What if Stephen Hawking and Beethoven and Stevie Wonder had believed those words? Of COURSE you can do it all!

You can do it all and be it all and have it all!

Especially at Christmas time! Not only CAN you do it all, but you're EXPECTED to do it all! So take advantage of it! Put all that expectation to work for you and do EVERYTHING! Find the most complicated gingerbread pattern and invite all of the kindergartners in your neighborhood to make them from scratch! Promise to decorate the Christmas tree in the center of town all by yourself using only ornaments made by people from your community! Open a homeless shelter and soup kitchen instead of buying gifts for your loved ones! Or, better yet, spend July through December finding the perfect gift for everyone on your list, including all of your children's teachers, the neighbors, the mailman, the librarian, the Sunday School teachers and the dog! The gifts must be perfect--only very expensive or cleverly handmade will do--so yank out that credit card and spend, spend, SPEND (because even handmade costs lots of money if you want to do it right)! Attend multiple Christmas celebrations with all of the branches of your family, your co-workers, your neighbors and your church! Better yet, invite your entire family and a few lonely people to dinner in your home, research all of the most complicated recipes by your favorite food bloggers, create a killer tablescape complete with handmade place cards featuring your favorite photograph of each guest, and look like a knockout in the little black dress you avoided all of the Christmas fudge and ran five miles on the treadmill every day to get into! Cozy up your home with adorable Christmas vignettes in every corner featuring authentic old-world goose feather trees, crisply ironed linen stockings with hand-embroidered names, and vintage mercury ornaments piled in hand-blown vases! Better yet, create a theme for each room! The bedroom can be all muted blues and whites, the kids' room can have a "Candyland" theme, and your bathroom can be dripping with silvers and golds! And don't forget pictures! You must take lots and lots of pictures to capture all of this Christmas magic! Arrange for formal pictures with color-coordinated outfits in which everyone is happy as well as candid pictures of family members wide-eyed over their perfect gifts. This is the time of the year when expectations are high! People are counting on you! Christmas comes but once a year, so you only have a few chances in your lifetime to do it right!

WE CAN DO IT ALL!

Except...

I didn't make hard tack candy this year.

Years ago, during a Christmas when money was especially, um, missing and Bard, my eldest, was a child, she wanted to give her grandmother a very special gift. She knew that Grandma loved stained glass, and she had the idea of making her a jar of hard tack candy. I'd made a few batches along with hand-pulled molasses taffy, hand-wrapped caramels and the usual array of cut-out cookies. It sounded like the perfect gift, so we found a jar and went to work filling it. Oh, how it sparkled with color! She was excited to give that gift and it has turned into a Christmas tradition in the Thicket Dweller house.

Every December for many, many years, I have spent days--verily, weeks--mixing water, sugar and corn syrup, boiling it for what seems like hours, carefully testing the molten mixture with a candy thermometer, a glass of cold water, the sheet test--whatever I had available to me at the time--to get that perfect temperature before adding the little dram of oil and a few drops of food coloring. Over the years, I've learned some valuable lessons about this pass-fail project:

Lesson #1: Don't drip any of the molten liquid on your skin or it will leave a hole in your flesh that burns down to the bone;
Lesson # 2: Don't put cinnamon, clove, wintergreen, spearmint or peppermint oil in the molten lava until it has completely stopped bubbling, or the oil will immediately turn to a gas, coat all of your exposed skin, and hurt for days like the worst sunburn you've ever had as well as giving you an extra edge by turning your face a not-so-festive bright red;
Lesson #3: If you have four burners on your stove, use 'em. There's no rule that you have to make one batch at a time. Just space them out a few minutes apart and pay attention to the rate that each pot and burner cook (they're all different!) so you're not adding oils and coloring to all four pots at one time;
Lesson #4: Grape oil is from the devil. No matter what my multitude of tests said, once I added grape oil, the resulting candy would NOT be hard and will stick to all dental work. I gave up on grape oil;
Lesson #5: This stuff is SHARP! It can and will cut you to ribbons. Blood does not mix well with hard tack candy.

I've always loved the way the process filled the house with so many delicious aromas, the line of tiny oil bottles marching along the countertop waiting to be added to the molten lava, the satisfying "CRACK" of the cooled candy being shattered by the heavy end of a butter knife, the shake-shake-shake of the candy in a baggie of powdered sugar, the big jar filled to the brim with stained-glass candy. It's a beautiful thing. Yes, it's a lot of work, but it's a very, very beautiful thing.

And I've never really felt that it was Christmas unless I've made hard tack candy.

I mean, we can do Christmas caroling, or go sledding, or pile gifts under the tree, or tick off each day with the opening of yet another door on the Advent calendar. We can bring in the greens and haul in a live tree, hang the stockings with care and wear ugly Christmas sweaters, but it doesn't feel like Christmas unless I've shopped for all those flavors, burned my hand a time or two, covered the counter with foiled-lined cookie sheets, scented the whole house with root beer, watermelon, bubblegum, clove, anise and wintergreen (but NOT grape), and filled that gallon jar with cracked sparkling goodness.

Tell me, how crazy is that?

No, you don't have to tell me. I already know.

As much as I want to do it all, have it all and be it all, I also need to know my own limits.

Because Christmas will come even if I don't do any of those things. It will come if I live in a slum neighborhood in Philly or if I have Pancreatic Cancer or if my child dies or if I feel depressed or if my house burns down or if I lose my income or if my family comes down with ringworm or if my husband has pneumonia.

Christmas will come if I make gingerbread houses, or if I don't, if I find that perfect tree skirt I bought on sale last year after watching it all Christmas season, or if I remember that it got peed on by the dog, hung on the porch railing and forgotten until Spring.

Christmas will come if all of my children are home for the holidays, or if one is in a remote village in Western Africa avoiding poisonous snakes and making food out of trees.

Christmas will come if I find that one perfect present for each of my family members, and it will come if I have to buy everyone gift cards to Stuff-Mart, and it will come if I don't give anyone anything at all but a kiss and a heart-felt "I love you."

Christmas will come if I don't make hard tack candy. And it will come if I do.

Heck, yeah, it's fun to do some of that stuff. It's also a big pain to do some of that stuff. So I take my B-12, my Vitamins A and D and my Glucosamine and I do what I can, what I want to. And that might look different every year.

It has been looking a lot like Christmas every year for over 2000 years.

And the One who makes it look that way is not a God of guilt, but a God of hope and healing, love and forgiveness.

Maybe we can't do it all. Maybe we can. But maybe we can work on taking joy in what we can do, leaving the guilt out in the cold.

May you be blessed this Christmas season with pure peace and true joy.

(Photo of kids from Christmas 2005)

::: seeking the waterfall :::

As part of our Ambleside curriculum, the girls and I have been studying the world's wonders through our geography book, Richard Halliburton's Book of Marvels, The Occident. Richard Halliburton is our absolute favorite geography teacher, though he's been gone from this world since 1939, shortly after The Occident was written. While reading The Occident and one of our other geography books. V.M. Hillyer's  A Child's Geography of the World, I got the itch to visit Niagara Falls. After doing a little research, I discovered that The Falls are only a five-hour drive from us and asked Bo if he'd be up for sitting behind the wheel for ten hours. It wasn't until after he'd agreed and I'd made the plans that I found out he'd never seen The Falls!

So, early Saturday morning, while 19-year-old Bard was on Fall break from University, Bo and I woke everyone (except 18-year-old Houdin, who is at Discipleship training for his trip to Africa) early in the morning and prodded them into the car for a road trip. "We'll be in the car for ten hours," we told them. "Bring a change of clothes. And comfortable shoes. And a raincoat. You might get wet!"

They were confused and thrilled as we passed first a sign for Pennsylvania, and then New York, and then, when they just couldn't take it anymore, we told them where we were going. Some were less-than-thrilled. The Baby thought we were going to a movie or an amusement park.

But once they got there, and they saw the rushing Niagara River and the absolutely breathtaking Falls, they were smitten. The winds were high as we rode the crashing waves of Horseshoe Falls on the Maid of the Mist, yanking shouts of joy and amazement from our bodies.

We got wet. Very wet. I was so thankful that we had and brought our waterproof camera. And that change of clothes!

When we all climbed back into the car for the ride home, we were exhilarated, inspired, ALIVE! A stop at Steak 'N Shake for dinner and a run to the Krispy Kreme next door (we can't get Krispy Kreme near us anymore!) made the day just about as perfect as it could get.

No car breakdowns! No major arguments! No unexpected expenses! And our randomized playlist even seemed to cooperate, throwing out songs like "Running with the Buffalo" by Peter Mayer, "Counting Road Signs" by Jonathan Reuel, "Coastline" by Brothers Creeggan, "Get On Your Boots" by U2, and "Suitcase" by Over the Rhine, and, just as we were rounding the last curves before our road at 10:45 PM, "Golden Slumbers" by The Beatles filled the van full of sleeping, sleepy and half-asleep travelers.

While the characters in Whittier's poem below didn't find the waterfall they sought, we did, and we were pleased in the seeking, as well.

Seeking of the Waterfall
~John Greenleaf Whittier

They left their home of summer ease
Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees,
To seek, by ways unknown to all,
The promise of the waterfall.

Some vague, faint rumor to the vale
Had crept--perchance a hunter's tale--
Of its wild mirth of waters lost
On the dark woods through which it tossed.

Somewhere it laughed and sang; somewhere
Whirled in mad dance its misty hair;
But who had raised its veil, or seen
The rainbow skirts of that Undine?

They sought it where the mountain brook
Its swift way to the valley took;
Along the rugged slope they clomb,
Their guide a thread of sound and foam.

Height after height they slowly won;
The fiery javelins of the sun
Smote the bare ledge; the tangled shade
With rock and vine their steps delayed.

But, through leaf-openings, now and then
They saw the cheerful homes of men,
And the great mountains with their wall
Of misty purple girdling all.

The leaves through which the glad winds blew
Shared. the wild dance the waters knew;
And where the shadows deepest fell
The wood-thrush rang his silver bell.

Fringing the stream, at every turn
Swung low the waving fronds of fern;
From stony cleft and mossy sod
Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

And still the water sang the sweet,
Glad song that stirred its gliding feet,
And found in rock and root the keys
Of its beguiling melodies.

Beyond, above, its signals flew
Of tossing foam the birch-trees through;
Now seen, now lost, but baffling still
The weary seekers' slackening will.

Each called to each: "Lo here! Lo there!
Its white scarf flutters in the air!"
They climbed anew; the vision fled,
To beckon higher overhead.

So toiled they up the mountain-slope
With faint and ever fainter hope;
With faint and fainter voice the brook
Still bade them listen, pause, and look.

Meanwhile below the day was done;
Above the tall peaks saw the sun
Sink, beam-shorn, to its misty set
Behind the hills of violet.

"Here ends our quest!" the seekers cried,
"The brook and rumor both have lied!
The phantom of a waterfall
Has led us at its beck and call."

But one, with years grown wiser, said
"So, always baffled, not misled,
We follow where before us runs
The vision of the shining ones.

"Not where they seem their signals fly,
Their voices while we listen die;
We cannot keep, however fleet,
The quick time of their winged feet.

"From youth to age unresting stray
These kindly mockers in our way;
Yet lead they not, the baffling elves,
To something better than themselves?

"Here, though unreached the goal we sought,
Its own reward our toil has brought:
The winding water's sounding rush,
The long note of the hermit thrush,

"The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of pond
And river track, and, vast, beyond
Broad meadows belted round with pines,
The grand uplift of mountain lines!

"What matter though we seek with pain
The garden of the gods in vain,
If lured thereby we climb to greet
Some wayside blossom Eden-sweet?

"To seek is better than to gain,
The fond hope dies as we attain;
Life's fairest things are those which seem,
The best is that of which we dream.

"Then let us trust our waterfall
Still flashes down its rocky wall,
With rainbow crescent curved across
Its sunlit spray from moss to moss.

"And we, forgetful of our pain,
In thought shall seek it oft again;
Shall see this aster-blossomed sod,
This sunshine of the golden-rod,

"And haply gain, through parting boughs,
Grand glimpses of great mountain brows
Cloud-turbaned, and the sharp steel sheen
Of lakes deep set in valleys green.

"So failure wins; the consequence
Of loss becomes its recompense;
And evermore the end shall tell
The unreached ideal guided well.

"Our sweet illusions only die
Fulfilling love's sure prophecy;
And every wish for better things
An undreamed beauty nearer brings.

"For fate is servitor of love;
Desire and hope and longing prove
The secret of immortal youth,
And Nature cheats us into truth.

"O kind allurers, wisely sent,
Beguiling with benign intent,
Still move us, through divine unrest,
To seek the loveliest and the best!

"Go with us when our souls go free,
And, in the clear, white light to be,
Add unto Heaven's beatitude
The old delight of seeking good!"

::: now my feet won't touch the ground :::

The weekend was a beautiful one; visits with loved ones, hugs from nieces and nephews, lots of music and dancing and laughing, and a beautiful bride and a handsome groom.

My little sister, who is actually Bo's little sister, who often comments on this blog as Lil Sis, married her sweetheart, Bishop, on Saturday. The outdoor wedding was blessed with a beautiful day, a group of loving people in attendance, Bo and his brother playing Coldplay's "Now My Feet Won't Touch the Ground" on lap dulcimer and guitar, and a whole host of laughing (and, occasionally, crying) children. At one point, the sing-songy serenade of the ice cream truck floated through the park, children and adults flocking to get a cool, sweet treat.

It was such an honor to be a part of Lil Sis's wedding, to do one of the things that I love best, which is to snap photos here and there and take a bit of video. Every time I would point my camera at Lil Sis, that funny little five-year-old girl peeked through her veil, reminding me just how quickly life skitters by.

Lil Sis's groom is so patient and enduring, with a great sense of humor and a no-nonsense approach to relationships. He tells it like it is without being demeaning or angry, and I appreciate that so much about him, about that man who doesn't let the wool be pulled over his eyes and continues to state what he believes. "You have ideals," his new father-in-law said, and it seems that it's true.

The two of them are iron sharpening iron, and they, along with Lil Sis's little girl RJ, are going to do amazing things as a family.

::: son, can you play me a memory? :::

As June approached, swinging her green skirts over these hills and valleys, my heart was confused. My eldest son, Houdin, would be turning eighteen. As such, he would no longer be subject to any formal teaching from his parents. How to commemorate? How to mark this occasion? What I wanted was to cut apron strings, yet allow love to remain intact. This boy, who has been the source of so much frustration, self-doubt, with whom interaction has caused me so much regret for my lack of patience and angry nature, has also impressed me with his strength, creative thinking and varied interests.

Remember those games we used to play as children? They're the ones my daughters still play now, like cutie catchers, and M.A.S.H., where a group of giggling girls determine your lifelong fate. On a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper, they ask you to list different boys' names, and types of dwellings (mansion, apartment, shack or house, which is where the game gets its name), and numbers, and states, and then you choose a number, which is written very blackly in the center of the page. And then, the counting begins. One by one, your choices are narrowed, until your lies future scrawled out on the wide-ruled looseleaf before you--you will marry Victor and live in an apartment in Tahiti, tooling around in an AMC Gremlin. And you will have kids, unless you chose a "zero" for one of the numbers. You'll have six kids, or fourteen kids, or two kids. If make the mistake of thinking the number means how much money you're going to make per year, you may end up with 120,000 kids.

I don't remember a lot about my preferences for children when I was a child. I thought more about where I would live, what I would grow, what animals I would have and what kinds of clothes I would wear than if or how many children I would love.

But along came Bo, and I loved him, and, more importantly at the time and to the plot of this essay, I was attracted to him, and children were part of that equation. And I knew just a few things about these arriving beings. Here's what I knew:

• They would love and follow God and emulate Christ;
• They would be stunningly beautiful;
• They would be dressed in trendy clothes from The Gap and Banana Republic and, more importantly, they would love vintage thrift clothes;
• They would want for nothing;
• They would love nature, hiking, swimming, canoeing, and gardening;
  
• They would love the folk music;
• They would be incredible musicians, maybe even virtuosos;
• They would be brilliant, obedient and respectful;
• My daughters would be my closest confidantes;
• My sons would be my fiercest defenders.

I'm not attesting to the rightness or wrongness of any of these things, I'm just reporting the facts that were rattling around in that little curly-topped two-decade-old head. Some of these thoughts were acknowledged plans, with roads to the outcome mapped out neatly in journals and file folders, some were pursued with vigor and they either succeeded or were reluctantly abandoned. Some of these things just happened naturally, with little or no input from me. And, of course, it varied from child to child, from day to day.

One child, however, decided pretty much from day one that he wasn't all that thrilled with my plan. He arrived later than the doctor had estimated, took longer to be born, had a true knot in his umbilical cord, weighed more and measured longer than anyone had imagined.

As he grew, his first words were "shub up!" and "I can doooo it!" and "yeave me a-yone!" He wanted to be fiercely independent, yet didn't quite have the tools to achieve that independence. Lessons at home proved frustrating for everyone involved. Anything that could be taken apart was. Anything that could be broken was. Including, many times, my mother heart.

And while I tried to push my plans on him, he pushed right back. My plan was for a son who was naturally kind and respectful, good-natured and loving, well-dressed and tidy. He wore wrinkled t-shirts and stained jeans to church, was mouthy to me and other family members, wasn't affectionate or kindhearted. And he certainly wasn't my fiercest defender. To engage him in learning, we tried placing him in private school for a year, pulling him back out, moving to the country, giving him animal projects, encouraging his interests, increasing the household structure, loosening the household structure, abandoning the household structure. I spent evenings pouring over parenting books, on my knees in prayer, and beside his bed trying to reason him into doing his lessons or clean his room or help around the house or stick with his current interest, even if it wasn't my current interest.

Because what I wanted? I wanted him to play an instrument. And what I really wanted was for him to play piano. So as soon as we could find a piano teacher we could afford, I signed all the kids up, and we would make a weekly trek, every Monday, to spend two hours at the piano teacher's house. And every week, he would show great promise. And every week, as soon as we would leave the piano teacher's house, the lesson would be forgotten and little or no practice would ensue, regardless of the reminders, motivators or bribes I handed out.

I don't want to play piano, he would say. That's something you want me to do. It's not something I'm interested in. And we'd have a discussion about how many adults wish they could play, how you never meet an adult who plays piano and says, "Man, I've always regretted sticking with my lessons." But that didn't help. He wanted to play computer games or set up his army men or strap CO2 cartridges to the girls' dolls and set them on fire, delighting in the ensuing explosion.

I don't understand this creature.

But somehow, he still has my heart firmly in his grasp.

This boy, who has been the source of so much frustration, self-doubt, with whom interaction has caused me so much regret for my lack of patience and angry nature, has also impressed me with his strength, creative thinking and varied interests.

Finally, we decided on a graduation party, and he expressed his strong preference for having it here, at our home. He did a lot of work to get ready for it, including building a stone stairway up our front hill.

We had a small ceremony on the hillside that is our little apple orchard, blankets and quilts laid out for people to sit upon. Bo said a few words and opened us with a song, the Doxology, and then our pastor gave a short teaching to Zach--to all of us--about the lack of wisdom in most commencement speeches. Bo shared his thoughts, his memories of Houdin as a newborn baby, long and red, and the weight that came with realizing that he was the father of a son. Before he had finished his first sentence, I knew that there was nothing I could say; I was too emotional to speak. And then, Houdin spoke. He hadn't shared with me what he was going to say, hadn't written it down.

What he shared was an answer to my many years of prayer. He gave a short history of his life, how he arrived at the point where he is today. He talked about our other house, our tiny cape cod on a busy street with a little postage-stamp-sized yard, and how, there, he was given the freedom to learn, how he could choose any subject, and we would delve fully into it, exhausting all possibilities for further information before moving on to the next subject.

And he talked about the move to where we are now, this house in the country. He talked about the learning opportunities he was given, how he was allowed to be a part of the building process of this new home, climbing on the roof, pulling wiring, installing hurricane clips in the attic, nailing down shingles, carrying cement blocks. He talked about the things we let him do, and the things we made him do, and he said that he was grateful for us. He was grateful, he said, that his mother gave him the freedom to learn, and his father gave him the discipline.

I wish I could convey the feelings I had at that moment, and how glad I was that we'd decided to have that ceremony, even though there were times when I was so overwhelmed and discouraged that we came close to calling it all off.

We closed by singing a family favorite, Rich Mullins' Step by Step, a song I taught the older kids when they were just toddlers, when they would stand on step stools beside me in our old house, washing and drying dishes, and singing and singing and singing. Now here we were, surrounded by wonderful friends and family, cutting the apron strings that were tied to this boy who has done a fairly good job of driving me mad.

A few days ago, when I had some errands to run, Houdin asked me if he could stay at the church while I did my running around. See, there's a piano there, and over the past few months, he has taken to looking up the chords to his favorite songs and banging them out daily.

And there I was, watching it all, smitten by this young man who has so many times frustrated my spirit.

In just two weeks, we will load up a car full of stuff and kids, and we will attend another ceremony, this one a commissioning to send Houdin to Africa for a ten-month venture into voluntary service.

Day by day, as the time to send him comes closer, I become more aware of what this means, of how far away he'll be and how much can happen over the course of ten months. My mother heart needs prayer, comfort and healing before I can offer the same to my boy. While I know that this trip is a good thing, that it's has been orchestrated by God and that much good will come of it, my nature is to hold on, to change my mind, so panic, to worry about all of the terrible things that could possibly happen. Ten months away. Ten months. On the other side of the world.

A short time ago, we welcomed a young man named Rejoice into our lives. Six months before, his mother had stood in Africa and said goodbye to him as he ventured to the other side of the world for a year. We did our best to give him a home here, to welcome him as one of us, to make him a part of our family. I pray that Houdin, too, will find a family on African soil who will look after him while he's away from us.

And I pray that there's a piano there for him to play.

Mastering the Art of Midnight Cooking

It was a long day of soccer practice, piano lessons, cleaning to prepare for the upcoming graduation party of Houdin, and, as if we weren't busy enough, a service planning meeting at church. Sometime during the day, I decided that it would all end with loveliness, so on the way to our meeting, I implored of my husband to not begin any lengthy discussions, to not bring up new topics, to cut to the chase, and I would do the same. I didn't want to sound short or bossy, but I knew I had to tell the other meeting attendees up front that we really needed to leave by 8:30. And I was pretty serious about it. I'm afraid I may have pushed the meeting on a bit--so I guess I was bossy in spite of my best mediocre attempts not to be.

And when we finished our meeting at 8:26, I think I actually hooted with glee.

My husband and I were going to go home, rush our two eldest and our young friend Lemony into the car (the two younglings were at a friend's house for the night), stop long enough to transfer Monet from another soccer parent's minivan to ours, and head north to the Medium Sized City for a 9:55 p.m. showing of Julie and Julia. My dear husband, who had awoken at 5:30 a.m. and would have to be to work at 7:00 a.m. the following morning, was completely game. We even scraped up enough money in this economically depressed month to pay for all of our tickets, the elder children chipping in all that they had. And when we got there? It was bargain Tuesday. $4.25 for tickets. Bonus!

No popcorn. No milk duds. Straight to the theater we strode, because I knew that, waiting at home for us, was a fresh batch of pesto and some crusty bread.

Bad idea.

See, the film was just packed full, as might be expected, of incredibly mouthwatering foods. They walked by amazing foods. They talked about amazing foods. They ate amazing foods. And we, hungry and amazed, watched helplessly, drooling, oohing and ahhing. Loudly. We were, by some miracle (maybe that it was the 9:55 p.m. showing) the only people in the theater, giving us the freedom to laugh loudly, discuss the food, and make slyly disparaging comments about the film's antagonists.

Meryl Streep was, as you've heard, amazingly incredible. Stanley Tucci was adorable. My only regret was that I had not been Julie Powell, had not stood in a moment of quiet desperation and committed an act of psychotic cooking bloggery. I could have done it (as everyone says). It could have been me. And, just like Powell's character in the film, I would have loved Julia, and I would have believed that Julia loved me, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.

I had decided that the day would end in loveliness, and I got my way. Julie and Julia was delightful, even with its flaws (my middle child got half-way through the film before he realized that the parallel stories were taking place during different decades..and he's a pretty bright kid). I found myself with the perfect opportunity to practice my very limited, very sad excuse for French. I nudged my daughter in the row ahead of me when Julie visited Julia's Cambridge, Massachusetts kitchen at the Smithsonian, because I, too, had been there just a short month and a half before. And after the film was over, as we were driving the long trip back home to my Little Village just after midnight, I was taking a mental inventory of what ingredients were scattered around my kitchen at home. My hope was to crack open my thrifted copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and duplicate, albeit more successfully, the poached egg scene in the film. I'd never poached an egg. I've never liked eggs.

Alas, it was not to be. My copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking is Volume 2, which doesn't contain the egg-poaching pages.

But my eyes landed on a recipe that featured eggplant, and, as luck would have it, I'd just plucked a few nice eggplants from my garden and a few more from the farmer's market just that morning, so I gathered all of the ingredients (can you believe I actually had scallions in my kitchen? I rarely have scallions in my kitchen! But there they were, as was everything else, and so, at 1:00 a.m., my husband, kids and Lemony were eating pesto and peeling eggplant as I made the sauce and chopped the tomatoes.

This dish is supposed to be eaten cold, but I just couldn't wait. I'd already lost my husband, who had finally staggered off to bed, and Monet, who couldn't stay up any longer due to an impending early-morning soccer practice (they're doing two-a-days this week), so as soon as I folded the tomato/basil/garlic sauce into the simmered/sauteed eggplant, I was ready to eat. Houdin heaped it onto a piece of crusty bread, but I just scooped it into a dish and grabbed a fork. Delicious.

A small dish was set aside and refrigerated so that I can see what it's "supposed" to taste like once it's chilled.

With just a few short hours left of this morning before I have to rise and begin another day, I'm heading to bed, garlic on my breath, dreaming of my next meal.

Name Meanings

This evening as we were sitting around the dinner table, Rejoice mentioned that he'd heard that The Baby had an interesting story behind her name. Sweetheart volunteered to share the story; The Baby was named after a relative, and her name is actually that relative's name spelled backwards. She also has two middle names, one for her great grandmother. The other is Joy. The reason is because I had waited so long for her to be born and was very frustrated by the waiting. She was coming later than we had planned, it had been a long and difficult pregnancy to begin with, and now the labor itself was drawn-out and painful. Soon after she was born, I spoke to my mother-in-law who said, "Weeping endures for the night, but joy comes in the morning," Psalm 30:5, and so, since The Baby was born at 6:00 a.m., Joy came in the morning.

Monet was named after an artist friend of ours who passed just days before Monet's birth. He also has two middle names which both have meanings. Each of our children were named very carefully and deliberately. Some appreciate their names. Others do not. But they can never say that we didn't care when we named them.

Rejoice went on to tell us about his name. When he was born, his mom was only into her seventh month of pregnancy. His father was working in the southern part of Swaziland and had to travel a long distance to get to the hospital and was quite worried about this fragile little premature baby of his. When he arrived at the hospital, he found that his son had been born and, while he was very tiny, he was healthy and without defect. He called his family and announced that everyone should be happy that the baby was born healthy! Rejoice! And that's where he got his name.

What does your name mean? How did you go about naming your own children? Did you settle on a name before your child was born or did you wait until you met the new little person? How do you feel about your own name?

The day is new and fresh. Now what will I do with it? I have my plans, of course, as I normally do when I wake to the sun peaking over the hill. I have a lovely view of it from my bedroom window; on most days, I'm happy to greet it, especially lately as I've made the decision to minimize my stress by staying home more, making a commitment to say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not able to do that." I don't say no to everything, but I have cut way, way back on the things that I do as an individual and the things we do as a family outside of our home. Gone are the days of rushing around looking for choir uniforms, or making hour-long drives to this or that organization, or spending days at a time preparing classes for other homeschooled children who choose not to do their assignments anyway. My focus needs to be on my family, on my health, and on the things that I know I can dedicate my time to fully without stressing everyone out.

So, my days are less stressful now. I know that who I am is not wrapped up in my performances. I can have meaningful relationships with people without "proving myself" through committees and organizations and meetings and clubs and societies. And now, if you ask me to do something and I say, "yes," you can know that I mean it fully.

Which leaves many of my days open and flexible. I like that.

Today, for example, is Saturday. Last year, I would have woken on any given December Saturday with a feeling of dread. What long car ride or unpleasant commitment do I have to greet today? Moreover, regardless of how well I do my task today, someone will not be pleased and I will feel that I've failed. What a depressing way to greet the day! How many things I put on the back burner, like teaching my children basic household tasks, or writing an essay, or making meals at home so that I could "be there" for this or that organization, job or club.

But today, I sit at home inhaling the aroma of my son's breakfast-making--pancakes and bacon-- and listening to the sounds of the dryer running, a blessing that has come about because I stopped saying "not now" to the nine-year-old daughter who kept begging me to teach her to do laundry. She has become a maniac, a laundry-doing machine; she sorts, washes, dries, folds, hangs, matches and puts away clothes better than I every have.

Last night, Bo and I were marveling over Sweetheart's gift as a laundress. When she came into the room, we decided to let her choose what the family would do for dinner that night. She didn't know, wasn't comfortable choosing. Couldn't we ask someone else? Couldn't we take a vote? We explained to her that we were giving her this choice because she had done such a fabulous job taking over the laundry chores. She didn't need a reward, she insisted. She likes doing laundry.

She likes doing laundry.

She likes it.

She. LIKES. it.

And so, doing laundry is its own reward. No other reward is needed.

She likes sorting the whites from the darks.

She likes starting the machine.

She likes putting in the laundry detergent and the fabric softener.

She likes the routine of putting the wash into the dryer.

She likes taking the warm clothes from the dryer, smelling their freshness, folding them and ushering them off to their proper locations.

She finds the reward in the enjoyment of the task.

This is the lesson I'm trying to learn. I will say yes to those things I've been gifted to do, those things that bring others joy, certainly, but that bring me joy because the doing of them is my reward. Of course I have to do some unpleasant tasks, but I'm learning to even enjoy those, and to reap my reward from the task itself, not from what others think of it.

This morning, I have a Saturday, and I have a to-do list that is dotted with reasonable expectations, planning ahead, and relishing the process.

And tomorrow will be new, and fresh, and I will not dread it.

::: scenes from the garden :::

Here are a few moments I wish I could savor forever. After returning from the trail and a trip to the thrift store, The Baby ushered Papa out to the garden to peruse her thrifted William Wegman book. Of course Sweetheart, Bard and Joy the Dog had to get in on the act. What a gorgeous day!

Some grad photos...

Bard graduated from high school this weekend. The ceremony was lovely, and we had the very perfect weather for her open house on Sunday. We made bins and bins of food--barbecued chicken, baked beans, potato salad, veggies and dip, cake, cookies--and we had a wonderful crowd of people to share it all with.

Now, she's off for the summer and will be a freshman at a Christian college on a full scholarship (room and board, books, tuition, AND a laptop all paid!) this Fall. I will miss her greatly, but she'll only be about an hour away, and will be closer geographically to some of her friends when she's there that she has been at home.

It's been a great ride, learning with this girl, from the moment she was born, even up through today. I look forward to many years of learning with my younger ones, too.

With Sweetheart, Mom, Dad and Grandma.

Aunt Marilyn and Cousin Bella on the hammock with Uncle Aaron providing the motion.

Some twilight guests.
And she'll be heading off to college with a very special gift from her whole family--aunts, uncles, grandparents, brothers, sisters, mom and dad. It's her very own guitar--which just happens to share her name.

Finally. New pictures of the kids.

After having those black and white pictures on my sidebar for so, so long, I finally have some new photos of the fam which I hope to get into that sidebar, if I can remember how!

The Baby

Sweetheart

Monet

Houdin

Bard

A Spring Photo

Well, it only took about two hours and fifty takes, but we got one decent family photo for the church directory and my mother-in-law who has been asking me for a family photo forever. Left to right: Bard, Monet, Houdin, The Baby, Bo, Sweetheart and Thicket Dweller.

Ain't no cure for the summertime blues...

Once the weather gets warm, and the trees jump into greenness, and the dirt invites a spade and some willing fingers, our family can be found outdoors at every chance.

Every year, I've taken a little more time and a little more effort to plant a vegetable garden and a couple of flower beds. This year, with gas prices being what they are, and food costs skyrocketing, I decided that it would be necessary to grow as big of a garden as I can possibly get, and that everyone in the family will work in it, no exceptions. So far, that plan has worked out, with just a few hitches.

The hitches are the computers. My boys, in particular, don't seem to be able to function properly if there is an electronic device within a hundred feet of them. I can assign them a chore and, as soon as I'm not looking, they disappear. I'll spend a half-hour pulling weeds, or hoeing a row, or hauling mulch, and then I realize that someone's missing. It seems that I spend half of my work day playing hide and seek, though it's never very hard to find them.

Usually the reason is that they had to go to the bathroom, or change their shoes, or get a drink. And once they're in the house, that computer is just too strong of a pull. They're sucked in to Frets on Fire or facebook. It's almost like they don't even know they're doing it.

But the girls? Well, when they're in the garden with me, it's right where they want to be. They will do whatever it takes to make the yard look pretty, and just to spend time with mom. And if they aren't working with mom, they're swinging on the swing, or playing with the animals, or pretending they're fairies, or picking flowers to weave into each others' hair. Bard will spend the entire day weeding, mulching and identifying emerging perennials in her garden.

Is it a hard-wiring thing? Are girls so programmed to nest and create environments that they aren't even tempted away?

Are boys so programmed to hunt and gather and protect that they'll drift away from their household duties in order to virtually hunt and gather and protect?

Whatever the reason, it causes some friction in the Thicket Dweller household. The girls, even though they love being with mom and enjoy housework to some extent, dont' appreciate it when they have to do all of it, and the boys get to run off and "play." And I, who have always intended to raise boys who can cook and clean just as well as they can work on cars and gather firewod, am simply maddened by their distractedness. It leaves all of us feeling resentful and trodden upon.

So I'm looking for solutions. I know that I can do some things in a very analog style, like taking the power supply or the wireless keyboard and mouse and locking them in the locker. But that doesn't change the heart issue, and that's what I need to address now.

Any commiserations or suggestions that you have would be warmly welcomed. Does anyone else deal with these issues? How do you handle them? Do you see a difference between boys and girls in this area?

I'll be staying tuned, but I won't be standing right by my computer. If you need me, I'll be in the garden.

Who told you that?

I feel like redecorating a room. I feel like painting a wall with whimsical characters. I feel like hand-sewing something. I want to open a toy store or a chocolate shop or a magical book store. I'm uplifted. Inspired. Creatively charged.

The last time, it was kind of an accident. A whim really. It was Monday, and Monday is fifty cent movie day. If you can take a boatload of kids to a theater and pay $3.50, you go if there's something worth seeing, you know?

And, while I had really, really, really wanted to see Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium the first time I saw the trailer in the movie theater, the whispering critics changed my fickle mind. I don't even remember how it seeped into my brain that this movie was a dud. I just, Idunno, heard it somewhere. Probably like people had heard that The Wizard of Oz was a dud. Or The Princess Bride. I can't recall reading it anywhere, or even having a conversation about it, but I know I had a negative feeling about Mr. Magorium's, so I steered clear.

Fortunately for me and my tight fist, I got a second chance when Mr. Magorium's was on at the cheap theater that day. And, what was especially intriguing to me, that it was rated G. A cheap family date and I wouldn't leave the theater regretting that I'd tainted my children for life with a host of innuendos and potty jokes.

So we gave it a shot.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, from my five-year-old up to my eighteen-year-old, adored the movie. And so did I! I was whisked away by the sparkling innocence and charming quixoticity of it all--the set, the characters, the story. It enchanted me, truly.

Tonight, for family night, we watched it again, and my feelings were the same. Here, at last, was a clean, phantasmagorical film with quirky, quick-witted, capricious dialog and light-hearted humor. Nothing embarrassing. Nothing risque. Just sweet, fun-loving innocence.

Have you seen it? Have you avoided it because you heard it was a Chocolate Factory rip-off, or that Dustin Hoffman presents an annoying Willie Wonka wannabe? Who told you that? Whoever it was, I'd venture to say that those are people who have handed over their innocence, ultimately losing their identities to too many Bourne movies or poisoning their imaginations with the harsh violence and overdone bathroom humor present in the majority of today's films. Mr. Magorium's, while somewhat trite in places, and, admittedly, a bit weak in the ending, nevertheless shares with us the beauty of relationships, the transformation that comes from loving, the unabashed compassion that one human being can have for another, and the novel idea that death is not scary or undesirable, but should be accepted as another stop on our adventure--indeed, even something to celebrate. It shares with us that, in the depths of our souls, there is someone who was born there, someone we can't kick out, someone who is keeping a volume of books recording with meticulousness every moment of our lives. It teaches us that how we love matters, that intergenerational relationships are what make us grow, and that there is no end to the importance of a good pair of shoes.

There are timeless truths here, to be sure.

On Bard's eighteenth birthday, we had lunch at Chic-Fila, and I happened to hear someone at the next table talking about Mr. Magorium's, giving it, as I have, a glowing review. I couldn't stop myself from interjecting and connecting with this kindred spirit.

"I loved it, too," I ventured tentatively. And we shared our favorite parts. She told me how she sat in the theater alone (she'd just turned 50, she said) after doing just what I had done; she'd had a spare afternoon, some loose change, and had found herself at the ticket window of the bargain movie theater.

"I even asked the ticket girl if it was a dumb movie, and she said she didn't know. I figured, 'What the heck? For a couple of quarters, what do I have to lose?' So I went it, and was mesmerized. Smitten! I pulled out my notebook and, there in the dark, tried to jot down all that stuff I wanted to remember. I had a full page by the time it was over!"

Like me, she wondered what had kept her away. "I don't know why I thought it was a flop. I just heard it somewhere. But now, it's one of my favorite movies.

"It really made me think about my life," she said, "and made me ask myself what I'm saving things for. I had a friend who died of cancer a couple of years ago, and before she died, we went through her closet, and she had all these great, fancy clothes. Clothes she'd rarely or never worn! Why? Because she was 'saving them for a special occasion,' she'd said. I thought of that during the movie, when Mr. Magorium says, 'Your life is a an occasion. Rise to it!' That line! I decided that I'd wear my good clothes now, every day. What am I saving them for?"

If you're looking for a clean family film, a departure from the prosaic, something to sweep you away from the proletarian day-to-day, Mr. Magorium's just might be it.

No matter what "they" say.

Keep Cool

August. The heat is making me pay for the coolness of July. For the first time in my life, I'm seriously considering selling someone or something to purchase an air conditioner. We already have the whole system set up, the lines charged and everything, but we lack a compressor. We'd get it later, we said. When we had more money. Now we have less. No air in the house, no air in either car, so there's no escape from the heat short of laying in the tub all day or swaddling myself in wet washcloths. Unless you include shopping at the thrift store and the used book store. Which I do.

My niece and nephews are here for a few days. Today's the last of the few, and, while we've had a lot of fun milking goats, making bouquets, eating stuff from the garden, going thrift-store shopping and seeing a bargain showing of Evan Almighty, swinging on the swing and jumping on the trampoline, I think they're ready to go home. They hate the flies and the heat and my ten-year-old nephew Tenn's not too nuts about the lack of TV and various electronic games. I think he'll be glad, though, that he climbed to the top of the treehouse and just sat there for a long, long time, looking out over the hills (darn it! I just had a great idea. Why didn't I give him a disposable camera this week???), visited the cabin, chased chickens, played rodeo with the billy goat, tortured cats, explored the woods and creeks, listened to James Herriot stories about returning cows and flatulent dogs. I mean, what's not to love? Air conditioning? Pshaw.

But it was nice to get some relief from the heat and mugginess yesterday as we combed through the potential bargains at my favorite thrift store. Four-year-old nephew Hot Dog found some great "Engine Turtles" in a fifty-cent bag of treasures. Six-year-old niece Hobbit and eight-year-old daughter Sweetheart delighted in clip-on earrings, necklaces and Hobbit's shiny silvery shrug. The Baby scored a cute sundress and a baggie of Polly Pockets. Twelve-year-old son Monet bought a giant deck of cards and a bubble-blowing contraption. I scored two hunter-green throw-rugs for my kitchen and my second cast-iron skillet of the week (cooking with cast iron is my new thang; last week I found another just like this one, perfectly seasoned and ready-to-use. I added it to my cart with my other thangs--books and hand-embroidered pillowcases). Houdin found some borderline-tacky vintage clothes to add to his collection currently cluttering the floor. And we were so very cool.

Today, it's off to voice and piano lesssons, and then some of us will head for Columbus where we'll meet my sister-in-law and then there may be a little surprise in store for those two teens of mine who go along.

Until then, we'll keep cool in every way we know how.

Time to Vacate

We're not the kind of family who takes vacations.

I've never been to Disney World. I've never taken my children to see the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls. We've never flown to Europe. Heck, we barely ever leave our state!

Even when my husband I and married, young and poor, our honeymoon was spent twenty minutes away from home in a hotel that was once an oats silo. For one night. And then we hit the ground running.

I don't believe we've stopped since.

Our vacations have always been more familycentric, consisting of visits to parents' and grandparents' houses, graduation parties, weddings, funerals. Our immediate family spends Bo's vacation days on service projects or home improvement projects. If we travel overnight, it's generally for our children's activities--particularly speech and debate tournaments.

If the tournament is less than 3 hours away, Bo does his best to convince us to just commute. If we can camp during one of these outings, we'll borrow a friend's pop-up and rough-it. If it's far, far away, we'll get one hotel room for the seven of us and pray there's a cot available when we get there.

This weekend, we had a tournament in Mt. Vernon, Ohio, which doesn't qualify as far, far away from us. We're not in camping weather, so roughing-it was out of the question.

But we didn't commute.

We stayed in a hotel. For THREE WHOLE NIGHTS. And celebrated!

Because this week, Sweetheart and I both turned a bit older. I am now a woman of thirty-eight and Sweetheart is an adorable eight-years-old. To make our birthdays more special, I decided that I would save up my pennies and spend an extra day in Mt. Vernon, explore that cute little college town, laze around in a hotel room watching Fresh Prince of Bel Aire and eating pizza.

After working and cleaning house on Wednesday, the five kiddoes and I drove to Mt. Vernon to check into our hotel room and settle in. There, we met our grumpy hotel host (more about her later) and vegged out, stayed up late, and laughed a lot.

Thursday morning, the day before the tournament was to start, I took the boys to get haircuts and then we briefly explored the downtown Mt. Vernon area. Just as I remembered from a pass-through several years ago, there was a cute little store (more about that later, too), a hip cafe and a bead shoppe with all of the makings for a few saweet pairs of earrings. There was also an adorable little bakery called The Pink Cupcake. I promptly strolled in and ordered a birthday cake for Sweetheart and her girlfriend Lydia, who would be turning 7 the next day.

We hoofed it back to the hotel to pick up the girls and then we went exploring.

Bard and I made earrings at the bead shop. Sweetheart made an adorable necklace with her name on it. The boys took The Baby to the bookstore and cafe (more about that later, too) where we met up with them after our earring adventure was complete. I checked my e-mail at the cafe and bought two fabulous cookbooks at the fabulous bookstore that employed two fabulous women (more about them later, too) and then we popped in to The Pink Cupcake so the girls could all ooh and ahh over the displays. Of course we just had to take something along with us (I may have gained seven pounds this week, but it was worth it) so we all chose something--both of us birthday girls chose two things--and then we meandered back to the hotel room where Bo joined us after his drive from home.

Friday morning, early, brought the tournament (more about that later, too. Boy. I hope I remember all this), a late-night pizza party, and more from our grumpy hotel clerk. Saturday brought more tournament, cake for the girls from The Pink Cupcake, and a wonderful evening meal at the Southside Diner where all of our forensics team enjoyed food, fellowship and general silliness.

It was a full and wonderful weekend--and there's so much more to tell.

While we may not take vacations, I try to take advantage of every moment, turning as many into mini-vacations as I possibly can. Those are the moments that make life fun.

Role with It...

Lately there have been a lot of thoughts running through my head about my role in life.

I seem to get like this specifically when I'm busy with things that pull me away from the home, like work (right now, I'm working for a local greenhouse part-time), or classes (either my kids' or my own), or volunteer work, or activities, or social gatherings. My being gone really takes a toll on the state of the house. Right now, it's a disaster area. And that causes me a lot of stress.

But being gone takes a lot of toll on me, too. What I really want is to be a home-maker. I want to be with my kids, read to them, bake things, cook meals, clean the house, do laundry.... I know, I know. It sounds so June Cleaverish. But it's true. Nothing relaxes me more than a clean, organized home, a neat yard and a bucolic barnyard full of well-cared for animals.

Unfortunately, I'm the only one in my family who really has strong desires regarding these things.

So I feel like I spend a good portion of my time fighting the inevitable messes and prodding, bribing and threatening the masses to take a look around and take a bit of inintiative and take CARE of things!

Lately, I've been feeling the pull to get me back in the house. I almost feel like I'm caught in a trap, expending time and energy at the greenhouse, forensics club, choir, and even the housecare things that take me away from home, like grocery and thrift store shopping, and I'm wondering if it's all really where God wants to have me.

I'd like to wrap up this post by saying I had a wonderfully insightful epiphany about this while showering this morning.

But I can't. Because I haven't.

Last week when we were preparing for the forensics tournament, I just felt like my life was completely out-of-control, how I spend a lot of time serving in other areas for other people, and then my own home, health and family suffer because of the time we spend away. As we were preparing to leave, The Baby, who's four, wrapped her arms around me and said, "You're leaving again? Already?" and clung to me, bursting into heartbroken sobs, begging me not to go. Yesterday, after two days of being gone for the tournament, she clung to me and continually offered me "surprises" that she had for me. She was emotional, weepy and clingy. She really needed me. And I was gone. For what? What's so important? Especially in light of the fact that my other "little girl" was four just yesterday. And now, she's seventeen.

It's a complicated thing, this life. And being a mother? Oh. My. Goodness. Pressures like I never would have imagined.

Even at the tournament, I knew that I had certain responsibilities, but I also had children who were presenting pieces and wanted me to see them. No matter which choice I made, I felt guilty. If I went to see them, I felt like I was shirking my responsibilities. If I didn't go see them and made myself available for other things, I felt guilty for not being a good mother.

I think part of it is always second-guessing myself about what I'm "supposed" to be doing. Or maybe just what I think other people think I'm *supposed* to be doing.

Like now. I'm supposed to be running, and shopping for a dryer, and buying milk for my family and another family, and dropping things off at the thrift store, and checking on the goats, and heading to the greenhouse.

But I'm here. Trying to figure our my role in life.

Have you ever struggled with this?

::: forty :::

Over the weekend, we celebrated Bo's birthday at his sister's house in Cincinnati. He thought he was just going to install a water softener and conditioning system, but we had other plans for him. His sister planned a wonderful surprise, invited his grandfather, parents and siblings in, put Bo and me up in a very nice hotel for the night, and treated Bo to a forty minute massage. Other gifts he received were:

Forty socks
Forty heath bars
Forty guitar picks
Forty ounces of coffee
Forty pennies, forty nickles, forty dimes, forty quarters
Another forty-minute massage
Forty mardi-gras beads, each one representing a memory or kind word about Bo spoken by all of his family members
Forty miscellaneous things
Forty cups of McDonald's coffee (from me. McD's is his favorite)

And his brother-in-law Brent sang him this song, titled, of course, "Forty."

One, two, three, four

I waited patiently for the Lord
He inclined and heard my cry
He brought me up out of the pit
Out of the miry clay

I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song

How long to sing this song?
How long to sing this song?
How long, how long
How long, how long to sing this song?

He set my feet upon a rock
And made my footsteps firm
Many will see
Many will see and fear

I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song

How long to sing this song?
How long to sing this song?
How long, how long
How long, how long to sing this song?

Thanks, Jerren, for planning the weekend. It was very, very nice.

Happy birthday, Bo! May you be blessed today and always.

Bella

It's hard to have nieces and nephews so far away, but it's wonderful to have e-mail and other ways of communicating so that I can see how they're growing and changing. Here's my niece, Bella, from a photograph taken and edited by my mother-in-law. I wish I could be there to hug her and kiss her chubby cheeks. It sucks being so far away. It's one of the reasons I pray that my kids try to stay close to home, but I know I have no control over that. Still, I'm lobbying. Bard, the best colleges are in Ohio. So are the best husbands. You know that, right?

Right?

Two Days of Anniversary

Thursday night, Bo informed me that he had taken Friday off work so that he and I could begin celebrating our seventeenth anniversary. I was so thrilled and surprised! The bummer was that I didn't really know what I wanted to do, and neither did he. We're low on cash, so there really weren't a lot of options.

After a bit of thinking, I decided what I wanted to do. I told him that I wanted to go into the Big City and shop for a hand-crank pasta maker. Bo works in the Big City, and since his boss was under a little bit of stress, we decided that he could take part of his vacation day and go get some phone calls made while I did a little bit of shopping, then we would meet back up and do some more shopping together.

So, I awoke Friday morning to meet my walking buddy. We decided to do our Couch Potato to 5K routine, alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking. Because I'm a wimp, we've modified it to 60 seconds of jogging and enough walking to regain consciousness. Kim has so much more endurance than I do, but I'll get there eventually. We did the whole session, eight reps of jogging with walking in-between. I can't say that it was fun, but it did feel good, and I hope we can progress to week two before long.

After jogging, I hit my favorite thrift store, because I like to and because a friend who volunteers there had informed me that she had something for me. I found a new pair of rollerblades for Monet and a couple of other small things for The Baby, and when I got to the counter, I discovered that my checkbook was gone. Bo had taken it out to use and I'd forgotten. My friend stepped in and saved the day, paying for my purchase. She's my goat-grain supplier, so I'll repay her when I pick up goat grain on Monday.

When I'd recovered from the embarrassment of not having my checkbook, my friend directed me to the back of the building, where her car was parked. There, she unloaded a large box of beef for our family! I was so thrilled. Meat is a rarity in our house; I really only buy it on special occasions. She said that her family had been blessed with excess and decided to share. What a blessing! She also gave me several loaves of my favorite bread as well as dozens and dozens of eggs (pasta!). I love how the Lord provides!

I stopped at the library to pick up books on pasta and pizza, my two current obsessions, and headed home. Once there, I did some bedroom cleanup, wrote a blog post or two, then Bo and I took our trip to The Big City, which is about an hour from us.

While Bo worked, I abandonned my idea of shopping and read for a while instead. Then I fell asleep. After a nice nap, I was refreshed. And hungry. So we went to eat--where else?--at our favorite Italian restaurant. This, my dear readers, is a very rare and wonderful treat that I do not take lightly. Only on anniversaries and children's 16th birthdays do we indulge such. It was wonderful, but, if I may be so bold, I do still prefer home-cooking. As long as someone else cleans up the mess. :-)

The rest of the evening was spent in pursuit of a pasta maker that never materialized. I was, however, able to score two very well-priced Playmobil toys for The Baby's birthday, which is fast approaching.

*******************************

This morning, we woke everyone but Houdin, who is not feeling well, and The Baby, who isn't the best walking partner, and we hit the trail. Monet and Sweetheart roller-bladed while Bo, Bard and I walked. I have made an unspeakable deal with Bard in exchange for her walking with me every time I ask, without complaining, for six months. I think she'll do it. And I think she'll like it. :-)

Another quick trip to the library, another quick trip to the thrift store (to donate, this time), and a pitstop at the store for a few essentials--fruit, paper products, etc--and then it was on to our favorite dairy for fresh, raw milk. I've been making yogurt almost daily using delicious whole jersey milk, so thick and creamy that we'll never go back to Dannon! Almost as good as Stonyfield, but without the cream on top (how *do* they do that?). Home to refrigerate the milk, and then off to a couple of shops in town to check for pasta makers.

The first shop had just about everything else--ravioli molds, spaetzle makers, electric pasta makers--but no hand-cranked pasta maker.

The second shop...SUCCESS! After searching SEVEN different stores, we finally found a store just fifteen minutes from our home that stocks three different top brands of pasta makers, accessories and attachments. But the prices were quite high, so I opted to check online.

Home again home again, and we decided to tackle cleaning our fruit cellar and basement laundry room. They were HORRIBLE! They're much better now, but not done. Still, we were able to burn a bunch of boxes/paper/paper products, and we hauled a large bag of recycleables out of the house. It was a nice opportunity to get a bite to eat, so we rounded out our two-day celebration with a sandwich and onion rings (now I'll have to run some more) and headed for home.

Regular family chaos ensued, and now everyone lies sleeping but I'm still awake. Even though my husband was the one who indulged in late-evening coffee. Go figure.

Sunday school comes early, so I'll sign off, go check my yogurt, and try to hit the hay.

It's been a good couple of days.

Prayers for Peace, please

Please pray for peace in our family. Today, there is so much anger, disappointment, hurt, selfishness and impatience that no one is happy.

Thank you for your prayers.