tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27508645598563376732024-03-13T12:09:09.060-07:00blueberryandbuttercupOur Days in MaineMama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-88907707262000463742013-03-03T18:15:00.000-08:002013-03-03T18:15:32.660-08:007 & 8/ 52Two busy weeks flew by. Daddy had a vacation week and then a birthday and "way led unto way," and Mama is tardily updating.<br />
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So many lovely moments, tiny victories, tantrums weathered, cat food eaten (Tess), restless nights survived, a full moon reveled in, anxieties calmed, revived and calmed again, snow shoveled and trudged in, the sad grey end of winter cheered by the spark of you, my children.<br />
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<i>These past two weeks, my sweet baby,</i></div>
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<i>-- You started to actually love playing in the snow, not just tolerate it. What a change from a few weeks ago!</i></div>
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<i>-- Your language skills are just exploding. Nearly full sentences now! Smart baby.</i></div>
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<i>-- You started teething again even though I thought you already had all your 2 year molars. Huh?? Let's see what happens, shall we?</i></div>
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<i>-- You ate cat food. Enough about that.</i></div>
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<i>-- You decided you can never be without your stuffed puppy.</i></div>
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<i>-- You learned to count to 16. </i></div>
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<i>-- Your favorite tea is now rooibos with honey and a splash of milk. Yum.</i></div>
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<i>-- You took your first serious nap NOT in the car or on my arm or my back. That makes me so very happy. We even documented it. </i></div>
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<i>-- Favorite story: What Will Little Bear Wear? You have it almost memorized. </i></div>
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<i>-- You had a naked toddler dance party with your cousin the night before she moved out of state. You know how to do send-offs.</i></div>
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<i>These last two weeks have been full for you, my sweet girl, </i></div>
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<i>-- You went with mommy and Nonni (and no sister!) to Portland to see a production of Peter Pan. You were absolutely transfixed and became obsessed with Peter Pan again. We also went to Bam Bam bakery and you wanted one of everything.</i></div>
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<i>-- You eagerly helped me with everything for Daddy's party. And then helped him open his gifts. </i></div>
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<i>-- You loved listening me read the book "Where the Mountain Meets the Moon" and so we did a mini unit study on China.</i></div>
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<i>-- You learned to count to 10 in Mandarin and write some simple characters. </i></div>
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<i>-- You invented a bunch of things, mostly games, and made a "microphone" out of a cup and tea strainer so you could go around the house announcing things. Like that Tess had eaten cat food. </i></div>
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<i>-- You got married to Tess, twice. </i></div>
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<i>-- You cried when you realized how far away your cousin moved. </i></div>
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<br />Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-50040822642246832082013-02-17T17:56:00.000-08:002013-02-17T17:56:03.629-08:006/52A little late this week, but better late...<br />
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<i>This week, Wild Irish Rose:</i></div>
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<i>-- You finally walked in the snow!!! And loved it! A major breakthrough and I couldn't be prouder of you. It was just like it "clicked" and you saw that you were safe and watched how Emmaline loves it. Whew. </i></div>
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<i>-- We had a blizzard, your first. You enjoyed watching the snow and were un-phased and happily ate and played as if it were nothing.</i></div>
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<i>-- Valentine's Day came and went without much fanfare from you but you did learn to shout "canny!" when you see a crinkly red package. Ehem.</i></div>
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<i>-- Favorite song, A Tisket, A Tasket. Preferably sung by your older sister. </i></div>
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<i>-- You have zero interest in potty training (dreadful phrase) but love to listen to me read Once Upon a Potty over and over again. You especially like the picture of poop in the potty. </i></div>
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<i>-- You finally learned how to climb down the stairs. Yay!</i></div>
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<i>-- You like to pretend you are a "pinchess." It is ridiculously cute. </i></div>
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<i>This week, Emma Bean, </i></div>
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<i>-- You enjoyed the blizzard. You said it made you feel cozy, like Little House in the Big Woods. You helped us shovel afterwards too. </i></div>
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<i>-- We went to the ocean when the weather warmed and you fished for "mackerel." You definitely have your Boppa's love for fishing inborn.</i></div>
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<i>-- You loved every minute of Valentine's Day. Your favorite part was either getting a flower as a present or dancing with your cousin Penelope in Nonni's kitchen. You couldn't decide.</i></div>
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<i>-- Your favorite story of the moment is the original Peter Pan. We're reading it aloud at night and we're both savoring all the big and interesting words. You stop my reading to make me define them. </i></div>
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<i>-- The story you told to me while I snapped those last two photos was about a prince lost in an ancient forest and how a wandering minstrel upon a white horse saved him. It was dramatic, sweet, elaborate, nuanced, and ultimately happy. Much like you, my sweet. </i></div>
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Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-57181213429684593432013-02-08T17:20:00.001-08:002013-02-08T17:20:17.192-08:005/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>My smart and sweet girl, this week:</i></div>
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<i>-- You discovered that your new favorite word is "gusto." </i></div>
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<i>-- You made a plethora of Valentines with a deft hand and a storm of red glitter. You continue to impress me with your creativity and focus while completing projects. </i></div>
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<i>-- Your favorite story (redux) was Stuart Little. Favorite song, Suzanne by Leonard Cohen. </i></div>
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<i>-- You insisted on tasting sriracha. You were not a fan. But you do love sweet potato kale tacos. </i></div>
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<i>-- You danced with your little cousin Penelope. It was the sweetest thing ever. </i></div>
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<i>This week, Noodlebug:</i></div>
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<i>-- Your new-found independence retracted slightly and you wanted to be held, rocked, snuggled, worn by either mama or daddy a lot. The push-me-pull-you of toddlerhood. </i></div>
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<i>-- Your favorite story (by far) lately is We're Going on a Bear Hunt. You almost have it memorized, clever baby. Favorite song, The North Wind Doth Blow. </i></div>
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<i>-- You got a "boo boo" by clunking into the table but you wore your shiner with pride. You are a tough bug. </i></div>
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<i>-- You continue to smoosh food in your hair at almost every meal, so your new hairstyle is a "top knot" and your head tends to smell like sunflower butter or tomato sauce or banana or cheese. I will probably tease you about this someday. </i></div>
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<i>-- You climb onto the stool in the bathroom to "washa hands" several times a day. It's really cute. </i></div>
<br />Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-28981172338462879352013-02-01T19:21:00.001-08:002013-02-01T19:21:24.219-08:004/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>This week, my "wild Irish rose": </i></div>
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<i>-- You spent the first full day perfectly happy without being strapped to me in the backpack. Bittersweet. </i></div>
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<i>-- You pretended to be a "supow-hewow." </i></div>
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<i>-- You were so very very happy that we had a strange thaw and all the snow (which you HATE) melted away. Once the wind calmed and the sun came out, you played hard in the mud. It should be a fun spring!</i></div>
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<i>-- You really started to speak in full sentences: "Mama, Emmaline play dow (doll) a' me in a' playroom." You like to observe and report to me what exactly is happening in the house as we go about our day. </i></div>
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<i>-- You continue to show me your impressive memory: you will say, "Mama, dance a' Cracker" (ha) and then hum almost the entire Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy correctly. You know a lot of songs and titles of book by heart. I recognize myself in you more and more every day. </i></div>
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<i>This week, my Bluest of the Blueberries:</i></div>
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<i>-- You went ice fishing for the first time with me, Aunt Lauren, and Uncle Jonathan. We did not catch any fish, but you were a great sport and enjoyed "skating" in your boots all over the ice. You helped collect firewood to build a fire on the ice and helped Jonathan pull up the lines when we were done, un-phased by the process of killing the bait fish. </i></div>
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<i>-- You enjoyed the late January thaw immensely, playing outside in the sun for a full five hours, building the first fairy house of the year. </i></div>
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<i>-- You loved going to the beach on a rainy, windy day. </i></div>
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<i>-- You slept in a couple of times. It was fun to watch you so still and peaceful. </i></div>
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<i>-- You begged, again, for a dog. And dislike, much as I did as a child, the phrase, "We'll see." </i></div>
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<i>-- You really got a kick out of playing with Tess. She got you to laugh hysterically while you played ball together. You are such a joyful and playful child. I love that you will play with anyone, of any age, and enjoy yourself. That's a talent I hope you never lose, my love. You are anyone's and everyone's peer. </i></div>
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<br />Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-10054703908423104762013-01-23T19:26:00.000-08:002013-01-23T19:26:34.949-08:003/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>This week, dear Tessaroo:</i></div>
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<i>-- You deepened your obsession with books, asking everyone (Nonni included) to "read it, book" and snuggling with joy when someone takes you on her lap to read.</i></div>
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<i>-- You put on an accent for the first time, deepening your voice, pretending to talk on the phone and saying, "Hello? Who dat? Name of Tess. How a' you? Gooood."</i></div>
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<i>--You've started to mimic everything your big sister does and says. I know you'll soon have an excellent vocabulary. </i></div>
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<i>-- Favorite story: Still pretty obsessed with Big Red Barn but Rosalind and the Little Deer was in heavy rotation. Favorite song: To sing, Jingle Bells (ha) and to hear, All Through the Night.</i></div>
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<i>-- I discovered you know the ABC song. I am amazed at your vast knowledge for someone who is 20.5 months.</i></div>
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<i>-- You spontaneously started saying, "I luss you, mama" and "I luss you, Emmaline, kiss" and giving us kisses. Such a love baby.</i></div>
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<i>This week, sweet Em:</i></div>
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<i>-- You pretended to be an Arctic explorer, got licked by a cow and your third loose tooth is extra wiggly.</i></div>
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<i>-- You asked repeatedly when it will be spring. Let's hope soon, love. </i></div>
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<i>-- You wanted to dance with Tess every day and said she was your bride. She sometimes cooperated. You are a very gentle and patient big sister. You make me proud every day.</i></div>
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<i>-- Favorite story: Peter in Blueberry Land. Favorite song: "Hop Up My Ladies" by Elizabeth Mitchell</i></div>
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<i>-- You planned a ball to which "every illegible man" was invited and wore an old dress of mine, proclaiming, "My mother used to be fancy until she married my father." Ha! When I asked what type of music we should play, you firmly said, "A waltz. Decidedly." You are so smart.</i></div>
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<i>-- You declared pumpkin soup to be your new favorite food. </i></div>
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<br />Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-63716609110665708872013-01-18T18:41:00.001-08:002013-01-18T18:49:56.702-08:00the 52 project, week 2Starting a week late, I know, but inspired nonetheless. <a href="http://cheandfidel.blogspot.com/2013/01/152.html">The 52 Project</a> = take a portrait of your child(ren) each week for a year to mark how they change. Beautiful idea. Here goes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLP2v-RVPamiN-_EqknZAC_tYyQILM_mhlFMPLfWu85Zq4myOFsSymlyhFVA-BJ4MkPMK0jdRqixE0d2ES1OTpR65N5dvWvALacPrT9vGGsFbLq463SA200sYh-YKP-Ab44IMSpOWfq-xy/s1600/CIMG3610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLP2v-RVPamiN-_EqknZAC_tYyQILM_mhlFMPLfWu85Zq4myOFsSymlyhFVA-BJ4MkPMK0jdRqixE0d2ES1OTpR65N5dvWvALacPrT9vGGsFbLq463SA200sYh-YKP-Ab44IMSpOWfq-xy/s640/CIMG3610.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOcj-ok6-9iuS3WhuYNIm708mOEqzB7HZARIOiinlfy5x1ANJgSRMCwDQ01rwdeFIikEYtowWchwcU4FfEdcAffwJoavksj0HVs_ZKrNMV8R6msYLRzTDbFQlBY1h_4uY6Kg3Amk1b6hQ/s1600/CIMG3663.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOcj-ok6-9iuS3WhuYNIm708mOEqzB7HZARIOiinlfy5x1ANJgSRMCwDQ01rwdeFIikEYtowWchwcU4FfEdcAffwJoavksj0HVs_ZKrNMV8R6msYLRzTDbFQlBY1h_4uY6Kg3Amk1b6hQ/s640/CIMG3663.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<i>Emmaline/ Em/ Blueberry/ Blue/ Bluest</i><br />
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<i>--- This week you learned to whistle. For real. No more "woohooing" instead. </i><br />
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<i>--- You begged to stay up to "read" later than usual and went through about 20 books.</i><br />
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<i>--- You were obsessed with the idea of a locket so "Tess and Mama and Daddy could be close to my heart."</i><br />
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<i>--- Favorite story this week: The Snow Queen.</i><br />
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<i>--- You made a giant snowman with Daddy in the wet snow and tried not to cry when he fell over. </i><br />
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<i>--- You carried water to the chickens without being asked, and fed Mittens too. </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJNA3poH45-VatIyWL6PUWz4WiY0F7rG6hL2dT3Zqzd7Bny3_Sxy3qWbLGfFl4wMT7Peqmn9lsAdSYYEtSIcbul6GYNO9YVyF8fm5oVIIqMME0B1-wGYje6-Iam6SLem5j3zYg-Ij2PtX/s1600/CIMG3595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJNA3poH45-VatIyWL6PUWz4WiY0F7rG6hL2dT3Zqzd7Bny3_Sxy3qWbLGfFl4wMT7Peqmn9lsAdSYYEtSIcbul6GYNO9YVyF8fm5oVIIqMME0B1-wGYje6-Iam6SLem5j3zYg-Ij2PtX/s640/CIMG3595.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Tess/ Tessaroo/ Buttercup/ Noodle/ Noodlebug</i><br />
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<i>--- This week you started saying "peek-a-doo" when playing hide and seek.</i><br />
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<i>--- You started to call "nanoor" "pillownurse" instead. </i><br />
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<i>--- You truly started to "smi-ow" for the camera, as evidenced here. </i><br />
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<i>--- Favorite story this week: Big Red Barn.</i><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">--- You played pretend with your sister for the first time; your dolls were sledding down the mountains of your pillows. </span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">--- You still dislike the snow, but enjoyed our walks in the woods on my back. </span><br />
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<br />Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-10770553612467792782012-03-26T18:19:00.009-07:002012-03-26T18:51:18.101-07:00A Cold March Cure<div style="text-align: left;"> A cold spring:<br />the violet was flawed on the lawn.<br />For two weeks or more the trees hesitated;<br />the little leaves waited,<br />carefully indicating their characteristics. [...]<br /> -- Elizabeth Bishop, from <span style="font-style: italic;">A Cold Spring</span><br /><br /><br />Today there was an abrupt change in the weather. Last week we were at the beach, and today, well, it was spitting snow. I lit a fire in the stove. It felt strange, as if we were thrust into a foreign country without traveling there. The wind was howling around the corners of the house. Poor Buttercup, cutting her third molar, had made for a long night for us all. I searched the house for strong tea or coffee and discovered I was out. The day was shaping up to be a failure. So Blueberry and I determined to search for an antidote to the cold and grumpy morning.<br /><br /><br />Here is what we found.<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGy3t7DdDCFPiQ1yoaKbQtPVGJ1bZBt0cEUQ74W_H_XZCad9kJTVT5WMxhddodSU_GfvZIzJNZhArtGEhQric9mA7hZXnUZT-rUOy2Tqjzn8fGbFSSkJ8AydFDbOGP7J6-6Og3C0t8X0D_/s1600/march+day+1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGy3t7DdDCFPiQ1yoaKbQtPVGJ1bZBt0cEUQ74W_H_XZCad9kJTVT5WMxhddodSU_GfvZIzJNZhArtGEhQric9mA7hZXnUZT-rUOy2Tqjzn8fGbFSSkJ8AydFDbOGP7J6-6Og3C0t8X0D_/s400/march+day+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724382142831654626" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Picture of a rocket ship headed to space. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-ujKbtP8GbSI3d6CavIzel9e8DbJ2r6UImMEGN7VB5zaLUAGFrDZvdV2K1W5U8X3dWG6eu5SB5bpryeB4uSw5HWVh4Ce6rWSmRDTl2lTiccjFcEINpcFl9abvyUAyhHc8J4n89O8p-pS/s1600/march+day+2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-ujKbtP8GbSI3d6CavIzel9e8DbJ2r6UImMEGN7VB5zaLUAGFrDZvdV2K1W5U8X3dWG6eu5SB5bpryeB4uSw5HWVh4Ce6rWSmRDTl2lTiccjFcEINpcFl9abvyUAyhHc8J4n89O8p-pS/s400/march+day+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724382133106869394" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Red striped straws contrasting with the pretty cup. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_yL_aEE7DK5XKXBTNNBCsXGbul4bcXF5_itKQ1JKDAY-SXbZAfTWpEJgVsA4vD6rWqEKlK7S39B9x5Lzbr3uqyA0a8uQNAAcnfic_Yamtnvv7ScExNTcDr38EOIdKvwYFrbZQktdknH6/s1600/march+day+4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_yL_aEE7DK5XKXBTNNBCsXGbul4bcXF5_itKQ1JKDAY-SXbZAfTWpEJgVsA4vD6rWqEKlK7S39B9x5Lzbr3uqyA0a8uQNAAcnfic_Yamtnvv7ScExNTcDr38EOIdKvwYFrbZQktdknH6/s400/march+day+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724382124439865762" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blueberry's birthday cards still gallantly standing on the sideboard. Babar and pirate and ballerina and fairies being conspiratorial. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1978evxLisy2SAlNo2DivSaQhowET0IldIftNInK6izJv-Z68Vel_wi12uNmzrDBZrZOByETKw3jBsQuQRpM-1lDNymfPHubL4PfuF9j8Ozzt9-UqWfDHOgP_bumbIMGCogUo3eAX1e_U/s1600/march+day+3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1978evxLisy2SAlNo2DivSaQhowET0IldIftNInK6izJv-Z68Vel_wi12uNmzrDBZrZOByETKw3jBsQuQRpM-1lDNymfPHubL4PfuF9j8Ozzt9-UqWfDHOgP_bumbIMGCogUo3eAX1e_U/s400/march+day+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381860868939362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Finished birthday thank you notes.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1VVAvcmfhFH-NCe3GwZRIgOp51R5e8xjFdI94UwVuTbOY29zcnzdb9NZeiJnZ5VgYKp9vTN_ALdUGmnIcX_qQOqOfLuZ94R9tRyMYvEshiQqZOrfkW1Gn760avoyDvsxQ_d8TT7YkLRPE/s1600/march+day+5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1VVAvcmfhFH-NCe3GwZRIgOp51R5e8xjFdI94UwVuTbOY29zcnzdb9NZeiJnZ5VgYKp9vTN_ALdUGmnIcX_qQOqOfLuZ94R9tRyMYvEshiQqZOrfkW1Gn760avoyDvsxQ_d8TT7YkLRPE/s400/march+day+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381858590880866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Buttercup's first bowl of porridge.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ldk7MaK8f_MW34iV3RepdImHo5dQpFkwf_PB4p7KCBlxetguUnVgjLtcul5tHXCBYZ9exlYW6Hg8ANUMALfSPtwfskXiWpE_6RlGOx_0GwQ0iMzj_Z3WF-RTS1SLOEOpYOir2YObRI4U/s1600/march+day+6.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ldk7MaK8f_MW34iV3RepdImHo5dQpFkwf_PB4p7KCBlxetguUnVgjLtcul5tHXCBYZ9exlYW6Hg8ANUMALfSPtwfskXiWpE_6RlGOx_0GwQ0iMzj_Z3WF-RTS1SLOEOpYOir2YObRI4U/s400/march+day+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381851355205394" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Buttercup's enjoyment of said porridge. Mmmm!</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyIBKH79KPP3h4ybModTAJ0LnfEhzwCT-4ekt3v30XVuhRqPlQqttkZ14CeTjEa2xm3Dm-xyoym_rXph-MkGOjyNexDtd505YgBeF23xPR3N03GEKF0yV7SxcKL-yjmq5kKmMY_9z1xK2/s1600/march+day+7.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 359px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyIBKH79KPP3h4ybModTAJ0LnfEhzwCT-4ekt3v30XVuhRqPlQqttkZ14CeTjEa2xm3Dm-xyoym_rXph-MkGOjyNexDtd505YgBeF23xPR3N03GEKF0yV7SxcKL-yjmq5kKmMY_9z1xK2/s400/march+day+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381840992668194" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dressing Buttercup in a new silk before her bath.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvJ4Ew1KYfaG4pi2jpBhFVUqhDVYpZn_n88sLUAzq1xVSD0sUUZR3PNsE_LmUSxhjRGqTV-2CnlMo-HTSwgW6WtjXAX6C_fbBBLe9nCdsVTWAkQthF9rEYo5a2h5RlAy7ct5xC3sVmBNv/s1600/march+day+8.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvJ4Ew1KYfaG4pi2jpBhFVUqhDVYpZn_n88sLUAzq1xVSD0sUUZR3PNsE_LmUSxhjRGqTV-2CnlMo-HTSwgW6WtjXAX6C_fbBBLe9nCdsVTWAkQthF9rEYo5a2h5RlAy7ct5xC3sVmBNv/s400/march+day+8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381835562881490" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Freshly washed pretty baby in a cheerful outfit. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggMZ0Wsq1-nGyg4Ql-ylP80UCXu87p9YMUbCXA_MY4NWfBy5UVfjNqj5zjmPwlo_Y5ciNKAt65r3PjzMeysa_erBRHyKTBUW6j45pTWdIp1ocDqt4t4311X3TfNltADEGmWgBesLZ6Yt1/s1600/march+day+9.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggMZ0Wsq1-nGyg4Ql-ylP80UCXu87p9YMUbCXA_MY4NWfBy5UVfjNqj5zjmPwlo_Y5ciNKAt65r3PjzMeysa_erBRHyKTBUW6j45pTWdIp1ocDqt4t4311X3TfNltADEGmWgBesLZ6Yt1/s400/march+day+9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381429260559202" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing-smelling stock from Nonni.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCv8mRSTBikHHHgu_wVMGAns-lQ1jLq1wBbkkll39cxhbsl2kgLYPIWU518_GojTInLhGcDhK0D8Gr0yKEaiIh-Rxuh51w62PYOrLPLWafbAia1CO50VtLToCwRJW1961-3QuN8KYGnEi/s1600/march+day+11.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCv8mRSTBikHHHgu_wVMGAns-lQ1jLq1wBbkkll39cxhbsl2kgLYPIWU518_GojTInLhGcDhK0D8Gr0yKEaiIh-Rxuh51w62PYOrLPLWafbAia1CO50VtLToCwRJW1961-3QuN8KYGnEi/s400/march+day+11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381420726668834" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Buttercup's bright baubles.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtAnFie_DYK8sDMG8NdVuklZhZSncZSVtgKJNmE3fEvBYpy6KZeQDUdaO06Kg-IMjM9fdOJiBRkIjKemMVchRKq-XiqdVMM2gDW3pJJc26YUkNKxKw_8BbS48J_IsHxaJ0wuFJ5MC91Xz/s1600/march+day+10.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtAnFie_DYK8sDMG8NdVuklZhZSncZSVtgKJNmE3fEvBYpy6KZeQDUdaO06Kg-IMjM9fdOJiBRkIjKemMVchRKq-XiqdVMM2gDW3pJJc26YUkNKxKw_8BbS48J_IsHxaJ0wuFJ5MC91Xz/s400/march+day+10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381409271297314" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Making lists in Mama's lovely Christmas journal with a good pen.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_I-YNKYE-Je8DPSWendNtGQdC4kshjgci9baeMCcIgP-dzUGKjniEy0mVT8X-QKekwjO0CEwu87gNsHDHBKjl4GdqOIAp7oVp_HIq4nqsizE-W9EWsouvklf5zIRCmSpo6zFOl2MV-5H/s1600/march+day+14.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_I-YNKYE-Je8DPSWendNtGQdC4kshjgci9baeMCcIgP-dzUGKjniEy0mVT8X-QKekwjO0CEwu87gNsHDHBKjl4GdqOIAp7oVp_HIq4nqsizE-W9EWsouvklf5zIRCmSpo6zFOl2MV-5H/s400/march+day+14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724381401239471922" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Making the perfect cup of maple hot cocoa. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjX1pEEEClDnrlIffw6_WH87-6cNJlB2dpm39iznm1OB6iHCWlqbDfRV26XhBy_OkwIcUqUloMVynPdkzUEnyQ8f6oFjuld2FLE_goQD2wOOK4weS0bPmP2XUAA9BHUvMJu2_QniPBvRBw/s1600/march+day+12.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjX1pEEEClDnrlIffw6_WH87-6cNJlB2dpm39iznm1OB6iHCWlqbDfRV26XhBy_OkwIcUqUloMVynPdkzUEnyQ8f6oFjuld2FLE_goQD2wOOK4weS0bPmP2XUAA9BHUvMJu2_QniPBvRBw/s400/march+day+12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724380874594256754" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And drinking it out of a spring-y mug. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7gDEmITbTLBXFO0DrA1ok6N9UieRWbNYIyeKd7nf6Y1zZNkxNPKO6e1edYpC5L8xHm1X-ZMV4cmRlN1uU3qN_L_SuBZeG0KzTKWCTHt8bFITpS82-hPA3QOiSfBjfrTVG8ei1DI9iyBU/s1600/march+day+13.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7gDEmITbTLBXFO0DrA1ok6N9UieRWbNYIyeKd7nf6Y1zZNkxNPKO6e1edYpC5L8xHm1X-ZMV4cmRlN1uU3qN_L_SuBZeG0KzTKWCTHt8bFITpS82-hPA3QOiSfBjfrTVG8ei1DI9iyBU/s400/march+day+13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724380867838032530" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dancing silly to Elizabeth Mitchell while making dinner.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMlSBtVxu7tWG2Gh9oaODlnCd7FOgRr-DkF935hloDr26xP-HXPK-Dsmu46-IyfZVdWYHdikq9aAAhtTJymZ-h4aF6WLdpV-a5c-5_8K8n9hIkxV0MDUNRqvgZEcdJvbC123ZoJ1Stx-x/s1600/march+day+16.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMlSBtVxu7tWG2Gh9oaODlnCd7FOgRr-DkF935hloDr26xP-HXPK-Dsmu46-IyfZVdWYHdikq9aAAhtTJymZ-h4aF6WLdpV-a5c-5_8K8n9hIkxV0MDUNRqvgZEcdJvbC123ZoJ1Stx-x/s400/march+day+16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724380859714540658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Brainstorming for craft ideas.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnohkNFJU7MjDIgXfkyQs6Xy2VaS0hyphenhyphenuj5THKb92SwCXuMh6OdM5Bjje-Na0DOY8zFyoK3L9bIZHAPyI0ZG787UWJKJf2B5cS06a0nCtBlOeFzg35c4EdOwjas9hFUDxfTXt-SKTogax8u/s1600/march+day+15.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnohkNFJU7MjDIgXfkyQs6Xy2VaS0hyphenhyphenuj5THKb92SwCXuMh6OdM5Bjje-Na0DOY8zFyoK3L9bIZHAPyI0ZG787UWJKJf2B5cS06a0nCtBlOeFzg35c4EdOwjas9hFUDxfTXt-SKTogax8u/s400/march+day+15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724380854159943970" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Delving into new birthday books.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Uv2qiO-QNNmeBd2OXc9cEP0_-gCN-Dxf1dJ9ba1ttAgV2wYJgZ3XhfBQohM5VYDgBmhV4_mxqVU8BZBF17WMo_Gwdm-hUvYCxXIJ0F-YeZGcpEREoTbhIGHFZlMdSEl6cnGZ0iJQKqk6/s1600/march+day+17.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Uv2qiO-QNNmeBd2OXc9cEP0_-gCN-Dxf1dJ9ba1ttAgV2wYJgZ3XhfBQohM5VYDgBmhV4_mxqVU8BZBF17WMo_Gwdm-hUvYCxXIJ0F-YeZGcpEREoTbhIGHFZlMdSEl6cnGZ0iJQKqk6/s400/march+day+17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724380849452720898" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pajama dancing before bed.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /></span>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-70925225587417254632012-03-24T18:04:00.003-07:002012-03-24T18:43:27.509-07:00Five Years<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-FeR04L5NJC470q5lB4jsWbYf2dylSfKcyIb6qgtLl5gnT5vH6x2LAXb43X9jSMR5j1tsCrU1ud5SQYzeE5cvCpWLtnlydfBwI-7-rnvHPu6MnLR2BuXsWjpQFfqXvssBTKsVxeHSBBi/s1600/tiny+e.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-FeR04L5NJC470q5lB4jsWbYf2dylSfKcyIb6qgtLl5gnT5vH6x2LAXb43X9jSMR5j1tsCrU1ud5SQYzeE5cvCpWLtnlydfBwI-7-rnvHPu6MnLR2BuXsWjpQFfqXvssBTKsVxeHSBBi/s400/tiny+e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723634203075119378" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />My first girl. My sweet Blueberry. You were once so tiny, and now you are a long-legged, brilliant child. How sweet it is to think that you turned five years old last week. It would be easy to say it is bittersweet, thinking of how quickly the time has passed, but there is no bitterness to tinge the sweetness of the girl you are becoming. I relished every delightful and challenging phase with you, dear one. From the tiny hands to the to chubby hands to the nimble-fingered hands. You are five now. A whole hand.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwgdRH0xRI5_k16KwU1H4CzjD0lVobqGHGXFQ3CAOam227E0qedjTDcmE0U44me5Ue39ZMInHOv7bSfMUEHRVkmSUDmv7GasuRuV9r9zP9r1ydXrqw6rxzBLylx2ecieDTM5bOGxMSNEf/s1600/e+first+birthday.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwgdRH0xRI5_k16KwU1H4CzjD0lVobqGHGXFQ3CAOam227E0qedjTDcmE0U44me5Ue39ZMInHOv7bSfMUEHRVkmSUDmv7GasuRuV9r9zP9r1ydXrqw6rxzBLylx2ecieDTM5bOGxMSNEf/s400/e+first+birthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723634987938817314" border="0" /></a><br />First Birthday<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I remember you were thinking about taking your first steps around this time. And you were sweet, lively, never tired, happy. You woke with a smile on sunshiny mornings, snuggled right next to me, and brought me more and more stories to read at night so you could delay sleep. You tenacious baby.<br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxjtBnO2op1TZUfFlAAMLavC-MvZ7vb4SoMyr2upA8Wf6PYYGJR0FWipLslIjqJc8OOqxbKMlBYrWNcOcVWIjUv13Wlum1vcCSp702p3xu741wLV8RIqRnR5D4nS4_J_2GTi_mOZUj2KH/s1600/e+2nd+birthday.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxjtBnO2op1TZUfFlAAMLavC-MvZ7vb4SoMyr2upA8Wf6PYYGJR0FWipLslIjqJc8OOqxbKMlBYrWNcOcVWIjUv13Wlum1vcCSp702p3xu741wLV8RIqRnR5D4nS4_J_2GTi_mOZUj2KH/s400/e+2nd+birthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723634984557128178" border="0" /></a><br />Second Birthday<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I remember you beginning to explore your independence. By the end of the year, you weaned, you stopped wearing diapers, you became more excited by art and books. I remember everything, because I was there. I saw you.<br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcyFxAL65yYq1jG4Ek131J45pr9jw_Om9-b1qhZrbKYpr5QVeBbffR13N3rOwUN_M4Pf6J2mE0hZGWsZnJrcvxqiTuSdst_gLrmk6zuZoKWAggcPlNNZM_adHEw-VozOmgeT-4SaApf7Ef/s1600/e%2527s+3rd+birthday.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcyFxAL65yYq1jG4Ek131J45pr9jw_Om9-b1qhZrbKYpr5QVeBbffR13N3rOwUN_M4Pf6J2mE0hZGWsZnJrcvxqiTuSdst_gLrmk6zuZoKWAggcPlNNZM_adHEw-VozOmgeT-4SaApf7Ef/s400/e%2527s+3rd+birthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723634978891519858" border="0" /></a><br />Third Birthday<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />When you were three, you rode your first trike, became a princess, a ballerina, a mermaid, a fairy. Your imagination took off even further and you immersed yourself in stories, weaving fantasy into our everyday lives. I played dress up with you almost every day.<br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjh7RjC9YPvWBSJQRnRi6byKwrCwgnoEQqEtWYrd6rbFNPPlM4ahhLT7WDOpSpKVoBrzcIYJJ-ybeyqinCEjnjQUvh01zJeNKdR4Cm0mi8O44h8X4NYRkxSzRFMCE6mujySxpAauaC3PG4/s1600/e%2527s+4th+birthday.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjh7RjC9YPvWBSJQRnRi6byKwrCwgnoEQqEtWYrd6rbFNPPlM4ahhLT7WDOpSpKVoBrzcIYJJ-ybeyqinCEjnjQUvh01zJeNKdR4Cm0mi8O44h8X4NYRkxSzRFMCE6mujySxpAauaC3PG4/s400/e%2527s+4th+birthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723634971425078610" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Fourth Birthday<br /></div><br />Ah, my sweet fairy. You are creative, outgoing, eager to please. This year you began to do some lessons at home and are a bright and curious student. You are both energetic and thoughtful, spontaneous and intuitive. You began to have real nightmares this year, too, as you start to realize there are dark things in this beautiful world. I remember because I held you, walked the floor with you, read Peter Rabbit to you in the middle of the night and told you it was ok. Because it was. It was good.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyOHA6-xLgWePHwpfmIr7etBlYdJEv69szH1r9rPeHQIEPjfHqRuHkb2o_plt8Pt111FURlxSFyLz51vUCCTGM__nP1OKIbXuf2jv7ciYCDhwlCfdfIKr5bK3XEoQcsHIt0jZikFsAPdf/s1600/em+birthday1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyOHA6-xLgWePHwpfmIr7etBlYdJEv69szH1r9rPeHQIEPjfHqRuHkb2o_plt8Pt111FURlxSFyLz51vUCCTGM__nP1OKIbXuf2jv7ciYCDhwlCfdfIKr5bK3XEoQcsHIt0jZikFsAPdf/s400/em+birthday1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723634969538044130" border="0" /></a><br />Fifth Birthday<br /></div><br />You, my Bluest Blueberry girl, are the sweetest, smartest, brightest five year old I know. You are a fantastic big sister, a big help to your mama, and keep us all full of life. You are learning to write letters, and love to help me cook. You are a pirate, a fairy, a butterfly, a mother. Every day is new and exciting. You have had your first big girl haircut, you have lost your first tooth, you have watched your little sister take part of your place with generosity and joy, realized that your parents are a bit human after all, you have started to find your voice. You are funny, witty, creative, silly, and empathetic. You are both a challenge and a delight. Some people have called you "a handful," but I know better. You are a whole hand.Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-15838834623081814912012-03-10T19:02:00.012-08:002012-03-16T07:54:59.553-07:00Sure SignsIt's strange. This is the winter that wasn't yet I am so glad to be seeing the back of it. The light has changed here on the coast of Maine and the wind is blowing warmly. We're starting up our regular walks again, thank goodness. Blueberry, Buttercup and I are all cabin-feverish and want to kick up our heels in true spring-coltish fashion (though only Blueberry really does).<br /><br />Everywhere we look there are signs of spring. Mud, for starters. We are definitely in <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176657">cummings' </a>"Just-/ spring when the world is mud-/ luscious."<br /><br />Blueberry likes to yell her favorite lines from "The Hippopotamus Song,"<br /><br />Mud, mud, glorious mud<br />Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood<br />So follow me follow down to the hollow<br />And there let me wallow in glorious mud (!!!)<br /><br />while stomping about in puddles and squishing her rubber-boot clad feel deep into the dark mud. No wonder spring is affectionately known as mud season hereabouts.<br /><br /><br /><br />We're drying everything outside -- clothes, sheets, diapers. There is nothing better than the smell of line-dried sheets when you crawl into bed at night.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ0CTKdZzdQyMa1xBRSErg8mpNCJ2ywXasfnejgJZdjvgg4kkMYIlQCy5AHln1Ye6BEfU7JpQl_76xzfK4TdmufsB_n2DOQOWs5jnChlsWukuBSx2wfKXmKpCldPEX2LURVJDoNijQgQg/s1600/CIMG8437.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ0CTKdZzdQyMa1xBRSErg8mpNCJ2ywXasfnejgJZdjvgg4kkMYIlQCy5AHln1Ye6BEfU7JpQl_76xzfK4TdmufsB_n2DOQOWs5jnChlsWukuBSx2wfKXmKpCldPEX2LURVJDoNijQgQg/s400/CIMG8437.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718820785158870322" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />I made a birthday dress for my almost five year old girl!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgfP1-T1UWEGhBqhO0GWht94PvOA1cBDLNdXwuvKh2b4P-Xnb74u_FxBJ2aEKujt6q35JrNGKRBQZ5aTz1anTOsJR7wZF1zDhtX_H-Untv8xXRBMhnWAYEcCyXcMCE5XKCsuPeMlxKpTl/s1600/CIMG8495.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgfP1-T1UWEGhBqhO0GWht94PvOA1cBDLNdXwuvKh2b4P-Xnb74u_FxBJ2aEKujt6q35JrNGKRBQZ5aTz1anTOsJR7wZF1zDhtX_H-Untv8xXRBMhnWAYEcCyXcMCE5XKCsuPeMlxKpTl/s400/CIMG8495.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718816989195497570" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_6ki74emo9Tc9U8zMMgOqY4R4p4zWqJvFQ2-l1932VRcJQ5hULymIoxB5iGiJHDkVdRE1IjF8LFm-OCMb4frsJpko8OLmdrMczivNjPPQBYIK0dpotpzyZ_DsNxdGa9egfu3jN7hDG5g/s1600/CIMG8504.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_6ki74emo9Tc9U8zMMgOqY4R4p4zWqJvFQ2-l1932VRcJQ5hULymIoxB5iGiJHDkVdRE1IjF8LFm-OCMb4frsJpko8OLmdrMczivNjPPQBYIK0dpotpzyZ_DsNxdGa9egfu3jN7hDG5g/s400/CIMG8504.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718816984434450738" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />Blueberry's birthday always falls the day or two before the vernal equinox, so the fact that I'm searching for playsilks and gardening tools to give her and planning cupcakes and creating paper toys must mean that spring is close!<br /><br /><br />Buttercup really wants to walk.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsuRVDvU6vwCJxlLnjvOI7A6BEaaNZPJNkuNOjcGVEyG6CN_5w9mI8QyVJrZHbeQzgTCqGB2dVbd8LOblgsdd-HnCq378Hip0H652cpQbpiPmXPWuM8aMTImZv_-eEjCTE6ZVmJRLQ-Qz/s1600/CIMG8477.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsuRVDvU6vwCJxlLnjvOI7A6BEaaNZPJNkuNOjcGVEyG6CN_5w9mI8QyVJrZHbeQzgTCqGB2dVbd8LOblgsdd-HnCq378Hip0H652cpQbpiPmXPWuM8aMTImZv_-eEjCTE6ZVmJRLQ-Qz/s400/CIMG8477.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718819807882635026" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsI3Q2NSbXlnt4fIo3ZTwwThQDsInJzsR981OQE4irnksFCf64XZ3Rv2-40wCvYoR3k-9N5wGDqYWbUCV_ihYpi0dCOUheoDRciDrVvaJeZhZeir-Wo7hUQtWvqQQTAUDPfiV9h29IVqlq/s1600/CIMG8469.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsI3Q2NSbXlnt4fIo3ZTwwThQDsInJzsR981OQE4irnksFCf64XZ3Rv2-40wCvYoR3k-9N5wGDqYWbUCV_ihYpi0dCOUheoDRciDrVvaJeZhZeir-Wo7hUQtWvqQQTAUDPfiV9h29IVqlq/s400/CIMG8469.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718819810453572226" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO77BAEWhLcQSAava4vtvmGufglDmBoYjqM-M4Hw-atMRCoqL02Q1zzAL3V5_VK2fAUA6vZFSQ8P7iOY5UgthjT5GHBEZBevnfc8V4eyVZjYgssgrFrDkzr63afOAoJXGi048Sn_dmTtHh/s1600/CIMG8472.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO77BAEWhLcQSAava4vtvmGufglDmBoYjqM-M4Hw-atMRCoqL02Q1zzAL3V5_VK2fAUA6vZFSQ8P7iOY5UgthjT5GHBEZBevnfc8V4eyVZjYgssgrFrDkzr63afOAoJXGi048Sn_dmTtHh/s400/CIMG8472.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718819815820974386" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiOoNfZnQY5VO2SKgiss7kQlaORQWKQjOV3IfcNfDKef3AaIALgiLswpeOieMF2NUbE2kAYmh4no-MYvNG-1F5FyxSiz1aO4npB7VrjO44fnkg3y_On7C3FHSBnmxvVVw2bzsK6xaheVB/s1600/CIMG8471.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiOoNfZnQY5VO2SKgiss7kQlaORQWKQjOV3IfcNfDKef3AaIALgiLswpeOieMF2NUbE2kAYmh4no-MYvNG-1F5FyxSiz1aO4npB7VrjO44fnkg3y_On7C3FHSBnmxvVVw2bzsK6xaheVB/s400/CIMG8471.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718819850706981282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />She will no doubt be taking her first steps in early spring. This seems so entirely fitting. I have visions of us working in the garden and watching her toddle over to watch us planting peas. Reminds me of one of my favorite Van Gogh's.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2S493eRymphZ7wsvmJNEeBBn2sVVRf_XeQBVeDK9wWpqa-XlzfzdN4SV-Bb-OL9xdiBWu5_rULh4B3J0Zrzbbhkr5raOComXEsDo5rNO7tjoTwCWy_-ygy-mUCvRx961-BLD36wA2mdDo/s1600/Vincent_van_Gogh_-_First_Steps%252C_after_Millet.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 428px; height: 332px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2S493eRymphZ7wsvmJNEeBBn2sVVRf_XeQBVeDK9wWpqa-XlzfzdN4SV-Bb-OL9xdiBWu5_rULh4B3J0Zrzbbhkr5raOComXEsDo5rNO7tjoTwCWy_-ygy-mUCvRx961-BLD36wA2mdDo/s400/Vincent_van_Gogh_-_First_Steps%252C_after_Millet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718476834483003954" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(First Steps, After Millet)</span><br /></div><br /><br />Now we will be transformed. Turn the inside out, our faces to the sun, crawl out of the cave and sweep the last of winter's clutter out the door. Mama having the energy to clean the house with 30 pounds of beautiful breastfed baby strapped her back? That's a sure sign.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpE1xpF0YRIdioGwPi7tTHuLkOMUFWY5xl9AiRb94IBUqw-itTgBmDQ8F5YNrWOYn6ZniH0CQuK8HMCAj3-llOxpfId0bmwFBK4PwqyudX6XGimcz8hNWp8Bn8DT1ttZPBNqNu_Z_smLRR/s1600/CIMG8486.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpE1xpF0YRIdioGwPi7tTHuLkOMUFWY5xl9AiRb94IBUqw-itTgBmDQ8F5YNrWOYn6ZniH0CQuK8HMCAj3-llOxpfId0bmwFBK4PwqyudX6XGimcz8hNWp8Bn8DT1ttZPBNqNu_Z_smLRR/s400/CIMG8486.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718820514690068770" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:arial,helvetica,homerton;"><strong><em></em></strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-34030345930910688332012-02-22T17:48:00.000-08:002012-02-22T19:01:20.114-08:00Lost to the Sea<div style="text-align: center;">"The art of losing isn't hard to master;<br />so many things seem to be filled with the intent<br />to be lost that their loss is no disaster [...]"<br /> --- Elizabeth Bishop from "One Art"<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Where has the month gone? February, strange warm February, has skittered away from us as if it were bouncing then caught by a playful gust of wind....<br /><br /><br />Balls are at once delightful and cruel toys. Much like balloons or socks, they seem to have been designed with "the intent to be lost."<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1rKVemU6PPzUxXgvETJ86g7DrcKu4cNSF2r0UA4ZMeS_F7wqPOAcGkyqodPHYiLThDIt3o-up-FOBoMV8r906h8epzSnaU_Dlp6DebvSCeZFQoG3e55-vHz6YrawwXjo19N9oOqzimz_/s1600/ball1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 329px; height: 438px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1rKVemU6PPzUxXgvETJ86g7DrcKu4cNSF2r0UA4ZMeS_F7wqPOAcGkyqodPHYiLThDIt3o-up-FOBoMV8r906h8epzSnaU_Dlp6DebvSCeZFQoG3e55-vHz6YrawwXjo19N9oOqzimz_/s400/ball1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149745504468834" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Blueberry takes her beloved blue ball to the beach. Bounces it.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPv6_YagPpt1OTq6ikoP8wLjjK7bZr5gHgbnEQN87QCuAkYmqunea_jBxRII42lVFvNFx0QvKEmSFkEPV_vBMP6-YnV2ijYfiadDbf9Du6huuPKtreBo4OdtgFYLGxo9714qJo8piOx-9a/s1600/ball2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 426px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPv6_YagPpt1OTq6ikoP8wLjjK7bZr5gHgbnEQN87QCuAkYmqunea_jBxRII42lVFvNFx0QvKEmSFkEPV_vBMP6-YnV2ijYfiadDbf9Du6huuPKtreBo4OdtgFYLGxo9714qJo8piOx-9a/s400/ball2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149738287735090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNMjocWnLRj2TUURGEmk17qa5zyxxGSKDshCRgVQJEz-kQFXyV2dZFcazWXMl9ErgB-KqpsAHbb9QX2Ror59MzHfo76I5i0XAwuDUvmJg04qnM8S-yQ8SefqipCcEVx2x-qjbIHdVXm2C/s1600/ball3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 424px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNMjocWnLRj2TUURGEmk17qa5zyxxGSKDshCRgVQJEz-kQFXyV2dZFcazWXMl9ErgB-KqpsAHbb9QX2Ror59MzHfo76I5i0XAwuDUvmJg04qnM8S-yQ8SefqipCcEVx2x-qjbIHdVXm2C/s400/ball3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149730523494562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08Cv5NZVcSFnfAksvavb7NBFHSsBP_HKCQPXI_3K6XBAJvjGevFplsWSYfx3kEmkDdtOJdULzMg6tn_FcWGEgzem37oz2pVKWySERD2OqSAPwcO6MzmaqHQs3eCHk_QEk7tg3bfdCxQ9W/s1600/ball4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 426px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08Cv5NZVcSFnfAksvavb7NBFHSsBP_HKCQPXI_3K6XBAJvjGevFplsWSYfx3kEmkDdtOJdULzMg6tn_FcWGEgzem37oz2pVKWySERD2OqSAPwcO6MzmaqHQs3eCHk_QEk7tg3bfdCxQ9W/s400/ball4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149728699078290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ56C1cJ-qWgJWvnO2PD7ywjtl6uh7tOLhC3OSiRQLbzAmsi7ihLnluQKpZvA4Q9a2gJgSzyt7lXh_wRdu_g0crWoNivzxc7y1o-XeUr6HbSC6KTTEQPI_-RUlJardqzzm1_5q-LJmvbw/s1600/ball5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 323px; height: 430px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ56C1cJ-qWgJWvnO2PD7ywjtl6uh7tOLhC3OSiRQLbzAmsi7ihLnluQKpZvA4Q9a2gJgSzyt7lXh_wRdu_g0crWoNivzxc7y1o-XeUr6HbSC6KTTEQPI_-RUlJardqzzm1_5q-LJmvbw/s400/ball5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149370119068962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The ball finds itself unhanded, the ball likes its freedom.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitokZSpEfWEMbAWCnTemKLhFzOo-2-NTwLvM6mFzmK7s_WEYbsmEKdEYY_NdzQTrkNTLptNLMesRC_zU0_6mD6alI0pvtL0PN6RTdZ-czSQSZdKOCssI5IuENKS3wC6xY5RGMjFQJqXhKg/s1600/ball6.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 425px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitokZSpEfWEMbAWCnTemKLhFzOo-2-NTwLvM6mFzmK7s_WEYbsmEKdEYY_NdzQTrkNTLptNLMesRC_zU0_6mD6alI0pvtL0PN6RTdZ-czSQSZdKOCssI5IuENKS3wC6xY5RGMjFQJqXhKg/s400/ball6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149363917906674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">At this point I cannot help but refer you to Berryman's "<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/john-berryman/the-ball-poem/">The Ball Poem</a>."<br /><br /><br />What is the boy now, who has lost his ball,<br />What, what is he to do? I saw it go<br />Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then<br />Merrily over--there it is in the water!<br />No use to say 'O there are other balls':<br />An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy<br />As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down<br />All his young days into the harbour where<br />His ball went.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwNoZy7f9Fnon3eKhTSY3kMpYQfF9fn2cfU9G6imceAF_Nf4xiQKHJU_87gfFxtHobsv3FFVkr-Qqo5ZFbxyR-X2-4OPlmO9nJbKQuFGkX_IWcjHxBftP5FmrvnIkq3H8OPenZqOCCc9d/s1600/ball7.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 313px; height: 417px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwNoZy7f9Fnon3eKhTSY3kMpYQfF9fn2cfU9G6imceAF_Nf4xiQKHJU_87gfFxtHobsv3FFVkr-Qqo5ZFbxyR-X2-4OPlmO9nJbKQuFGkX_IWcjHxBftP5FmrvnIkq3H8OPenZqOCCc9d/s400/ball7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149355525709538" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_LvE5y8bXQEzEM_yKNFBWC1DrfqwgwjH7ILKO023kJW6tpEVUQlq1KLri8QL3dD_YVgmbwdgoME_G-KpYBAJyp2S6nkHr6wVE81Ad_GHBVBuCBtinOiIoEg-kdwgmc8gaCB4a43-R2eDP/s1600/ball8.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_LvE5y8bXQEzEM_yKNFBWC1DrfqwgwjH7ILKO023kJW6tpEVUQlq1KLri8QL3dD_YVgmbwdgoME_G-KpYBAJyp2S6nkHr6wVE81Ad_GHBVBuCBtinOiIoEg-kdwgmc8gaCB4a43-R2eDP/s400/ball8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149351756188146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5EG-IDE6cdp2zQp4heY9AvjQjsa681aBeX_agvlB-HSmKMsWWzU7NIUScBeNSvTJWgSBqknkAiKDQ_68zXaSYQtKnlyuUD0xzxLOXBfTnrjWhVrlMfkrc8YdH3XhwWtAmgqnQeE7FYHm/s1600/ball9.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5EG-IDE6cdp2zQp4heY9AvjQjsa681aBeX_agvlB-HSmKMsWWzU7NIUScBeNSvTJWgSBqknkAiKDQ_68zXaSYQtKnlyuUD0xzxLOXBfTnrjWhVrlMfkrc8YdH3XhwWtAmgqnQeE7FYHm/s400/ball9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712149346813996274" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />I encourage you to read the rest of the poem -- an incredible musing on the "epistemology of loss" -- but Blueberry, watching the ball taken by the wind and drift of the tide, experiences the loss without Berryman's "ultimate shaking grief ," but rather with wistful acceptance. I refuse, yes refuse, to compare Bishop's version of loss ("Practice losing something everyday") to Berryman's ("People will take balls, /Balls will be lost always, little boy, /And no one buys a ball back.") because, well, it gets too gendered. But my darling girl takes her disaster in stride. She cries for a brief moment, realizes the ocean is far too cold to race in after her ball, then asks if we can sing a goodbye song to the ball. She imagines the ball finding its way over the sea to another child. It is graceful. She is practicing.Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-18320716045737020822012-02-02T16:19:00.000-08:002012-02-02T17:07:46.260-08:00Nine MonthsTomorrow my sweet little Buttercup turns nine months old. I am feeling poignant about it, even though I know it's the one-year mark that everyone celebrates. But nine months really means something. It signifies that my wee one has been outside the womb for as long as she was in. She has grown and changed and been marked by the world. The slow process of growing inside has turned to the slow process of peeling away from her mama.<br /><br />She is crawling, pulling herself up on things in an effort to stand on her own chubby legs, learning that she can communicate through specific sounds instead of the unspoken communication only I can understand. She has (almost) six teeth and has started eating "real" food. She is judicious, sweet, grounded, bright, and secure. She is her own self.<br /><br />Welcome to the wide world, smart and beautiful girl, my beloved daughter. May it treat you gently.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSL34f8qAjeJUfPnk59-QpE6eq6YRzYLU37dReNUVyXE2srj33aYBVKgdLc-CndDv4MyC7ovsRB47peppzUvbSrFEZDThPn4EWbz4NGDqU4Jq5avYCg8Ed3q9YJchRor7DJqsRUaWunU6T/s1600/blackwhite4.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSL34f8qAjeJUfPnk59-QpE6eq6YRzYLU37dReNUVyXE2srj33aYBVKgdLc-CndDv4MyC7ovsRB47peppzUvbSrFEZDThPn4EWbz4NGDqU4Jq5avYCg8Ed3q9YJchRor7DJqsRUaWunU6T/s400/blackwhite4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704703013638640242" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">9 months<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTXDWEaTJQvhNs8dy4Lx_fFw2u7ZnGvgPuT0E-wuEsB3syrDav9kW1QV4BdA0vDQcB3qXBdPh1KmBWPvozqcyEJY-9sXbJTDS5rif7J6Z5Z2seYvM1gxqG2eWfHVb6pVlokxLiV2KGI0e/s1600/CIMG5012.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTXDWEaTJQvhNs8dy4Lx_fFw2u7ZnGvgPuT0E-wuEsB3syrDav9kW1QV4BdA0vDQcB3qXBdPh1KmBWPvozqcyEJY-9sXbJTDS5rif7J6Z5Z2seYvM1gxqG2eWfHVb6pVlokxLiV2KGI0e/s400/CIMG5012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702573142215474" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">1 week old<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUnYKfIVdfU2JESEEISoHL6HLnPJLPBTDxcE0ycdWY0gAt4iJ2Ls2lam0Y7t4AKY_ixWifCys6ClSj-icz6cvAJ0FJ-oiEkig7EtK9OFP2eNBQswP60UEb3_4UVxugN_YUWqZ09mcRWUI/s1600/CIMG5528.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUnYKfIVdfU2JESEEISoHL6HLnPJLPBTDxcE0ycdWY0gAt4iJ2Ls2lam0Y7t4AKY_ixWifCys6ClSj-icz6cvAJ0FJ-oiEkig7EtK9OFP2eNBQswP60UEb3_4UVxugN_YUWqZ09mcRWUI/s400/CIMG5528.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702554303806722" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">1 month<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGsrF6xI9UcBu4gkZUMjIQ5M58XeR100LTD4KDk8b5BzmOpccNWlhpfeEP9tOSfPs82eAi-gyg8gmTCxoKEHunOpddD6a8gkNAO2eHw5I1Xizm1aK8d4taOGB_pfaY0gK0xdu-TL_cyX0/s1600/CIMG5812.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGsrF6xI9UcBu4gkZUMjIQ5M58XeR100LTD4KDk8b5BzmOpccNWlhpfeEP9tOSfPs82eAi-gyg8gmTCxoKEHunOpddD6a8gkNAO2eHw5I1Xizm1aK8d4taOGB_pfaY0gK0xdu-TL_cyX0/s400/CIMG5812.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702548651816834" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">2 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqezqOUn0U_1vOVbTQCdrSvYytX5XjJYQbK2_aW9ZRrU1IijhFRiRcqiCNIv-vfEl8XANT3oIodUQM-OG5OqxQMPfbdITPl4V7roO0Cp7-tzP8Lku3RP1wnglDp8sWAgVO2gAT1UsyDbB/s1600/CIMG6127.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqezqOUn0U_1vOVbTQCdrSvYytX5XjJYQbK2_aW9ZRrU1IijhFRiRcqiCNIv-vfEl8XANT3oIodUQM-OG5OqxQMPfbdITPl4V7roO0Cp7-tzP8Lku3RP1wnglDp8sWAgVO2gAT1UsyDbB/s400/CIMG6127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702535599730546" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">3 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnO19A2-vQQhxC8edheSH-9wLHLGbk8JX2O9v_xPmxg_8CxkJdBZ3aTA4mZvVbgYioE1oVfpPl9AkMWLNseaN8v7t6PCotrgkAVNnpx-Haet9PTrTEVfxpQo4RjoWpO4J3acQ94t8quaM0/s1600/CIMG6316.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnO19A2-vQQhxC8edheSH-9wLHLGbk8JX2O9v_xPmxg_8CxkJdBZ3aTA4mZvVbgYioE1oVfpPl9AkMWLNseaN8v7t6PCotrgkAVNnpx-Haet9PTrTEVfxpQo4RjoWpO4J3acQ94t8quaM0/s400/CIMG6316.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702531234734818" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">4 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqRvMvz7OpwmXYMUPIp1C3hhjcIQK-6vYMHERexDPwTsl2DPMLl0fhWXk7BNQeUWwEWEI8O-THnb-t9WQ7wFCoZPRrsGmesEBFwBDSWqOn5RB5QfDIaWoSiL39NlQMQF3y96OzuDpEclc/s1600/CIMG6989.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqRvMvz7OpwmXYMUPIp1C3hhjcIQK-6vYMHERexDPwTsl2DPMLl0fhWXk7BNQeUWwEWEI8O-THnb-t9WQ7wFCoZPRrsGmesEBFwBDSWqOn5RB5QfDIaWoSiL39NlQMQF3y96OzuDpEclc/s400/CIMG6989.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702065049238722" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">5 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttdJS0n9g0Ly3zri_zPwMiZ_wLPfikDXi9043PB5GxSlThbEhNlv4YOd0ieTpbVJCOd3zbstb5IUPjecbCFucK4bFB2ukQFaPFwwitprdLQXa3FPWAX1_pWYLWiufjwuqHrsSsqjPDOBg/s1600/CIMG7396.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttdJS0n9g0Ly3zri_zPwMiZ_wLPfikDXi9043PB5GxSlThbEhNlv4YOd0ieTpbVJCOd3zbstb5IUPjecbCFucK4bFB2ukQFaPFwwitprdLQXa3FPWAX1_pWYLWiufjwuqHrsSsqjPDOBg/s400/CIMG7396.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702053902181746" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">6 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFXmkQwOyGhcaPQM7aaWvMzUc7VRhlUMbDiEojUSIrLz09crpdlxyQTCyrBqRmg5AnEy4DISxh07aR7GVeSEdWDDXWwumlvHKiBK48hI2oTf8b0-A5vOqEjXQ6tOAKZe3ZdK-8wlM25zb/s1600/CIMG7839.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFXmkQwOyGhcaPQM7aaWvMzUc7VRhlUMbDiEojUSIrLz09crpdlxyQTCyrBqRmg5AnEy4DISxh07aR7GVeSEdWDDXWwumlvHKiBK48hI2oTf8b0-A5vOqEjXQ6tOAKZe3ZdK-8wlM25zb/s400/CIMG7839.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702041153860850" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">7 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDH3MFDel89C2pTEOb02ivkq7981Sy9wHrWaTNHQfPTu8LrUwtCxlUAJRe3oY5TYK8t5brYlL-o1hyphenhyphenAwK5FApw_DmMyLtiE2SimZzdICM2fhWduykiCYK4bjuI0IAnCyIPHka-SYKh40I/s1600/CIMG8305.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDH3MFDel89C2pTEOb02ivkq7981Sy9wHrWaTNHQfPTu8LrUwtCxlUAJRe3oY5TYK8t5brYlL-o1hyphenhyphenAwK5FApw_DmMyLtiE2SimZzdICM2fhWduykiCYK4bjuI0IAnCyIPHka-SYKh40I/s400/CIMG8305.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702034531136498" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">8 months<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDIf8KUNvQ8Ba7yQvyAK6_JnuEH-Xcy7YctVYZSSXOFyOJf7d4rNPjYn-UR9BHkTnln_k5pEG0k0u0_oyFmI_bLpoMGtD8fTLwiiLR8nD_usDnyfO6GMYUWJFk_Z1v3QkEc4VPfa3fc2u/s1600/tessjan.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDIf8KUNvQ8Ba7yQvyAK6_JnuEH-Xcy7YctVYZSSXOFyOJf7d4rNPjYn-UR9BHkTnln_k5pEG0k0u0_oyFmI_bLpoMGtD8fTLwiiLR8nD_usDnyfO6GMYUWJFk_Z1v3QkEc4VPfa3fc2u/s400/tessjan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704702028162851298" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">9 months<br /></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-69751779884596785532012-01-23T18:23:00.000-08:002012-01-23T19:36:52.542-08:00Intention(s)I've been meaning to write about homeschooling and what my intentions are with it. It needs to be addressed, but since my children will be "second generation" homeschoolers, I find myself taking the routine for granted. I research and read and stumble on people's blogs who are home educating their children and I sense a common tone: desperation. They seem to have so much to prove. <span style="font-style: italic;">Haha! See! Look how much I'm doing! Look how brilliant my children will be! I am going above and beyond! I'm not just keeping up with standards, I'm creating ever higher and higher academic goals that we WILL achieve! </span>It<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>all feels like struggle. They seem to be overachieving because they have to prove (to the outside world? the local school administrators? their families? themselves?) that they have made a superior educational choice for their children and that they, as parent-educator, are brilliant and on top of everything. Their blogs have "tips," "curricula add-ons," and my favorite, "some printable worksheets that I just created." Often they appear to be pushing their child(ren) into busy work that is more advanced than said child's grade level. They appear ever-patient, ever-prepared, ever-flowing font of knowledge and wisdom and experience. Yet, to quote The Princess Bride (because there can never be enough of that), "Why is there fear behind your eyes?" I can seriously almost smell it on some of these homeschooling blogs. And yet, I don't have it. I just don't understand what all the fuss is about.<br /><br />I have yet to meet a "second generation" home-educator, as I am. I know they exist, but maybe we just don't feel the need to prove ourselves, at least on the wide world of the internet. Don't misunderstand me - I'm, technically, a "new" homeschooling parent. I have a bright, precocious almost-five year old. I should be freaking out. I should be frantically gathering supplies, making plans, drafting lessons, sifting through curricula, wondering how I will balance everything, worrying that she's not signed up for enough "extra curricular" activities, making sure she has a good peer group, etc. But I'm not.<br /><br />Ok, did I just say that? Yes. I am relaxed because I know something. Homeschooling really works despite our best efforts. Yes, despite. I'm literally living proof that it works. It's not for everyone, but most people who start down this path have already done the hard work - just starting is the work. Being willing to sacrifice your time and energy and go against the mainstream flow is the hardest job of it all. So all these people I read just need to relax. You've done the hardest bit. You've declared yourself a homeschooling parent, pulled your kid out of school or just kept them home, and so you need to pat yourself on the back. Whew.<br /><br />Many of us are intuitive parents of our babies and toddlers. Sure, you get nervous about certain things and call your doctor, your mother or father, but the bulk of the time, you just go with it. And, unless your baby is in daycare fulltime, you spend most of your time with your baby. You are it. You are the first one he sees when he wakes, the last one he sees when he sleeps and he trusts you. And then you start to trust yourself. You know when he's hungry. You know when he's overtired and sick or ready for a different toy. You know how to get that baby to sleep, make that baby laugh, feed and change and bathe that baby. Sure, you may have read a few books about it, but nothing, no one, really prepares us for the feeling of living at the "edge of intuition." Living with a creature so utterly befuddling and unlike anyone else that we can only go on instinct because there's never been another creature like him on earth. And you love that child. Fiercely, wholly. So, why when that same child, that same one you've rocked, nursed, and played with for all of his life, turns a certain age, would you turn him out of the house and send him off to spend the bulk of his time learning from strangers? When you're the one who taught him the beauty of a smile? When you're the one who taught him how to drink from a cup? How to share? How to look at a sunset? How to play chase with the waves? How to build castles from blocks and how to eat? Why do we parents lose trust in our intuition and our fierce love?<br /><br />James Baldwin said, "A child cannot be taught by anyone who despises him." Now, don't get me wrong here, this is not an "anti-school" blog post. This is a blog post for those of you who already want or do homeschool your child. I don't think teachers in schools despise children, generally. But they don't know what you know about your child, that's for sure. They don't have a parent's love. So, that's the start. That's how you know you can do it. I know that I can. I may be terrible at math, and not hold a degree in early childhood education, but I know that I can teach my children what they need to know. My intention, as I need to get to it, being the title of my post and all, is to raise children who have a thirst for knowledge and who are self-sufficient enough to quench that thirst themselves. Sir Walter Scott (yes, an old one), wrote, "All men who have turned out worth anything have had the chief hand in their own education." I believe that. And I believe in it. Granted, a five year old cannot have the chief hand in much, even though she thinks she'd like to. But the outcome that I hope for is that my children have a sense of ownership in their education. That they feel nurtured and nourished in body and soul and mind by their educational experience and thus have the foundation for self-sufficient adulthood. I believe that that outcome can be best achieved at home.<br /><br />At home. It sounds sweet and almost provincial. Domestic has recently become a dirty word and I don't know why. Home is the world. Or it can be. Home provides us with stability, peace, security, comfort, and is our greatest resource. To me, it seems a natural place to provide a child with an education. You do anyway, even if your child goes to school. The lessons a child learns at home are not all academic, but they are vital. Home is already a classroom... it's ok to keep it that way. And home isn't always about shelter. It's at home that we can sometimes be the most vulnerable, the most challenged. My intention is to create an environment at home that encourages exploration in a safe way, and that challenges in a loving way. I'd like my home to be full of excited children, creating and learning and contributing to a harmonious family life.<br /><br />Self-sufficiency, curiosity, self-respect, love and respect of the natural world, acceptance and love for all people, health of body and mind, authenticity, creativity, internal freedom, kindness, common sense, revolutionary thinking, individuality. wisdom, love of peace, and self-trust are what I most hope to foster in my children as I "teach" them. I did not say "A student," "star athlete," "great performer," "obedient child..." on purpose. My children will show me what they are in time and my intention and intuition will guide them there.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_gBz62ssZzR3LN6ko6a72FZC-RED-lFyoez9ECgiA92ZCK6RNi0DIONHn4gv5Tav-04ZkEyAZjcZV7eA7zC27_7pEe47tOA-u4maqeh4aJaSEPiKXGhB9leluaJNc9NofNvT76AmOtJAl/s1600/2%253A365.+color..jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_gBz62ssZzR3LN6ko6a72FZC-RED-lFyoez9ECgiA92ZCK6RNi0DIONHn4gv5Tav-04ZkEyAZjcZV7eA7zC27_7pEe47tOA-u4maqeh4aJaSEPiKXGhB9leluaJNc9NofNvT76AmOtJAl/s400/2%253A365.+color..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701036453724079602" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br />Another merit of home is that it preserves the diversity between individuals. If we were all alike, it might be convenient for the bureaucrat and the statistician, but it would be very dull, and would lead to a very unprogressive society. -- Bertrand Russell<strong></strong>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-50306523376769210172012-01-23T17:32:00.000-08:002012-01-23T18:22:36.983-08:00A Winter's Day<div style="text-align: center;"><br />Winter solitude--<br />in a world of one color<br />the sound of wind.<br /> -- Basho<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB7E_BBIVP-HBfnxQrdW7XnzB5pk0PGhRR3byfAO07P-h5fQNJD28ahuLtolM5CHEsUEt1oFOdS_XNo05tntt9VCwyQ6_vha7F90nM5_mcqHhb4BG9lQLP4vlxibVHeALxgyJY-et1SW7/s1600/CIMG8350.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB7E_BBIVP-HBfnxQrdW7XnzB5pk0PGhRR3byfAO07P-h5fQNJD28ahuLtolM5CHEsUEt1oFOdS_XNo05tntt9VCwyQ6_vha7F90nM5_mcqHhb4BG9lQLP4vlxibVHeALxgyJY-et1SW7/s400/CIMG8350.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701011505848478098" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VM1TTpg7y-_OYxPVqvIGiGIbG1jQK62vnf3vOBsL0LcGVl3H9nZXMMCFRizs4h0NXV17Pt8EdhqNLl1bemqj3crQBvXFHJLUk3E7J2LrZXGGP87Trsk_FJtNXYKecaxPoGKX_jf6CT-3/s1600/CIMG8328.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VM1TTpg7y-_OYxPVqvIGiGIbG1jQK62vnf3vOBsL0LcGVl3H9nZXMMCFRizs4h0NXV17Pt8EdhqNLl1bemqj3crQBvXFHJLUk3E7J2LrZXGGP87Trsk_FJtNXYKecaxPoGKX_jf6CT-3/s400/CIMG8328.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701011274049386466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYFAtBvBPSHjuqs49cdeRP5wYxtHq2_AgmaujCae1KDBP7mbTCMKyIBhHNXu5MGCpuO36gJIWNzUMlbBdivkpIoFdRvdFS3ETWwbVDSNfmo3iRoDQnNe9bt6RnhnPqq3qfP9xIomprXan/s1600/CIMG8335.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYFAtBvBPSHjuqs49cdeRP5wYxtHq2_AgmaujCae1KDBP7mbTCMKyIBhHNXu5MGCpuO36gJIWNzUMlbBdivkpIoFdRvdFS3ETWwbVDSNfmo3iRoDQnNe9bt6RnhnPqq3qfP9xIomprXan/s400/CIMG8335.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701011170529959058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWLNSd-JN6yxRb_lzwr1DWBb8rAYi6SWaQgALcOVt_dF6hbrqdnOyknchFxvtrONFNgVcRROgXPMSv0i8Ex98Vc7_dCoSxe1EnDrhTYgwVCpIN3Qg4H_aTK9KGAXziA72JQ2w1Iv6Yam_/s1600/CIMG8320.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWLNSd-JN6yxRb_lzwr1DWBb8rAYi6SWaQgALcOVt_dF6hbrqdnOyknchFxvtrONFNgVcRROgXPMSv0i8Ex98Vc7_dCoSxe1EnDrhTYgwVCpIN3Qg4H_aTK9KGAXziA72JQ2w1Iv6Yam_/s400/CIMG8320.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701011043915195090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_Tg92nGFVT8VdprFTyiJF5-vEawcjRFr7BnbdyC_qHx10FNGgpPFn56QRu69Uw2Bb7KpFmJmAlpeE4OUdVvfaxExWbMsyyxkM_QtT-uffZw5sjC1-rBczVebEXoiF2gsmNQWbNmXGLzf/s1600/CIMG8326.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_Tg92nGFVT8VdprFTyiJF5-vEawcjRFr7BnbdyC_qHx10FNGgpPFn56QRu69Uw2Bb7KpFmJmAlpeE4OUdVvfaxExWbMsyyxkM_QtT-uffZw5sjC1-rBczVebEXoiF2gsmNQWbNmXGLzf/s400/CIMG8326.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701010914609954434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQqtKs-DVJaf9QxUi4BovnfkaTVAlTdiYgkPSwcGFBZRwA9wfRJTvyN8ROXbt4-50it4sgHmMTNXJToHg32pYEaqn4YodIIt4KsYfWCEllQR6aDULLO3WBISZei0NfQJGBQaQZ9-5R-rQ/s1600/CIMG8325.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQqtKs-DVJaf9QxUi4BovnfkaTVAlTdiYgkPSwcGFBZRwA9wfRJTvyN8ROXbt4-50it4sgHmMTNXJToHg32pYEaqn4YodIIt4KsYfWCEllQR6aDULLO3WBISZei0NfQJGBQaQZ9-5R-rQ/s400/CIMG8325.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701010745447473282" border="0" /></a><br /></div> <br /><br />Finally, last week, winter came to the house by the sea. I've been meaning to preserve and write about these lovely images I captured the day after it snowed. They are especially beautiful today, as we are in the midst of a winter thaw. Sigh. When I see the eloquence of snow-covered trees, the drear of winter lessens. I've noticed that winter in Maine is a time in which our outside and inside are clearly divided. The house becomes truly a cave - full of warmth, chaos (in my case), laughter, tears, smells of richly spiced food and damp snow clothes. I need only to step outside into Basho's world of one color to immediately feel calm. The summer doesn't have this sharp definition - our outside and insides mingle with screened porches and bare skin - we have no need to fetter ourselves in heavy trappings of warmth and protection when we venture out. To a mama tucked into her house with two children quite often, this calm, this frozen peace outside is an intense relief. Blueberry and I trucked out into our little woods between the yard and the stream that carries itself to the cove on the morning I took this photos and the stillness caught us both. The silence of snow; the muffled world created by 6 new inches of white stuff was entrancing. This year, so far, has been the winter that wasn't, so the snow was all the more magical. Blueberry explored newly minted "caves" made from branches under the weight of glistening snow. We pretended to be Arctic explorers collecting "samples" and then snow fairies, painting the world winter white.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOaRQiPVU7oZvE7R2vjZHfFmEPJLOmBg3uWiGToz01RCeeSfWLdXWXoOB9kuAQhYeCLlezntjlQxVjx7aAZweS7rnyldsoy-VKWe1MZEtFvGAUMBSDo-_cHUKu72J3oI9XFgLUsNY8S67s/s1600/CIMG8360.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOaRQiPVU7oZvE7R2vjZHfFmEPJLOmBg3uWiGToz01RCeeSfWLdXWXoOB9kuAQhYeCLlezntjlQxVjx7aAZweS7rnyldsoy-VKWe1MZEtFvGAUMBSDo-_cHUKu72J3oI9XFgLUsNY8S67s/s400/CIMG8360.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701014771390107442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I can remember the heavy stillness of snow from my childhood. It was lovely to escape the house full of five children and run off into the woods, flopping down onto the expertly padded ground and tucking myself under the laden branches of a hemlock or spruce tree. Gazing up through those branches, snug away from my "real life," I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could be anywhere in space or time. I never really settled on anything, though. It was more the feeling of clean blankness, escape; recognition that the snow gave me respite from being something and allowed me just to be. The stillness out there was tangible. The stillness out here - it's the same as then.<br /><br />The warmth of spring and summer awakens us, recreates us, makes us choose what we are and will be, but in the dead of winter, there is only this lovely void.<br /><br />The stillness outside in the winter turns us inward. And we find that inside we, too, are all white, canvas-like; there is only potential here. Only the sound of wind.<br /><br /><br /></div></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-35471451666305628892012-01-20T11:10:00.000-08:002012-01-20T11:34:48.326-08:00{this moment}These posts are fun. Nice and easy when I'm short on time or inspiration. Thanks to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.soulemama.com">Soulemama</a> for the idea.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KQ2vWD5jXlO5QxwsPrRkQcGV4AJRCACEL4cZJbMGBK1Ze9PYfpeVJPxkDkiQYSFxyXBFIGSG_7_KiGClAViCTiNVCRYTE9_DojIliAqvJwGO7TZ_FoMBudW8Yb0Xe4_YQv4R4LRqUFqL/s1600/CIMG8319.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 521px; height: 390px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KQ2vWD5jXlO5QxwsPrRkQcGV4AJRCACEL4cZJbMGBK1Ze9PYfpeVJPxkDkiQYSFxyXBFIGSG_7_KiGClAViCTiNVCRYTE9_DojIliAqvJwGO7TZ_FoMBudW8Yb0Xe4_YQv4R4LRqUFqL/s400/CIMG8319.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699795482830939746" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-78959293047302810522012-01-13T06:32:00.000-08:002012-01-13T06:36:25.010-08:00{this moment}A Friday ritual, inspired by<a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2012/01/this-moment-1.html"> SouleMama</a>. A moment from the past week that I want to hold a bit longer, re-tasting, savoring.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7HUvfxQr11wR8A1LPFXv6JfXgmcHCTxc1HNREpKfJ1uGCy3UymwXnESS_A1t-qYjuSQNeustZKzXGrIBe4HhFl5f7PjOVuI3Ci7UXueFJcJ39XqiGvNTkp2O582WvMlN4RWKupwQDkoKN/s1600/12%253A365.+first+kiss.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 366px; height: 488px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7HUvfxQr11wR8A1LPFXv6JfXgmcHCTxc1HNREpKfJ1uGCy3UymwXnESS_A1t-qYjuSQNeustZKzXGrIBe4HhFl5f7PjOVuI3Ci7UXueFJcJ39XqiGvNTkp2O582WvMlN4RWKupwQDkoKN/s400/12%253A365.+first+kiss.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697124943458668434" border="0" /></a><br />Buttercup's first kiss. 1/11/12<br /></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-72684164812915959892012-01-11T16:13:00.000-08:002012-01-11T17:23:14.141-08:00Resolve<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JpATXmQRkQXV8C8rMSTRDlOihwraDS0KZrqfKUdvkWkeCOGkKRjSy2AUTpgWwlJenojRHTI9LUC3MNNi8mAY47JUscyRBthvoF7Ng_xA5TaWfcUrxCx8TwYbL5sD6k4XesHOVnOGex91/s1600/2012.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JpATXmQRkQXV8C8rMSTRDlOihwraDS0KZrqfKUdvkWkeCOGkKRjSy2AUTpgWwlJenojRHTI9LUC3MNNi8mAY47JUscyRBthvoF7Ng_xA5TaWfcUrxCx8TwYbL5sD6k4XesHOVnOGex91/s400/2012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696547611006102658" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br />"Now is the winter of our discontent [...]"<br />from Richard III, Act 1, scene 1<br /><br /><br />I cannot tell you how many times we utter these words in our house, mostly in jest, often to refer to a grumpy teething baby or a whining four year old who wishes for more snow. But sometimes it's not in jest. Eleven days after New Year's Day, we are thick in what I call "the disgruntled season." This is the season when detox tea flies off the shelves of our local food co-op, when the gyms are unusually full of the flabby and depressed, when we find ourselves staring out of windows forlornly and throwing away anything with chocolate in the cupboard only to wonder if it's still edible a few hours later.<br /><br />Everything conspires to close us inside. The weather has been dismal; the lack of snow here in Maine, particularly on the coast, has been unusual and depressing. Sickness abounds; we were sick from Christmas through New Year weekend with a combination of viruses that refused to allow us to enjoy The Man's week-long break. Everyone I know, it seems, has been touched wtih sickness since mid-December. The weather keeps thawing and freezing; wild fluctuations that seem to mess with our rhythms and internal regulation. In spite of this, my friends and neighbors determine to stick to their lists of semi-impossible New Year's resolutions.<br /><br />This is the first year I can remember in a long time that I decided, purposefully, to not make a resolution. At all. None. This is the first January in a long time that I have not restricted what I ate (pretending that quinoa was waaaay better than apple fritters or chocolate cake), or suddenly started flossing like a mad dentist, or forced myself to sit in front of a blank page of paper until I wrote something every day. This is the first January that I haven't tried to take a "break" from social media or determined to write more letters or made an impossibly long list of books I determine to read. This is the first January I haven't tried some new craft- lacemaking, candlemaking, needlepoint. This is the first January I haven't had to force myself to stare blankly at The New York Times/Atlantic/New Yorker/Washington Post/The Guardian, etc, websites every day in an effort to better inform myself and sound clever in social gatherings.<br /><br />It feels amazing.<br /><br />But here's the funny thing. I find myself embarking on some of these things anyway. My teeth are woefully unflossed and I am just loving NOT being a diet so much I've decided, no resolved?, not to be on one, but I have set some new patterns for myself and our family that I am really enjoying. We have some new routines for Blueberry and Buttercup, enabling me to do some "school" with Blueberry. The Man and I are trying to work better together at coordinating dinners, baths, bedtimes... little changes that make a huge difference. And I've embarked on Project 365. It's an easy premise - take a picture every day for a year. It sounds daunting but as many parents can tell you, it's easy to do when you have adorable subjects. I've posted a few of my favorites below. I'm really curious and excited to see the outcome - a chance to observe what I most want to capture and preserve in a year. But since it's not a "resolution," I don't really care if I don't "succeed." This lack of resolve somehow translates into motivation for me.<br /><br />Don't misunderstand. Things don't automatically get amazing when you let go of resolve. It's not like some magical reverse psychology. I still love chocolate and beer. And resolve isn't bad. It is, in actuality, an admirable quality. It's the discontent behind the resolve that I've tried to let go of this year. Instead of looking in the mirror, stepping on the scale, wishing things were "better," let's celebrate imperfection in the new year. Let's celebrate the comforting fact that things will not drastically change because we change calendars. Our cozy love handles won't be noticeable under wool sweaters and no one will fault us for ignoring the Republican primaries. Let's enjoy a wee bit of complacency, no, contentment.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVISLMCNfiM4ruE2LHINqNGgtcUSYjKIOKzTa-br-9Inzx438jA3lOHgsbSCOW_7_CDbW_df1CicEjY-u_y9ajLSNFTmGlR7QKsmIUPtQ-wpVH83IffwgLvPZ7EPpyvFNkJuIvH5gIGm2/s1600/1%253A365.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVISLMCNfiM4ruE2LHINqNGgtcUSYjKIOKzTa-br-9Inzx438jA3lOHgsbSCOW_7_CDbW_df1CicEjY-u_y9ajLSNFTmGlR7QKsmIUPtQ-wpVH83IffwgLvPZ7EPpyvFNkJuIvH5gIGm2/s400/1%253A365.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696544610173596370" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">1/365. Cheeks.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRi8nawqCqXvF-I2zMwDdAODx_ojWDofqbMKxnB9hsmC7YHisGPfxIY2lh4P5KyqJCcOvozlJSSpDH8b5bOSl74sE81mWJomlu9ytJGm_QgWFixkcw9MPg2pmYKD3hc5rcKZVW2Ql0gdU/s1600/2%253A365.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRi8nawqCqXvF-I2zMwDdAODx_ojWDofqbMKxnB9hsmC7YHisGPfxIY2lh4P5KyqJCcOvozlJSSpDH8b5bOSl74sE81mWJomlu9ytJGm_QgWFixkcw9MPg2pmYKD3hc5rcKZVW2Ql0gdU/s400/2%253A365.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696544812924765314" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">2/365. Color.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_22HFBpiV1ieoMJfUjD1ZanxYs1rpynG_X4NwJ3QCW_itQh61ljTvU2jRWam4bNRvnptC0WtZXUacnPdDf7feqOIMByFWoYISopH4AY_PJpbilVq-3A7nBNYa-L_w8YWt5lezwYHH2-CT/s1600/6%253A365.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_22HFBpiV1ieoMJfUjD1ZanxYs1rpynG_X4NwJ3QCW_itQh61ljTvU2jRWam4bNRvnptC0WtZXUacnPdDf7feqOIMByFWoYISopH4AY_PJpbilVq-3A7nBNYa-L_w8YWt5lezwYHH2-CT/s400/6%253A365.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696544988504515122" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">6/365. Growth.</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfRHBkHKAqd5TnPLldlHXLlmi7qey3PUtdeEVcfwVpPAeOzVf_PYBQoMIyd0p_WuH4l9daMbgiTkP37N8zMWbPJKQcRxCGewcYkL8yS8DDFxjrJS-If6-weHVhIL-pEWPpWANf-VWiFe1/s1600/8%253A365.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfRHBkHKAqd5TnPLldlHXLlmi7qey3PUtdeEVcfwVpPAeOzVf_PYBQoMIyd0p_WuH4l9daMbgiTkP37N8zMWbPJKQcRxCGewcYkL8yS8DDFxjrJS-If6-weHVhIL-pEWPpWANf-VWiFe1/s400/8%253A365.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696545153168156690" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">8/365. Elation. </span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfIbC588jUZvD2KJxD8QM8L8WomiQAMQw5ap91Gl_vNIK9DKCvt0s-7U7VD8riII7zKAZnj4Ld8dRFuMyDWBXTx1fvgaOoYqy1C57gyIJWv3VeOGxWptTmU_RPlrVu6uqyrtQjL1bF7Fl/s1600/9%253A365.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfIbC588jUZvD2KJxD8QM8L8WomiQAMQw5ap91Gl_vNIK9DKCvt0s-7U7VD8riII7zKAZnj4Ld8dRFuMyDWBXTx1fvgaOoYqy1C57gyIJWv3VeOGxWptTmU_RPlrVu6uqyrtQjL1bF7Fl/s400/9%253A365.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696545381572006786" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">9/365. Treasure.</span><br /></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-37483492467191801422011-12-26T12:38:00.000-08:002011-12-28T15:31:01.787-08:00A Christmas Card, of sorts<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i4HxDt3FPXDIUggx8qSnCykfJ5jZkmQsiPQy3_ob0juIo-y0j9GrC6XSZQPq6KNTheQ-Rc0yE9Oyz8fd1AV6XsZrJwFhjYLMKZvidYf3Dxx-mD8Wjv5GBT9DONtNzexG8jwmP4J44nHr/s1600/christmas6.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i4HxDt3FPXDIUggx8qSnCykfJ5jZkmQsiPQy3_ob0juIo-y0j9GrC6XSZQPq6KNTheQ-Rc0yE9Oyz8fd1AV6XsZrJwFhjYLMKZvidYf3Dxx-mD8Wjv5GBT9DONtNzexG8jwmP4J44nHr/s400/christmas6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690444145209873602" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />"All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea and out comes [. . . ] "<span style="font-size:85%;"> - Dylan Thomas from "A Child's Christmas in Wales"</span><br /></div><br /><br />Out comes many wondrous things.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I've noticed that, mostly, holidays don't live up to our expectations. We envision this calm, peaceful and glorious set of days filled with laughter and warmth and good cheer. It tends to fall short of that. This year we had two sick little girls. Buttercup's cold (caught from Blueberry) ended up settling in her chest and we needed to use a nebulizer on her this Christmas. In fact, I took her to the ER two days before Christmas Eve. Then I started getting sick on Christmas Day. The house was a mess. Blueberry whined a lot, ate too much sugar, and bounced off the walls. Buttercup coughed a lot and was pretty grumpy opening presents.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLbILNVyaFDHWn2VQaGuMyLNXAFygI1beQoLBo7JgkbYCRFQX6GStdC3gZ5UtWtWqZtPywotCu1KWqcCEh2cyG1DeqANYSvJhaVTi6DKhdxF1zrU5PGWQo9y88DKM7FVaNmi3WwGc8Fe5/s1600/christmas9.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLbILNVyaFDHWn2VQaGuMyLNXAFygI1beQoLBo7JgkbYCRFQX6GStdC3gZ5UtWtWqZtPywotCu1KWqcCEh2cyG1DeqANYSvJhaVTi6DKhdxF1zrU5PGWQo9y88DKM7FVaNmi3WwGc8Fe5/s400/christmas9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690608461978594770" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP3JSdZBh223Ml-gYlFMUEi-Zfrlfb8X3Vh7aA4-uuwdLOUCorlXqSut-G-3Zf5I6UJsFE2DaDFWNN25JagfVsH5owRa1GTbkHt8zGkyMYoZx8TVZKgaaUuAn3yy5lnoxtFX4GftgILeQ/s1600/christmas2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP3JSdZBh223Ml-gYlFMUEi-Zfrlfb8X3Vh7aA4-uuwdLOUCorlXqSut-G-3Zf5I6UJsFE2DaDFWNN25JagfVsH5owRa1GTbkHt8zGkyMYoZx8TVZKgaaUuAn3yy5lnoxtFX4GftgILeQ/s400/christmas2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690443574059796946" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div><br /><br /><br />But there were presents, both useful and useless. (Mine, for example: down coat from LL Bean, iPhone!!!, and a device that makes your pancakes and eggs cook into the shape of hearts.)<br /><br />There was mulled wine and latke's and my brother's amazing seared cod on Christmas Eve.<br /><br />There were children nestled safely in their (scratch that) our bed.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI42yzOChLPHcLV2Hd8eB-yDuAvsht2MSQq7AiUu8y83Z3E63HL1jB9tct3zySQi59fIC6RifIK_yTosLo7KFKdJp9JcDso6wIae5n8SNhlc7hG2Z_cHM4Vb191rJy6bqcEKsTU55Sjbgu/s1600/christmas3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI42yzOChLPHcLV2Hd8eB-yDuAvsht2MSQq7AiUu8y83Z3E63HL1jB9tct3zySQi59fIC6RifIK_yTosLo7KFKdJp9JcDso6wIae5n8SNhlc7hG2Z_cHM4Vb191rJy6bqcEKsTU55Sjbgu/s400/christmas3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690444381316094162" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />There was a fire in the stove that lasted for days, it felt like.<br /><br />There was a lovely Christmas breakfast feast.<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCevLjuA04GMrqumTqiA3ZEngnmuRW1YJvURcsq763vRYgAHKJl6G2YLhu4n0rvncsE8_7nw_blIa-0mp6ro4FClAGx6NrhyphenhyphenBUV31AkgNJeZOE8vUK2ThvcyqbGnakTYm4LT6MT2DLG8U6/s1600/christmas5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCevLjuA04GMrqumTqiA3ZEngnmuRW1YJvURcsq763vRYgAHKJl6G2YLhu4n0rvncsE8_7nw_blIa-0mp6ro4FClAGx6NrhyphenhyphenBUV31AkgNJeZOE8vUK2ThvcyqbGnakTYm4LT6MT2DLG8U6/s400/christmas5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687943069006705442" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /><br /></span>Blueberry still was an angel in a Christmas pageant in town on Christmas Eve. In fact, she was the only angel who said her line with gusto: "Glory to God in the highest!" (you could probably hear it across town.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNHU6J7Ccg9l7PMezjRcU_OgOsG5kmHIcDNtcF4MnhLsIzSpsOlu8gFCEir7Ddlrl8kFw9skfpGmi0T1TkJ4Z-Un63SckLT4HnR5FVAtlh0Tt1AEzQpZEGR7dB6Dbwx5Z9JsVM4MDoENr/s1600/christmas10.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNHU6J7Ccg9l7PMezjRcU_OgOsG5kmHIcDNtcF4MnhLsIzSpsOlu8gFCEir7Ddlrl8kFw9skfpGmi0T1TkJ4Z-Un63SckLT4HnR5FVAtlh0Tt1AEzQpZEGR7dB6Dbwx5Z9JsVM4MDoENr/s400/christmas10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690612601086518034" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />Blueberry was far more eager to give things away to anyone who came to the door - mailmen, UPS drivers, neighbors bearing treats - than to get stuff.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />There was a light snow-globe snow falling on Christmas day, starting as floaty feathery flakes when we woke up (at the extremely decent hour of 7:30) and then getting steadier throughout the day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lHz-1TdUSVN9Eml6s8BNeLJ5192efC9Q14k1R0inqbFiAFnOVckTGmKOS6M8S0XrH2uPNofqjm2R80SdAII3qARYMwUl4b9PLcekbbs2P1PHRBVkM9w9PPQPsbCMGHhy0ZyMXaRozngf/s1600/christmas4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lHz-1TdUSVN9Eml6s8BNeLJ5192efC9Q14k1R0inqbFiAFnOVckTGmKOS6M8S0XrH2uPNofqjm2R80SdAII3qARYMwUl4b9PLcekbbs2P1PHRBVkM9w9PPQPsbCMGHhy0ZyMXaRozngf/s400/christmas4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690444061884288594" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />It was a genuine storm by dinner.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ox9cxT8AfiRYuUdmHXfrMtS0d3b7mwqQXxuNax9ybf40bAWh-rsWCc1XXPcFVoeETNt6t09t3EdKE30QjS3LiDhpt3uLvJYeGuJMl2pOOrxYE_mNcoztNf-YGHy1UrMgKeoi7ThBWYEq/s1600/christmas7.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ox9cxT8AfiRYuUdmHXfrMtS0d3b7mwqQXxuNax9ybf40bAWh-rsWCc1XXPcFVoeETNt6t09t3EdKE30QjS3LiDhpt3uLvJYeGuJMl2pOOrxYE_mNcoztNf-YGHy1UrMgKeoi7ThBWYEq/s400/christmas7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690444287793661682" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div><br />There was Nonni and Pop Pop's Christmas dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXenObaDJE3XWjQJHgeN9M07ZASQ1WF9PXGVS-aRPHy4L-ZJe6TUhiQKgoZDB5h9tOHI8JA-2M6nF5BV7EbkmyQrlMa-LgjC1GG9QUipnZj8HFM8Pk4mfWrGv7I404N_JCJB1pbgfgshNp/s1600/christmas1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXenObaDJE3XWjQJHgeN9M07ZASQ1WF9PXGVS-aRPHy4L-ZJe6TUhiQKgoZDB5h9tOHI8JA-2M6nF5BV7EbkmyQrlMa-LgjC1GG9QUipnZj8HFM8Pk4mfWrGv7I404N_JCJB1pbgfgshNp/s400/christmas1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690443500139722834" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br />All my siblings were together, the five of us recounting Christmas pasts and participating in lots of good-natured teasing.<br /><br />There were Christmas crackers unexpectedly filled with confetti. And there was cleaning it up together.<br /><br />There was uneventful travel in the slippery snow.<br /><br />There was my grandmother opening a beautiful snowglobe - something she'd wanted for all her 80 years.<br /><br />There were two babies falling asleep while nursing by the Christmas tree.<br /><br />There were too many cookies and too much port wine.<br /><br />There were paper dolls and Colorforms and puzzles, books and hand-knit hats and mittens, so my daughter's Christmas had a air of timelessness. Everything she got was low-tech, yet she loved it. (And yes, I'm brave enough to post a picture of myself in pj's on Christmas morning.)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25HoO4Y-2X1sWZhQSNTQcnd7WivioXM2t-NXlxvYHZN1dZYPaG5fktsnoyS_HqhsFbxoG_yTMKq1Bd4C_7Xldt7pJ9HWeDrM-jbogZOfn6wh5rmuaJUAW11TgsqUgWL11HgpYDZ5k3-PH/s1600/CIMG8276.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25HoO4Y-2X1sWZhQSNTQcnd7WivioXM2t-NXlxvYHZN1dZYPaG5fktsnoyS_HqhsFbxoG_yTMKq1Bd4C_7Xldt7pJ9HWeDrM-jbogZOfn6wh5rmuaJUAW11TgsqUgWL11HgpYDZ5k3-PH/s400/CIMG8276.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690493023806827858" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />Boxing Day has dawned bright and clear with snow-laden trees against an impossibly blue sky and our home is warm and full of Christmas remnants and a couple of presents that Santa "forgot."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmU8RmINJX7wAlHQg8jKBuOR6WAfY7mCDiApy_sO0cC0jIqBeHKWtYCBKaL7ZmjIZ_oyqLQua7Qzwk3Klo_LPsKBTGic6DHFcVAAO7iiHQXAvzEk5KRFvQcQjT70161j-kg22zyuCS2-f/s1600/christmas5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmU8RmINJX7wAlHQg8jKBuOR6WAfY7mCDiApy_sO0cC0jIqBeHKWtYCBKaL7ZmjIZ_oyqLQua7Qzwk3Klo_LPsKBTGic6DHFcVAAO7iiHQXAvzEk5KRFvQcQjT70161j-kg22zyuCS2-f/s400/christmas5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690467836094241570" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />Peace and joy be yours this season, this year's end, even if it fails to live up to your expectations. With love from us all "at the rim of the carol-singing sea."<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghe9uon2Eot9XHJjFxrBq2jHXXYWaUcpmlR_mzNUgs4nIcPwcI3TgRRqXvrHW4ISGzONqbewzpEUqjUxS06j8565Sk2hh6Ye0Guve5UJ69nE4OWhlaozkmrzMhKQrE9zgHQTPMxRAVxF8R/s1600/christmas8.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghe9uon2Eot9XHJjFxrBq2jHXXYWaUcpmlR_mzNUgs4nIcPwcI3TgRRqXvrHW4ISGzONqbewzpEUqjUxS06j8565Sk2hh6Ye0Guve5UJ69nE4OWhlaozkmrzMhKQrE9zgHQTPMxRAVxF8R/s400/christmas8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690471896504231138" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-41405259921198465092011-12-08T08:41:00.000-08:002011-12-08T18:58:10.235-08:00Newsy<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7-tyqGFa7PS1oo0xRTzlGjSJHogXuKnJrUC6PaKmVCR-UisqV2CKBKBRRi70ONEp1tiUL3rLlkM9A5qV6DbicZSa-2O5eRp8j6uOLxPoW0I0ntjAHlrAHwN_jhQncnCDmu7y7KD1skb_/s1600/CIMG8032.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7-tyqGFa7PS1oo0xRTzlGjSJHogXuKnJrUC6PaKmVCR-UisqV2CKBKBRRi70ONEp1tiUL3rLlkM9A5qV6DbicZSa-2O5eRp8j6uOLxPoW0I0ntjAHlrAHwN_jhQncnCDmu7y7KD1skb_/s400/CIMG8032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683948893276599346" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose." -- Kevin Arnold<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">I realize it's been a while since I posted. For some reason the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas seems to get a bit crazy... I'm probably not alone in that. I am also dealing with the ramped-up needs of my two little loves.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>News from the little world:<br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Teeth! </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Blueberry has her first official loose one. It's cute, but also a bit icky to me. She's touchy and whiny about it, likes to wiggle it constantly and I love watching her try to eat an apple without using the loose tooth. It's the front bottom right, her first to come in (after consulting her baby book), and will be the first to go. I'm thinking Santa and the Tooth Fairy may converge this year. Not sure what the going rate is for teeth but perhaps a lovely little felted gnome or angel will be her prize. </div><div><br /></div><div>Buttercup officially has 4 teeth now. It's also adorable, but those top two gave her a lot of trouble coming in and they are still growing and seem to bother her. She "grinds" them a lot and looks a bit like an old man doing it, but in the sweetest way possible.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyyqwcRoN2Fny1v-b7toxz6LvQTtq3mon7lV9DzuuVQYiyW_F2qAGCJJtPMs1PK_zGwZrtJC4iSMHw0mj0clScoyzUY0D0jSf-I1yP6mTfMsu3NH4WVEJPD2GvVKW380urWCo8fB0ZP94/s1600/378887_10151000597580333_668425332_21911008_1175021708_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyyqwcRoN2Fny1v-b7toxz6LvQTtq3mon7lV9DzuuVQYiyW_F2qAGCJJtPMs1PK_zGwZrtJC4iSMHw0mj0clScoyzUY0D0jSf-I1yP6mTfMsu3NH4WVEJPD2GvVKW380urWCo8fB0ZP94/s400/378887_10151000597580333_668425332_21911008_1175021708_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683804623814749586" border="0" /></a></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(please note the pearly whites and the pearls from Nonni. so cute.)</span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br />Food!</span></div><div><br /></div><div>We're trying <a href="http://www.baby-led.com/">Baby Led Weaning</a>, sometimes called Baby Led Solids, with Buttercup. It's really brilliant not to have to make purees and force feed your baby. Check it out. I love it. Well, so far. Sweet potato didn't make it near her mouth and she's had a few bites of banana. She's not terribly impressed, but it's comforting to know that she'll pick it up at her own speed and with her own inclination. She does love to take sips of water out of Mama's glass and is messing around with a sippy cup in an increasingly skillful way. Still loving the boob 24/7. And I'm cool with it. She's large and healthy and thriving, so despite the fact that she's 7 months (!!!), I'm really not concerned pushing her to eat "real" food.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELXJ7i9htSXFuSOs-mfUwZpSKzMi1HJvkS1mGY55hPfmNtChl-jhj0yF9B-j4D9OvqZVhdOb1iP5a2DilVwoNppGvzztoiS9Uwrk56b7QcIEp2rGbhu8hAtA5Q83ODhsTDy0yZqDuXe6n/s1600/CIMG7894.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELXJ7i9htSXFuSOs-mfUwZpSKzMi1HJvkS1mGY55hPfmNtChl-jhj0yF9B-j4D9OvqZVhdOb1iP5a2DilVwoNppGvzztoiS9Uwrk56b7QcIEp2rGbhu8hAtA5Q83ODhsTDy0yZqDuXe6n/s400/CIMG7894.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683946969952872642" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(water? really?)</span><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>And, Blueberry. Increasingly I've noticed she's sensitive to sugar. And preservatives and food dyes. SIGH. M&M's are SO good! Crap! I know. I didn't want to acknowledge this, really, but am realizing it makes a huge difference in her attitude, sleeping patterns, and overall behavior and health when I cut those things out of her diet. This is where Baby Led Weaning is brilliant. You realize you're cooking for your baby too, so you tend to cook healthier; whole foods, not any added salt or sugar, but lots of nutrition and flavor. It's going to get exciting the more foods I add on to Buttercup's repertoire. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br />Christmas!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">We're getting ready for Christmas here in the little house by the sea. It's fun. I need to remember that and not stress about all that I want to do. We've made popcorn chains and pinecone garlands, "gingerbread" (graham cracker) houses, put up the tree and decorated it, made a swag for the front door, gathered lots of greens and berries for buckets outside, the mantle and refreshed our Thanksgiving centerpiece with cedar, rosehips and mussel shells. It's pretty. We purchased just a few things for the girls this year. Quality over quantity. Blueberry will be getting a wooden ironing board and laundry set, puzzles and small chalkboards, per her current fascinations. Buttercup will be getting a sweet small Waldorf doll, a couple of teethers and balls. I am trying to take things off my list rather than adding them on. It's hard. I plan to make a nightgown for Blueberry and matching pj pants for Buttercup. I'll post them when they're done! But I want to enjoy this season of peace and joy and take lots of walks, drink lots of hot tea, do lots of crafts, have lots of tree-side snuggles and savor the Advent.<br /><br /><br />Here are some photos to situate you, taken on our daily walkabout today.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8laSbV1oabcX0SOZf282w3s6Hy6FwWgQa4MDtzFJFiPcNgEwiVO7j-zKv_05tw6jGQDep8Y50sDWaojB5TPfmyi_zW0637NZ9pevNOj8euADMpc2c_CuSxVkltGaYIXD0zkMiIpL6dCIG/s1600/CIMG7993.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8laSbV1oabcX0SOZf282w3s6Hy6FwWgQa4MDtzFJFiPcNgEwiVO7j-zKv_05tw6jGQDep8Y50sDWaojB5TPfmyi_zW0637NZ9pevNOj8euADMpc2c_CuSxVkltGaYIXD0zkMiIpL6dCIG/s400/CIMG7993.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683947609367088018" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">view</span><br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJZ6IL57hScPF7mv50PtS5kxSIc-IuDSBcw6uQO_ew07skJC8LahDo38nPihQYz4fZlYEX2ywmKQoQd383EqD-C4QT-MrBWm6vLae6hRQqPfG9YbEODJb2iRrWyaqxf7twV4HL6gnhT4_/s1600/CIMG8027.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJZ6IL57hScPF7mv50PtS5kxSIc-IuDSBcw6uQO_ew07skJC8LahDo38nPihQYz4fZlYEX2ywmKQoQd383EqD-C4QT-MrBWm6vLae6hRQqPfG9YbEODJb2iRrWyaqxf7twV4HL6gnhT4_/s400/CIMG8027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683947992134351458" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">house, with Mittens Alexatar foregrounding</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_EfSZX31wBn7-tGLh3QiO-AwF5-slOxp6qIQoh5RJ30u7cBH3Ex7pNQHUowa0jXlR1axOtAH7FEXyxC5zpwgC9DhxnXj-y3UorErnrP3kpNAB8YwHD1tyWxkSdHS37pm1EenAWhMVkDH/s1600/CIMG7994.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_EfSZX31wBn7-tGLh3QiO-AwF5-slOxp6qIQoh5RJ30u7cBH3Ex7pNQHUowa0jXlR1axOtAH7FEXyxC5zpwgC9DhxnXj-y3UorErnrP3kpNAB8YwHD1tyWxkSdHS37pm1EenAWhMVkDH/s400/CIMG7994.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683948383471676034" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">backyard stream to the sea</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghHH7z24SgSUgKgZDsTyvhSqnMudEIA_KSQMwyihd5QP1J3b5Q2OCg-4_wPDGI1XMGULx8ibUnwrU1nA12H2WbqAh4c9hyI_N_xc8PlZ42yuu81yjrUyV7HvgHJJPYSN67GIpU97sG_Rxw/s1600/CIMG8030.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghHH7z24SgSUgKgZDsTyvhSqnMudEIA_KSQMwyihd5QP1J3b5Q2OCg-4_wPDGI1XMGULx8ibUnwrU1nA12H2WbqAh4c9hyI_N_xc8PlZ42yuu81yjrUyV7HvgHJJPYSN67GIpU97sG_Rxw/s400/CIMG8030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683948605537356994" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Blueberry at the front door</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-40463675105775301072011-11-23T16:32:00.000-08:002011-11-23T17:53:25.641-08:00As we gather<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;">And present gratitude </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;"> Insures the future’s good. . .<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"> John Greenleaf Whittier</span><br /></div><br /><br />It's a sleet-y, snowy day before Thanksgiving here on the coast of Maine. Buttery mashed potatoes have been made, the smell of pumpkin pie is coming from the oven, I'm taking a break before I make my mother's sausage stuffing. There's a fire in the stove, the house is warm, the children are napping. It's a traditional and comforting feeling here today.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXkEbfBdixyvyR0yH3rivs3s52eYTTZWvLrv1XnvCqSmNavy12mAQ0I1CZHfI2IMOKatJWN82IvlyTGQy8rHCzwfg71cMKk1sj54xjS0jB8SmuzumZ8mRvZoXn9HZ8O_hH62CBZ-X1wEU/s1600/CIMG7624.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXkEbfBdixyvyR0yH3rivs3s52eYTTZWvLrv1XnvCqSmNavy12mAQ0I1CZHfI2IMOKatJWN82IvlyTGQy8rHCzwfg71cMKk1sj54xjS0jB8SmuzumZ8mRvZoXn9HZ8O_hH62CBZ-X1wEU/s400/CIMG7624.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678363303760676178" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Aren't sleeping babies delicious?)</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbTbJZQm7anXl37vDAsujlm4hEdqQRX_u8Ji_4yTfY2Mj-T7Y31bEgiaOUU7HjezpJ8pisV-Acgp2KDS3cAgFK_Vz_ioarqplU_pjEyu1ndu0NsB9K0G10wLE35msB-IufucojRf-CCGQ/s1600/CIMG7626.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbTbJZQm7anXl37vDAsujlm4hEdqQRX_u8Ji_4yTfY2Mj-T7Y31bEgiaOUU7HjezpJ8pisV-Acgp2KDS3cAgFK_Vz_ioarqplU_pjEyu1ndu0NsB9K0G10wLE35msB-IufucojRf-CCGQ/s400/CIMG7626.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678363413407851810" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Cozy fire today)</span><br /><br /><br /></div>There have been times in my life when I have rebelled against tradition. Truly. I barely think of myself as "traditional." Yet I am going to polish my silver candlesticks until they shine, set a centerpiece of fruits and dried corn and iron my newly made napkins. Let's set the record straight. We aren't wealthy, monetarily speaking. In fact, we'd be firmly in the "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/We_are_the_99%25">99%"</a> of Americans who generally live paycheck to paycheck, struggle with their insurance co-pays, and wonder if Santa could possibly be real because otherwise it will be a lean lean Christmas for their children. All this is very real, very depressing at times, and very uncomfortable to ponder. Here's the thing, though. I've decided that my strongest, fondest childhood holiday memories come from two things: a sense of love in a gathering and a sense of beauty and care taken with preparations.<br /><br />I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving at my grandparents' house. My grandmother had ironed her heirloom linens, set the table with her best china and silverware, even for the kids to use!, lit candles and decorated with gleaming fruits and nuts. My grandfather would be standing over the stove, stirring gravy, eating bits off the freshly-roasted turkey, inevitably cursing and probably drinking whiskey or vodka. I remember the sense of awe and delight upon coming in, being welcomed; coats would be shuffled off the spare bedroom, my grandmother would offer us gingerale in her fancy glasses, my grandfather's warm hard hand would "koosh" my head and he'd sneak us kids bits of crispy turkey skin. There would be a fire in the fireplace, Bach or Beethoven on the record player, (those who wanted to watch "the game" were relegated to an upstairs television), and there was always the sound of laughter, the tinkling of glasses and china, and the rich scent of spices, wine, and roasted meat. Looking back, I don't think my grandparents were particularly "wealthy." They were pretty typical for their generation - my grandfather had to work two or three jobs at a time, my grandmother's heirlooms were all handed down to her and she simply kept them well, took care of them, and yet wasn't afraid to use them. We used to drink out of her cut crystal and she never minded if we spilled on the tablecloth or if a glass or plate broke. The children felt just as welcome as the adults and everything was lovely, comfortable, serene and beautiful. We always, regardless of religious belief or affiliation, said some sort of blessing over our meal, holding hands in a sense of calm, security, touching a bit of the sacred, if only for a few moments. The food was always delicious - prepared with love and joy. We always had lively conversation too and lots of hugs, kisses and laughter. Our hearts, minds, and bellies would be filled to the brim upon departure.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEnnump8X6vNAsLITCox-kcmj8gUc72e1QZzrC-Y32e4wsARQjXgR8_FYAGDVnqg-S5ISWvmeMddcmvKEWKu4IegzQoT2LJV1-VGncfe1KIW9Z09xpJSB7JfED1Iqe6DE4Sath1sw9l9mv/s1600/318487_2428838233218_1019444912_32676311_148123186_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEnnump8X6vNAsLITCox-kcmj8gUc72e1QZzrC-Y32e4wsARQjXgR8_FYAGDVnqg-S5ISWvmeMddcmvKEWKu4IegzQoT2LJV1-VGncfe1KIW9Z09xpJSB7JfED1Iqe6DE4Sath1sw9l9mv/s400/318487_2428838233218_1019444912_32676311_148123186_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678363807290720194" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(This is my grandmother, in the center, sometime in the 60s. I was not around then but you get the idea.)</span><br /></div><br />I'd say, today, that we, The Man and I, have less "money" than my grandparents did. But this week we're going to host our own little Thanksgiving and I am realizing what I want my children to remember about the holidays. No, I don't have embroidered linens, nor matching china, but I do have a few special pieces that my grandmother handed down to me. We do have plenty of firewood, a lovely turkey from a local farm, family recipes for stuffing, pie and cranberry bread, and the desire to make the gathering special, lovely, memorable. I will set the table well, showing Blueberry how the dinner fork goes on the inside of the dessert fork, and that the butter knives' blades should point toward the plate - we may not have fancy glasses but they can go above the spoon, as my grandmother and mother taught me, just as the mismatched bread plates go above the napkins. I made the napkins myself out of pretty calico, but they can be starched and iron and treated well, as if they were heirlooms. Blueberry will help me make a centerpiece out of bits foraged from our forest. Care will be taken. No television will be blaring, no one will be without a seat of honor. The point is that my children will remember the sense of aesthetic and care and love I take in my preparations. The atmosphere of beauty and generosity is what I want them to remember. I want them to remember the table set, the faces around it; the solidity of wood with the gleam of silver and the flicker of firelight.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since<br />creation, and it will go on. </div><span style="font-style: italic;">[...]</span><br /><br /><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make<br />men at it, we make women.<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">[...]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> once again at the table.</span><br /> <span style="font-size:85%;"> Joy Harjo</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_avhqfK2ZVEciYDmHw0YQ2hN9LyYcSZRlgMQjnf26xGmcuWXlJYd9cNLCYsc0t4otiRQL51nU6KiwZbWXmPBSI4S6oEJF3vzWwsLDXFlJbmtEs15LjwZ-ZnxITcXwW7HBRuiLcAAa8sy/s1600/CIMG7631.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_avhqfK2ZVEciYDmHw0YQ2hN9LyYcSZRlgMQjnf26xGmcuWXlJYd9cNLCYsc0t4otiRQL51nU6KiwZbWXmPBSI4S6oEJF3vzWwsLDXFlJbmtEs15LjwZ-ZnxITcXwW7HBRuiLcAAa8sy/s400/CIMG7631.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678363679994865106" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Homemade dinner napkins)</span><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzkaEu7U2Od0yYeu4rmvFBvHJxW-jWSd2bpgDSDTKBfRQ0kGjsvbsX309EbXP6ltLS4sTpQaYThU7iY2YvPryPLvpPYqH9uXbcdSOmIqPyF_RNbV_yglDindBTmIA6AL2HoPO8SMCFGb5/s1600/CIMG7629.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzkaEu7U2Od0yYeu4rmvFBvHJxW-jWSd2bpgDSDTKBfRQ0kGjsvbsX309EbXP6ltLS4sTpQaYThU7iY2YvPryPLvpPYqH9uXbcdSOmIqPyF_RNbV_yglDindBTmIA6AL2HoPO8SMCFGb5/s400/CIMG7629.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678363505083823410" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Centerpiece constructed by Mama E and Blueberry)</span><br /><br /></div>I never want to say to my children, "No, we don't have enough money to do that, so you be content with that paper plate." You don't need to focus on what you don't have. Thanksgiving, the very act, is to be walking in gratitude for what you do have. I have elbow grease, ingenuity and a sense of how to make something beautiful. It does matter. I don't want my children to say, "Oh, we grew up poor, we had to have Thanksgiving out of a can." There is nothing thankful about that. I refuse to embrace a spirit of meanness or want. We have all that we need, and more. And for that I rejoice. For that I set a beautiful table. For that I carefully choose my food for the feast, not based on price, but on quality. I want to flood my children's senses with loveliness. I want to teach them how to live well with the bounty they do have, rather than looking over their shoulders at others. I want to foster contentment by making what we have the best it can be. Is this an elitist attitude? No. This is good stewardship. This is showing gratitude for what you have by using it well. Using it well <span style="font-style: italic;">today,</span> not saving it for some future that might never come. We are young now. As <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Decemberists">The Decemberists</a> say, "But for now we are young, let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see." I look around my home and I can count a lot of beautiful things.<br /><br /><br /><br />Here are some things that are true. You do not have to have a lot of money to set a pretty table. You don't have to have a lot of money to dress in your nicest clothes. You don't have to have a lot of money to make delicious and healthy food well. You don't have to have a lot of money to greet people warmly. You don't have to have a lot of money to turn off the television and put on the classical music station (if that's where your tastes lie). You don't have to have a lot of money to make the children at the feast feel equal and to have them sit at "the big table." You don't have to have a lot of money to make a beautiful centerpiece - the woods abound with greenery, berries and nuts. You don't have to have a lot of money to light some candles and turn off your electric lights. You don't have to have a lot of money to linger over your meal, to make washing up fun, and to play charades or shadow puppets after pie and tea. You don't have to have a lot of money to teach the youngest ones how to make a pumpkin pie or the right amount of real butter to put into the mashed potatoes. You don't have to have a lot of money to have joy.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">Benign and dozy from our gluttonies, </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">the candles down to stubs, defenses down, </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">love leaking out unguarded the way </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">juice dribbles from the fence when grounded </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic;">by grass stalks or a forgotten hoe, </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"><span style="font-style: italic;">how eloquent, how beautiful you seem!</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Maxine Kumin, from<span style="font-style: italic;"> "</span>Family Reunion"</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAzQNlxdpy5Lc3gZ2PBr6nlZcE0kldb5ohPLx1LxspM4xm-wJYmlUq-QJjioG-9wlLDb6qKsor6ImKzPOeGJJ4pPW_HVq0THlUjn5hflryOC6urw25Ccmwz3Dyz7taZZ1mN-7iHTsT8o8/s1600/CIMG7630.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAzQNlxdpy5Lc3gZ2PBr6nlZcE0kldb5ohPLx1LxspM4xm-wJYmlUq-QJjioG-9wlLDb6qKsor6ImKzPOeGJJ4pPW_HVq0THlUjn5hflryOC6urw25Ccmwz3Dyz7taZZ1mN-7iHTsT8o8/s400/CIMG7630.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678363582775438290" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Silver polish is probably super toxic but it works wicked good.) </span><br /></div><br /><br />History buffs will forgive my retelling of the first Thanksgiving, but wasn't it about making due with what was available? Making something out of "nothing"? The settlers, starving and whining, "Wah, wah, we're so hungry, this land sucks, there is nothing here, we have nothing to eat, what are we going to do?" The Native people saying, "Umm... look at all this! We have corn, we have cranberries, we have venison, and we'll even be nice and show you how to gather and cook this stuff into a proper feast." The settlers saying, "Whoa, look at all that is here! This is actually awesome. We thought we had squat." The Native people saying, "You just need to look around you." I want to be like the Native Americans this Thanksgiving; making and sharing from the beautiful bounty that our land gives us.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43AZDqgHBuHciYb138fLYoqKBr1TWhLal9sd0WowIYB3ZQHxHl3KisYbv3p_RPicpYNX0dsQ1AiaxvxmaYeTiovzxS9Y2cFYzyGGNMwmf5r2dRfUgAsYV_waMyTkYlWX4W3LQcvlKtVHn/s1600/CIMG7535.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43AZDqgHBuHciYb138fLYoqKBr1TWhLal9sd0WowIYB3ZQHxHl3KisYbv3p_RPicpYNX0dsQ1AiaxvxmaYeTiovzxS9Y2cFYzyGGNMwmf5r2dRfUgAsYV_waMyTkYlWX4W3LQcvlKtVHn/s400/CIMG7535.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678367185444712594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br />This Thanksgiving, I will ask a blessing over our meal, over our gathering, we will hold hands, we might even sing together. That's right. We will truly gather together...Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-3147961959941193132011-11-11T07:27:00.000-08:002011-11-11T07:30:11.497-08:00{this moment}Inspired by <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2011/11/this-moment-1.html">SouleMama</a>, a fantastic mama blogger. The idea is simple. Every Friday post only a photo, with no words, that captures a moment you want to remember and revel in from the past week. Here's mine.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tUrgahoJr9NoOBiQkWTkA7CGhvVPn6FSi6HM_U8ccLKW5fWToGb9OG2-ww9BQPwhheW6iP2B5BzQ1MJZJeCsnmQhYt92RZ3c6CaYrr-PFHAyAsnUEUvWI4nb9l74PPbkdOcm5fZUjpK0/s1600/310770_10150922316790333_668425332_21615031_2031797291_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 433px; height: 324px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tUrgahoJr9NoOBiQkWTkA7CGhvVPn6FSi6HM_U8ccLKW5fWToGb9OG2-ww9BQPwhheW6iP2B5BzQ1MJZJeCsnmQhYt92RZ3c6CaYrr-PFHAyAsnUEUvWI4nb9l74PPbkdOcm5fZUjpK0/s400/310770_10150922316790333_668425332_21615031_2031797291_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673760704026032546" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-8637019873563963722011-11-09T17:46:00.000-08:002011-11-09T19:56:10.955-08:00Gratitude, our high-wire actSo, cliche as it may be, November is the month for giving thanks. In this generally dismal month, it seems a fitting exercise to list what we are grateful for in our lives, from the smallest detail to the fact that we have lives at all. To that end, I'd developed a daily ritual for Blueberry and myself. We made a calendar, sort of like an advent calendar, called "30 Days of Gratitude." It has little construction paper flaps and underneath we write something every day that we are (well, she is) grateful for. It was going wonderfully well. "I am grateful for my food." "I am grateful for my family." "I am grateful for my toys." Ok, ok. Excellent. Expected, but good. And today, day 9, we had one of those days. I was feeling edgy, over-tired, sarcastic. Blueberry and I clashed a little bit in the morning over getting dressed, chores, etc. I did not allow her to turn on the television when she asked so she declared that I was "not being a good mommy!" and stormed off to the school room. Attempting to breathe deeply, I followed her and tried to derail her mood by engaging in the gratitude activity. Well, day #9's post, as dictated by Blueberry, would have been, "I am grateful for my mommy only when she lets me turn on the tv." (Hear me sigh heavily.)<br /><br />This got me to thinking, though. Gratitude isn't really just saying, "I am thankful for ....", it isn't just making a list, saying a prayer over a meal, being happy in an excess of material possessions; it's a place of being. It's a hard place to be. It's a high wire. I get this feeling that gratitude is a skill too. You have to practice it, like piano playing or yoga or driving. There are days when I am home with my girls and it feels like the day stretches into monotonous eternity. Don't get me wrong; I love what I do, but there are days when I feel like I've been swallowed by a whale. I suppose these days come to us all. On these days remembering gratitude is hard. It's tricky to find, tough to practice and I fall off the wire. My response to Blueberry today was, "Well, thanks for that, Blue." (Sarcasm is sometimes my refuge when I'm driven crazy by these little beings.) And then I stopped and realized what she was doing. She was falling off the wire too. <span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe this was a stupid idea</span>, I thought. Maybe writing down what we are thankful for is the exact wrong approach. Like saying, "I'm awesome" instead of just being awesome. We just have to <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> it. We have to live in gratitude; to practice balancing until we get it. And once you get it, you can just run.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJSKQSzjF9MfXCODKIzn6VoFCd5AIcMNYu0bEMwEjmzyshvO_lHHQLp8f1V-hjQUxj0ADxnKVWY-Zl1-jlQpyMrDbOyYZEGDkB7O7waEOCbVtKYd5L48BB3QsO8wXnp1ruRo55S-FQcZx/s1600/306311_10150922316275333_668425332_21615029_801352340_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJSKQSzjF9MfXCODKIzn6VoFCd5AIcMNYu0bEMwEjmzyshvO_lHHQLp8f1V-hjQUxj0ADxnKVWY-Zl1-jlQpyMrDbOyYZEGDkB7O7waEOCbVtKYd5L48BB3QsO8wXnp1ruRo55S-FQcZx/s400/306311_10150922316275333_668425332_21615029_801352340_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673188196152104786" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I suppose even writing about gratitude like this fails the gratitude test. I should be less aware of it. I should just see it and live it and breathe it. It's such an open place to be. My sweet Buttercup is excellent at it. She just turns toward things that please her - nursing, silly songs, kisses, toys with bells, mama playing peekaboo, love of any kind - and her whole being lights up with gratitude. It comes before words. It's instinct. As John <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Berger">Berger</a>, the art critic, notes, "Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes before it can speak." Babies see and respond in an utter attitude of thankfulness. Not the type of bowing lip-service we adults are so quick to espouse. Not Emily Post or Miss Manners type thankfulness. Nothing humble or modest or meek about it. It's a lightness in response to what is given them. My baby glows with gratitude.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR9w81TgihP_DRZZ3QUNwzmAhkVgkWN4LHBRRovL4NoOru1Z6kYi-tX9reNuVdzcFtrOFResiQW0UfZ1TEZhimI6pP1pi3pDTbcVkhuhSM2ADetbeajJmQoaF2b7CdSDhoXB066eYeU35/s1600/310125_10150922307385333_668425332_21615002_998185354_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR9w81TgihP_DRZZ3QUNwzmAhkVgkWN4LHBRRovL4NoOru1Z6kYi-tX9reNuVdzcFtrOFResiQW0UfZ1TEZhimI6pP1pi3pDTbcVkhuhSM2ADetbeajJmQoaF2b7CdSDhoXB066eYeU35/s400/310125_10150922307385333_668425332_21615002_998185354_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673191317535965186" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">There is a way to be grateful that includes everything.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This is what life does. It lets you walk up to </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">the store<br />to buy breakfast and the paper, on a</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">is this a message, finally, or just another day?<br /> -- </span>from "Starfish" by <a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19246">Eleanor Lerman<br /></a><br />My Blueberry's rebellion against our gratitude "exercise" was the jolt I needed. Telling someone, yourself even, you're going to walk a high-wire and walking a high-wire are completely different things. You have to get out and step on, stiff knee and all.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1zQubjdZLUHIJH8LczU-XeISsE6EH9wNORGXB3m3ijse91JzEdg9GjUls_KaD9QS7iUeV76-lX74LYH-JJ44gUgDZYL3w-gO-rnVhP_OJo_6K5VHVh5KKEmISrlupCQiB7cwIOiCOvUT/s1600/376422_10150922309375333_668425332_21615008_1388366798_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1zQubjdZLUHIJH8LczU-XeISsE6EH9wNORGXB3m3ijse91JzEdg9GjUls_KaD9QS7iUeV76-lX74LYH-JJ44gUgDZYL3w-gO-rnVhP_OJo_6K5VHVh5KKEmISrlupCQiB7cwIOiCOvUT/s400/376422_10150922309375333_668425332_21615008_1388366798_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673193225622977266" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It's sort of like that old mantra, "It's better to give than to get." <span style="font-style: italic;">So lame, </span>the teenager in me thinks. But you are getting something. If you give out, you get the gratitude of others. Spark and light. It's electric. It's a refuge for the life-weary. It's the hardest place to get to but the simplest place to be. Flint and stone. Glint and fire in the dark. We gravitate to those who give it off; even in our deep wells of sarcasm, cynicism, negativity, stoicism, it is the grateful people, the people who glow with it, that attract us. I want that for my children. Heck, I want that for myself. Lerman's poem goes on:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">who never had any conditions, the one who waited</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />you out. This is life's way of letting you know that</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">were born at a good time. Because you were<br />able</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">to listen when people spoke to you. Because you</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">stopped when you should have and started again. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">with smiles on their starry faces as they head</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.</span><br /><br /><pre></pre><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlY3rN-8-8Rh7Q78p1TxWiAu2LA0-UAlNx_euPeFKOIhPa2xi7U5zYtcwCSndcszp7wyI625ZtJV0P1-aBn9EGtvIQH356CVszQV-Iyp-8faQ__k2FaovdMe4vk4BcAnl3MHWTilY3c4sj/s1600/CIMG7421.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlY3rN-8-8Rh7Q78p1TxWiAu2LA0-UAlNx_euPeFKOIhPa2xi7U5zYtcwCSndcszp7wyI625ZtJV0P1-aBn9EGtvIQH356CVszQV-Iyp-8faQ__k2FaovdMe4vk4BcAnl3MHWTilY3c4sj/s400/CIMG7421.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673198257680896690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And so, I will keep things about me that remind me to <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> grateful -- things that fulfill the criteria of usefulness, beauty, and simplicity. They will be my cues. The simple white sheets and cloth diapers on the line. The wooden spoons in the kitchen. The richly-hued watercolor paint and thick creamy paper in the schoolroom. The photo of us on our wedding day. The box of matches near the stove. The brilliant blue silk scarf Blueberry plays with all day. The golden honey in a jar catching sun on the windowsill.<br /><br />If my girls are going to learn to run on the wire, I must learn to first.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFt8TNdbHbXWcFmEutlItAym3L8YgZSgRL9aU7z83R1cCe3SFGdEvQQrtc2P4wOQXmw4r_icNL8lLhU2nI6Gn494FyPeZFYOKF9nIz4yTYG9RBLXAM7z6a0ZcvrwRTBDQ2sW29KNhyphenhyphenHxxH/s1600/helpless-beings-pza5n9sw-82289-530-530.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFt8TNdbHbXWcFmEutlItAym3L8YgZSgRL9aU7z83R1cCe3SFGdEvQQrtc2P4wOQXmw4r_icNL8lLhU2nI6Gn494FyPeZFYOKF9nIz4yTYG9RBLXAM7z6a0ZcvrwRTBDQ2sW29KNhyphenhyphenHxxH/s400/helpless-beings-pza5n9sw-82289-530-530.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673203190804825682" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(picture from http://piccsy.com/)</span><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-67439832289920538352011-11-06T14:19:00.000-08:002011-11-06T17:47:47.711-08:00Blue November<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year."<br /></span>- Emily Dickinson</span></p><br /><br /><br />After a freak October snowstorm,<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPFaZza4MhiXc1OSet1FllmUU3kxNv8W4hu3TCZyVUOpUrVz22abG-4rHDPaLZJOcA1-6PE7CPSm5YlGic5yxuqkwflW4RWgtqZRrwZ7PmkxCNLmo8VPOYfcxgxFEkBEsakVfx7mFqOOQ/s1600/CIMG7277.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPFaZza4MhiXc1OSet1FllmUU3kxNv8W4hu3TCZyVUOpUrVz22abG-4rHDPaLZJOcA1-6PE7CPSm5YlGic5yxuqkwflW4RWgtqZRrwZ7PmkxCNLmo8VPOYfcxgxFEkBEsakVfx7mFqOOQ/s400/CIMG7277.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672045225401902242" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />right before Halloween,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp1Mi42Wr_CzKj6Bq1qfNDUWiC_3ZAmmX62peJCe9vWWp0xV74Ll3jU4maILpGUPgV5wW82ou1_QjgQvASlkW2pLmiTal6Wr7sn60YQtFSafXb3GqNkgbwSpbP4gjbmrhJuKDvijg2HDnI/s1600/386087_10150902163875333_668425332_21481621_769379308_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp1Mi42Wr_CzKj6Bq1qfNDUWiC_3ZAmmX62peJCe9vWWp0xV74Ll3jU4maILpGUPgV5wW82ou1_QjgQvASlkW2pLmiTal6Wr7sn60YQtFSafXb3GqNkgbwSpbP4gjbmrhJuKDvijg2HDnI/s400/386087_10150902163875333_668425332_21481621_769379308_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672045528401383202" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJ0Db9Pf0W4qQwLVHAUh1vPq0T656xeVR6mHUUZhOuJ1H7sxgaV6yA9uK_wDp5M9n9drKLmTwwhUL4xklOdLcbvMvGzphzvRsKcXrKMz59nNzBzRBc6ddPHBwXnbGI0HJVU3dk5vqDkxO/s1600/297814_10150902164465333_668425332_21481634_1042089964_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJ0Db9Pf0W4qQwLVHAUh1vPq0T656xeVR6mHUUZhOuJ1H7sxgaV6yA9uK_wDp5M9n9drKLmTwwhUL4xklOdLcbvMvGzphzvRsKcXrKMz59nNzBzRBc6ddPHBwXnbGI0HJVU3dk5vqDkxO/s400/297814_10150902164465333_668425332_21481634_1042089964_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672045691093799682" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />November has come to us wearing temperate winds and crisp blue skies.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnCaYo0rztR6a0C9iUuMcY-T5Vf-KWuQBlD0sjTeojwgIy2XgM5i69m-VJIRSK-t6PUROeEl5xIr8MlSrZnVUcAl9UMC_4hhRfO4q1LF9OBWBe1i8iYg8D5lQegrkYx5uZFh_bCyjDK2P/s1600/210952_2463972554045_1094171763_2897857_129031825_o.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnCaYo0rztR6a0C9iUuMcY-T5Vf-KWuQBlD0sjTeojwgIy2XgM5i69m-VJIRSK-t6PUROeEl5xIr8MlSrZnVUcAl9UMC_4hhRfO4q1LF9OBWBe1i8iYg8D5lQegrkYx5uZFh_bCyjDK2P/s400/210952_2463972554045_1094171763_2897857_129031825_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672062570330283330" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZI0qApw-ulHM7Z5VoAVv84HpoLO5J004DQcJOBG__ozTgkG6p5B2xKHb7TD0XZMzHt3jc0ZHVQtbp9SdbUPgAjWsSdQuLd4uzK_FToJXWLua7kEBOSdN2zx56bxq9hVszTklsxReqFIK4/s1600/CIMG7439.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZI0qApw-ulHM7Z5VoAVv84HpoLO5J004DQcJOBG__ozTgkG6p5B2xKHb7TD0XZMzHt3jc0ZHVQtbp9SdbUPgAjWsSdQuLd4uzK_FToJXWLua7kEBOSdN2zx56bxq9hVszTklsxReqFIK4/s400/CIMG7439.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672064212131877394" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOUt724Vyxr-m0NxRsQ9YN314ehCefcF7ypFC-3Xn0uslSgf_7wTJdhKGQqZv9dpZNFR1jH8xamsL8KuEqrCePQAMRPYfE5qopMIzFH76910Aggesg1nIhS0PAFGsLZ1IdXvPTxEyFl97/s1600/CIMG7442.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOUt724Vyxr-m0NxRsQ9YN314ehCefcF7ypFC-3Xn0uslSgf_7wTJdhKGQqZv9dpZNFR1jH8xamsL8KuEqrCePQAMRPYfE5qopMIzFH76910Aggesg1nIhS0PAFGsLZ1IdXvPTxEyFl97/s400/CIMG7442.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672064439107127314" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div>When I look at all of this beauty, this achingly blue (is there such a thing?) sky and glorious sunny glints glancing off wave edges, I start sensing a worry, a lingering dread. Like how the wind has a bite to it now in November. Winter in Maine is so long, so terribly long and cold and snowy and I get very cave-like. I don't want to take Blueberry and Buttercup anywhere, dreading the bundling and freezing car and sneezing, coughing people everywhere. Part of me likes the cave, all cozy by the fire and deep into thick plummy novels. Part of me is afraid of the descent. To mix my poetry metaphors, I'm afraid of diving into the <a href="http://books.wwnorton.com/books/978-0-393-31163-1/">wreck</a> of my <a href="https://www.graywolfpress.org/index.php?page=shop.flypage&product_id=18&category_id=0485aa93fa0558fb1f755721e776984d&option=com_phpshop">boat </a>of quiet hours. Because isn't that what we all do every spring? Step out of the cave and turn around and smash it to bits because we don't want to remember we ever lived there? The cave we had made so carefully, gathering things to adorn it, to make it habitable; our stores of food, books, cushions and quilts and long underwear and slippers and stacks of messy chopped wood for the fire and knitting needles and cocoa mugs and crayons and paper. Our caves filled with our hearts stiffened against the winter with sticking plaster, keeping out everything, forgetting to take things in. We want to destroy them. To crack them open like constrictive eggshells and step out into the sun, reborn. But now is the quiet descent into winter. Now is the time for fortifying our caves. For building our quiet boats that will take us through to the other side of winter.<br /><br /><br /><br />The wild things are telling us to be quiet. Soon the balsam will be covered in snow. Soon the snow will hiss into the sea and freeze the tackle lines on the boats rocking at anchor. Soon the ice will cover the pond and seal the rocks to the edges as if securing its babies. This brief interlude of blue and gold will soon be lost to white white white freezing-knuckled-fist-clenched-fish-fleshed white....<br /><br /><br /><br />Housebound with children amidst the white. This is what remains at the end of the descent.<br /><br />And yet, here into this boat I willingly climb.Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-66175655258863539472011-10-27T13:48:00.001-07:002011-10-27T18:34:30.234-07:00Maine, in gray.<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvol9DwRFPdcped8HrwfwDOCci7m-gbvxXqf5KukR-kr0bNj3Y86NWR5FJurVAhaRRdK0IVhbQERDSy9NuJfg_aLuCjM2X4_aDDvk_gtUID6fiFwNEFZu6qpA5H9utv6ml2gp_r3e39fJ/s1600/CIMG7113.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvol9DwRFPdcped8HrwfwDOCci7m-gbvxXqf5KukR-kr0bNj3Y86NWR5FJurVAhaRRdK0IVhbQERDSy9NuJfg_aLuCjM2X4_aDDvk_gtUID6fiFwNEFZu6qpA5H9utv6ml2gp_r3e39fJ/s400/CIMG7113.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668290191480950866" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">It rains, and the wind is never weary;<br />The vine still clings to the moldering wall,<br />But at every gust the dead leaves fall [. . .]<br /> -- Longfellow<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">And suddenly, the weather has turned. The sky is as heavy steel and there is a freezing drizzle making everything miserable, cold, damp and generally icky. Not the best day, perhaps, to take a walk, but with Blueberry and Buttercup nearly crawling up the walls, (well, Buttercup's version is simply to whine incessantly, whereas Blueberry nearly shakes the house down), I pack up the car full of stroller, child, baby and snacks, and venture down the road to one of our favorite little villages. The passersby in their cozy cars (ok, trucks, as it is mostly lobsterfolk), must think we are a bit crazy, bundled and trundling down the road pushing Buttercup's bright red stroller; a brazen and conspicuous sight we must be in the gray, dark Maine day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9H6oUzUPxa-vTpdnUVQCJiNt6ybkHJ_2jAZiJIjTRIszhdADRq6RVH8YuRL6lmejnJxSK484cRP8T5eqqaGBWdz9hXHgaEgUJW00yqAJYOzz6U3ldEWkBJ-ICLRZrlIZD8Lgha4W_jbD/s1600/Tess2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9H6oUzUPxa-vTpdnUVQCJiNt6ybkHJ_2jAZiJIjTRIszhdADRq6RVH8YuRL6lmejnJxSK484cRP8T5eqqaGBWdz9hXHgaEgUJW00yqAJYOzz6U3ldEWkBJ-ICLRZrlIZD8Lgha4W_jbD/s400/Tess2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668281972703382034" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(I confess, she is impossibly cute, despite her somber look here)</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Close to Halloween, there is something ethereally spooky about a cold day in an old Maine village. The girls and I are shivering, not just from the cold. This is why Stephen King can write such epically creepy stories. There is something a wee bit haunted about Maine in the off-season, especially here on the coast where we go from bustling to dead in the space of a month or two.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SC-pzqF3Riieb5rmaiIFAk0pjBSls8591gXU4QLgMhOZ10dya6o48nxgw0dDidMRrYLqFUNbSo5Ka2ifo2oqi7b3QeslFFmXiM-w2sH0ontn7mjcMLKORqg_Am2faU20t1sg5qoqiJ0y/s1600/CIMG7134.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SC-pzqF3Riieb5rmaiIFAk0pjBSls8591gXU4QLgMhOZ10dya6o48nxgw0dDidMRrYLqFUNbSo5Ka2ifo2oqi7b3QeslFFmXiM-w2sH0ontn7mjcMLKORqg_Am2faU20t1sg5qoqiJ0y/s400/CIMG7134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668282832232979970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBP2Je6iu0N7XJYTXgFOkN9Q-atIqv3jjgtkdVXO1oOvvElR_bJ7OcvQXpzaDOgJM_mt5ntx2NE_r4je9PtlvxOzMS2YFTQe2luqxZfhkMDBq3h-ZAaxi4AtWnJMKYM0V_rDh5o4JTx2l/s1600/CIMG7127.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBP2Je6iu0N7XJYTXgFOkN9Q-atIqv3jjgtkdVXO1oOvvElR_bJ7OcvQXpzaDOgJM_mt5ntx2NE_r4je9PtlvxOzMS2YFTQe2luqxZfhkMDBq3h-ZAaxi4AtWnJMKYM0V_rDh5o4JTx2l/s400/CIMG7127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668283453026477090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgt6JmArjMvyReRc4s4cs75E-5wAsmcS5M3HR1DaFysWAljXsQ3OPWa5JQBnm5e4JjxhBXcycUgEQTy5yb_uUqKFdSyrmgnuzN1fq8S137fh1JPD1Ucnz27XPYUxyVjxCw1fBTuMjuEVs/s1600/CIMG7130.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgt6JmArjMvyReRc4s4cs75E-5wAsmcS5M3HR1DaFysWAljXsQ3OPWa5JQBnm5e4JjxhBXcycUgEQTy5yb_uUqKFdSyrmgnuzN1fq8S137fh1JPD1Ucnz27XPYUxyVjxCw1fBTuMjuEVs/s400/CIMG7130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668285090702830082" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaEqoM4qxO7lnXBqMIIC3dsrK1u7M7f1wPyAscj1zxCPYsR132LazUx9WXnIDuViZ-8Qpqme7yxhPoljeKfZk9ScdcYAqsvJNr8L3kOq4kL3pEyPhWK-O_rzDtT-HLCeu7c5JRfsXXq5sc/s1600/CIMG7125.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaEqoM4qxO7lnXBqMIIC3dsrK1u7M7f1wPyAscj1zxCPYsR132LazUx9WXnIDuViZ-8Qpqme7yxhPoljeKfZk9ScdcYAqsvJNr8L3kOq4kL3pEyPhWK-O_rzDtT-HLCeu7c5JRfsXXq5sc/s400/CIMG7125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668283761876180242" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">There's also something Puritanical about days like this. Everything seems stark at the end of October, stark and bare and necessary, somehow. Without the ornament of sun or full-flowering vegetation, the world seems like it's plodding home from church after sitting in straight-backed and freezing pews, huddled against in the wind in plain gray woolens, careful not to let its ankles or wrists show, as if, once a brazen summer hussy, it has repented its beauty and become sparse, practical, and recalcitrant.<br /><br />The mood affects us. It's not unpleasant, exactly, but I think we feel it as we trudge a bit faster than usual. When you're outside in this weather, it's hurrying weather.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Hurry, don't dawdle. Hurry, little ones, hurry home to your holes and caves, burrows and bracken-hidden dens. There's nothing to see here</span>, the wind seems to say. Even the usually effervescent Blueberry seems a little somber, focused.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRYrrYYoheyqdjks-VTalGvJvYlL8WjTf-uNOpr42IjnWMFHdtOt7OFTvnYm3HxDlmBqkNkP6GKMDH4W9-FD4GMjA-WnyadO5uVXS4Aj9sXxujKdH9uijuuCMzFsxgMxzpehKMQVkM5xU/s1600/emmaline2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRYrrYYoheyqdjks-VTalGvJvYlL8WjTf-uNOpr42IjnWMFHdtOt7OFTvnYm3HxDlmBqkNkP6GKMDH4W9-FD4GMjA-WnyadO5uVXS4Aj9sXxujKdH9uijuuCMzFsxgMxzpehKMQVkM5xU/s400/emmaline2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668286330777974610" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />Still, we keep our eyes open for the beauty. The earth's new found autumnal modesty is still unable to hide the remnants of past glory. We keep our eyes open for our "news of the little world," as we always do, and it is still there.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlhI5JZ-X3ue-TORuTntUMLJkyiq29TOsKDH_rDTsK2c4yCKdAcSuA1TUocT6qbvAdCnwIoZy2mHqC_DLV7wF_kz-8DC3MZFMZ9F0yygZN-FF0bTedY6LbUvjMF3UM3uZNyFfzLb0vK2n/s1600/CIMG7115.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlhI5JZ-X3ue-TORuTntUMLJkyiq29TOsKDH_rDTsK2c4yCKdAcSuA1TUocT6qbvAdCnwIoZy2mHqC_DLV7wF_kz-8DC3MZFMZ9F0yygZN-FF0bTedY6LbUvjMF3UM3uZNyFfzLb0vK2n/s400/CIMG7115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668287492505783586" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div></div><br />In the last of the ancient variety of green apples clinging to the gray branches.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgxSFzKbEqzCaNs0OOxCCI5HBkPyQRBGmWm8W5VZ3_3gfxdd1eozyNKY6mBf6rTG8NYYvwPBQXm_-VSP2uur_SLj7-izXOx8rkwNzh8gLXKQtwTtaCNpKjIe2iGH0FnuHSnaGT9VjgnrG/s1600/CIMG7140.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgxSFzKbEqzCaNs0OOxCCI5HBkPyQRBGmWm8W5VZ3_3gfxdd1eozyNKY6mBf6rTG8NYYvwPBQXm_-VSP2uur_SLj7-izXOx8rkwNzh8gLXKQtwTtaCNpKjIe2iGH0FnuHSnaGT9VjgnrG/s400/CIMG7140.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668287854211589746" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />In the golden pine needle and leaf-strewn puddle, allowing the rain to ripple its dark surface.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBcXwhHc6DW6MjLHUPlaLM3HfiOJR06qcyyS1dPzVf1HRF-1MAQlEt1vA6_NOq-AuCXe1MeE8msN5Gb_8uNeM3pBO2IWQ8YuEWjXQZJ96EUnWGEHRCF3aWr6_1eShS1H05jkdLSTexPka/s1600/CIMG7116.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBcXwhHc6DW6MjLHUPlaLM3HfiOJR06qcyyS1dPzVf1HRF-1MAQlEt1vA6_NOq-AuCXe1MeE8msN5Gb_8uNeM3pBO2IWQ8YuEWjXQZJ96EUnWGEHRCF3aWr6_1eShS1H05jkdLSTexPka/s400/CIMG7116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668288389147822754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">In the gentle show of wild rose-hips, a reminder of the roses that were boisterously blossoming throughout the hedges. It is there. It was the sort of beauty you don't notice. Not showy, not full or ripe or obvious.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Longfellow's poem goes on to say that we must have days like this. Gray and gloom there must be.<br /><br /><br />Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;<br />Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;<br />Thy fate is the common fate of all,<br />Into each life some rain must fall,<br />Some days must be dark and dreary.<br /><br /><br />Without these days, how could we even see the sun? How could we appreciate its warmth on our skin unless we had felt the bite of cold? Longfellow was a true New Englander. He understood the austere beauty of it, its contrast of seasons. He would have approved of our walk.<br /><br /><br /><br />The afternoon is passing as the old year is. I've been teaching Blueberry about rhythms lately. The day has a pattern as rhythmic as music, as poetry. It's time to return home - the beat of the day calls for it, as much as Buttercup cries to be nursed. Home now, as the rain comes colder, the wind freshens and the steel sky turns to lead.<br /><br /> <address>i am singing the cold rain<br />i am singing the winter dawn<br />i am turning in the gray morning<br />of my life<br />toward home<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">---Lance Henderson, translated from Cheyenne by the author</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></address><br /><br /><br /></div></div><br /></div></div></div></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-52063069436972172322011-10-16T14:17:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:35:15.407-07:00Sisters<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;"> For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;"> I know myself secure, as thou in mine; </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;"> We were and are—I am, even as thou art— </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;"> Beings who ne'er each other can resign. [...]<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Lord Byron, from "Epistle to Augusta"<br /></span> </div><br /><br /><br /><br />I remember being so happy when the ultrasound technician told us that he was 98% sure I was carrying another girl. I thought, immediately, yay! Sisters! Then I thought, hmmm, sisters. I grew up with three younger sisters and it was both wonderful and fraught with trial. Sisters can be mean. Sisters can be sneaky and hurtful and wreck your awesome stuff. Sisters might not throw rocks at you or give your favorite doll to the family dog, but they might exclude you from their games, make you use the broken teacup at the tea parties, read your super secret diary, or pinch you during church so you yelp and get in trouble. I immediately related to how my Blueberry might feel. Uh-oh. A little crying sister taking over the house! A little mewling, useless bit of a no-fun thing.<br /><br /><br />For Sale<br /><br />One sister for sale!<br />One sister for sale!<br />One spying and crying young sister for sale!<br />I'm really not kidding,<br />So who'll start the bidding?<br />Do I hear a dollar?<br />A nickel?<br />A penny?<br />Oh, isn't there, isn't there, is there any<br />One kid who will buy this old sister for sale,<br />This crying and spying young sister for sale?<br /> <span style="font-size:85%;">-- Sheldon Allan Silverstein</span><br /><br /><br />There is something momentous about giving your child a sibling, and finding out I was giving Blueberry a sister made me feel almost sorry when I started thinking about it selfishly. I was three years old when my younger sister was born and for years I was haunted and embarrassed by my bratty voice on an family old cassette tape - "No, me! My turn! Not her. No, me, me." My poor sister was just innocently trying to learn how to coo and babble but the adult in me understands now the desperation in that little three-year old's tone. <span style="font-style: italic;">Listen to me! Hey, I was here first. What the heck is going on here? I can speak in full sentences and that useless lump can only make weird noises. How can you love her so much? </span><br /><br />As we grew older, there was the question of "fairness." This, such a silly notion to an adult (life is unfair, kid, etc), is of the utmost importance to children, but when you have siblings, and I think especially to siblings of the same gender, it is almost ALL you think about. We used to measure and compare to no end all our things, parental attention, the chore division. . . oh, it exhausts me to think that this is coming. Everything has to be fair, the same, there can be no question of favoritism. Even if there is no favoritism, children will perceive it or fabricate the illusion of it. I always had the sneaking suspicion that my parents' second child (not me) was their favorite. This led me to wonder if you really <span style="font-style: italic;">can </span>love equally. It's weird, but now I know you can. Until you have at least two children, you will never ever be able to understand that feeling, so I worried that Blueberry would feel that way too. <span style="font-style: italic;">Crap. I am going to give my daughter a complex, perhaps for life. </span>I figured it wasn't going to be easy to transition from this...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvZNUDIZvPDb8n3C9alXcGwhpwFVWa1Dq-9gZZFQaKmmjXyNMxOUWJfvtasSHc8b83402kztY9rQ1awUQzRXWS6VUOGmh5q2yobSLWPyDuVK5XoGKyCP724etKMpfsQHLMQIhK4EWJAW3/s1600/10716_304321920332_668425332_9299863_7779930_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvZNUDIZvPDb8n3C9alXcGwhpwFVWa1Dq-9gZZFQaKmmjXyNMxOUWJfvtasSHc8b83402kztY9rQ1awUQzRXWS6VUOGmh5q2yobSLWPyDuVK5XoGKyCP724etKMpfsQHLMQIhK4EWJAW3/s400/10716_304321920332_668425332_9299863_7779930_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664214113122668898" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Mama E and Blueberry, pre-Buttercup)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span>to this...<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgkx-uhmGFOBMFM3l4OKabTmOWNowYd-8VJpSIRWQ9Ktty1UTGxuEic-TpX45-xrwEgWCrnFZCaCQHGQftVXcx4foS3GVsLLrup8GOhl7VEfVdpjtNdJkpr6d8bUZF1JJd2Ib73hDwdkn/s1600/260059_10150668914775333_668425332_19346576_5945839_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgkx-uhmGFOBMFM3l4OKabTmOWNowYd-8VJpSIRWQ9Ktty1UTGxuEic-TpX45-xrwEgWCrnFZCaCQHGQftVXcx4foS3GVsLLrup8GOhl7VEfVdpjtNdJkpr6d8bUZF1JJd2Ib73hDwdkn/s400/260059_10150668914775333_668425332_19346576_5945839_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664214699280924898" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Mama E and Buttercup)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>When Buttercup came along, I braced myself for tantrums, tears, for having to give Blueberry extra love and attention, extra gifts. Another of my sisters had famously announced at the birth of my youngest sister (yes, this does get confusing), "Yucky baby, yucky Mommy!" <span>But the moment I had anticipated, the moment I said, "Aaah, there it is," and watched my dear Blueberry feel undone and unloved in the presence of sister-interloper, never actually came. Sure, we've seen some little changes in behavior; the need for validation, closeness with her parents, some "showing off," etc., but never have I seen animosity, distress, sadness. In fact, Blueberry has insisted upon hold Buttercup's hands, giving her kisses, singing to her, helping me change her, and lying down next to her whenever they sleep or nap.<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQN42WfX6Ve7PGZK0BSQ_QFDcY2AhpUAzexX91Pm1BMwP-3j-GofeXcBb6yBzEHwNMQOUCcOhbvuo55QPNB4uz9eW0pnK3yIUBvQ9_CssyPTtBIEAXcuDFLNe6HitI8R0ez-siRJW7vz9v/s1600/225818_10150608988460333_668425332_18698601_6219643_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQN42WfX6Ve7PGZK0BSQ_QFDcY2AhpUAzexX91Pm1BMwP-3j-GofeXcBb6yBzEHwNMQOUCcOhbvuo55QPNB4uz9eW0pnK3yIUBvQ9_CssyPTtBIEAXcuDFLNe6HitI8R0ez-siRJW7vz9v/s400/225818_10150608988460333_668425332_18698601_6219643_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664215743010032482" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(My girls, when Buttercup was about a month old)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It's been the best-case scenario. Blueberry has fully embraced her role as an older sister. She proudly announces to me, "I'm a great big sister!" And sometimes she needs us to confirm that, "I'm being a good big sister, right?" It's really beyond sweet. It makes my heart go to complete mush. The reason I had to write this post today was that, as we were riding in the car (to one of my sisters' houses, oh, the layers!), Blueberry reached over and took Buttercup's hand as she was falling asleep and whispered, "I need to hold my baby sister's hand while she is sleeping. That way she won't be afraid."<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicEa3R7oAwJWkkF88Dx13a5PCW4JsB5JOJyHVpyMigggjjM1LXHh-isnFUXVzMrTfcjQqlrFJIQrvMMjGwFGtY8TJFjpv0Zj_1MWaFkfW9R5q1SwIF-8nGN2LZ6I5XkoMOw-p_j3EKKe-n/s1600/293976_10150805141330333_668425332_20799958_644620247_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicEa3R7oAwJWkkF88Dx13a5PCW4JsB5JOJyHVpyMigggjjM1LXHh-isnFUXVzMrTfcjQqlrFJIQrvMMjGwFGtY8TJFjpv0Zj_1MWaFkfW9R5q1SwIF-8nGN2LZ6I5XkoMOw-p_j3EKKe-n/s400/293976_10150805141330333_668425332_20799958_644620247_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664217294510595410" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />When I was growing up, one of my favorite books was called <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/62-9780064432177-0"><span style="font-style: italic;">Big Sister and Little Sister</span></a> by Charlotte Zolotow. The book is the simplest and yet most profound of tales about the dynamic of sisters. The "big" sister in the book looks after the "little" sister. She mothers her, watches out for her, cares for her, makes sure she is always safe, wipes away her little sister's tears. The little sister looks up to the big sister. There is nothing big sister can't do. One day little sister gets fed up with being told what to do and runs away and hides. She ignores big sister's calls, even when they come close to where she is hiding. Finally, she hears big sister break down into fearful, inconsolable tears. She decides to come out of hiding and wipe big sisters tears away. She realizes that she is needed. "And from that day on little sister and big sister both took care of each other ..." Big sister needed little sister just as much as little sister needed big sister. Simple as that.<br /><br />As we grow up, this is what remains. As Margaret Mead says, <span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Sisters is probably the most competitive relationship within the family, but once the sisters are grown, it becomes the strongest relationship." I've discovered, despite not always feeling this way, that it's better to have a sister (or three) than not.</span><br /><br /></span>We have each other, always, but really, we need each other.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRDamPZdjuMDDRhEJgzU7e0TTI0her9I7MQqE0JTCxfy8T0JWxdVVdU9YErRc3_EnP-gsY9LZtqkVrj23CetFhVuvSmbSdaDVhmO_bU1YTw262JaxTWG0Svl26lB9A0t36y7Fj9b8Dx99b/s1600/sisters.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRDamPZdjuMDDRhEJgzU7e0TTI0her9I7MQqE0JTCxfy8T0JWxdVVdU9YErRc3_EnP-gsY9LZtqkVrj23CetFhVuvSmbSdaDVhmO_bU1YTw262JaxTWG0Svl26lB9A0t36y7Fj9b8Dx99b/s400/sisters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664225473315119842" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Mama E and sisters)</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Maybe that's what is so sweet about Blueberry holding Buttercup's hand while she's sleeping. Maybe she's not just being a protective big sister. Maybe she is the one who is afraid when she goes to sleep and the warm weight of a chubby baby hand resting on her girlish fingers is exactly what she needs.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3d9cVS7YkyfxlOw9hLkA_jql3te6y_XTuP9UQnxZqRHEmiRh7YQlwt_41AS29IbpmHgMI7VMJpRM0rqCAdbHN8Kp-wd951mmzAnpTZzDaQ_E6xAbIjvyOZB0oWpf-RFZLlWQseLVdi2p/s1600/CIMG6296.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3d9cVS7YkyfxlOw9hLkA_jql3te6y_XTuP9UQnxZqRHEmiRh7YQlwt_41AS29IbpmHgMI7VMJpRM0rqCAdbHN8Kp-wd951mmzAnpTZzDaQ_E6xAbIjvyOZB0oWpf-RFZLlWQseLVdi2p/s400/CIMG6296.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664244737642365970" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes I say I’m going to meet my sister at the café—<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">even though I have no sister—just because it’s such </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> a beautiful thing to say. <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242258">[...]</a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Karin Gottshall from "More Lies"<br /></span><br /></div></div></div><table id="table21" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="100%"><tbody><tr><td style="width: 100%;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="100%"><tbody><tr><td style="width: 100%;" valign="top"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:20px;" ><b></b></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></td><td rowspan="2" valign="top" width="100"><br /></td></tr><tr><td valign="top"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2750864559856337673.post-65446663323714261512011-10-13T17:13:00.000-07:002011-10-13T19:11:56.023-07:00Pumpkin "Festibal"<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion."<br />-- Henry David Thoreau</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It may seem overly quaint, almost too preciously New England-y for a town on the coast of Maine to hold a Pumpkin Fest every year in October. It is, a bit, but strangely, it's also fun, amusing, and wonderful to have an entire town turn itself upside-down for a field-grown vegetable, er,<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pumpkin"> fruit</a>. (Berry, actually? Really?) I do enjoy seeing the pumpkin turned into art and decoration around town...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdpgGYeKkutc8U4TBtRdDp9vev0qZKGCAERUpXxq4TLoLsBSI-JQhv5pMxoXtGK4963cfI0bzzMTcMmV7XqaMqvL8Zg-_SdSL6MQGMZd_0EQ0_e0_mQBiXNQLpNE4-UpH1S_jcS8vXLgo/s1600/CIMG7057.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdpgGYeKkutc8U4TBtRdDp9vev0qZKGCAERUpXxq4TLoLsBSI-JQhv5pMxoXtGK4963cfI0bzzMTcMmV7XqaMqvL8Zg-_SdSL6MQGMZd_0EQ0_e0_mQBiXNQLpNE4-UpH1S_jcS8vXLgo/s400/CIMG7057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663154052561499874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdo3Btt32hNjG52jJq_Zg2jSW-Mpd9zXedHP5lRsRVWueBA06OJY3hW30U05nM0LsdfJSznFSwHaqaiOS0UVoVlGHfnxlujCyNgJ1yJeK4yIzulSuRu7y0eZAEsF4VOORpOGWGA8cW4AV/s1600/CIMG7043.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdo3Btt32hNjG52jJq_Zg2jSW-Mpd9zXedHP5lRsRVWueBA06OJY3hW30U05nM0LsdfJSznFSwHaqaiOS0UVoVlGHfnxlujCyNgJ1yJeK4yIzulSuRu7y0eZAEsF4VOORpOGWGA8cW4AV/s400/CIMG7043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663153903433782706" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkE5NadTZ5Wz4ZUd2_9nQ60XhODn5QQ5MdOp40V1FAElAq6bHyQWciNesCBOd6EsnCKzcD7C0gPFb6Jz2RX4HdZ-dafpSd5ffK_eryoY2io6d69gbQFW8IfgU8BE7zc-mGXHNciDVjlI5/s1600/CIMG7037.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkE5NadTZ5Wz4ZUd2_9nQ60XhODn5QQ5MdOp40V1FAElAq6bHyQWciNesCBOd6EsnCKzcD7C0gPFb6Jz2RX4HdZ-dafpSd5ffK_eryoY2io6d69gbQFW8IfgU8BE7zc-mGXHNciDVjlI5/s400/CIMG7037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663153521311313442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVr71SQJNiqU8HRzMIDgoreYMWV5cR-fM555o5EM9MNTOEVxMKRin48DXtMcRhJUWUi5FkwGLi_o2T78rFz-_z5tytpniAMGoBCl6ME7VL03SNuEAvLHP55W-f8bYY-b8C-sXwD4SIclR/s1600/CIMG7034.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVr71SQJNiqU8HRzMIDgoreYMWV5cR-fM555o5EM9MNTOEVxMKRin48DXtMcRhJUWUi5FkwGLi_o2T78rFz-_z5tytpniAMGoBCl6ME7VL03SNuEAvLHP55W-f8bYY-b8C-sXwD4SIclR/s400/CIMG7034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663153250103306546" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />Here's the fun part. It's not just prettily carved and painted pumpkins. It's also giant pumpkins made into boats captained by foolhardy but admirable locals...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1SOM6a4gmr8-VdM9UnYylldZOj5-lszjOA_5gKNb94MkEF7s46m5i9-H5smuYML1eHduGSP9vUh-_2yqyXVoPQjV3IpD2MOOw8rPhLifFyfEO5_rx8_B45uVyML4TB6oD5qYDRF9iG3w/s1600/WIRPumpkinDropG1013.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1SOM6a4gmr8-VdM9UnYylldZOj5-lszjOA_5gKNb94MkEF7s46m5i9-H5smuYML1eHduGSP9vUh-_2yqyXVoPQjV3IpD2MOOw8rPhLifFyfEO5_rx8_B45uVyML4TB6oD5qYDRF9iG3w/s400/WIRPumpkinDropG1013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663160143194963650" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(AP Photo/Robert F. Bukaty) </span><br /></div><br />Or my sweet Blueberry's ultimate favorite event...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0Su0HZCtZfV3AYtglj8Wd29nT7yHWRf_TTROYfEGJRhRMLAwgENfspYgd1TZr0U1vdDGgRDh3iNdowJxxNxzOBV0dugqROSjWmAA0elL8nfyuh28_0rY3NkwPASPvNojkbQEH8bMkLJl/s1600/WIRPumpkinDropA1013.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0Su0HZCtZfV3AYtglj8Wd29nT7yHWRf_TTROYfEGJRhRMLAwgENfspYgd1TZr0U1vdDGgRDh3iNdowJxxNxzOBV0dugqROSjWmAA0elL8nfyuh28_0rY3NkwPASPvNojkbQEH8bMkLJl/s400/WIRPumpkinDropA1013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663160511662856786" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(AP Photo/Robert F. Bukaty) </span><br /></div><br />Yup. Giant pumpkins smashing into old cars. Awesome. Seriously, that is why we go to Pumpkin fest. It's fun to walk around town, admiring the handiwork of our friends and neighbors upon the bulbous berries of late fall, eat unctuous pumpkin donuts and drink cider, perhaps do a little showing off of our own sweet pumpkinhead...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1uUXh2z44xcM-i_wgGDsJix3jKZnmZpd2UHB0h_PGPzCSq91BDNT-vRP9xP-Tjzrw2VD1OE9DplNaOMNwRsqu-GkI4CnE9mC-CP9-cErQOdlXA0eZu8UVBCj8-5fUcqAxWDUWA4lFU7PF/s1600/319959_10150864434050333_668425332_21206183_679126624_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1uUXh2z44xcM-i_wgGDsJix3jKZnmZpd2UHB0h_PGPzCSq91BDNT-vRP9xP-Tjzrw2VD1OE9DplNaOMNwRsqu-GkI4CnE9mC-CP9-cErQOdlXA0eZu8UVBCj8-5fUcqAxWDUWA4lFU7PF/s400/319959_10150864434050333_668425332_21206183_679126624_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663163030574362658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Or play a little Pumpkin Plinko...<br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7kxV2Zx3LzIkwUFeSELdTuljpowf5kCKORdaziZbgCExdTOx3A33hyem35rE_JmLVg9hW8JE2neZHqHiuNGAtns5s0lRwLTGYMk2xJgdhI6V8jsU0d04Yxv0979R0OE_wgALLhy5l5bx/s1600/316002_10150864433295333_668425332_21206172_1704126195_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7kxV2Zx3LzIkwUFeSELdTuljpowf5kCKORdaziZbgCExdTOx3A33hyem35rE_JmLVg9hW8JE2neZHqHiuNGAtns5s0lRwLTGYMk2xJgdhI6V8jsU0d04Yxv0979R0OE_wgALLhy5l5bx/s400/316002_10150864433295333_668425332_21206172_1704126195_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663163433273556706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">... but at the end of the day it's all about giant pumpkins smashing into old cars.<br /></div></div>Mama Ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03017679519381211544noreply@blogger.com0