The Harvest

As many of you loyal readers know, this fall we had quite the drama revolving around squirrels and pecans. You also know how hard we Andrew worked all summer long to water our pecan tree and give it the right nutrients it needed to produce fruit. Or is it nuts? Well, it's actually both. Anyway, I am happy to declare that our harvest has come!

As soon as cooler weather set in, the pecans started to drop. I may have mentioned in a previous post how we grew anxious and prematurely pulled green pecans off of the branches. Yeah, not a good idea. **Greedy, greedy, green-pecan farmers!** In the end, it wasn't worth it. Despite the fabulous drying system Andrew created, the pecans just weren't ready. The green shells dried and shriveled up in the sun. Instead of opening, they entombed the little nuts into a rock-hard sphere worthy of the trash.

With Andrew having done the legwork upfront, it was time for us girls to pull our weight with the harvesting part of the pecan farming bid'ness. Yes, I will readily admit to enlisting my child into pecan picking labor, but she loved it. She was also paid handsomely with as many nuts as she wanted to eat. The school teacher in me would like to further note that aside from a belly full of pecans, she garnered lessons about botany, hard work and reward, not to mention attaining some mad sorting skills.

Depending on the day and how windy it was, we'd pick for a good 15 minutes each afternoon. Some days were more fruitful than others, but even when there wasn't much, there'd still be something to pick up. Having quickly grown tired of the bend-down-pick-up method, I got creative and turned picking into a workout. Yes, I did. No joke. For reals.

So far, I've picked pecans doing squats and lunges all across the yard, in the downward dog yoga pose, and in a one-handed plank. I can assure you that it's no exercise to sneeze at. Furthermore, I can give you a testimony to the benefits of my "Pecan Picking Workout" program. Aside from looking like an idiot in front of your child, you will gain better glutes, toned arms and abs, not to mention a bucket full of pecans. It's all about the multitasking here people. But back to my story...

Last night we had a cold front blow in which knocked pecans from the tree. I know this because it took me forever to fall asleep, and I could hear what sounded like hail being pummeled at our roof. Today after lunch, Olivia and I bundled up and headed for the backyard. I've had a feeling that our pecan picking days have been coming to a close (both because I'm getting tired of picking and because there has been less and less to gather), so I didn't know what to expect.

What to my wondering eyes should appear?! Pecans! EVERYWHERE! There were nuts covering almost every inch of our backyard! I was overwhelmed! I still am! I grabbed a big basket and we started picking like mad. I tried a few of my yoga-picking poses but there were just too many pecans to gather in. There were so many in fact that I plain old got down on my knees and started grabbing as many as I could with both hands. I knew the pecans weren't going anywhere, but I felt an urgency due to the cold wind and the overwhelming amount of pecans there were to collect.

Olivia was having a blast and I could hear her singing "Crack em!" as she dropped pecans into the basket. As silly as it may sound, my adrenaline picked up as I was literally grabbing handfuls of pecans each time I reached down. A harvest this great was beyond what we'd imagined. Absolutely unreal...almost epic compared to what we'd expected to get.

As I gathered in this great harvest, a parallel came rushing to my mind. In the past couple of years, a few of my girlfriends, godly women who have waited patiently and faithfully for "Mr. Right", have met their man. Some have married, some are now married with munchkins, and some will soon be "Mrs". They have spent years cultivating godly character, put in the time to establish a good name, and been faithful to pray and wait for the fruit. These things have not come easily, nor without a fight, but they're reaping the blessings of their obedience.

The idea of waiting for "the harvest" applies to so many areas of our lives. We're all waiting for something. And God, in His perfect timing, knows exactly when to bring the increase. When He does, the joy of gathering in His goodness is so full and filling, it can almost be nauseating. You may think you've experienced His blessing, but you look around and there's more to be found. The previous struggles you experienced are made nothing in light of the abundance at hand.

"And let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9

No Try...Just Do

A couple weeks ago I received a challenge to raise my child in godliness...from a most unexpected source.

Our microwave had been acting up, and I do mean in a most un-microwavy fashion. Arching and sparking are not what we know to be "normal" behaviors for such an appliance, so we put in a call to the warranty repair man. An appointment was made for a Wednesday, so I was ready when the doorbell rang.

An older red-headed gentleman was at my door and had come to diagnose our microwave's symptoms. He took one glance at the contraption and almost immediately knew what was wrong. As he began his repair work, he saw past me and waved a good morning to Olivia, eating her berries in the next room. Making small talk, he asked if we wanted more children. He then told me that just the day before he heard a statistic in a sermon stating that every second that passes, two people pass away. He stood up from his leaning into the microwave, paused dramatically, snapped his fingers and said "Two people...*snap*...two people...*snap*...". It was sobering.

He continued working on the microwave and said "With a statistic like that, we sure do need more babies coming into the world!" To that I added, "Yes, we sure do. We would like more, and are trying to raise this one in a godly way." Upon hearing these words, he again stood up from his work, but this time he looked at me with great seriousness. There was a strictness in the tone of his voice as he told me: "No. You don't try. You do. That's all there is to it."

A bit startled at his command, I thought about what he'd said and agreed that he was right. I realized that my use of the word "try" was wrong. We're not commanded to "try" to raise our children, but to "train". It's not something we simply aim toward and hope the arrow reaches the mark, but an action we live, day in and day out.

Proverbs refers to children as "olive shoots", and just like my trellising garden plants need to be consistently woven around something sturdy, so it is with my child. My own little Olive is in constant and dire need of being directed. She won't benefit from my guidance anymore than my peas will obey by only commanding them to vine around a post. She and my peas need hands-on guidance and tender training. None of this is accomplished by trying, but by doing. I can make efforts to accomplish something all day long, but nothing will get done unless I just do it. To borrow from Yoda, "Do. Or do not. There is no try."

Whether it's with my parenting, homemaking, or spiritual life as a believer, this principle of doing carries great weight. Meals will never get made unless I "do" and make them. Bad attitudes (be them my daughter's or my own!) won't improve unless they are addressed. My soul won't be nourished with nothing, so I must drink in the Word, and study the truths of scripture. As much as we live by faith, we live out the reality of it by "doing".

Now, to settle the burning question in all of your minds, yes, in the end, our microwave was fixed, but more importantly, so was my thinking. God is good in His own doing to correct His kids through various and sometimes mysterious means. It just so happened that on a windy Wednesday, His truths were delivered into my home by a red-headed microwave repairman.

He Heals the Brokenhearted

It's been a rough Fall for my family. Various trials and heartbreaking circumstances have been a near constant reminder to look to the Lord for comfort and to know that He is completely in control. To remember that He is good and has a purpose for everything. This morning, Psalm 147 has blessed me and I'd like to share it with you as well. This passage is taken from the ESV. That would be the "Especially 'Spired Version" for those in doubt. ;)

Psalm 147
He Heals the Brokenhearted

1 Praise the Lord!
For it is good to sing praises to our God;
for it is pleasant,[a] and a song of praise is fitting.
2 The Lord builds up Jerusalem;
he gathers the outcasts of Israel.
3 He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
4 He determines the number of the stars;
he gives to all of them their names.
5 Great is our Lord, and abundant in power;
his understanding is beyond measure.
6 The Lord lifts up the humble;[b]
he casts the wicked to the ground.
7 Sing to the Lord with thanksgiving;
make melody to our God on the lyre!
8 He covers the heavens with clouds;
he prepares rain for the earth;
he makes grass grow on the hills.
9 He gives to the beasts their food,
and to the young ravens that cry.
10 His delight is not in the strength of the horse,
nor his pleasure in the legs of a man,
11 but the Lord takes pleasure in those who fear him,
in those who hope in his steadfast love.

12 Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem!
Praise your God, O Zion!
13 For he strengthens the bars of your gates;
he blesses your children within you.
14 He makes peace in your borders;
he fills you with the finest of the wheat.
15 He sends out his command to the earth;
his word runs swiftly.
16 He gives snow like wool;
he scatters frost like ashes.
17 He hurls down his crystals of ice like crumbs;
who can stand before his cold?
18 He sends out his word, and melts them;
he makes his wind blow and the waters flow.
19 He declares his word to Jacob,
his statutes and rules[c] to Israel.
20 He has not dealt thus with any other nation;
they do not know his rules.[d]
Praise the Lord!

The Camping Trip

Andrew has told me for as long as I've known him that he loves to go camping. This passion wasn't fully revealed until last weekend when we were finally able to take our first family camping trip! Andrew has been able to camp a couple of times this fall, but up until last weekend, we girls have smiled and waved him a good time from the safety of the front door.

As the work-week came to a close, Andrew threw out the idea of going camping. I've been reassuring him for umm, well...over two years that we'll go, but things have come up that have prevented us from going. You know, things like untimely weather, moving a couple of times. Oh yes, and having a baby. You know, stuff like that.

With all legitimate excuses behind us me, on Saturday morning, we packed up the truck. I was excited. I had all kinds of great camping food prepared, the temperature was perfect for a little outdoor living, and we were finally getting away to go camping! It would be fun! Right?! YES! IT WOULD!

In my defense, it's been 4 years since I last went camping. I've forgotten a few things since then. And now there's a toddler to pack for. So, with this at the forefront of your mind, try not to judge me too harshly when I share this. That about 30 minutes down the road, still swelling with pride over a job-well-done with my preparations, I had a face-palm moment when I realized it might have been a good idea to bring the pack-n-play. Or the jogging stroller. Or some kind of child-carrying device. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

Since we were so far down the road, we looked at each other, gave a nervous laugh and continued on. That moment should have been some kind of hint. Perhaps our first clue that we might be in for a special trip.

We arrived at our destination; a beautiful state park with a lake, hiking trails, canoeing, and mini-golf, in addition to the RV, teepees, and tent camping sites. We drove around to give each site a fair glance before deciding where we would stay. A lovely spot near the lake finally caught our eye, so we parked and began to unload the truck. Opening the truck door, I was struck in the face with a great gust of wind. I tied my hair back and continued to help Andrew get everything set up. Since Andrew was planning to sleep in his hammock, he pulled out a large 4-man tent for Olivia and me to sleep in. He wanted us to have plenty of room. So thoughtful. The only problem is that as we opened it up, the wind picked up, caught the tent and nearly sent us para-sailing into the lake! I had to brace myself, gripping as much of the tent as possible while he put the fiberglass poles together.

Once the poles gave the tent some structure, Andrew staked it down and Olivia and I began to build our nest inside. While unrolling our sleeping bags and blankets, another great surge of wind hit the tent, this time so hard that the top collapsed to the ground...with us still inside! Olivia started to scream and I dragged us out of the tent with Andrew looking on in dismay. We continued to struggle with the tent for a while but despite Andrew's best efforts, it kept buckling each time any bit of wind puffed past. Our nearest campsite neighbor kindly came over and offered for us to stake the tent in any windbreak her RV could offer...but it wasn't meant to be. Shortly after her kind offer, one of the fiberglass poles gave out in a great heave of wind and snapped. Great.

We gathered our things, reloaded the truck and decided to drive around the park once more. We got out at a few places to walk along some trails. The entire state park was once the home of a Native-American Chief and I could see why he's claimed that spot! There were several beautiful springs in the valley, with rolling hills, winding trails, and a few ancient looking stone buildings fashioned in the 1930's when the park opened. The highlight of our little walk was discovering a rushing waterfall!

Feeling a bit refreshed by the beautiful sights, I began to feel a little better about our "best laid plans". We walked around until Olivia began to fuss; her cheeks red and nose running from the abusive breeze. We settled ourselves back into the truck and my thoughts turned to what I would make for dinner when we returned home. That is until we made a certain turn off of a certain highway I was sure was leading us back home. Andrew had a peculiar twinkle in his eye and I began to pester him about our destination. Always one for surprises, he took us just off our original path to another beautiful state park! Who knew this country held so many gems of nature?!

This new park took us down into a canyon. There were immense red bluffs, a quaint little lake, all surrounded by gorgeous trees dressed in the colors of fall. As with the last park, we took a tour before choosing a site. We decided on a secluded spot just below the bluffs, which sheltered us from the gale-force winds of the last place. Andrew whipped out a smaller, but much more sturdy tent for us girls and as he set it up, I looked on with new appreciation at how it didn't give-way to any little puff of air. Perspective is everything, right?

With the tent secured and amply padded, Andrew set up his hammock in some nearby trees, and we just did the camp thing. Built a fire, kicked around some leaves, made a few trees our own...it was nice. I'll admit that as darkness covered the camp, I began to imagine all sorts of wild animals in the woods that would love to snack on a juicy toddler. And so, my Mommy-control-freak came out. If I wasn't holding Olivia on my lap, I certainly didn't let her get any farther and a couple of feet away from me. Fortunately for me, I have an observant husband who noted my psycho behavior and encouraged me to chill out. He was right. As usual. I calmed down and Olivia found a tiny piece of wood to pound on the picnic table. She did laps around the picnic table, threw leaves in the air, and had a grand old time. I felt like a dork. So glad Olivia has at least one reliable and non-spazzy parent.

After a lovely dinner prepared by my honey (saute' onions, green beans and fire-smoked sausage for ye curious), I got Olivia ready for bed. Once prayers were said and kisses were given, we let her settle into her nest of blankets and zipped her in. She did so well going to sleep, so Andrew and I had a little time to ourselves. WHAT?! Oh, it was wonderful. We cleaned up dinner, sat by the fire, and Andrew even made some incredible popcorn. It was seriously the best popcorn I've ever tasted. My man has skills deluxe!

Once the popcorn was consumed, we decided to turn in. It had been a long day and sleep sounded delightful. A flashlight guided me to the tent, and Andrew nestled into his hammock in the trees nearby. And we all slept the whole night through and woke up happy campers in the morning.

I had a hard time falling asleep and kept tossing around to find a comfortable spot. It didn't happen. So, around midnight I was laying there half awake when I began to hear the tiny pitter-patter of rain drops plopping on our tent. Oh dear. I unzipped the tent, grabbed the flashlight and in morse code gave a few flashes in Andrew's direction to see how he was doing. He poked his head from his sleeping bag and hammock and said he was alright. I crawled back in to try to sleep and snuggle with Olivia but still couldn't doze off. Around 2am I grew rather alarmed. That sparse pitter-patter had quickly turned into a downpour! I figured Andrew knew what he could handle so just waited. Not long after that, Andrew crawled into the tent, half drenched from the rain and pretty chilled. You see, the rain had come in with a cold front. Lovely.

The rest of the night is something I'd rather like to forget. I'll leave it to your imagination what it was like to try and sleep in a 2-man tent containing a rain-soaked Dad, a sleepless psycho-Mom, and a 1 1/2 year old who kept talking and randomly kicking her feet. Well, that is until we quarantined her to a corner of the tent. It was special.

Morning eventually came (praise God from whom all blessings flow) and when the rain stopped, Andrew built a fire. I was extremely thankful for this fact because it was cold out and we could barely feel our hands. Yes, my thoughtful husband came ready to deal with wet wood (because he's prepared like that), so soon had quite a blaze going to warm his tired family. Olivia was especially grumpy and preferred to cry until Andrew tucked her in his arms and made her eat a little breakfast. We stuck around until we'd warmed up, then had the joy of packing up all of our wet, damp, and smoky smelling belongings. Hot showers and warm beds were such a tonic when we got back that evening.

Despite all of the calamities our trip included, I'm thankful that we kept light-hearted and were able to laugh through the moments hours
when things didn't go as planned. I am all the more impressed with my wonderful husband and his preparedness, for Olivia being a trooper (mostly), and for a chance to get out in God's creation. And so concludes my account of our family's first camping trip. May it rest in peace, forever amen. May it also be remembered with fondness and perhaps a little laughter.

Daylight Savings Blues

Daylight Savings Time has not been kind to us.

- We love being outside. With the time change, all of our outdoor activities were cut far too short. We shan't be the same until Spring!

- The child ate something that didn't agree with her and has had an upset tummy and several blow-out diapers. My poor baby. This, plus the time change, has had her in meltdown mode most of the day.

- We finished dinner! BEFORE 6:30pm!!! Miracles will never cease. It makes sense though...we ate early because we weren't able to play outside as long.

I can't decide whether or not it's time to capitalize on the rest of the evening by nestling down with a good book, or start drinking. Or maybe both? ;)

The Pecan Wars

With the arrival of the cooler weather, my hands have been a little busier tending the fall garden, and more recently, joining my husband in the world of pecan farming. Perhaps I should have been aware of it sooner, but my Andrew loves pecans. We're talking huge fan. He likes them so much that he's gone to what some might consider extremes to ward off the pecan's most vicious predator, the Sciurus Carolinensis...better known as the Eastern Grey Squirrel.

I will not soon forget the day that Andrew climbed our pecan tree to remove a squirrel's nest, and came face to face with the feisty critter. Mrs. Squirrel was rather livid that Andrew was attempting to evict her from her home and threw all sorts of chattering insults from the limbs above. At one point it appeared she was ready to go to the mattresses with him. Yikes! Watching from below, I began mentally preparing my speech for the nurses at the ER.

"Well you see, my husband was just attacked by a squirrel. No, it didn't appear to be rabid. He was kind of up in the tree...where it lived...tearing it's house down...with the squirrel watching. Have I mentioned he likes pecans?"

While Andrew's survival skills allowed him to narrowly escape a squirrel attack, he did not evade the notice of the neighbor living behind us. We were yet to meet her, and he said she gave him a pretty strange look. Under the circumstances, I probably would have done the same had I seen a grown man climbing a tree, exchanging words with a squirrel. That is unless that man is my husband. In which case I admire him all the more for protecting our family and our pecan tree from the nut hoarding critters.

It's been a team effort to protect our pecans over the last few months. Andrew did a great job of giving the tree the water and minerals it needed to survive this summer's drought. As harvest time has drawn near, we've been on red-alert for the "fuzzy tailed nut smugglers". Yes, that is what we call them. My watch during the day has at times involved abandoning projects or housework to run hot-footed outside, pellet gun in hand, to try and snipe the little beasts. They truly are masters of sneakiness, so one has to act quickly once they've been spotted.

Being limited with a pellet gun, I've felt like our squirrels have mocked my attempts to scare them off. I've wondered if I might have more success throwing rocks. Or dare I admit that with such a puny gun, my aim isn't as true as it might be with say...a shotgun?! As fun and effective as that might be, I'm sticking to legal weapons like bb's, rocks, and perhaps the occasional house slipper. I figure the whole jail scene might put a damper on my homemaking image.

In attempt to gather as many precious nuts before our nemesis can, we've taken to picking green pecans. This is the stage just before the outer shell dries out and opens to drop the fully developed pecan. My beloved engineer set up a drying station for the green "Kaans" to finish ripening. Picking, sorting, and shelling pecans has become part of Olivia's and my daily routine. She enjoys the hunt and organization of it so much that it's been fun for me, too. One of the only downsides to shelling green pecans is that the moisture from the outer shell oxidizes on your fingers and is next to impossible to scrub off. My brown thumbs won't win me any "Beautiful Homemaker Hands" awards, but heck, the pecans are worth it. And I wasn't planning to enter that contest anyway.

Many a recent evening has been spent before the fireplace, Olivia in Andrew's lap, cracking and enjoying our pecans. After tasting the fruit (or should I say nuts?) of our labor, I can definitely say our war with the squirrels has been worth it. We're enjoying our harvest and Olivia has become a pecan fan like her Papa. Observing our cracking methods, she will grab two pecans, bring them to one of us and ask (and at times, demand) that we "Crack em?". Who can resist such cuteness?! Alas, after all of our efforts to save our pecans from the squirrels, I do believe we've created a squirrel of our own.

Oh, and as an aside, in case you run into any pecan farmers in the near future, please don't judge them by the appearance of their hands. They may have just returned from battle with the Eastern Squirrel and deserve some respect. ;)

Tea for Two

I am of the belief that one can never have too much tea, too many tea pots, or cups, mugs, and saucers on hand. I grew up a bit of an Anglophile (*ahem* I still am), so over the years I've kept my eye out for tea-related items. I have been fortunate to find a number of things, which can be evidenced by looking around my home and in my cupboards. At one point Andrew nearly had an intervention when he realized that at that point, we had about 7 tea pots. I should say "we" as in "I", because he certainly wasn't the one amassing kettles in a hope chest before we'd met!

I know, I know...seven teapots sounds a bit horder-esk, but in my defense, a few were for decor/display, one was on the stove to boil water, and another one or two were to brew loose leaves. That doesn't sound so unreasonable. Does it? Regardless, while I have greatly pared down on the "collection", my love of the beverage and it's accoutrements lives on.

Today, at one of my newly discovered treasure chests thrift stores, I found this beauty:

A friend of mine has one nearly identical and I've always admired it. It holds a good deal of water; more than enough for two people. As I confessed above, I already have a teapot that holds loose leaves, but it's very small, holds only enough water for 1 person, and isn't very well insulated. Who wants luke-warm tea? Not I, said the Tea-tress.

Yes, I just made up that word, but I rather like it. I can just see it in the dictionary... "Tea-tress: A woman who enjoys tea, and it's related articles." Has a nice ring to it, don'tcha think?

Anyway...for a teapot, it was adorable and I just couldn't pass up it up for a mere $3. Imagine my delight when I looked up the retail value on my phone while driving got home to the safety of my computer and discovered the retail value to be $30. Thrifting win, tea-lovers! It's a nice feeling. A deceptive one that makes you feel like you were given the item for free, but in reality still forked over some dough. My consolation is that as I've been on a house de-cluttering rampage (a post on that to come soon), I figure on using it for a while and if it begins to collect dust, then out it goes. The perk with thrifting is that when you buy something on the cheap, you can usually get your money back out of it, and or it's no great loss if it ends up at your garage sale.

As I previously blogged, I am determined that this season will include sipping tea. This lovely ceramic find certainly helps me on my way, and in style, too. Now to wash the little gem, assess it's ability to retain heat, steep leaves, and make friends with the other tea pots.

Feel free to confront me if you think I have crossed the line and am digressing into hoarderdom. You can come to my house. We will talk, and have tea while you try to confront me. You will be so overtaken by the scent of freshly brewed mint and chamomile from my garden, that you'll forget what it was you had to say.

Where there are No Oxen...

I've noticed that during certain seasons of my life, different scriptures will stand out and hold new meaning depending on what I'm going through. This summer, a verse from Proverbs was constantly floating around in my head, and being repeated on my lips. For ye curious, here it is:

"Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean,
but abundant crops come by the strength of the ox." Proverbs 14:4


Our pastor preached on this verse a few years ago and shed light on what I'd see as an otherwise "odd" passage. He explained that oxen are excellent farming animals, able to plow fields and move dirt with greater ease than a farmer would ever have with a shovel. The only thing is that oxen are big animals, and they consume a lot of feed. And as we all know, what goes in, must come out. Oxen poop. A lot. Therefore, the manger is gonna get dirty. It just comes with the territory. Our pastor reminded us that too often we get caught up with the "poo" and forget to be grateful that we even have an oxen to plow our fields.

This past summer, I was tempted to be ungrateful for the oxen in my life. All I was seeing was the poo. And I mean literally. Lemme esplain'.

Since record hot temperatures had settled into our area, we naturally dressed to stay cool. Shorts and t-shirt were the order of the day, as were onesies for my munchkin. On one particularly hot day, I had laid Olivia down for a nap and gone about my routine to "get stuff done" while she was asleep. About 30 minutes after laying her down, I passed by her room and noticed that things were quiet. Too quiet. Carefully opening the door, I planned to peek in and check on my sleeping beauty.

As I cracked the door and stuck my head in, I was struck in the face with an unbelievably horrendous odor. It was enough to daze me for a second. When I dared to open my eyes, I did NOT find my peacefully sleeping child, but a creature clinging to the rail of the crib. This thing had dark brown eyebrows and muddy hands. It saw me, and to my horror, I realized that the thing was my child...covered in poo.

Despite the constraint of her onesie, Olivia had managed to fill her diaper and pull it's contents out through the gussets underneath her legs. Being alone and the creative sort, she decided to finger-paint. Her eyebrows were perfectly outlined, her feet looked mid-way through a mud mask, and her sheets were littered with tiny brown doodles. I was aghast. When our eyes met, she saw the look of dismay on my face, knitted her brown eyebrows, looked at me and said: "No???" I repeated her "No.", and she burst into tears. She'd been caught, and knew this wasn't the right kind of finger-painting project I normally encourage.

For a while I stood surveying the mess. Where does one begin? Call 911? Recruit a Hazmat team? I finally settled on running a warm and very soapy bath while I collected all contaminated articles of clothing and fabric. It took a while to get everything in hand, but Olivia had her bath, the sheets were washed, and she was once again put to bed...this time in cotton footie pajamas. I wasn't going to risk it.

I'd like to tell you that this episode was the last I experienced, but I can't. I'm an optimist and hoped that such a thing would never happen again, but it did. Forgetting to be faithful with footie pajamas at every nap, I entered Olivia's room to see brown eyebrows two more times that week. My first reaction wasn't always the best, but after more laundry and more scrubby-bubble baths, I was able to laugh.

At the time, I may not have been thankful for the poo, but was mindful of how great it is to have a little one. Not everything about motherhood is pretty, but whoever said it has to be? Where ever you are in life, you'll have to deal with some form of poo. Just remember that having an oxen is not without it's benefits (not that everything in our lives is supposed to incur a return). I'm blessed to be able to clean up the messes...because I have a daughter.

Perspective (and gratefulness) is everything my friends. For all the poopy diapers I may have to change, there are still giggles, silly songs sung in a high-pitched voice, tight hugs from little arms wrapped around my neck, and an ocean of joy from having Olivia as my daughter. Yes, there may be days a littler messier than others, but I'll take them, poo and all. Just preferably safely contained in her diaper.

The Summer

Seeing as how summer is officially over, I figured it's safe to come out of hiding. Yes, a cold front has blown through our urban homestead. The windows and doors are open to catch the breeze, and I'm comfortably in my favorite jeans and long sleeves. Life is good. It could be a little better if I were sipping a cup of hot tea, but that would mean I'd have to leave you all. The risk of being distracted by a household something-or-another might mean the end of this blog as we know it. So for now, no tea for me.

To fill y'all in on where I've been the past few months, let me begin by saying that this summer was FAR busier than I'd imagined. It was filled to the brim with wonderful things, but until recently (okay, like 5 minutes ago), it's felt like I'd never catch up. Our summer included many hours splashing around in a small blow-up pool, and travels to NW Washington State and God's country. For those of you in doubt of the location of God's Country, that would be the great state of Texas. Glad to clear things up.

While in WA, we enjoyed a break from the heat and got to hang out with our family. It's such a neat thing when God relates you to people you'd have chosen as friends anyway. Olivia loved running around with her cousins while we grown ups discussed everything from football to the making of kombucha. We had adventures that included picnics, evening fires, wild blackberry brambles, the salty sea and Dungeoness crabs. It was a delightful time and if you can ever escape that far north, do so!

On one of our days in the Puget Sound, we were able to go crabbing. Since I went along for the last crab-pot-pick-up of the season, Andrew designated me as the muscle to reel the pots onto the boat. (Thanks, babe. **cough**) The water was cold, and the crabs weren't very happy that we'd robbed them of their chicken dinner in order to make them ours. They snapped at us with their claws, and made clicking noises once measured and wedged together in large plastic buckets. When we got back onto the dock, I planned to watch Andrew and our brother-in-law clean the crabs. Again, I was wrong about being a spectator.

To clean a crab, one must gather all four wriggling legs and wildly swinging claw in one hand, and grasp firmly under their shell with the other. After that, you forcibly rip their shell off, break them in half, then rinse their innards into the water. It's quite violent. I was petrified and exhilarated all in the same moment when Andrew told me it was my turn to clean a crab. After a few tries, I managed to grip the legs and the evasive claw in my left hand, and secured the shell in my right. I gave a mighty heave, and....nothing. No shell flying off into the water. Just a REALLY ANGRY crab grappling with the dock, desperate to pinch me or get away. I regained my grip, gave it a little more *umph*, and hooray! I had successfully decapitated a crab! I was so excited that once that sucker was cleaned, I went for another one. Ripping crab heads off is a rather gratifying thing; especially since they've tried to take your fingers off. **That'll be one to add to, and check off my bucket list.**

Our visits to Texas were sprinkled with seeing dear friends and family, shooting guns, gathering our favorite Texas food and beverages, and on one day, even stopping into a tattoo parlor. Yes, you heard that right! After a lengthy discussion about legalism and freedom in Christ, my dear friend Rachel and I put aside our apprehensions, and got our noses pierced! It certainly wasn't on the trip's agenda, but is such a fun memory, with a rather cute result.

The past few months have developed a lot of changes in Olivia. We are seeing more teeth poke through her gums, hair that needs to be pulled back, and several pairs of shoes that no longer fit. More importantly, each day reveals such a happy and interactive toddler emerging from what's left of her baby-ness. I never quite understood the phrase "They grow up so quickly", but believe I'm getting the idea in a hurry.

A few weeks ago our family picked up colds and sneezes and "Bless you's" were flying all over the place. Now that we are well, if anyone so much as wiggles their nose near a napkin, Olivia is quick to offer a "Bess you!". She may be an independent little soul, but she's still quite a peach.

Recently, as I was weeding the garden, I found an earthworm and brought Olivia over for an introduction. At first she acted disgusted that Mommy would ever touch such a dirt-covered, squirmy creature, but she eventually decided she wanted to "Touch?" the worm. Not too long after that, she was okay to hold one in her hand to observe up-close. She's seen us give worms to the hens, so I shouldn't have been too surprised when one day she found a wiggler and headed straight for the coop. The ladies certainly loved her for it, and my heart was glad to see her wanting to care for them.

There are so many other stories that I will have to catch you up on (including a few rather hilarious ones), but will end here for now. It may have been a record-hot summer, but not so hot that it kept us from having our adventures. The changing of the weather is always a good reminder to me that there are seasons in the year, and in life as well. Here's to hoping this next season finds us living life a little slower, and perhaps consuming a good quantity of hot tea.

Figs in Neon Pink Boxes

Well, I just lost my mind. Maybe the heat finally got to me, but something shook loose enough for me to finally do it. For the past few months I couldn't help but notice that a little bakery opened up on the corner of our neighborhood. It caught my eye partly because the sign was done in neon pink, and the other part being that it was no ordinary bakery. Behold...it was a cupcake bakery!

If you know me very well you'll know that I try to keep wheat and gluten out of my family's diet. I personally feel better when I'm not consuming it, so as the "cook" of the family, everyone else has to "suffer" without it. How much suffering is done may be determined by my ever-so-patient, carb-loving husband. I will own up to a couple loaves of wheat bread reserved for my man who likes him some sandwich, but other than that...no flour in this house.

So where was I? Oh yes...the bakery. Well, so far I've managed to keep my wits about me and go through the "Don't do it...you'll feel bad later" talk, but today I succumbed to the neon sign. I reasoned that we deserved a little treat on such a miserably hot day, and that we didn't need to be prejudiced over a smidgeon of wheat. At least not today.

The bright sign pointed me right to the front door. Once inside the wheat...urr...Cupcake Palace, my eyes feasted upon a host of iced fancies, complete with cute names. Everything was stacked nicely on their cake-plate thrones and each called out to me in their tiny cupcake voices: "Hello, I'm a chocolate with strawberry drizzle....EAT ME!"..."You know what you really want is a vanilla with death by chocolate icing!". What didn't help is that the baker so helpfully read off all of her creations (as if the cute little signs weren't enough).

What REALLY didn't help was when she told me that the day-old cupcakes were half off. Now how could I possibly refuse a perfectly-fine-half-off-cupcake?! I looked over the selection as Olivia mouthed the word "cup-cake" a few times. Finally, the vanilla with fig drizzle was chosen and purchased. Half off of course. The poor baker, I can imagine her wanting to pinch me after she'd just listed off her fresh creations, and then I go and choose something from the day before. Nevertheless, we bought our cupcake and hot-footed it home before we (or the cupcake) melted.

Once home, I noticed that Olivia was conveniently overdue for a nap. I say "conveniently" because in truth, when you're a Mom, there is no such thing as enjoying any kind of treat without a little beggar at your side. Few things destroy a nice exception to the rule like a kid clambering into your lap for you to practice your sharing skills.

With Olivia snoozing, I pulled the cupcake out of the pretty neon pink box, put it on a cute saucer and sat down before the computer. Computer? Yes, the whole time I've been pouring out my heart in confession to you people, I have been consuming my cupcake. The fig sauciness was divine, the cake part moist, light and fluffy...but now the wheat and sugar rush is overtaking me. Yes, it's definitely hitting me. I figure if I go into some kind of sugar-induced coma then at least I might be able to type off a few words of explanation before I go.

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

You know, now that I think of it...
Andrew, honey, if you're reading this and happen to find me laying on the floor with icing on my lips, I'm not trying to tempt you. I'm really just in some form of near death sugar coma. Take care of Olivia, feed her lots of fruit and veggies, and above all...don't give her any cupcakes. The bread for your sandwiches is in the freezer. I love you!

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

Fortunately, I think I may live to blog again. I maintained a little bit of self control and whacked half of the icing off the top of "El Figgy". It's currently laying helpless on the side of the saucer, screaming at me to be eaten, but my ears are deaf to it's pleas. Dare I say it, I think I have learned my lesson. While cupcakes are delicious, they just aren't a friend of mine. Or my pancreas.

Note to self: Beware of figs in neon pink boxes.

Chasing The Train

Olivia loves trains.

While this statement is true, it requires a bit more explanation. You see, we live only a couple of blocks and a road away from some train tracks. A couple times a day, a train will blow it's horn before crossing some nearby intersections, and being so close by, we've become accustomed to it's sound. As we've been teaching Olivia what certain animals say, we had to include the noise of the train to her bag of tricks. You should see the look on her face when she hears the horn. She stops to listen, brightens up, and proceeds to exclaim: "Choo-choo! Choo-choo!". At times we've been amazed at how adept her little hears are to pick up on the horn sounding in the distance. We have to wait for our older ears to hear it before realizing she's not just running around saying "Choo-choo" for nothing.

Since Olivia has learned about the choo-choo, Andrew and I realized that she's only ever heard it. She's never seen the train to know what it looks like, and yet there's such excitement when it comes around.

Last Tuesday our little family went out for a leisurely stroll about the neighborhood. We'd made it down the block and back when just a few houses from our own, we heard it...the train! Andrew looked at me and expressed the wild idea that if we ran, we might be able to show Olivia the train in person. My heart quickened as we started walking faster and moved into a near sprint down the street. Would we make it? Would she understand that the sound she's been hearing comes from this enormous machine?

As we passed our house, looked down the road and saw the empty tracks, we had a glimmer of hope that we might be able to make it in time. We ran a little faster (well, as fast as a Dad in flip-flops and a Mom pushing a stroller can go). We ran down our street, crossed a 4 lane road (thankfully there was not a car in sight!), jumped the curb and positioned Olivia's stroller facing the tracks. We'd made it. The sounds of the horn grew louder and louder. Olivia's eyes got wider and wider. Sincerely hoping she wouldn't be horrified, we kept saying "It's the train!", "Look baby...the train is coming!". She sat straight up in her chair saying "Choo-choo" just as the train tore in front of us. It was something to behold. The whoosh of the train as it was flying by, the horn in all of it's loudness, the squeaky wheels churning along....it was magnificent. But for all the excitement and rush of adrenaline we felt, it was nothing compared to the look of delight on Olivia's face.
THIS is a Choo-choo!

It's been a week since Olivia and her crazy parents ran to meet the train. The experience has left me with a lot more to ponder than I'd have imagined. When I think of my little girl being so excited over something she'd never seen, it refreshes my view of how we are to be before the Lord. What a thrill we should have to be in the presence of the Lord! What feelings of smallness should be ours, being the created of a great Creator. What love should be felt to be noticed and cherished by our God!

I don't know if Olivia was able to understand that something was making that incredible noise she recognized, but it was indeed the train making that sound. I'm willing to bet that seeing the actual train was something more marvelous than she could have ever pictured.

While a train is such a poor analogy to compare to an awesome God, I'm so encouraged as I learn more about the Lord, to know that He is far more majestic and brilliant than I will ever understand. To think that in my humanness, in a way, I am just a little girl who can recognize a sound of something (Someone) much greater than I can conceive. God is living and active in this world and in the lives of His people. His power is limitless. His love is immense.

We talk in terms of what we know...trains and such. If we seek Him, he promises to be found, but what we find may be beyond our wildest dreams. Like Lucy in C.S. Lewis' Narnia, we may ask about this great Lion, "Is he quite safe?, and should delight in the fact that "Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you." May His greatness change our hearts and thoughts as we chase after Him.

No-Poo

Well, it happened again. I was innocently standing at my kitchen sink attacking a pile of dishes when all of a sudden, words started coming to me and a blog post was forming. Somewhere between washing a wine glass and scrubbing a sippy cup, the thought occurred to me that some of you may get a kick out of my latest "crunchy" adventure. Yes, I figured it might scare some of you to know that I have ceased to wash my hair. No, I'm not working on dreads, or walking around with a greasy head, but I have stopped using shampoo. I've probably written about it before, but last year before Olivia was born, I gave the "no-poo" thing a try. I replaced my chemical-laden shampoo with a baking soda paste and *gasp* an apple cider vinegar conditioning rinse. Not wanting to upset his large pregnant wife, Andrew was extremely gracious with me and my experimenting.

My no-poo escapade successfully lasted for a few months...until Olivia arrived. After giving birth, I desperately needed to feel pretty, and just couldn't bear the scent of salad dressing as I scrubbed my noggin. It was back to the pretty neon shades of processed whatever-is-in-this-stuff shampoo, with occasional rounds of revisiting my baking-soda-and-vinegar-head days.

Recently, I have jumped back on the wagon. Or I have fallen off of it. I'm just not quite sure which. Whichever it is, I have once again gone no-poo, but with a different approach. I've used Dr. Bronners for a while now, and have loved it's multifarious functions (yes, I did just use that word), but haven't really loved it for my hair. Peppermint makes my head too tingly-fresh, and the other scents reminded me of my cleaning products. So, I made a brave decision...I have switched Doctors! **GASP** Yes, I did it...I ordered me some Dr. Woods! While these Dr's seem to prescribe a VERY SIMILAR medicine, I liked Dr. Wood's Black Soap with Shea scent a lot. We're talking refreshing with a side of sultry-scent good. I blame the sultry on the black soap ingredient...probably because I have no hoot of an idea what black soap is, but it's definitely sultry.

I will add that because I love the neutralizing effect of A.C.V as conditioner, on occasion I will still whip out the ole spray bottle. It's better this time though because I've added a dash of lavender oil to knock down some of the potency. Spraying and rinsing with A.C.V. works like magic, and to be honest, I've grown used to the smell. Now just to be clear, I don't love it so much that I'm going around sticking my head in people's salads, but it is pretty great stuff. ;)

Since once again going no-poo, I can testify to my normally fine hair having a lot more body, bounce, and life. Since I can't bottle this kinda feeling up for you, I'll simply encourage you to give a go with no-poo, too! Life is too short to go through it with dull hair. Oh, and for any single ladies reading this post, I'm on the fence on whether or not to encourage you to try this. Especially before you go on any dates. However, I can testify that Andrew's love for me is standing the test of time...and vinegar. He's a champ, what can I say?!

Oh, and one more thing...
Lest I've painted the picture that I have vinegar scent wafting from my head, I can assure you that once my hair is dry, I cannot smell anything but lovely, sultry black soap. Unless I'm in complete denial, in which case I humbly ask my friends for an intervention.

My Resolutions (Inspired by 1912)

"We need to live like people used to live 100 years ago."

Last week I went to see a Doctor for a few health issues. She introduced herself to me and we hit it off pretty quickly. During my appointment, I learned that she was incredibly passionate about her work, was well read and had a fantastic perspective on natural health. Of course, I enjoyed picking her brain.

Among other things, our talk included topics like soil depletion, genetically modified seed and the "food" it produces, the quality of the water we drink, the use and effects of chemical drugs in attempt to cure an illness. After some discussion, she said the above quote: "We need to live like people used to live 100 years ago." I wholeheartedly agreed with her, but that thought has been sinking in to increasing depths ever since I heard it. I wasn't alive 100 years ago, but it isn't too hard to assume that (nutritionally speaking) a Big Mac and 32 oz. Coke weren't on our ancestor's menus. I've been doing some research, and here's a snippet of what I've learned.

100 years ago:

-Roughly half of the of the United States population lived on a farm.

-Genetically modified seed (or "food") was non-existent. (GMOs weren't introduced until the 1980's.)

-Refrigerators were not yet on the market, no less used in homes.

-Automobiles were not around until the 1920's, so if you didn't have a horse or bicycle, you walked. Some sources indicate that people walked an average of 3-5 miles per day.

-Air conditioners weren't around, nor didn't make their appearance (in office and department stores) until the 1920's.

-The US didn't begin regulating the quality of water (or ways of treating it) until 1914. Water sources still contained natural (and essential) minerals.

So, to sum things up in plain terms, my research tells me that in 1912, the majority of the U.S. population grew their own food, and either ate it fresh or found ways of naturally keeping it preserved. They were necessarily active and when it got hot...they likely sweat, and drank water that wasn't processed with numerous chemicals.

Putting on my 1912 glasses has encouraged me to come up with a few new resolutions and maintain some already in place. This is a growing list, but not one I intend to use as any form of new 10 Commandments. I'm human, and would be legalistic to think I can make my own rules to perfectly keep up with all the time. These are simply things God has convicted me over to put into practice for me and my family.

My resolutions:

~ Drink more water. I know it sounds like a lame excuse, but I simply forget to drink enough ole H20. Recommended water consumption is to drink half your body weight in ounces per day. I figure if I fill up one of my glass pitchers and leave it on the counter, then I'll remember to chug-a-lug. If I can have it as fresh and un-touched as possible, great! If that isn't possible, I'm not going to clutch my stomach in agony at any whiff of chlorine. AND, as my husband always says...this water is better than Houston's! ;)

~ Continue gardening. This provides my family with food from our own backyard as well as the enjoyment, exercise and sunshine accompanied with tending it.

~ Continue keeping chickens. Their eggs are delicious and the hens are hysterical company. If laughter is good medicine, then I suggest you all get a hen for comic relief...and your better health.

~ Move more. I may not make the 3 mile/day norm of 1912, but getting out to move is healthy. My husband has always said that I return from a run happier than when I left...and he's right. Whether it be a run or a walk, or just strolling...I need to MOVE. I was so convicted when writing the draft of this post a couple days ago, that I left it to go on a jog with my girl. Along our way home, I ended up meeting a neighbor up the street who shared with me that she walks 5 miles a day and has lost 100 lbs due to her change in diet and exercising! How inspirational!

~ Breathe. To intentionally take in air, fill up my lungs, and breathe it out. It's healthy and not to mention relaxing...especially for a Mom who's kid has learned to say "No".

~ Sweat more. With skin being my largest organ, what toxins I do consume can be naturally swept out of my system through the process of sweating. *On this note, as gross as it may sound, I am moved more in my conviction against the use of antiperspirant deodorant. Future post on that to come...

~ When affordable, buy organic food. When it's not, find what is next best. And don't freak out.

~ As much as possible, eliminate processed and genetically modified food from my kitchen. I've been practicing this for a good while now, and it's not as hard to do as it may seem.

~ Take vitamins and minerals. We stopped using table salt about 6 months ago and have replaced it with mineral-rich sea salt. Grinding it up using our mortar and pestle gives me a weird sense of fun.

~ When I am able, and so long as it's not a burden to me or my family, use the principles of culturing or fermenting our food. Thanks to some dear friends, I've been making my own kombucha since last December and absolutely love it. I'm trying my hand at some sauerkraut as we speak, but we'll see how it turns out. I can't do everything, but I am trying new things and having fun in the process.

~ To not obsess over any of the above, and to be gracious with those who aren't convicted as I have been.

Day Two with The Broody One

For anyone hanging around to hear how we fared today, I must sadly report that we are still in the midst of chicken woes. This morning when Andrew headed out for work, Milk Toast (named by him for her being the wimpy one of the brood and because he liked the name) was sitting in an empty box...still pouting. He moved her from her box, she pecked and scratched all the way, and spent the morning sulking at the front door of the coop.

Alas, this afternoon a creepy cable guy needed in the backyard (We don't even have cable. Take your cables elsewhere!), so I had to give in and let the hen into safety lest el creepy cable guy let her out...or hungered for chicken leg. I could go on a long horrible rant about the guy's level of creepiness, but let's just say that after he called me "Sweetheart" and mentioned bowing down to worship me b/c my backyard looks like a farm (WHAT DID HE SAY?!), I kept the doors locked and a persuasive friend close by until he left. **shiver**

Once the backyard was again secured, I had the task of extracting Milk Toast. I do not favor being pecked. I guess you could say I'm a little chicken about it. (Oooh, bad pun! I know, but it's funny, isn't it?) I got smart and grabbed a thick t-shirt to act as gloves during the procedure. I opened the nesting box and there she was; rather miffed to be in the left nest b/c Andrew had stuffed the right side with a piece of cardboard. Milk Toast looked at me with a cock-eyed glare. I held my breath and very slowly tried to encourage her out of the nest. She pecked at the shirt and I quickly realize she was not going to budge. I was going to have to be aggressive about this. Even if it meant risking being pecked. Moving the shirt over her head, I gave a heave and plunked her into the coop. I ran around to open the doors before she could climb back into the nest, but instead saw the annoyed look in her eye as she tried to glue herself to the floor. **oh dear**

Using the shirt again, I threw it over her head and booted her out of the coop and into the open. Normally the hens are happy to go free range, but not this broody thing! She has always been such a sweet hen; very quiet, sensible and well mannered. Shes never made more than a peep, but upon being flung into the outdoors, she let me have it with her vocals! She started screeching and making the most horrible racket. I was stunned. Where was my sweet hen?

I did what I had to do. As if she were some awful criminal in prison being stunned with water from a fire hydrant, I gave her a good soaking with the garden hose. She quieted right now, but still huffed about the yard, insulted that I'd wet her pretty feathers and wounded her pride. What a drama queen!

This evening Andrew closed the coop door for the girls to spend their evening on the roost outside. They normally do this when the weather is nice, but from what we've read, a broody hen needs to be quarantined away from her nest or else her hormones won't go back down to normal. Crazy, huh? Tomorrow will be another juggling act to keep milk Toast away from "her" nest, but we'll manage. There you are with today's update from our little "farm". I never knew things could be so interesting...or quite so dramatic. :-p

Gone Broody

Well it finally happened. One of our hens has gone "broody". I suspected that a hen "going broody" meant that she was a bossy little snot; one prone to rule the roost. In that case I thought our girl Red was the broody one, but now I have a much clearer picture.
Lemme esplain...

A few days ago, Olivia and I went out to go get "EEEEEggs!". Well, at least that's how Olivia says it. Afternoon time is usually when the girls have finished their laying, so I'll ask Olivia "Do you want to help Mommy go get the chicken's eggs?". She usually responds with a small, eagle-like shriek of excitement, and then we head outside. Once at the coop, she can't wait for me to get the latch undone so she can pull the door open to peer into the nesting boxes to look for her treasure. When we find eggs, she will gasp and say "Eeegs!"...as if we hadn't just walked through the whole routine as we had the day before...and all the days before that. I love her enthusiasm for the simple things in life. She brings me such joy and cause to laugh at stuff I wouldn't normally pay attention to. But back to my story about broodiness.

A few days ago on one of our our egg gathering adventures, one of the hens had grown a little excited and left a present on her sphere. Not having an extra hand to separate clean from the dirty eggs, I planned to gather it later. Had I given it to Olivia to hold she'd have surely tasted something unpleasant, and we just weren't going there. Now, contrary to popular belief, though I am a woman of many talents, I find it difficult to hold a squirming child in one arm, while trying my best not to crush three eggs in my other hand...and still latch a chicken coop and successfully make it indoors w/out dropping either. In short, we left the poopy egg for later. And of course...when "later" had arrived, I'd completely forgotten about it. The next day, the same thing happened, except the poopy egg pile had grown by two. Eww. Not touchin' those babies.

My two days of leaving eggs to gather later was just enough time to stir something in our sweet Milk Toast. Yes my friends, whatever it was about those poopy little spheres was enough to endear that chicken into thinking she was their Mommy. And that they desperately needed her help to be brought into this world. And so she began sitting on them. I didn't really think about it when I first saw her, except that it was odd she was in the nest after she'd laid her eggs...but hey, I'm still pretty new to this whole chicken farming thing. The next day when my girl and I went to get eggs, again we found a chicken. One that did not want to get up from her nest. One that did not want my hand reaching in to gather ANYTHING from underneath her. And so she pecked at me...and I fled. Well, I didn't run away exactly, but my hand quickly retreated to safety.

Two days of this kind of odd behavior led me to talk to a few friends with chickens and to do an internet search. Everything I was hearing and had read led me to believe that, yep, we had a broody hen. The lil' gal didn't even know the eggs she was trying to hatch weren't even fertile. Poor Milk Toast.

When Andrew got home today, we had to extract her from the box. Everyone says they had to bring their hen out of her broodiness with a shock...some even dunking their bird under water! The urgency with bringing a hen out of her broodiness is because if she gets too far into her chicken-mothering hormones, she will stop laying eggs for a time. I personally like omelets and souffles, so we needed to do something...and quick! My brave Andrew reached his hands right in that box, even with her pecks and protests, and pulled her right out. She is now grazing outside the coop and will hopefully not mourn her (now missing) eggs too much.

We will see what tomorrow will hold. If she goes back to being broody...well, then we just may be holding a revival tomor
row and have to baptize ourselves a chicken! I'll keep y'all posted. ;)

The Dread Pirate Roberts (L) and sweet, motherly Milk Toast (R)

Statuses...Stati...Status'...

As a young Mom living in the age of social media, I must confess that often my thoughts are processed and narrowed into mental status form. A status is defined by Webster's Dictionary as:
1a) position or rank in relation to others
b) relative rank in a hierarchy of prestige; especially : high prestige
2) the condition of a person or thing in the eyes of the law
3) state or condition with respect to circumstances

The following statuses are a reflection of what's recently been floating around in my life and brain. I've heard it said that life is a comedy. What you're about to read is proof of that. (And that fact that my family is weird. Well, okay. Maybe I'm weird, too.)

"Bwa-ha-ha! I have tricked my child into thinking that chicken bone broth with beet, celery and onion reduction is something called "juice"!"

"Andrew says it's time to pull the bees out of the crisper. I sure hope they survived their "winter" in the fridge."

"I'm feeling like a great Mom today. My daughter just greatly benefited from the B-12 of mashed sardines."

12 hours later...

"Dear Lord, what was I thinking?! **GAG**"

"This just in: Sprinkling diatomaceous earth in the worm bins will kill the gnats and larvae without harming the earthworms! YES!"

"Quick! Grab the camera...the BEES ARE HATCHING!!!"

"I hope nobody ever finds a cause to look through my kitchen. I'd have a hard time explaining the glass jars with brain-like kombucha scobys growing in the cabinet."

Shirt-turned-Dress Refashion

I can't decide if I like creating brand new things, or refashioning old things into new, useful ones. As of this moment, I think I'm leaning toward to the latter. After some successful garage sale-ing last week, I was a tad disappointed when one of my bargain striped-shirts was impossibly tiny. It looked like it would fit when I bought it, but maybe I was just feeling uber skinnny that day. In reality, the happy, striped jersey-knit shirt was a no-go...but I was determined to find a purpose for it.

After looking at how much fabric I had to work with, I decided to refashion the shirt into a dress for my darling girl. What kid wouldn't like a soft dress to romp around in?!

Okay, so here is the shirt as I purchased it. Pretty, huh? *sigh*


I cut the sleeves off of the shirt so it would be easier to work with. Then, grabbing some brown butcher paper and a dress Olivia currently fits into, I laid it out and made a rough pattern. I've seen other people doing stuff like this on their blog tutorials, so I figured I'd give it a try. It was way too easy! Why haven't I done this before?!



I laid the pattern over the body of the shirt, figured out where I wanted the neckline and hem to fall and started cutting. I was considering making it a sleeveless dress, but thought some capped sleeves would be awfully cute. I had plenty of material in the sleeves, so cut them down for the dress. Sleeves have always given me a bit of a hard time, but thankfully, the striped lines up, and pinning the tar out of them before sewing was most helpful. Once the sleeves were on, I lined up the stripes on the sides of the dress and stitched away. **Oh the things I could do with a serger!** Ahem.



Once the sides were stitched, I simply had to turn the dress inside out and was done. Well...I still need to hand-tack the inside of the back collar so it won't roll out, but aside from that, my shirt-turned kiddo's dress only took me about an hour! I am very happy with how it ended up. So happy in fact that I'm camped outside Olivia's room, waiting to try it on her when she gets up from her nap.



What do ya think?! :)

Bargins, baby!

This morning the girly and I headed out to hit up a few garage sales.
Oh yes, that's right. We went garage "sale-ing". Or is it garage "saling"? As in, we went "sailing" around to different garages? Oh dear me, I should probably looks this up.

Anyway, we moseyed around town and stopped at several garage sales. To my credit (and honey, I hope you're reading this), I checked the amount of green in my wallet before we left and only took 15 bucks and change with me. It's not that I left a wad of cash at home. Tis because I only had $15 in my wallet. ;) I try to be discerning about whatever I buy to begin with, so having that amount of dough certainly helped me be especially careful before making a purchase.

A few of the sales had the typical amount of baby stuff...but then I happened upon a gem. At one of my last stops, there was a sweet old couple having a sale who were just in the mood to get rid of things. They both cooed to my girl and made her giggle while I grabbed up a few of their heirlooms. I almost felt guilty, but since the price was oh-so-very-right, I couldn't help myself.



Here's what I (cumulatively) got:
Nat King Cole record: 50 cents
Vintage green 1/2 gallon wine bottle turned lamp: $1
2 striped quarter-length t's: $2.50
Vintage lace in package: 50 cents
Vintage recipe box: 25 cents
3 heirloom embroidered/lace trimmed pillow cases: 75 cents
Total: $5.50

If I get really with it, I can wear one of my striped shirt and listen to the Nat King Cole album while using the pillow cases and lace for sewing projects under the lamp light. ;)

P.S. I also found an almost-new training potty for whenever we start potty training. In the meantime, it'll live in the cellar as our emergency-use storm potty. ;)

P.P.S. Looks like we're getting our first real storm of the tornado season. That potty may be useful after all. **gulp**

Blackened Chicken with...that other Grain

Last week a certain blackened chicken recipe caught my eye. The chicken was cut into slices, served over quinoa grains, then drizzled with an avocado sauce. The picture looked so sumptuous that I wanted to jump through the foodie-photo and sample everything on the plate. Scanning the list of ingredients, I was delighted to have everything in my cupboard. Yes, I knew what I'd be serving for dinner!

I was a excited to cook the quinoa since I'd never tried it before. No wait, I take that back. It is quite possible that I tried it in my youth when Mom forced us to eat veggie burgers. Nonetheless, I was still determined to give it a go. An internet search graced me with the knowledge that I didn't have to babysit a simmering pot since my rice cooker would do the job nicely. Once washed, the cup of quinoa was cooked in 2 cups of chicken broth, then mixed with chopped cilantro and spritzed with the juice and zest of a whole lime. The recipe called for two, but I do believe that would have knocked us over!

The chicken was simply two grilled breasts seasoned in the following:
½ Teaspoon of Paprika
¼ Teaspoon of Salt
¼ Teaspoon of Pepper
¼ Teaspoon of Cayenne Pepper
¼ Teaspoon of Onion Powder
¼ Teaspoon of Cumin

I always wash poultry before cooking it, so once it had a bath and was patted dry with a paper towel, I placed the breasts it in a bowl and evenly sprinkled the mix from above. The paprika makes for a very startling color, and upon washing my hands, had questioned if I'd had another encounter with my zester. Seeing red wash off my fingers is always cause for a startle in my book. Especially when the grater/zester is near.

The sauce that went on top of the chicken was simply an avocado blended with 4 oz. of cream cheese, and a little more cilantro torn and thrown in. My sauce was too thick, so I added a splash of milk so it would spread more easily.

When it was time to eat, I scooped a serving of the cilantro, lime quinoa onto each place, sliced the blackened chicken breast over that, then topped it with a dollop of the avocado cream cheese sauce. **D-lish!**

While I sat and savored the flavors of the grainy quinoa, my husband looked at it with great suspicion. It's not that he was ungrateful and he even ate all that I had served him, but being a white rice purist, he was rather disturbed at another grain being infused with citrus and green leafy bits. I made it up to him a few days ago when I set before him an enormous bowl of steaming white rice. The immense look of gratitude on his face is something I won't soon forget.

All in all, the chicken was suburb, thanks in great part to my "Grill Master" husband who did not overcook the bird. It was cooked through but still quite juicy (maybe 5 minutes a side?). We both agreed that the blacked chicken was a definite do again, but as for the lime quinoa, well, that will remain on the "Make occasionally" list. At least for Andrew anyway. In case you happen to come over for lunch someday, you can join me in the closet, savoring quinoa before my darling gets home for his rice.

A Spring Wreath

About a month ago, before the yard-work madness was a glimmer on the horizon, there was a bush. Mind you, this was no ordinary bush. It stood about 4-5 feet tall and had long delicate branches that all grew from it's base. The branches were a reddish brown color and were rather flexible when the wind whipped through our yard. Alas, there was one very important thing about the bush it that distinguished it from ever other bush in our entire yard.

It was planted right smack dab where we were planning to put the garden boxes. **gasp**

Something had to be done.

I looked through all of the tree/plant/shrubbery tags the previous owner has thoughtfully left for us. I had hopes of identifying if it were of a rare, precious variety of shrub in need of my rescuing. Despite my best efforts, helped none by the fact that winter was still upon us and no leaf would yield any identification, I began to dig it up.

I dug and I dug. My husband watched in amusement from the other side of the yard. I could tell he thought my efforts were in vain, but not to be outdone, I continued in great attempt to save the shrubbery for transplanting. It would have a life elsewhere. I was determined because deep down I felt convinced that it was a beautiful shrub; just waiting for spring to reveal it's splendor. Well folks...much to my chagrin, and my hubby's prediction (how is he most usually/always right?!), the bush was simply too big, and it's taproot too deep to transplant. With a great heave, I ended it's life with a thrust of my sharp-shooter shovel to the taproot and yanked it from the ground. Having an inkling that there might be something still to be done with the bush, I dragged it around to the side of the house to sit and think about it's life for a while.

The spot in the ground now being vacant, the garden boxes were moved in and filled with dirt, awaiting spring planting. With the spring season approaching, I had been wanting to put a spring-ish wreath on our front door to welcome the changing season. After looking up wreath decorations online, an idea crept over me. I was in need of a wreath to decorate, and I had lovely slender branches hanging out on the side of the house...what was stopping me from making a wreath?!

I pulled out my lovely pair for pruning shears (purchased for me by my amazing husband), and went at the branches with a vengeance. We'd had a rainstorm the day before so the branches were soft and came off pretty easily. Before I knew it, I had a hefty pile to fashion into my wreath.



With a spot on the floor in the sunroom, and a record on the player, I jumped in. Taking a hanger I'd molded into a circle, I used twine to secure a few big branches to the hanger then began wrapping the rest of those babies around and around. And around and around. And around and around and around....and well, you get the idea.



Basically, for this project, I had to get in touch with my inner mother-bird. I didn't know I had an inner mother-bird before this moment. It's quite true. It kind of emerged once the base branches were wrapped and then something just clicked. I started weaving branches in and out like the cold winds were on their way and my baby birds needed shelter asap! Once the wreath was to my preferred thickness, I collapsed amidst my pile of twigs. *phew* My wreath was done!



The final step was to figure out how I wanted to decorate it. I knew I wanted something to reflect the season, and to preferably use materials I already had. I finally decided to make some fabric flowers from one of the million flower tutorials online. I used green and yellow vintagey-lattice fabric, threw a couple buttons on there and *voila*! A little bit of spring to brighten our front door! I love it!

Survivor: Borne Style

Am I the only one, or does it feel like winter snuck (or is it sneeked) by and the BAM...spring arrived in full force? Well, one of the reasons I'm feeling the **BAM** part is because with all the much awaited, beautiful little leaves and flowers in bloom, my body has decided to develop some pollen allergies. Alas, on a recent trip to see the familia, their trees let forth their pollen in time for me to arrive. It's been a good while since I've felt that bad. We're talkin' that congested face-in-a-winched-down-vice-grip feeling, accompanied by excessive brain fog. As if still being on the quest to recover my pre-preggo brains weren't bad enough, pollen pushed me to an even further level of being dazed and clueless.

Once my roadtrip down south (for a beloved friend's wedding!) was complete, the bebe' and I returned home...just in time for our trees, shrubberies, and every growing thing to release their pollen. Yes my friends, that's what I'm calling a double whammy. Nature is conspiring against me.

Thanks to a small arsenal of homeopathic remedies, I am on the mend, and felt well enough to join my husband in what I can only describe as being our version of "Survivor: Home Improvement Edition". I had always looked forward to weekends, but after this one, I was never more glad for it to be over. I teased my husband, asking him to go back to work so that I could get some rest.

The first event of the weekend was planting our seedlings in the garden. Something must have been wrong with the soil I started the tomato seeds in, because my green thumb told me that 6 week old tomato plants should be more than 1 inch tall. *sigh* Our yard-work and household repairs inevitably required a trip to Lowes where I happily found some sturdy heirloom tomato plants to replace my puny ones. As Andrew did some roof repairs, I planted the beauties in the garden boxes with some d.e. powder and fish oil capsules, then watered and mulched them. I'm anxious to see how they fare. **please, oh please, oh please...**

Other conquered obstacles included spreading manure, mowing, edging, tree trimming, chicken coop tending (all accomplished by my wild man), and my reviving flower beds with new black liner, planting new flowers, and mulching. I ended up potting some marigolds in the front and back yard and quite frankly...they make me happy.

As if all of these things weren't enough to put us under, we attacked the mammoth to-do project (drum roll please)....trimming the crepe myrtles. Crepe myrtles are supposed to be significantly trimmed back every year, and as a favorite master gardener of mine jokingly told me, you can "trim the crepe out of em and they'll be just grow right back".

Judging from the wild and wooly state of the trees, the former homeowner turned a blind eye for several years. These beasts were prying their way through our fence, and infringing upon the walking space of the sidewalk. We started with pruning shears, but that only lasted for so long. During our Lowes trip, hubs finally purchased a chainsaw to complete the dreaded task. Even with a power tool on our side, we still had no clue what an enormous project it would turn out to be. Our neighbors must have thought we were crazy; wearing long sleeves and jeans in the blazing sun, branches crashing into the street as we attempted to clear out the overgrowth. Cutting the trees was one thing, but cutting branches down to size to be bundled was another. It took hours. Needless to say, we were incredibly glad to be done with it all at the end of the day!

The final and most delicious act of the weekend was to try out our new grill (thank you Craig's List!). Andrew took it upon himself to buy some fat steaks earlier in the week, and after all the excruciating labor, we were more than happy to try them out. We ended up using sea salt to break down the meat before drizzling them with a mixture of olive oil, crushed garlic and rosemary. 5 minutes a side yielded some juicy pieces of meat. I believe it was a combination of our being worn out, and the deliciousness of the steaks that caused us to, once we finally sat down, savor each bite as if it were out last.

Sunburnt and exhausted, we finished the weekend with our steaks, some tater salad, sliced fruit, and a glass of cab. Though I'm hoping we can take things easier in the coming weekends, it sure was nice to reflect on all the work we did together, and to wake up to see some marigolds smiling at me through the back window.

P.S. Despite my best efforts, I got a sunburn on top of a sunburn. In the past I'd be in a lot of pain, but this time I slapped on (urr...carefully applied) some coconut oil mixed with lavender oil. The lavender takes the misery out of a too-long encounter with Mr. Sunshine. Try it! :)

Great Expectations

It's been said numerous times before, but expectations can be killer. They can be very good things, but they can also steal our joy if we let them. The thing I've been sorting through is asking myself which expectations are right to maintain, and which ones I don't need to hold myself to any longer.

For example (basic though it may be), a right expectation I should have for my day is to get myself completely dressed and make the bed before I leave our bedroom door. This prepares me for the day right from the start. Furthermore, the entire house seems cleaner when the comforter is pulled up and the decorator pillows are in place. Funny how that happens.

An example of an unnecessary expectation (one I've recently been dealing with) is feeling like I have to check EVERY. LAST. THING. off my to-do list by the end of the day. I'm usually a glass is half full kinda gal, but lately those few unchecked items have left a bee in my bonnet that stings me through the night. Perhaps this is the root of some screwy works based theology leftover from childhood? Or my way of feeling like I've done something when at the end of the day I find nothing too vastly different from when I started out? Something tells me that every homemaker wrestles with such questions at some point in her homemaking.

Whatever the reason may be, and as strange as I feel saying this, God is teaching me to be a little more gracious with myself. It's not that this means giving myself license for laziness, but instead, offering thanks for what the Lord allowed me to accomplish once the sun has set, and leave it at that. My worth is not wrapped up in a completed to-do list. God reminded me of this the other day when Andrew came home. As he hugged me, he saw my to-do list on the dry erase board and thanked me in loooong drawn out syllables for each and every single thing I'd done that day. I had forgotten about half of the things he read and had to laugh at his silliness.

Another part of accepting the Lord's grace for my homemaking is realizing that it has vastly changed with the addition of a little person. What used to take me a menial amount of time may now take me hours depending on the day. Some things just can't always be accounted for, such as how long it takes to scrape banana off the floor, or change the crib sheets after an explosive diaper, or any of the million things that can happen when you have a baby. My expectations have had to change a great deal in the past year; for what I can accomplish as well as what I should reasonably expect of myself.

As the Lord is working on me, I'm realizing that "success" can have many different faces. Some days it may include a full nights sleep, a completely checked off to-do list, a clean, good smelling baby, and having a four course gourmet dinner on the table. Other days it may look a little more like not having banana on the floor. Or not being able to do as much as I'd planned, doing extra laundry so the baby has fresh sheets, and being incredibly grateful that my husband is just as happy with popcorn and smoothies for dinner as he would be with a four course meal.