We had all three of our babies at home with a midwife in attendance. I wish I could describe it as beautiful. I mean it was great because we got several great babies out of the deal, and there was some wonderment over the whole thing. It was miraculous, but I am not sure I would say it was beautiful. It was birth. It was what it was.
But I have never heard an account of a birth like the one I read today. It is absolutely hilarious.
Go here. Read and die laughing.
I did.
We are trying to live small. Which means bright pink hand-me-downs for Bear. He totally owned it in a “whatchoo lookin’ at” kinda way.
And then our zany friend, Ally, who has none of the uptightness of, say, me…went out to the back forty and came back with a crock of clean snow. Made the kids slushies. They loved it. It was daring. ‘Cause they know what Mom says.
The irony of the whole thing? Ally used lemonade mix to flavor it.
So, my friends? My children have now, officially, eaten yellow snow. They may now cross that one off their bucket list.
Eat Yellow Snow. Check.
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
1 Corinthians 13:1-7NIV
Love never fails.
The late-day light is stretching long across the backyard and the temperature is staying firmly in the low twenties.
The snow is still crusted along the edges of the road, some of it still white, but most of it slushy.
And that crazy groundhog that everyone is talking about supposedly is telling us our future. Pshaw.
Someone much, much larger is in charge of the weather and that is what keeps me sane in these very, very long winter days with very little sunshine.
*sigh*
The solution?
Soup, soup. Of course, soup.
And, as my Joshua says, “Potato soup is totally my whole life, Mom!”
And then he knuckle bumps Anna and they share a quick giggle.
I would have to agree. There is something so simple, but so very grand, about the lowly potato. Whatever the glycemic naysayers say, I love them and will eat them until they pry my ‘taters out of my cold, dead fingers.
Who doesn’t enjoy the singular pleasure of a humble bowl of soup, stew, or chowder? That magical amalgamation of broth, root vegetables, herbs, and perhaps the occasional surprise of tender meat.
So many memories, so much soup. It’s crazy but almost every single meaningful memory in my childhood somehow involved soup. It is inevitable.
It is wafting in here from the kitchen.
I cannot wait.
“Do you have a kinder, more adaptable friend in the food world than soup? Who soothes you when you are ill? Who refuses to leave you when you are impoverished and stretches its resources to give a hearty sustenance and cheer? Who warms you in the winter and cools you in the summer? Yet who also is capable of doing honor to your richest table and impressing your most demanding guests? Soup does its loyal best, no matter what undignified conditions are imposed upon it. You don’t catch steak hanging around when you’re poor and sick, do you?”
Judith Martin (Miss Manners)
Soup and fish explain half the emotions of human life.”
Sydney Smith
Happy Wednesday, Happy Soup to you.
Snow, snow, snow.
No sunshine, no sunshine, no sunshine.
Equals…
Stir-craziness.
That’s when the inspiration book comes out and my cooped-up therefore over-productive mind starts spinning with plans for when the weather unlocks us from the indoors and we can spread our wings a bit.
My dreams for this summer are pretty tame.
I just want a really pretty garden full of produce and flowers. Something like this.
Also, perhaps a fresh color for the kitchen. Right now we have a screened porch spanning the entire back of the house. It is quite successful at blocking every single drop of sunlight that could possibly reach inside and warm our bones. Our kitchen is painted a color that was put up in this current very dark, no-sunshine state. It’s red. Bright, strawberry red. With white cupboards. It’s due for an update and something that isn’t so in-your-face when the sun comes shining through.
I’m thinking a color like this:
or this, this, and this.
Which one? (all color swatches via House Beautiful)
*photo via House Beautiful
And is it just me or is this room divine? With the smoky walls and bright gold furniture? Maybe this could be a bit of inspiration for my kitchen? Can’t get over the yellow.
So, the Spring Kitchen Makeover Debate. What color for accents?
Gold?
Red?
Gold?
Red?
Hmmm.
With the smoky walls I can keep the white cabinets, and still include my love for bright red…or GOLD. And this color could go all the way into the dining room and down the hall. With some gold or RED accents.
I do think I’m in love. With a paint color. It feels like “forever”. *sigh*
I told you I’m stir-crazy.
If you have any color suggestions put them in the comment section. I would love to see your ideas.
I know it’s small and low-resolution, but I thought it would be fun to post my little experiment. I found this website and got addicted to looking at all the toy-like people and cars in the photographs.
How can you not enjoy taking a normal, everyday photograph and making it into something that looks like it is straight from the Island of Sodor or perhaps Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood?
I mean, who doesn’t like to look like a tiny, little, plastic plaything?
Oh, the cynical, hilarious, and downright mean responses that just popped into my mind. Shame on me.
P.S. There are a lot of tutorials on how to achieve this affect on your photographs. I am actually going to go out on a special trip downtown sometime soon to take more photographs that are conducive to this type of editing. The photograph above was taken by my big sis on New Year’s Day right after I limped in from running a 3-mile race. In 5 degree weather. Pathetic, I know. Not the temperature…the fact that I was limping after only 3 miles. Yup, mmmhmmm. I know.
…and sometimes still do.
this image inspiration via remodelista from Taku Shinomoto.
Can’t you just see numerous little ones, all their wiggles on display, seated around this very simple, modern table?
I can. And now this has been added to my dreaming notebook entitled, “Do It Myself Projects For When I Have Time Which Is A Dream In And Of Itself.”
Happy Monday.
Sunday.
Fellowship with family and worship in the a.m.
Rest, more fellowship.
And then, quiet. Just us.
Warming up yesterday’s gluten free garlic-oregano bread, with marinara and mozarella.
Looking through my lens to find…another lens staring back at me.
Fresh apple slices, a drizzle of honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Hot water means tea…
…in my favorite cup that Mom bought me when I was in the throes of PPD after Anna. It has memories. Good ones and bad ones. But it’s my cup. I hope, hope, hope it never breaks. I suppose when it does, it will be time to move onto new attachments and memories. It is a little crazy, isn’t it, what we find comforting?
Anyhow, it is a little bit of a tradition this Sunday evening tea and planning Monday’s home school lesson plans. And listening to music whilst doing so. Today was Imogen Heap. Part of me is in love, the other part, jury still out. Mostly her music makes me glad for the hope I carry with me…otherwise I do believe her music would be too hollow for me to be able to handle. It is hauntingly beautiful in one way…perhaps too much so for my already melancholy personality. Mayhap I shall layer and follow Imogen with some Owl City.
Goodnight. I am going now.
Have a blessed Monday.
P.S.
Budding photographer making sure the warm mozzarella bread gets documented before it disappears altogether.
I am working and I hear a conversation in the hallway:
Josh (age 9): Barrett, sometimes you are just weird.
Bear (age 4): I know I’m weird.
Josh: No, seriously, like, you are totally weird sometimes. The stuff you do…
Bear: I KNOW I’m weird. I LIKE to be weird. So there.
Only Bear has a bit of a speech thing going on so it sounded more like, ” I KNOW I’m weewed. I LIKE to be weewed. So thaew.”
We as mothers and fathers try so hard to make sure our children are self-assured and centered. And then a conversation like this happens and I am flabbergasted.
He is free. He stood up for himself. I am proud.
Now, to sit down and explain to Josh what weird really is.
I’m so distracted today with thoughts of the Haitian devastation. I know that I am not the only one.
I looked at all the images from the quake and I found myself wondering how many people will never find who they are looking for, never know exactly what happened, never really recover.
And then I get mad, confused and ask the fathomless question of “why”?
I am not sure “why” matters, but it always seems to feel like the most expedient question to be answered. As if knowing why would make it all shift into reverse.
The world can’t reverse. But we can go forward.
We can pray. Pray that family members can be reunited, that injuries heal, and that hearts can begin mending. We can pray that a city devastated can be rebuilt and reborn. We can pray for relief workers as they go and join hands with the suffering. And we can pray for ourselves that our hearts would learn to look outward, all around us.
This is a good place to donate.
Also, here is a good list of other charities who can accept donations. Please do your research and make sure your dollars aren’t being funneled into a scam.
Psalm 147:3
He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.
