winter's end: snaps

Today.  The garden is nearly free of snow.  We've been digging worms, working up the tomato bed.  The chickens are officially confined to their run for the spring, giving green things a chance to grow.  Robins and Juncos flit about the kids' pinecone feeders.  Daffodils and tulips are shooting up their bold, confident spears.  Spinach, lettuce and kale will go in the ground tomorrow, maybe the next day.  

We left winter, joined a slew of family and friends on the coast, and came home to spring.  Well, almost.  The white stuff is nearly gone.  Nearly.  

I found one of our hens dead in the nest box today.  Hazel lowers her head and says, "Ice-Cream Lollipops died," then she pouts her lower lip out.  Juniper asks, "Where's the blood?  Can I touch her?"  Then we tell that stiff, little chicken body how thankful we were to know her, how much we loved her eggs, how we promise to take good care of her friends...and tears well in Juniper's eyes and her mouth gapes open to that same, silent pre-cry she's had since the moment of her birth, and she wails:  "BUT WHY DID SHE DIE!?  WHY IS OUR CHICKEN FRIEND DEAD!?  WHAAAAAAA!"           

Juniper's natural inclination was to build the dead chicken her own house, "A die house." I explained that we often bury our dead loved-ones deep into the earth.  Juniper said, "Yeah!  And we'll put a stick there so everyone knows it means, 'Don't Dig Here.'"  

  

:: Okay, okay.  More recent stuff to come.  Real quick tonight: winter pics from late February and March that never made it to the sphere.  Cheers to the sphere.    

:: Snowy swinging.  

:: Meeting friends,

To watch the next Olympic sport?  

:: One of my last skis of the season.  

:: Dug our over-wintered carrots and kale.  The carrots were crisp, fresh, spicy and worth far fewer calories than what it took to dig them out.  Still exciting: the first time I've successfully over-wintered carrots.  The kale was all smooshed, but is now in the process of growing fresh leaves.  Yum!  March garden goodness in zone 3, yee-ha!  

:: Melting snow = happy chickens,

Prolific chickens,

Adventurous chickens.

^The one closest to the doorway is now in a box in our garage.  Poor girl.^

:: Weirdly, my favorite part about getting fresh milk: skimming the cream off the top.  I love always having cream available, but mostly, I find a zen-like meditation in the skimming (for a whole 53 seconds, but still).  Chop wood, carry water.  Indeed.  

:: First time bowling with buddies.  (And sporting mama-knit vests.)    

Hazel trying to keep up with the big girls.

:: Home repair projects with "Jake and Ira,"  Juniper's alter-egos for my man and J-bug (she's Ira).  

:: Jake and Ira also set up the kids' work bench.  (Thanks Nana.)

Then made a sail boat. 

Later, Juniper watercolored:  

:: My man's latest exercise routine--when he's not busy being Jake. 

:: Hazel's photo.  Love the perspective. 

:: First large, framed photo of the kids.  Shutterfly was offering a free 16 x 20 that I couldn't pass up.  So, so, so happy with it.  I should have done this ages ago.  

This photo was taken on the front porch of a historic house in the tiny town of Monterey, Virginia.  I love the candid spontaneity, the weeds growing in the cracks, Juniper's filthy shoes and socks from playing in damp grass.  

Okay spring.  Bring it on.  

finding zen

Oh, hi!  
I'm not really sure where to start this.  Today I'm using one of my "day off" gift certificates I got for Christmas (BEST gift EVER).  So far, I've run to the grocery store for some cough medicine because I'm tired of waking up in the middle of the night and coughing for hours, then greeting the morning exhausted.  I've showered.  I've managed some of our family finances.  I have a pot of coffee by my desk, NPR turned up loud while my family probably just finished Juniper's gymnastics class and is, as we speak, picking up our raw milk share "at the farm with the funny turkeys."

Usually, I make a point to enjoy the now of parenthood, the moment we're in--chubby babies and toddler tantrums alike (okay, I could skip the tantrums).  But I'll admit, I've been looking forward to 2-and-4 since Hazel was born.  Just wait until they're two and four!  You may have heard me say these words.  And I'll also admit, 2 and 4! didn't come with the stroke of autumnal birthdays.  But now?  Now?  Now, we're at TWO and FOUR and it's awesome.

They have this whole sisterhood that has nothing to do with me; their own magical little world.  And granted, they've been playing together like peas in a pod for a good year, but that play has extended outside and Hazel's okay if I'm not there.  

On this day, we were out all morning.  I headed in to make lunch, they stayed out.  I brought lunch out for our first picnic of 2014.

:: These days, Juniper has nary finished her last bite of breakfast before she slips on her boots and coat and heads outside.  Just a month ago, it took a small act of divine intervention to get my kids dressed in all their gear and outside.  In our world, snow is mundane and spring is magic.  Water!  Mud!  Robins!  Oh my!  

^Preparing to set sail on a pirate ship, in case you can't tell.^

Juniper: "Mama, we have a beach so close to our house!  It's just a short walk.  We don't even have to drive!"  

^Hazel's signature scrunchy face and forehead injury.^

:: Life and emotions are such a yo-yo and parenthood exaggerates that fact.  So one day I'm writing about this new independence, the awesomeness of 2 and 4! and the next day I'm beating my head on the kitchen floor (okay, not really).  I take the liberty to get myself dressed and cut my toenails, then I spend the next two hours paying the price.

Creamy crayons, which are not as washable as they claim, on: the floor, the kitchen wall, the table, the kids, the toilet, the sink, the bedroom wall, the wool rug.  We clean up, we go outside.  Hazel cries the entire time because she's two and wants to climb the tree like a four-year-old.  It's our third day home in a row.  A small town on a Sunday.  We need to get out but there's no where to go.  And just like that, awesome turns to awful and my head is on the kitchen floor.
And then, the coin flips again.  Hazel goes down for a nap, I find my zen.  We're back to awesome.  

:: I know I haven't been in this corner for a while.  But I have been whiling away at a few projects.  This one here: an oak toy chest Juniper received on her first birthday from her great-grandparents.  It was made by their 93 year old friend, now gone.  It was a little rough around the edges and has a heavy lid.  I sanded it smooth as a baby's bum, rounded out the corners, put a safety hinge on the lid and a natural oil finish.  My girls now have a dress up chest.

:: Got an early start on leeks, basil and lupine.  Tomatoes and peppers next in line.  

:: Scattered about my house and purse, tucked inside journals and piles of mail, are scraps.  Kid quotes I've jotted down.  Some adult quotes too (I need to write down more of these because really, we say some pretty goofy things to our kids).  I have spent a few evenings consolidating these into a book.  I'm almost done but I keep writing down more.   A few random gems:

Juniper choosing squash seeds: "This one looks like it has a lot of love in it."

Hazel, singing to the tune of Country Roads:  "Mashed potatoes, take me home...."  

Me: "We always eat dead things."

My man: "Mmmmm.  Yummy dead chickens."

Juniper, in her classic third-person:  "Juniper's not a woman.  She's just a girl making pancakes."

:: Once the kids are in bed, lately, I've been spent.  And yet the need to do something for myself is overpowering.  All I could bring myself to do of late, is knit.  I'll watch a movie and whip magic with two sticks and a length of wool.  This here sweater is for me.  (I told you I needed to do something for myself!)  The first sweater-for-me in far too many years.  The wool is handpainted "peaches" from Mountain Meadows wool.  It was grown, shorn, spun, and dyed in Wyoming.  Actually, it has never left Wyoming.  Love that.  

flying

People always say--in the same sing-songy voice as, Sleep when the baby sleeps!--that in order to take care of your children, you have to first take care of yourself.  I'm calling bullshit on that.  For me, taking care of myself involves: 1) Eating well, 2) exercise, 3) sleep, 4) keeping family relationships afloat and, 5) pursuing my own creativity.

Because my husband and I cook--almost always from scratch--three square meals a day for the kids, I either directly or indirectly (if I'm eating off my kids' plates) eat well.  Check.  Keeping family relationships afloat falls on all of us and sometimes we're sailing the high seas and sometimes we're treading water, but by golly we're not drowning.  Check.  Every night after the kids are tucked-in and well on their way to dreaming about fighting fires and rescuing baby jaguars and riding friesian horses on the beach, I slip upstairs to my project room where I either write, process photos, sew or knit.  Creative pursuits, check.

But.  Sleep...when?  Exercise...huh?  If I sleep I have to give up the creative pursuits and that's not an option.  My nearest relatives are at least one state away, so no one to take my kids out to lunch while I kick up my feet and knit for an hour.  Nighttime is my only time.

And exercise, oh, that slippery fish.  Exercise was not a problem back in those delirious, golden days of having a single child.  Daily walks.  Remember those?  Remember how easy that was?  Or mom-and-baby exercise classes where the moms sweat and the babies crawl around whacking each other with toys.  Those were the days, I'm telling you.  They shine like stars in the murky depths of my memory.              

So instead of patting myself on the back, because hey, at least I'm taking care of my children--I am in the dumps.  Clearly I cannot take care of myself which means I'm not taking care of my children which means I'm failing on all accounts.  Shit.
::
All those thoughts had been floating around in my head for days when, on my man's last full day with us for a while, we decided to throw in the towel on Hazel's nap (taking the risk that she may not sleep while Juniper jabbers on and repeatedly bumps her boots)--and go skiing.

Oh!  I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence.  Hovering there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung 

My eager craft through footless halls of air.  

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew--

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.     

                      ~Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee, killed December 11, 1941

:: We skied all afternoon until the sun dipped behind the low, western mountains.  Both kids napped.  We felt more rejuvenated than we had in months.  The trail is a half-mile from our house.  It was groomed last week, I think.  We'd never been on it.  Loops of trails wander for miles over the mud flats and frozen lake.  I am pumped.  I'm thinking of picking up some skate-skis.  My body feels good.  My back hurts a little less.  

I stopped at the warming hut, just to take a peek for future reference.  As far as I know, the trails and hut exist all thanks to local volunteers and grant money.  It's awesome.  

It has a little gas stove, some gorgeous hand-hewn pine chairs and benches, and a table with a random assortment of business cards and local information.  In the frame was the poem I quoted above.  Obviously it's about flying, but on that day, I was.