7 Quick Takes Friday, #61

1. Earlier this week, Mia and Lauren were happily occupied in the living room while I cooked dinner. In fact, they were cleaning -- dusting -- for me. How did I manage to delegate such a chore-ish feat?

I didn't. They came up with it all on their own. They had bare-footed baby-dolls which they pushed in loops and rows and zigs and zags across the top of our TV cabinet. They were 'skiing' their dolls, delighted in the dust-tracks left behind. Marveling at the dirty feet their babies were acquiring.

I take whatever help I can get. Baby-doll labor or otherwise.

2. Under the category of Strange Things I've Said This Week, there's this gem: "Mia, it's not okay to poke somebody else's toes with a fork. Only poke yourself."

3. My garden is GROWING! These rows of romaine lettuce are just the cutest little things, about 3 inches tall, and so, so sweet. I think it's completely normal to be calling my growing veggies cute, don't you?

4. On Wednesday, I wrote about the locksmith who fixed my back door. What I didn't write about, though, was how fantastic it is to have a working patio door again. I forgot how wonderful it is to walk 4 steps to the back porch rather than 30. We can feed the cat without walking all the way around to the side of the house; we can run out to the backyard without being waylaid by the front porch first.

Life was rough for awhile there.

5. I have posted, and will probably continue to post, way too many pictures of my girls on the swing set. But really, with the number of hours we spend on that thing, it's my best shot for pictures lately. Plus, they're adorable, no matter how similar the background.

6. Mia wants to swing higher and higher every second, scaring me silly when she leans back or kicks her legs out too far for my queasy comfort. But that smile...that laugh...

I can't deny the girl her speed and flight when she bombards me with that laughter.

7. I have no more quick takes. Instead, do me a favor? Tell me the best thing that happened in your life this week. Please. Then have a wonderful weekend, and don't forget to visit Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes.

What We Found At The Library, #16

Psst...I have a secret...my books for today aren't from the library. Don't tell the librarian, okay? They're from the BOOKSTORE and besides that, they're GROWN UP books! I KNOW!

Ines of My Soul by Isabel Allende

The first book I read by Isabel Allende was Daughter of Fortune, and it swept me up, captured me in it's wake, and carried me along as a passenger. I was entranced. I loved it, and I loved the author's writing. Allende has the ability to dig so deeply into a character's history, without ever straying from the point of the story, and I love that -- the depth and width to her novels.

Ines of My Soul is a fictional story based on a historical character, Ines Suarez, who played a part in the Spanish settlement of Chile in the mid-1500's. I am fascinated with this period of history -- the expeditions, the discovery of new worlds, the conquering of native peoples, the careless destruction of their cultures...it opens up my imagination and begs me to sympathize. I love that Allende is so able to capture the motivations and experiences of historical characters, so able to transport me into another era. That's what I most want from a novel: transport.

I haven't finished the book yet, but I'm not in a hurry. Each day I open it, see there's more than half left, and get excited that I have so many remaining pages in which to revel in Allende's expert storytelling. Because that's exactly what she is: an expert storyteller. It almost doesn't matter how the story ends or what happens at any point along the way. It's the reading of her words -- the discovery of her own created world -- that is delicious. A treat.






Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler


When I first got this book in the mail, I pounced on it, speed-read through the whole thing in a matter of hours, and declared it good. It is amazingly full of information, explained in helpful, simple descriptions, and I'm a little in love with it. I've since read it in depth, and it becomes more and more fascinating with each chapter.

I've been on the natural family planning bandwagon for quite some time now, but without ever actually knowing what I was doing. I just knew I didn't want any medication in my body to alter a healthy, naturally occurring cycle, and I didn't want anything to...ahem...stand between my husband and I. After reading several rave reviews of this book, I ordered it on Amazon and can now add a rave review of my own.

Toni Weschler lays out in relate-able terms how to monitor and track your fertility -- whether your cycles are normal or wacky -- in order to prevent or achieve pregnancy. Beyond the obvious benefits of knowing how to use natural family planning, which this book is excellent in describing, I am in awe of the amazing amount of information I never knew about my body. I'm going to go all TomCruiseish on you now, and jump on the couch, okay? I LOVE MY BODY! IT IS AMAZING!! The things it can do?! The natural beauty of my cycles?! The internal systems of regulation?! The way it can tell me if something's not quite right so I can speak to my doctor with educated concerns?!

It's been said before about this book, but I'll add my voice to the general cacophony: Every woman should read this book. And she should read it now. Amen.



Whew. The excitement up there (coupled with the lack of library books in my library post) has worn me out. But I still can't wait to hear what you're reading!

The Locksmith

The old gentleman ambled up our front walkway, lugging his toolbox in one hand and throwing his other arm out for balance. I welcomed him in, shuffling the girls out of the front entryway to let him pass. "Here's the door -- our back door -- that needs fixing." I explained, motioning to our patio doors.

Stepping gingerly around a pile of discarded dress-up clothes, the locksmith set his heavy toolbox beside the door while I explained our problem. "The top deadbolt is in the locked position, but the knob just spins and spins...like it's stripped or something."

He spoke slowly, laying out the possibilities, wondering out loud if he'd have the right materials with him to fix the door today. Mia squatted on the floor beside the gentleman, rapt with each tool he removed and each lock-piece he examined. He peeked at her from under the bill of his cap, grinning and joking with her in his slow way. He had all the time in the world.

While Mia watched, I watched too. But I was rapt with a different aspect of this man: the amazing way he reminded me of my grandpa.

------------

In another time and place -- one with thin, crisp edges, straining to be remembered -- it's me ambling up a different front walkway.

Between college courses, I dashed over to my grandparents' house for a quick visit. I had no real objective, but that was fine; there was never a time when I couldn't stop in, grab a freshly baked something, and squeeze some quick hugs. I was just looking for a place to waste time away from campus.

Under the maple tree, in the shade-dappled morning light, my grandma was sweeping the sidewalk. Wrapped comfortably in her cottony robe, treading on threadbare sateen slippers, she was totally unrepentant for showing her pajamas to the world. And she was beaming with love in my direction.

"Hiya, sweetheart!" She carried her broom to meet me halfway down the walk, hugging and kissing me, and inviting me in for a glass of tea.

------------

The locksmith wore his royal blue ball cap -- with its flat and solid looking bill -- perched way up on top of his head, far above his age-lengthened ears. His eyes were watery blue, clear, and a bit shy. If there was one obvious difference between him and my own grandpa, that was it: my grandpa had been outgoing. He never hesitated to begin a joking relationship with any old stranger, and considered it his duty in life to tease everyone in his path.

In my kitchen, I had a hard time looking away from the man who brought back so strongly the memory of my grandpa. After all, if my grandpa were still alive, it would have almost certainly been him kneeling there, tinkering with tools and teasing my daughters. Great-granddaughters he'd never gotten to meet. Blue eyes he'd never gotten to know as resembling his own. Pop-cluck kisses he'd never gotten to hear from tiny lips he'd never been kissed by.

Mia shadowed the locksmith while he worked, humming tunes and giggling at his glances. After one particularly cute string of laughter, the gentleman looked up at me and smiled. "I'd forgotten how good it is to be around little ones. My sons are grown now, but haven't ever had kids of their own. It's been awhile since I've heard these giggles."

------------

Grandma and I walked into the house, chatting about our days, and heading towards the kitchen. "Where's grandpa?" I asked.

"Well, I think he's still out back in the shop," she said. "I'll call and see." She stepped over to the back door where Grandpa had rigged up an intercom system between the house and his little woodworking shop. Pushing the button, she spoke into the speaker. "Hey babe?"

"Yeah!?" came my grandpa's reply.

"Our Sarah is here."

"Say-ruh! Oh, good, I'll be right in!" His voice sounded so overjoyed at the possibility of seeing me, his 'Say-ruh', that I laughed out loud with my Grandma. But I know they responded that way to seeing each of their grandchildren. Their love was so unconditional and easily shown, it felt medicinal to be in their presence -- soothing to know such comforting acceptance.

Moments later, Grandpa burst through the back door, a wide grin making his boyish dimples pop. "There's my Say-ruh!" he smiled, wiping his sweaty face on a rag. Stepping close enough to me for a kiss, but far enough away that I wouldn't be soiled by his sawdust and sweat-covered arms, he pecked my cheek before heading to the sink.

While he waited for the water to get hot, he made sarcastic comments. "Well, goooood-night, you gotta drain Shoal Creek before this water'll get warm." Grandma shook her head and laughed, rolling her eyes while Grandpa carried on. "And whataya gotta do to get a snack around here!? I'm wastin' away, workin' my poor fingers to the bone out there..." he trailed off into laughter as Grandma shot him a look, then a swat on the behind. "And I gotta wait for company to come over before I get anything good to eat!"

She looked at me conspiratorially, whispering, "He just finished eggs, toast, and sausage not 2 hours ago. Don't believe him for one second."

But I couldn't help myself. I joined in with Grandpa, commiserating his sad lot in life, to be saddled with unending work but nary a crumb for his sunken and growling stomach.

------------

I stood at my stove, stirring our dinner and glancing at the working locksmith. After having made several trips to his truck for the rigging up of a makeshift part, he was finishing the job.

Carefully, precisely, he placed each tool in the right spot in his toolbox. Thick, worn hands knew every move to make, knew each tool by heart, and wouldn't betray their owner by dropping anything carelessly into place. He lowered the work-trays back into their places, lifted the heavy lid closed, and made sure the latch was securely shut.

My grandpa's hands had been just the same: careful and work-toughened. Strong and weathered.

"Well, I think that'll do it," he drawled. "Come give 'er a test drive, and see what you think."

I fiddled with the lock, opened and closed the door a few times, and declared his handiwork to be exactly the cure for our problem. I thanked him and started writing out a check, while he chatted about raising kids and the changing times.

"I was born in 1937," he said. "And back in those days, we didn't worry about things as much. Well, times are different now, though. When I was old enough to run around the neighborhood, why, I'd just go ever'where and be gone for hours and my mom didn't think anything it. Ever'body knew ever'body else, and she knew that someone, somewhere knew what her boy was up to. 'Course, that made it hard to get away with any trouble," he laughed.

We talked for a few more minutes and I had the hardest time not inviting him to stay for dinner. I felt sure that if we visited all evening, I'd have a clear picture in my head of my grandpa. Because the pictures in my head are becoming too sharp to believe. I can't remember if I'm embellishing a memory, or reliving it with perfect accuracy.

------------

I do remember the fluffy, fuzzy hair on his forearms, which I used to sit and run my hand across as a little girl, trying to only float on the hair -- not ever touch the skin.

I do remember his voice, deep and sarcastic, loving and joking.

I do remember his wavy hair, perfectly combed so it laid -- all dandy and spiffy -- against his scalp just as it must have back in the '50's.

I do remember the secret handshake he taught his grandkids: 4 squeezes signifying 'Do you love me?" 3 squeezes in response, 'Yes, I do!' 2 squeezes back, 'How much?' 1 final squeeze -- strong and lasting -- to show an endless, crushing love.

I do remember spending cold winter mornings working in his shop, learning to use a jigsaw or painting little wooden crafts we'd create together while the woodstove piped warm air all around us. I do remember him always insisting he needed my help to get his tools organized. I was the only one who'd do a good enough job, supposedly.

I do remember his coffee cups, sitting for hours in the microwave, growing cold as he'd forgotten where he'd put it.

I do remember every Christmas Eve, as he held my grandma with a romantic embrace, dipped her backwards, and placed a big, celebratory kiss on her lips before the Christmas tree as the whole family watched, clapping. The whole family they'd started, the whole family they'd filled the house with, the whole family who loved and admired their lifelong commitment.

------------

But the locksmith knew nothing of those things. He was kind and talkative, sincere and happy, but he wasn't my grandpa. Any picture he'd fill my fading memories with would be false. Pictures of himself, a nice man, but not the man I'm desperate to remember.

I watched him load his tools back into his truck, and smiled at the memories he'd unlocked in me. I hope I continue to see men and women who remind me of my grandparents. Who cause me -- for just a few minutes -- to feel and see one of the greatest gifts I've ever been given in life: the gift of loving grandparents. And of memories.

The locksmith deserved a much bigger payment than he received just for working on my broken lock. He also fixed my leaky memories. He polished my mind to remember times and places I forget to think about. He rigged up a makeshift grandfather figure in himself, and brought back the comforting memories of my own.

And he didn't even know it.

Tuesdays Around The World: What Relaxes Me?

It relaxes me to know that no matter how noisy and chaotic our days can be....

No matter how messy or squealy or jam-packed or lazy, no matter how playful or uproarious or crazy or creative, no matter how demanding or infuriating or exhaustingly joyful....

No matter what sort of day finds us, we WILL end up with silence and rest at its end.

Silence. The promise of rest.

That relaxes me.

What relaxes you?

Mosey on over to Communal Global today and take a peek at relaxing things from around the world!

Wanted: A Bossy Mom

I'm in need of a mom, today.

Yes, I already have a mom -- a fabulous one -- but I'm feeling greedy and lazy today. I need another mom. One who will come over and make a list of everything I need to do. One who will remind me to pay my mortgage before it gets too late. One who will tsk tsk my un-scrubbed shower and shake her head in despair at my 5-days-dirty broiler pan. (I hate the broiler pan.) One who will be my task manager and forbid me from wasting time.

Because if left to my own devices today, I'll do this:

Lay in the patch of sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and crack open the Isabel Allende book I've been dying to read.

Worry about potty training.

Take my girls outside, under the bright blue sky, and push them on the swings until my arms are noodley and weak.

Stare into space while considering all the things I'd love to write about, but which are not blog-appropriate.

Make dessert. Eat too much dessert.

Make a mental list of the things I need to plan for our upcoming mini-vacation; Neglect to actually write the list.


It seems that what I really need, is a boss.

Do you ever have days like this? Please tell me you're not full of self-control and task-oriented forward motion.

Or, if you are....

Will YOU be my boss today?

Weekly Column: Everything Changes

One of the hardest parts for me about new motherhood was the lack of control. I knew what I needed the baby to do in order for us both to be happy and well rested, but actually getting her to DO it, was another story. Can you imagine the nerve of my baby – having a mind of her own?!

Even worse though, was the way I’d feel like we’d gotten into the hang of things, only for them to change again. The baby was finally taking naps in her own crib? She’d start teething and naps would become miserable. The baby was sleeping through the night? She’d hit a growth spurt and need a midnight snack. The baby was easing into solid foods? She’d get sick and refuse anything but liquid gold. The starts and stops of parenting were so confusing that I was sure we’d never settle into a comfort zone. How would I ever learn how to do this if the rules kept changing?

But I did learn, as we all do. We have to stop waiting for the moment when we’re finally in control, and instead, allow ourselves simply to see what each new day brings. The best we can do in mothering our babies is to keep in mind that the shape of the land is constantly shifting, and to hold on tight, enjoying even ground whenever it comes.

For us, even ground is still not a place on which we rest for long, but it’s becoming a more frequent layover as my girls have grown out of babyhood. The stops and starts aren’t so swift anymore; the lay of the land is becoming more plain to us. We can embrace change optimistically.

I just hope I can say the same when we reach junior high.

7 Quick Takes Friday, #60

1. For yesterday's naptime, my 4 year-old was really in need of some rest, so I all but begged her to go to sleep. She, however, had different ideas. A few minutes after I'd left her with clear instructions to 'not make any peeps', I distinctly heard peeps. Peeps that sounded like princess songs and fairy poems. And they were none too quiet.

I cracked open her door, popped my head in, and told her, "Mia, I said no peeps. Stop talking and singing so you can rest, OK?"

With her eyes wide open, she looked at me and said, "I can't...I'm just...I was only talking in my sleep."

And then I popped my head back out before she could see my laughter spill out all over her bold-faced lie. What do you do with that?! If kids weren't so stinkin' cute, they'd be a lot easier to discipline.

2. Speaking of discipline, when you get these two together, there's bound to be trouble.

This is Lauren with her cousin Evie, and they tend to feed off each other's craziness. Sure, they look innocent enough posing with to-be-planted flowers, but look away for one second and there's a good chance both girls will be eating those flowers.

We try to never look away when these girls are around.

3. Apparently, we're potty training as of yesterday. I don't think I ever gave my consent for this to happen. I'm not ready, and I'm not even convinced that Lauren is ready. But, here we are. Running around naked, cheering over the potty seat, and staring longingly at the stack of diapers.

Those diapers, by the way? I only have 2 left. Today should be interesting.

4. My garden is entirely planted! There was much digging in dirt, pulling of weeds, spotting of creepy crawlers -- centipedes, ants, worms, beetles, spiders. When those creatures got too close to bare fingers, therefore, there was much screaming, jumping, and squealing.

And that was before the little girls even got involved. They loved the bugs, while I...well...you know me. I didn't.

5. Mia went roller-skating for the first time last weekend, and I was BLOWN AWAY at her coordination and bravery. I hadn't thought she was old enough for skating, but since it was a friend's birthday party, we gave it a wary shot. At least, I gave it a wary shot. Mia's shot was full-throttle, all-out, and wonderfully fun.

She screamed her delight across the rink, squealing and laughing breathlessly. She fell a few times, and only cried momentarily before getting back up and going again. The biggest problem was that we missed her afternoon rest to be there (but see above: she probably wouldn't have slept anyway), and she got tired and cranky by the end.

I can't wait to go back when she's well-rested and when Justin can come with us to help her scoot around the floor.

I don't remember skating being quite so sweat-inducing and breath-stealing. And I wasn't even in skates: I walked beside Mia, holding her hand, instead. I'm sure I would have pulled her down more than helped her remain steady, had I been wearing skates. I'm such a loser.

6. Did you have anything really fantastic for dinner this week? And are you willing to share the recipe?

7. Right now (Thursday night), I'm watching my husband ride his indoor bike-trainer. He's sweating up a storm, raising his heart rate, lowering his cholesterol, strengthening his body, and looking darn good in the process.

Meanwhile, my bottom is falling asleep from sitting here at the computer. I think I'll call it quits. Maybe do some situps, or something.

And then go have some ice cream.

I'm so glad you came today! Have a fantastic weekend, and don't forget to stop by Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes.

How To Manage A Grower

Here's how I handle my babies when they're no longer babies, but I still want them to be babies:



It's naptime. No -- actually it's far past naptime. Lauren has been in her bed for over an hour, squealing and giggling about God knows what. Then, alternatively, wailing and whining about God knows what. I'm frazzled by her lack of silence. I need the silence in the middle of the day to counterbalance the constant noises of morning and afternoon.

I've given her strict upbraidings: Lauren! Be Quiet! It's sleep-time! I've given her calm instruction: Lauren, it's time to sleep, close your eyes and shhhhh.... I've torn at my hair as the minutes passed, not happy about the nightmare of an afternoon we'd be having if she didn't give in and go to sleep. I've refused to pick up the pillow and blankies and blanket and lambie she's tossed across the room. And I'm lost.

What can I do? If she won't calm down and sleep, I can't do anything about it. She's not a baby anymore, I can't just hold her and rock her until she drifts away, lips parted, eyes twitching, hands clutching at my shirt.

Can I? Listening to her full-out cry at the injustice of being trapped in her bed, I make a decision.
Quietly, I enter her room, closing the door behind me. She stops her rant, and looks at me in confusion: is it time to get up? Will she get her pillow back? But instead, I reach into her crib,where she's sprawled cross-wise, feet up on the railings (the better to kick her anger away). I draw her up in my arms, and carry her to the pile of bedding. I pick out a blankie and lambie and step over to the rocking chair, lowering us down into its pink cushions. I lay Lauren's tear-streaked face on my shoulder, tuck her arms around my abdomen, fold her legs across my lap, and hold her.

She lifts her eyes up to see what this means -- this holding during the middle of naptime? -- and I kiss her nose before drawing her head back down. She adjusts her arms: both in front -- one on either side -- both in front again. She taps her toes against my calf, pushing and shifting. I fear she won't settle down, but she's quiet, so I keep still. She picks up her lambie, kisses it on the nose, and brings it to my face. I pretend to be sleeping -- like she'll see my closed eyes and say 'Oh! That's how you do it.' before immediately closing her own -- while she makes her lambie kiss my eyes. She makes her kiss noises just like my Grandpa used to: with a little pop-cluck of the tongue at the end. Each of my eyes are kiss-pop-clucked, and then she snuggles lambie back into the crook of her elbow.

One minute later, she's very still.

Two minutes later, she's very quiet.

Three minutes later, she twitches involuntarily.

Four minutes later, her breathing is smooth and steady.

Five minutes later, she gives a quiet snore.

I tilt her back into my arms and s l o w l y lift us up from the chair. She mumbles a startled syllable before curling into a more comfortable position, and I lay her in her pillowless bed. I cover her with a corner of her blankie, and back away from my sleeping daughter.

Just like when she was a baby.

I swear, for just a minute there (around the heavy, steady breathing, I think), instead of a talkative, leggy toddler, she was a baby again.

But just for a minute.

Middle School Nightmares -- Revisited

Once upon a time, there was a gangly 7th grader named Heavenly Sarah. She was oh-so-skinny and oh-so-shy. Her mousy hair framed her face in easily tangled ropes, and she had grand plans for one day being a great beauty.

Step one would be to grow up. Because grown-ups are infused with confidence and beauty, right? But in the meantime, she had to find a way to accentuate her positives. The problem was, she wasn't aware of her positives. It would be a good 5 years before her positives became obvious, but she didn't know it yet. She assumed she'd have to make a part of herself positive.

She considered amping up her wardrobe to reflect the current trends of platform wedges, plaid shirts, and chokers, but upon realizing her mother would never buy those things for her, Heavenly 7th grade Sarah moved towards a different path: her body.

Knowing her family tree like she did (Heavenly Sarah had brains, oh yes she did), this skinny 7th grader thought it was a long shot that she might have something close to curves on her body. And since no matter what quantities of food she ate, she struggled to gain weight, she decided against altering her body in any way. Years would be the only solution there, she reasoned.

Besides body shape and clothing, the only possibility young Heavenly Sarah could think of to improve her appearance was makeup. And not just any makeup: makeup that was cheap enough to buy with her leftover birthday money.

She bravely walked the makeup aisles at whatever grocery store her mom was frequenting back then, trying to decide what would give her the most bang for her buck. In a clear plastic zippered pouch back home, Heavenly Sarah had already begun collecting a stash of makeup -- loans from friends, almost empty containers pilfered from her mom's bathroom, gifts from older cousins -- so she was only looking for the one thing that would make her gorgeous. She had plenty of pale, peach, pressed powder. Plenty of black-as-night mascara. Plenty of frosty mauve lipstick. Plenty of eyeshadow in a two-dozen-colored keypad of sorts.

What she needed -- her high-octane, beauty enhancer -- was eyeliner. None of those lousy pencils, either. She wanted her eyes to be impossibly stunning. Unnaturally gorgeous. Heavenly 7th grade Sarah purchased Black Black liquid eyeliner. And some Lip Smackers lip balm in strawberry, just because it was cool: it came in a giant, over sized tube that nicely filled out her almost-empty purse.

Our innocent protagonist planned her next move carefully. TODAY was the day she'd walk around school with confidence and beauty. She wore her favorite outfit: a short-sleeved, maroon, lycra-ish t-shirt over a pair of hand-me-down Pepe jeans. And her white cardigan sweater to cover up the fact that the lycra-ish shirt didn't exactly hide her pre-pubescent sweatiness. (Oh, the shame.)

As soon as she knew her mom was otherwise occupied, little Sarah began carefully applying her liquid eyeliner. First to the top eyelid: thick, black marks from inside to outside, not differentiating thickness or angle from one corner to the other. Next, the bottom eyelid: again, a single, black line, thick all the way across. She went back and filled in spots that showed skin between the line and her lashes -- lining eyes was tricky business -- thus making her already thick lines, thicker. Bumpier.

Sarah was proud of the effect, and went on to apply the rest of her makeup with joy. She left the house for the bus-stop with barely a word to her mother, hoping to avoid scrutiny towards her obviously over done makeup.

At school, she dashed to the restroom immediately, nervous that she'd somehow smudged her masterpiece. She stood in front of the mirrors, trying to summon her earlier confidence, but instead, she became more and more anxious for people to see her transformation. Here, in the industrial lighting of the middle school, sweet Heavenly Sarah's eyes looked...startlingly black. Especially when paired with her over-zealous application of pale powder to her cheeks, and the imperfect smudge of strawberry-flavored lip-balm.

But there was nothing she could do about it now, Skinny Sarah thought. She'd looked fantastic when she left the house that morning; the school just seemed like a scarier venue in which to reveal herself, that's all.

Down the hall she walked, and it seemed (quite dramatically) that the sea of pre-teens was parting around her. Staring at her with...not admiration...but confusion.

At the door of her classroom, little Sarah the Heavenly slowed down to squeeze past a girl who was blocking the entrance. But this girl was no ordinary girl. (Cue scary music.) She was the popular girl. The prettiest girl in school, around whom all the middle school girls gauged their collective worth.

The startlingly developed Miss Popular turned to unblock the doorway, and was immediately confronted with little Sarah's black, black eyes.

"Oh!" the Blonde Bombshell exclaimed before squinting her eyes at the Heavenly Dweeb. "Oh. I see. You're trying to wear makeup!"

At which point Sweet, Heavenly Sarah melted into a puddle of her own hot embarrassment, and oozed to her desk, hiding dark, downcast eyes.

She snuck to the bathroom as soon as the bell rang for the end of class, and scrubbed her eyes with the thin, brown paper towels boasted by schools and gas stations alike. Emerging from the bathroom well after her next class began, her eyes were red from the washing, but clear and honest. She was a different girl from the one who'd excitedly readied herself for the day.

Sarah the Heavenly 7th Grader was happy. Happy with herself, happy with her naked eyes, and happy with the knowledge that she still had a lot of growing up to do.

To this day, Sarah the Heavenly wears barely a scrap of makeup on her pink cheeks and blue eyes.

And she is still happy.

Tuesdays Around The World: Today

Even though I vowed to keep my eyes open -- to joyfully grasp each moment of growing up -- it continues to take me by surprise.

The rows of perfect, white teeth.

The ponytail down to the middle of her back.

The strong hands, holding tight to a wobbly swing.

The long legs, running across a grassy lawn.

The blue eyes, learning to soak up every detail.

The babyish voice, speaking about big-girl thoughts.

It really is an amazing thing to watch: the growing of a girl.

This post is included in Communal Global's Tuesdays Around the World. Click over for more Todays!

The Over-Wall Princess

As a personality trait, girlishness is highly evident in our household. At any given time, there's at least one small girl prancing around in pretend-mode, with fluttering lashes and gracefully poised arms. And she's probably warbling on about some assumed-romanticism.

But it's not all girly, all the time, either. We laugh at gassy emissions just as boisterously as middle school boys. We enjoy a well-timed belch, especially if it's released at the same moment as a word that's being spoken: there's nothing funnier. (Probably, I'd not giggle quite so much if I were surrounded by young boys doing these things constantly....but I'm not. So giggle, I do. Right before reminding my girly-girls to say 'excuse me'.) We play dinosaur games. We spray each other with our skunk tails. We fight pirates in the back yard and dig in dirt and throw rocks into the creek. We rip holes in the knees of our jeans and scrub under our fingernails after a hard day of playing.

So, given all that hearty play, I'm becoming more and more baffled by the current clothing trend around here: dresses.

If we're not all girly, all the time in our play, we are all girly, all the time, in our attire. Mia won't let a day pass without making sure she looks fancy: bows, necklaces, and sparkly shoes to go with her mandatory flouncy-skirted dress. She goes to bed only after laying out a dress and all its accouterments, safe in the knowledge that she'll beautifully dressed the next day.

I generally let her wear what she pleases -- it just works better for us. But on days we need to wear pants for weather or activity purposes, I've resorted to using my most sneaky-mom-ways to convince her that it's okay to wear pants.

"Oh, we're going to have SO much fun playing at the park, and remember: it rained last night! Jeans are better for playing in dirty mud, right?! Let's go CHANGE!! WOO-HOO!!" I look nothing short of annoying and embarrassing, I'm sure, with my high-pitched enthusiasm.

Most of the time, though, dresses are IT. We MUST have dresses. And that which big sister demands, little sister demands as well. "Mama, Ina dwess too! Yay!" says the sweet, messy Lauren. I've invested in play-dresses for her because she doesn't have a fancy vs. casual-dress eye yet. She'll wear anything that swings. But despite her lack of choosiness where style is concerned, she's even less willing to be convinced than Mia. Mia listens to reason with a 4-year-old's skepticism and understanding. No such luck with the 2-year-old.

This morning, I did the unthinkable: I planned for both of my dress-loving girls to wear pants (gasp!). The weather was cool and overcast, all of our tights and leggings were dirty, and a sundress just wouldn't cut it today. I talked Mia into jeans with little problem. She was happy enough to be reunited with a sparkly shirt that had been pushed aside in the wake of all the dresses.

Lauren's approval wasn't so easy to come by.

I'd decided on a super adorable pair of overalls for her, with tiny embroidered cherries on the front bib and back pockets. These overalls were worn almost daily by Mia when she was 2, in another of her 'I'll only wear THIS' phases. Unfortunately, Lauren hasn't fallen quite as in love with them as Mia did. Which saddens her baby-loving mama, who takes a little trip back in time whenever the overalls are in eyesight. Knowing that soon it'll be too hot for the overalls, I wanted her to wear them at least once more. And knowing she might not be happy about a non-dress day, I tried my talk-it-up tactics with her.

"Look, Lauren! These have cherries on them!" I cooed, while surreptitiously removing her pajamas. "Nom, nom, nom," I growled a-la Cookie Monster, distracting her with pretend bites of cherries. "Such pretty cherries, and they match your BEAUTIFUL red shirt!" I cheered while slipping the swingy, ribboned (quite dress-like) shirt over her head. "A pwincess, mama?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!" I gushed, helping her step into the overalls. "You're a cherry-princess!" But my farce was wearing thin.

Lauren's eyebrows marched together as she felt her legs being covered. She shook her head. "No, mama! I don' YIKE dem! Ina DWESS!" she pouted.

I could feel my control of her choice slipping away, and I might have let her choose something else, if not for the fact that we were running very late this morning. So, on I pressed. "But these are princess overalls, Lauren!" I promised with big eyes. "You look so pretty!"

She glanced down at her jeans-clad body in obvious disbelief. But before she could think too much more about it, I hooked a pair of ruby red slippers on her feet. They seemed to be the scale-tippers: she smiled and began to dance, swaying back and forth on her red slippered feet, patting the cherries on her chest.

I sighed with relief and headed for the kitchen, while she trotted down the hall to the full-length mirror. I felt like such a tricky mama, but I was okay with it: she was wearing warm clothes on a cool, wet day, and it may have been my last chance to get her into those adorable overalls. Mission, accomplished.

Then, from down the hallway, Lauren's tiny feet pounded a desperate rhythm away from the mirror. "MAAAMAAAA!" she cried, "NO OVER-WALL PWINCESS! I WAN-NA DWESS!"

I scooped her up, shushing her tantrum and promising a dress later -- as soon as school was over -- and off we went: girls in pants, for maybe the last time, ever.

Because mama's just no good at the convincing.

Weekly Column: Cleaning Up

You know those houses you walk into and can tell they’ve just been cleaned? Floors swept, shelves dusted, everything in its place?

Yeah, me neither. (Do those places exist?) I’m lucky to complete one single cleaning task per day, which means something’s always messy. And I’ve decided that’s OK, especially where the kids are concerned.

I’m all for teaching children to pick up after themselves, but haven’t yet mastered a successful way to accomplish that with the under-3 crowd. One tip I learned from a fellow mom was to insist that before another toy could be played with, the previous toy had to be put away. It sounded like a great plan at first, but I got so tired of monitoring each toy-change that I couldn’t be consistent with it. Neither could I follow behind my kids, straightening each of their messes all day long.

My solution was simply to stop cleaning up so often – not to let the house fall into total chaos (I might have been fired as household engineer, if I’d done that), but just to not worry if messes were made in the course of normal daytime playing. I knew we’d clean up later because I’d built time into our routine, before naptime and before bedtime, for just that purpose. Messes can build up in their bedrooms and with whatever toys they’ve dragged out and I’m (mostly) fine with it.

When it’s time to clean up, I make sure to point out that if they’d picked up after themselves while playing, cleaning up would be much less of a chore. Hopefully, there’s a lesson being learned in there somewhere. My own lesson? Don’t sacrifice fun in the name of tidiness.

Unless the ‘fun’ involves overturning a potted plant on the carpet. I’ll sacrifice that any day.

Staring Down The Barrel Of The Gun; Peeing Into The Wind**

I can easily be classified as an unrealistic mother, where my growing children are concerned.

The passage of time, however commonplace, very rarely intrudes upon my day. I cuddle and breathe deep breaths of baby-hair, without actually realizing there's not a baby in my arms...but a squirming, back-talking toddler. I don't notice my baby's lengthened legs, or if I do, I file the knowledge away for later examination. Then I go back to tracing the contour of her chubby cheeks and poking at the kissable dimples on her knuckles. I don't notice the young-ladyish gleam in my big girl's eyes, choosing instead to twirl her hair between my fingers and feel her arms wrap around my legs while I'm making dinner.

The impenetrable wall around my baby-loving mind stays intact through countless bombardments of quickly growing children, until, unsuspecting, my eyes notice something. Something small and inconsequential, perhaps. A clearly enunciated phrase. A hand swiping bangs out of frustrated eyes. A foot.

My eyes start to see truth against their will. The time that had been cordoned back, waiting to burst forward, is gracefully unleashed. I see my girls, older and longer. Yelling and running, not mewling and helpless. My baby requests dresses now. She speaks in paragraphs. She turns her head down into her shoulder looks up through thick eyelashes when caught dancing to her made-up tune. She whacks her big sister on the head with a roll of wrapping paper. Her shoulder is smooth and angular, not round and squishable.

I am not the mother of babies anymore.

But, in these glimpses of time that reveal the truth, I like what I see. It's not that I don't appreciate all the beauty of my growing girls, just that I want to have the babyhood always before me, always available to be cuddled and adored.

I want both. I want to watch my girls grow. But I don't want them to grow older than they are right now, which is already too old. I want to learn their personalities and watch them become individuals. But I don't want them to loose their innocence. I want them to experience all the fun of growing up. But I want to shield them from any struggles. (Yes, I know struggles help build character and teach life lessons. Blah.)

These are impossibilities. I can't have it both ways. (Unless I perpetually make babies....but, still. They'll grow, too!) I have to pick, and it doesn't make sense to choose babyhood. It's gone already, anyway.

I have to choose forward motion. I have to be aware of every bit of growing up, even if it means I can't pretend my toddler is still a baby. I have to bite the bullet, and accept the growth.

And I will love it, of course.

But I don't have to like it.




** As directed by Joey to Chandler in Season 3 of Friends regarding how to pursue Janice for a committed relationship. I apologize for using a Friends reference as a post title, but...I love Friends. (Don't YOU?!) Justin and I were watching this particular episode while I wrote, and it seemed perfect at the time. I do often think of life in Friends' phrases. (Don't YOU?!)

7 Quick Takes Friday, #59

1. My house is yellow: my window sills are yellow, my porch is yellow, my kitchen floor is yellow. My roof is yellow. My car is yellow. My cat is yellow. My swingset and garden and fence are all yellow.

Spring is SO in the air, that it's landed with a yellow dusting over everything my eyes can see. Along with rejoicing in the general lack of allergies in my household, I'm enjoying the overpowering perfume of flowering everything and the evidence of abundant new life.

The girls keep presenting me with their own indoor-pollinators to beautify my kitchen sink window, and I love it.

How are you guys holding up through all the pollen?

2. Mia's dinnertime prayer last night went like this: 'Dear God, Thank you for this joyful food and for it to give us energy and we'll have no fears and it'll help us sleep really good without any cries. Amen.'

I love the idea of joyful, nightmare-combating food, don't you?

3. Lucy the Valiant's post this week was WONDERFUL! So wonderful that you should go read it, right now. Writing about how to see silver linings in all the craziness of life, she reminded me to open my happy eyes, and stop being so irritable. Life is good. Good is life. Rock on.

4. My garden is officially underway! I've planted broccoli, romaine, and spinach (Did I already say this once? I don't remember. But I'm so excited, I don't mind saying it again.) so far, but peppers, strawberries, green beans, and 3 kinds of tomatoes are ready to be planted next. Yay for natural, whole, fresh produce!

Now all I need to do is hope that last year's magical green thumb wasn't a fluke, and that I'll have some measure of success this year as well.

5. A few weeks ago, before the yellow haze descended and all the trees began blushing green, we took a walk in the woods by our house, and I took a few pictures that I really liked. I'd forgotten all about them, but since I love them -- the rocky woods, the slanting sunlight, the mystery of traipsing around the forest -- I had to post them, late or not. Hope you don't mind?

Mia calls these the 'Cinnamon Woods'. The reason escapes me now, but it makes perfect sense, whatever it is. When she asks to go for a walk in the Cinnamon Woods, we can't possibly refuse when we're smiling big, goofy grins from her sweet, creative vocabulary usage. Anything named cinnamon has to be an exotic experience.

A handful of huge, moss-encrusted boulders are scattered on a steep hillside, and they're usually one of our main destinations.

They beg to be climbed upon -- and jumped from into a waiting parent's arms.

Every family should have a Cinnamon Wood in which to explore, don't you think?

6. I made this Chicken Cordon Bleu casserole last week, and WOW. I moaned throughout the first 5 bites, shook my head in awe at the second five bites, dashed to the stovetop to sneak the third 5 bites, then loaded up my plate with the fourth 5 bites. I halved the recipe because I wasn't sure how it would go over with the family, and then shed big, gluttonous tears that I hadn't made the whole recipe. It was so good. Sooooo goooood.

7. Now, I have some wonderful news. My good friend, Jill (her name is dropped all over this here blog), has FINALLY started her own blog! I KNOW!! It's about time, Jill!

She'll be writing about important, educated things (In much the same way I write! Right? Guys? Okay. Never mind.) Her blog is called Clearest Glimpse of God, and you should go read her inaugural post to get an idea of what she'll be sharing. She's really brilliant and wonderful and you MUST bookmark her blog, immediately. I'm dying to read her posts, because she's the kind of mom I most want to be like. I expect to hang on her every word and implement her faithful, patient ways in my own parenting style.

(But no pressure, Jill.)

Have a gorgeous (if a bit yellow-hazed) weekend, and stop by Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes!

What We Found At The Library, #15

Welcome! Have a seat, pull out your 'To-Read' List, and grab a cup or glass of your favorite reading companion -- mine is icy cold and refreshing: WATER! But feel free to come with coffee or tea or smoothies or margaritas. I promise to withhold my assumptions. At least until you post your OWN book list (which I'm assuming you will. Right? Right!!), at which time I will try to guess which beverage you were consuming at the time of publishing. It'll be fun!

(Did someone say 'digress'?)

Now, on with the show!

Lauren's Favorite: Shhhhh! Everybody's Sleeping by Julie Markes and David Parkins (Illustrator)

Ah, Lauren. She is adorable and so sweet, much like this book. On each page, someone is sleeping -- the grocer, the policeman, the librarian, the zookeeper -- and each of them is snuggled up in a cute bed which perfectly fits their needs. The grocer sleeps on a bed of lettuce. The farmer snuggles atop a sheep-y pillow. The police man's blanket is covered with traffic. The people we only see in their waking hours are funnily transformed in sleep, as in a child's imagination: surely the teacher sleeps at school, and the baker at the bakery right? This book is so fun to pretend along with, but my favorite part was Lauren's reaction to the sleeping characters. They are all quite unique in their appearances, and Lauren -- being a wary-of-strangers toddler -- didn't like the way they looked. "Mama, I don' yike him,'' she said with concern as she shook her head at the policeman...and the grocer...and the doctor...and everyone else! As the days went on, she relented with a few at a time until now, when she loves them all. Just when we're ready to return the book, she's comfortable with the characters. Oy.

Mia's Favorite: Piggies by Audrey and Don Wood

This book was a recommendation from Dawn and it is WONDERFUL! It's oh-so-simple, but the artwork is both gorgeous and whimsical. Mia had the best time trying to match her hands to the shapes of the hands in the book, which are covered with tiny piggies with huge personalities. They pull stunts and play so animatedly on the fingertips of these hands, that I can see exactly how a child's brain would be engaged for hours (okay, minutes, probably) staring at the pictures and wondering about how it would be to have actual piggies on their PIGGIES. So cute. We've read this book almost every day, several times a day, for 14 days. And it still makes the girls laugh. This book is a must-read. A must- see. A must.

Mama's Favorite: Who Will Sing A Lullaby by Dee Lillegard and Dan Yaccarino (Illustrator)

When I read this book, I suddenly start yearning for a baby. (Disclaimer: I'm usually in a state adjacent to baby-yearning, so it doesn't take much to push me right over the edge.) The illustrations are so...calm. Yes, that's it. They're calm. And the words...they're calm, too. With ryhme and ryhthm and cadence, they're beautifully soothing to say. There's a tiny baby crying in the midst of several well-intentioned birds, and they all want to help the baby fall asleep. One by one, they carry the baby away on their wings, hoping to soothe. But after each bird successfully flies the baby to sleep, they caw or hoot or honk their pleasure, only to wake it up again. Meanwhile the small and unobtrusive nightingale wishes she could help. As each bird gives up, the nightingale offers one last time to sing the baby to sleep -- and her song works. Sigh. This book is terribly sweet and soothing. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a baby to soothe to sleep with a nightingale's song.

Thanks so much for stopping by today, and I can't WAIT to see what you've been reading! (Hint: That means you have to TELL me, either in the comments or by linking up. Oh look, there's the linky list, now!)

PS - Madeline at Barefoot Childhood is having an AWESOME children's book giveaway that ends TODAY! Go check it out! The books she's promoting are from Barefoot Books -- a truly fabulous book company whose products I'm a little in love with. As much as I hope to win, I'd be happy if one of YOU won, too. So go enter!)

Perfectly Poetical Tuesday: Free Verse

Perfectly Poetical Tuesday is celebrating Poetry Month! This month's poetry style is Free Verse, which means I can write about anything I want, in any way I choose. (I think.) Free Verse terrifies me, actually. No rules?! No parameters?! But I can do this....I can do this...I think I can...

Yes. I can. (And you can too, for that matter. Hop over to The Little Stuff of Life to see more poetry and add your own!)



Quietude

Like muffled gems of blessings,

they are what I crave.

Like vacuum-sealed drops of time,

they are my medicine.

But fleeting --

they are so fleeting.

They scatter around me in a dance of

unattainability.

Like feather-light pearls of air,

they cover me with calm.

Like woolen breezes

and sun-warmed touches,

they settle me into serenity.

And fleeting --

but more appreciated, so.

They stun me with their uncommon

appearance.

They are moments of silence.

They are particles of anti-sound.

They are bits of noiseless time.

And they are fleeting --

So fleeting.

Tuesdays Around The World: A Walk

The ladies at Communal Global are starting a party today to celebrate all the wonderful views of our lives from around the world. Each Tuesday, they'll be hosting a new theme for scenes around the world, and you're all invited!

This week's theme is 'At the park, or on a walk.'

We walked around our budding neighborhood last week and discovered a field of perfectly pale, tiny, lavender flowers blanketing an entire hillside.



I wanted to lie down in it and stare up at the blue sky, letting the wind blow my eyes closed and listening to the sound of little girls laughing. However, our agenda was full: A walk was planned; a walk was demanded.

Mia prefers a walk on the tightrope to a boring stroll on solid ground.



But she prefers golden 'sunflowers' to everything else.

I can capture such lovely moments if I don't say a word about the camera. On walks or in the house, playing or creating -- it's just better to be candid. Because when I say "Smile, girls!", this is what I get:

One exuding coy drama, and one yelling CHEESE! at the top of her lungs.

Have you taken a good walk lately? Post your photos at Communal Global, or just stop by for a visit to see more walks from around the world!

The Self-Portrait That Never Was

It was a lovely evening. Dinner had been finished, shoes had been laced, jackets had been tossed aside, and we were out the door for our last fresh-air stint of the day. The sun was setting slowly in the western sky. The spring-wakened birds were trilling from the woods around our house, making the most of the last light of the warm day. The wind had picked up, tossing our hair in unruly directions, but we didn't mind a bit. The evening was perfect.

Perfect for a self-portrait of Mia and I, I thought. We hopped on a swing together, anchored our arms around each other, and....

Made the wrong face. Cut off too much forehead. So we tried again.





The wind picked up at the wrong moment, tossing hair around to obscure an otherwise pretty picture. So we tried again, again.

I made sure to tell Justin, who was pushing Lauren's swing, to stay out of the back of the shot. I should have known better. I think this picture will give me nightmares. Neither memories of beautiful birdsong nor a colorful sunset can erase that frightening face from my dreams.

And if that doesn't do it, my chapped lips and bushy eyebrows are sure to do the trick. Blech.

I gave up after that; the self-portrait was futile. I couldn't take a picture for laughing at Justin, and Mia only wanted to duplicate his crazy expression, anyway.

But the evening was still perfect.

This post is included in Mommy and Me Mondays at Really, Are You Serious?

Weekly Column: Let Them Choose

Awhile back, I wrote about the importance of making instructions clear by not phrasing them to sound like a question. However, it’s just as important to let your child regularly choose their own paths. To invite them into decision-making. Besides making day-to-day living simpler, it teaches your kids that their choices matter and have consequences.

There are opportunities scattered so fully over every day that you shouldn’t have to search for times to let your child make their own decisions. It can be your default position to not make every choice for them. In our house and within our guidelines, we try to let our kids choose such simple things as what to have for breakfast and what to wear – things that reinforce logical consequences to their actions. If she decides not to wear a jacket on a cool day, she’ll learn from being chilly.

With full disclosure, I can tell you that I struggle with this. I want to help my child make the best decisions, but that can be done without forcing my own preferences and personality on her. If my daughter wants to wear red tights with pink shoes and an orange skirt, I’ll do my best to compliment her creativity, and not worry about it. Why should I guide her towards my preference if it doesn’t really matter?

This isn’t a move towards letting your child have the final say on everything. Although your little one might plaintively wish it were so, it just won’t work. You’re not going to let your child choose something dangerous or hurtful just to allow them their autonomy, but letting them make choices in simple situations will provide them with practice for when a more serious choice comes up in the future.

Like choosing the perfect Mother’s Day gift. Now, THAT’S serious.

Art Imitating Dinner

The girls got some sparkly paint in their Easter baskets, and they've loved creating artwork this week. Really, it was just colored glue from the dollar aisle, but it works, right?

Mia helped by squirting fresh globs of paint onto Lauren's paper, and complimenting every stroke: Thatta girl, Lauren! You're painting! It's looking sooooo beautiful!

Later, across the kitchen, I had my own painting session. A bigger brush, a more fragrant canvas, and substantially less glitter.

But also, substantially more payoff. If painting is good, eating your painting is better.

7 Quick Takes Friday, #58

1. The Easter Vigil mass last weekend was fantastic! I was rather sweaty with nerves, but my dress was wonderfully constructed to not broadcast such an unsightly truth. I have no idea if my face was red. Probably it was, but I was just so happy and into it all that I didn't notice. And I may never know; my camera battery died the moment the mass began. So, although I have no photographic evidence of my conversion to the Catholic church to share, I'm not too upset about it.

It just means I can go on operating under the illusion that my face was serene and placid rather than pink and goofy.

(I'm not going to fill up this space with all my experiences and faithful revelations -- it's just not how I roll -- but if you have any questions or thoughts, please please send me an email! I'd love to talk with you. Be warned, though...I talk a lot. But I'm pretty sure you know that by now.)

2. While my camera battery was dead on Saturday night, it was all charged up for Sunday morning. I, however, was not. Charged up, that is.

I'd been looking forward to attending a sunrise service for weeks -- it's always meant the most to me of any Easter services -- but when sunrise rolled around, I was really sick. All nasty kinds of sick. I couldn't even make it through my entire shower without...getting sick. Despite not being healthy enough to go to the service, I went anyway, promising myself I wouldn't be sick again until I'd returned home. And it worked! But I laid in bed for the rest of the morning, too afraid to move for fear I'd awaken the nauseous monster who'd taken hold of my tummy.

Justin took the girls to an Easter breakfast and egg hunt, followed by a regular church service. Poor guy. I didn't have it in me to remind him to take pictures, so we didn't have any shots of the girls on Easter morning. (My wonderful friend, Jill, seeing that Justin was alone for the morning, snapped some cute shots of my girls for me so I wouldn't cry -- what a woman.)

3. By mid-afternoon, I'd successfully made it out of bed without being sick, so I started getting ready for my family's Easter party at my aunt's house. I found Justin, curled up on the couch, clutching his belly. "What did you give me?" he moaned.

So, our day was shot. Two sick parents don't make for a very fun Easter for the kiddos. We went to the party where Justin slept in an empty basement room, and I snuggled on the living room couch. I'm pretty sure someone was supervising my kids....they survived, anyway. I got outside to take some pictures of the egg hunt, though; I just couldn't miss it.

4. Lauren was a slow gatherer. She was too interested in opening each egg as she found it, and in trying to convince me that its contents should be immediately consumed. She was adorable at it, too.

5. At 4 years old, Mia's become quite a pro at egg hunting. Her basket was overflowing within minutes. She searched out all the glittery, sparkly eggs first, and cleverly eschewed the real, hard-boiled eggs. But it was okay -- I'd forgotten to bring our dyed eggs with us so I knew we had plenty of cooked eggs at home waiting for us.

6. One of the saddest parts? I didn't get to wear my new shoes on Easter morning:

I ordered them online a few months ago, and was SO excited about my purchase. Chocolate brown suede, tall and gorgeous, and discounted so deeply that I couldn't pass them up. When I got them and tried them on for the first time, I fell a little in love with them.

Until I moved. They killed me. Or, they killed the 4th toe on my left foot; everything else was fine. I vowed to wear them as long as I could stand -- each day, around the house -- until they were comfortable enough to wear for real. I was hoping for an Easter deadline. Then, on Wednesday of Holy week, they were perfect! I pranced and ogled for hours around the house. I took the above picture (along with several more) to celebrate and confirm what I already knew: they were gorgeous. I only took the shoes off to walk down our steep driveway to get the mail, but when I returned and slipped them back on, the magic had gone. They HURT again!

I had no idea what the difference was, but I determined that they'd surely work for my Easter morning dress. It was off-white with large and small chocolate brown spots, ending in a powdery blue trim, tied around with the same shade of blue in a ribboned belt, and topped with a matching cropped cardigan.

Of course, I didn't get to wear it. I'm counting on attending a May wedding to pull it all out again, though. The shoes WILL be worn. And they'd better be comfortable, darn it.

7. By the next day, both Justin and I were as good as new. Healthy and happy. And a few pounds lighter.

Have a fantastic weekend, my friends, and stop by Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes!

My Mathematical (Scandinavian**) Genius

Scene: Late evening. Both computers are occupied -- Justin's using one for his corporate finance homework for his MBA. Sarah's using one for something equally important and respectable: deleting Facebook notifications from her email.


Justin: *turning around in his swivel chair* Gah! This is impossible! Why don't I remember how to do algebra?! Here, look at this.
Sarah: You've GOT to be kidding me. I don't remember that stuff!
Justin: *thrusting his papers at me* Seriously. Please. How do I solve for x, here?
Sarah: *shrinking away from the papers like they're acid-soaked* YOU seriously. I have NO idea! Why don't you just...Google it or something. Google 'solve for x'.
Justin: Pfft. That's lame. *sigh*


A few minutes later:


Justin: Wha...YESSSSSSS!!! *jumping up from his chair* I GOT IT!! See? SEE?? *again with the paper-thrusting*
Sarah: Woo-hoo!
Justin: Don't hate. Look at this! Let me show you...
Sarah: Dear God, no.
Justin: *sidling up to his math-fearing wife* My mistake was when I (did something with some quotient and some denominator, yadda yadda) and I should have just (multiplied some numerator and some blah, blah, blah). And when I did that, it (became miraculously and phenominally and fantastically correct)! I'm a GENIUS!
Sarah: *considering the overabundance of numeric information she's just not processed* I kinda wanna make out with you right now.
Justin: *fist-pump*


**The title, if you don't remember, refers to this post wherein Justin asserts his Scandinaviosity.

We Were A Family Of Foreign Travelers

The music boomed out the front doors of the shop and into the hallway where we were seated. Around us, strangers, families, and individuals strolled through the mall, darting into stores and lugging plastic bags on their arms. We sat on an upholstered bench, eating a vending machine ice cream cone: just one to share between the girls and I -- Justin wasn't interested in the frozen pink and blue, bubblegum-flavored treat. Tattling crystals of frozen condensation sprinkled to the ground as we'd opened the package, melting on the industrial tiles of the mall floor, confessing the truth of the ice cream's long wait at the bottom of the machine's frozen stockpile.

The storefront before us was darkened, but not for lack of life inside. A deep bassline thrummed out around scantily clad mannequins and shoppers, all of the young and hip variety. This was the kind of store I'd always wanted to shop at when I was a teenager. A store full of fool-proof fashion, instant popularity, and automatic acceptance into the in-crowd. If I'd worn those faded and machine-frayed clothes, I'd have been in. I just knew it.

In what I considered to be a dramatic and unfair twist of life, I also knew I would never shop from that store. Looking at a single price tag on a should-be affordable piece of clothing once made my adolescent jaw drop in wonder. People paid this much for that?! I understood then that I wasn't going to ever fit into that crowd: my clothing was cheaper and less fashionable. Less tattered. Less baring. Far less expensive.

But with my family beside me, my dreams and hopes having drastically changed in the past decade, I just giggled at the thought of people -- slaves and followers -- spending so much money on such worthless clothing. Justin looked at me over our bubblegum-flavored little girls. "I think I'm going to head in there. Check out some new clothes," he declared with a twinkle in his chocolate brown eyes.

I lifted one brow in disbelief. "Sure thing," I joked. We'd be just about as welcome in that store -- with our sticky, pastel-colored children -- as a family of monkeys into Martha Stewart's living room. Despite my disbelief, when the ice cream was finished, he grabbed Mia by the hand and strolled confidently into the darkened store. Peeking back over her shoulder, Mia squealed in excitement: this was suddenly an adventure into a dark and noisy cave. After cleaning Lauren up, I followed, pushing the stroller into the abyss.

We were suddenly one with the store. Clothing piled in haphazard arrangements were our companions. Thumping music and shadowed corners were our heartbeat and lifeblood. Sweet, cologne-fragranced air was our...air. It was unsettling.

I couldn't see Justin or Mia anywhere; the store was a maze of walls and tables, lying in wait. Carefully, I navigated the aisles, cursing the choice to bring the stroller in the first place. But, I reasoned, trying to keep Lauren's curious hands away from the piles of clothing and displays of cologne would have been just as nerve-wracking. I pushed on, hoping to stumble across the rest of my family so we could be on our way. Circling around near the back of the store, we cut across a few labyrinthine rows to head back to the front. I was just about to turn the corner, squeezing between two tables, when the inevitable happened: I got stuck.

The stroller was wedged tightly between a table of cologne bottles and a one of properly tattered undergarments.

The store had apparently asserted its dislike of our messy, cumbersome family in favor of its more civilized customers. I carefully backed out from the tables, reversing the way I came, all the while under the superior gaze of the cashier. She was carelessly dressed in the same hip, tight clothing as the store mannequins, with posture just as brazenly confident. In contrast to her, I in my comfortable shoes and cardigan looked downright old.

Near the front of the store, I found Justin and Mia, looking for all the world like buried treasure in that darkened cave. Justin's handsome, loving face. Mia's glowing smile and flying hair. Lauren's laughing voice and waving hands greeting them.

This was my family.

We left the store -- that other world -- and eased back into the mall's traffic.

I was never so glad to be old. Unfashionable. Comfortable. Loved.