GOOD NEWS

IT'LL HAVE TO BE A TELEGRAM ENTRY, SINCE I ONLY HAVE ONE HAND AT THE MOMENT: SLEEPING BABY IN OTHER.






LOVELY SISTER HEATHER GAVE BIRTH LAST NIGHT TO HEALTHY TINY ELIORA LYNN. GAVE US A BIT OF A SCARE--HEATHER, ON OXYGYN, MEDIVACED TO FLAGSTAFF HOSPITAL RE: CHANCE OF PRECLAMPSIA--BUT ALL'S WELL--EVERYONE HEALTHY. ANOTHER GIRL TO JOIN THE WOMAN POWER FORCES! HOORAH!



WEEDED RASPBERRIES YESTERDAY--PROLIFERATING--FREE LOVING BERRIES ROOTING THEMSELVES IN OUR THISTLE HILL. YUM. AND THERE'S A PICKET FENCE UNDERWAY. . . .



QUESTION: CAN ANYONE RECOMMEND A TRULY AMAZING TROWEL?
I CAN ONLY FIND CHEAP, BENDABLE KINDS. MUST BE REALLY TOUGH (WITHSTAND OBNOXIOUS WEEDS AND CLAY), SEXY, AND DEPENDABLE IN A SWEET WAY--LIKE MARTIN.

Stew

Our celebrating, almost "too-too" Spirea, hung over by rain

Our little corner of Pennsylvania dawned rather cold and gloomy this morning. The birds are still busy and giddy over the one strawberry patch I forgot to net last night; they are not affected by the deep internal sighs that accompany turning on the heat in mid May.

Still, in honor of my in-laws and the silly weather, I unwrapped some beef. Mind you, cooking a bloody slab of beef is not a celebration in most American homes, but a way of life. (Cue out-of-context Aaron Copland music: BEEF! IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER!)

But for us, who try to be responsible eaters and who are almost-solely-vegetarian (for ethical and health reasons) and buy only local/organic/non-tampered-with meat, a slab of beef is a rare occasion indeed. This particular beef came from a gorgeous, long-haired, happy highland cow from a local farm. The proprietors of the Strath an De Farm generously drove us around their farm so our girls could see the source of their food and we could enjoy their vintage farm implements. From our seat in the back of a wagon, we soaked in the deep greens of their land and the grace of their Scottish highland cattle.

Today I cubed the beef and browned it in olive oil and cornmeal; I crumbled in dried thyme and parsley from last summer's harvests, and I left it and an assortment of delightful vegetables to simmer slowly, filling the house with warmth. Beatrix slept soundly through all; Merry and Elspeth were quiet and content. Lovely.

Suprised by

The front garden, in progress. . .


I've been chatting about compost with my father-in-law. Earthworms, weeding, nettles, rocks and bricks--these are the topics about which we ruminate. We wax eloquent about trellises and rare fencing.

Never in my wildest young dreams would I have predicted these as likely topics of conversation.

My mother is no gardener. She opts for the pots of ice pansies on the porch and sticks to indoor greenery for the most part. My father, though he loves azaleas and showed an unexpected vehemence of opinion when my mother mercilessly hacked them back one spring, is as likely to pick up a shovel and break sod as he is to pick up a knife and skin a raccoon.

Growing up in Kenya's bustling capital city, we enjoyed a postage-stamp backyard, backed by a dense thorn hedge to keep out thieves (this proved unsuccessful, since we were robbed one night as we slept). Bougainvillea and morning glories crept unbidden up the hedges. We had a tiny, covered patio where we drank tea every afternoon and enjoyed our flower beds. I don't think my mother ever had to dirty her hands over the flower beds, though; she picked out the plants, drove them home, and placed them in their pots over the dirt. And then our gardener popped in and planted them all.

Once our Somali neighbor hired me to do an hour of gardening. I turned up with flowered scarf around my neck and a ridiculous sunhat. She fixed me with a stare and commented on my overdressing. I poked at the soil for a few moments, but it was awfully hot and I don't believe the experience stood up to my picture of the genteel English lady gardener with pruners in gloved hand.

My husband grew up in the suburbs of Houston. He sweated through summer days at his parent's hands, mowing lawns and raking up cottonwood leaves. One summer he joined a team of landscapers, mostly made up of illegal immigrants, and he experienced what it is like to work as an illegal immigrant: long, unfair hours, little breaks, and back-breaking labor. He stuck it out for a week or so, dropping into bed shortly after supper until he quit.

So it may have come as somewhat of a shock to our folks when we bought 3/4 of an acre of sloping Pennsylvania land, rubbed our hands in glee, and began to dig up sod. My parents, who value "get-up-and-move" (in 25 years of marriage, they're on their 26th house together) looked askance as we planted trees and seemed to settle down for the long haul.

Here's the secret, though, that gardeners know: gardening is not genteel--it's sweaty work--and through the sweat and the frustrations of weeds and bad bugs who want to eat the roses, joy keeps surprising us. Joy surprises us in the hops of a robin who, in friendly fashion, follows us down rows of newly turned soil. Joy surprises us when, at the end of a day of hard summer work, twilight illuminates the glow of a certain flower's petals and deepens the greens of tomato leaves. When I find myself in a tizzy over stupid daily details, a good hour in the garden refreshes my soul and renews my perspective. Gardening invigorates imagination and relaxes us to stand for a moment, soaking in the impossible reality of joy.


Last summer, side garden

It's a secret made better because I discovered it myself, as an adult. It's a secret my girls are growing up believing, even taking for granted, and that's good too. Someday I hope they'll make it their own.



Happy mother's day, all you mamas.

Lots to Do

Late summer 2007: too many zinnias to count, too many zucchini.


Autumn catapults us into crazy, busy schedules, and this was our excuse for not cleaning up our garden last year. And then I was in the throws of morning sickness, which made me happy to see the white cold frosting all our herbs, which scents made me want to wilt and sicken.

We're just now catching up; our garden was rather daunting at first, but Martin's been off for a few days now and we're making progress.

But we've got a lot to do. Martin's been weeding for days on end, and the once messy beds are shaping up. Finally, from our sunroom windows, we see a pattern of symmetrical paths forming; we've got the fabric and the mulch to make our paths a reality. The compost is well rotted, and the perennials are back (I lost two roses to the winter).

Truly, I'd hesitate to show you the following if I weren't sure of forthcoming amazing "AFTER" pictures that will hopefully knock your wellingtons clean off.




But we've got a rather long, tantalizing list of unfulfilled goals.

And here's the reason why:


A fairly compelling reason to let a few weeds grow, all in all.

Beatrix slept happily in her stroller by the compost and strawberries while Merry hauled bricks and I mowed the grass. She's a naturalist baby for sure, true to her namesake.

No, No, No, Yucky Dandelion

Wazoo Farm doesn't have much in the way of edibles yet. We've got a wild, independent bed of mint, a lot of fuzzy-headed thyme, a bit o rhubarb, and some volunteer, lacy baby dill sprouts.

One crop that has taken off, though, without any assistance from us, is our dandelion. How's the dandelion this year? our neighbors ask, leaning on our deer fence (a dangerous pastime). Well, we answer, gesturing to our yard, We were afraid the frost might get 'em, or the deer, but no siree, we're happy with our dandelion this year.

This is of course what would happen if we all were starving by spring and salivating for fresh, wild, tender greens. Instead, we're awfully spoiled and out of touch, picking up out-of-season lettuces at Giant Eagle and bagging them up in plastic. And so our neighbors tolerate us, despite the yellow discs that quickly become white globes of hated seeds, covering our organic, no-pesticide/poison garden.

Martin took the girls out all morning and weeded, and things are beginning to look a bit more organized. The mint bed was the worst: invasive species seemed to be battling; mint shoots twined around the deep tubers of the dandelions; Martin was frustrated though he and the area smelled as delicious as spiked lemonade.

So when life gives you lemons. . .well, let's just cut to the chase, shall we?

Martin heaped a tray full of dandelions and rinsed them in the sink, stems, greens and all. (Messy).

Now, I've heard about eating dandelions but I knew, somehow, though I'd never eaten them, that the longer the weeds are around (like nettles), the nastier they get. Well, these dandelions had been around a little while.

So we all sat down for dinner, and Martin brought to table a beautiful bowl of succulent dandelions sprouts. At first, you only tasted the butter and the onions. And then the dandelion juice spread into your mouth, and oh, baby, it was bad. Bitter. I actually spit mine out.

No, no, no, yucky dandelion. Think I'll wait for arugula.

Wild, Crazy Loon Calls in Wilderness: Ahhhhhh!

Last weekend, baking decadent double-dark chocolate cookie bars for the imminent eight-member family reunion the day after we returned from a wild packing-house week, I did the same crazy thing my mother once did to a rhubarb cake (a feat I used to shake my head in disbelief over). Curious, I watched as the cookies spread in great, muddy pools over the cookie sheet. Then my mother said, "What's this flour doing here?" This was the bowl of flour I had completely forgotten to blend with the wet ingredients. . .we scraped the fudgey mess back into the bowl and mixed it all up again. (I watched incredulously as my mother shoveled the semi-raw batter into her mouth. Not fair: she always warned us religiously not to eat raw dough; we'd get worms or salmonella; I've spent my entire life consistently turning down delicious tastes of raw dough. And I will continue, out of a sort of primal fear, despite the disillusioning vision of my mother possibly giving herself worms or salmonella.)


On Monday morning, the last of our family left. We said goodbye to my parents; my father was eager for the trip and my mother choked back tears (which always makes me feel like crying, too); then they drove off down the street on their five day trek across the country to Seattle. That morning found me yelling a greeting of sorts down the stairs to our guests (a father and his two-year old) from my seat on the toilet where I was also breastfeeding. . .

That afternoon I baked yet more for our twice-annual exam-week open house for Martin's students. This time I worked in the overripe, stinky bananas into a triple recipe of Joy's deliciously cakey quick bread. Shuffling through the freezer I found some bagged pecan bits my mother had left and sprinkled them freely over all three loaves. Better taste them, I thought, after all the loaves had been doused, and dabbed some of the pecans on my tongue. What home did these pecans enjoy prior to my freezer? Likely they were the leftovers from some Thanksgiving sweet potato or curry dish, for the pecans were mixed with salty chili pepper. Hoping that this would be an exciting and successful new twist on banana bread, I overcompensated by layering the chili powder topping with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Somebody, I heard, asked for the recipe. I heard this because I only made two appearances at the open house, one to haul off Elspeth to bed, and the other to redirect Merry, who had suddenly gone "wild" (in the words of one of Martin's bluntly-spoken students) upstairs to a quiet read while I breastfed marathon-feeding baby until I fell asleep.

Two more days of no-Martin all day and evening (practically) and I have my friends to thank for saving me from illegal substance abuse. So thanks to the members of the robust Elaine Society: Tonya, who stopped by for a chat with a gorgeous blanket she had sewed for B; Nancy, who whisks Merry away twice a week for the schooling I never give her and feel guilty about; Sally, who upon entering our house plucked B from my hands and held her even as she ate lunch, and who, to boot, took the crazy, always-in-trouble Elspeth (eating butter, scattering compost, hitting Merry) down our hill to the creek (yesterday) and then called this morning to offer to take her away in her boots to some undisclosed but presumably muddy place (right before she arrived Elspeth, who suddenly seems huge, rolled on the baby, the baby who squalled so pitifully that I felt like squalling myself). . . .

These sorts of friends are truly angelic. Thank God! for these women, and I mean that in the most grateful and humble way.

Tomorrow sees Martin finishing school. Thank God! Ditto! Ditto! The garden is overgrown with sod; we'll be lucky to find the strawberry plants underneath the weeds. . .Ah, but then, does it matter all that much? Summer is about to start, officially, yes, mama, yes. We've been saving the trip to Douglass Nursery (heirloom tomato seedlings and all) for a reward. And the weather, which has been grey, cold, and rainy all week, cannot stay that way for long. We've got enough salsa and cheese for a big party with good friends at some point soon, and we've got marshmallows for the fire pit and reserve ice cream in the downstairs freezer. All our red buds have bloomed and only one crab apple seems dead.

Summer. Starts. Tomorrow. Huzzah.

More Activity but then again, more Sleep than Expected

We've been sleeping more than could be hoped for. Beatrix is a wonderful dozer and a brilliant night baby.

This is fortunate, for there has been much activity. I took off with the three girls to help my parents pack up their house for their new adventure in Seattle. I have never seen the like before--so many people at their house as they wrapped and packed, and parties and big dinners and fun, fun, fun, and so much sorting and errands and craziness. At one point there were five children in the house; my father, maneuvering a piece of furniture through a doorway over a crawling baby, wryly muttered, "The moving brochure advises you to hire a babysitter while you pack." But what fun would that be?

The girls and I mellowed to Iron and Wine as we drove through glorious early spring back to PA--as I drove, with the three girls lined up in the back of the car, I suddenly realized, by Jove, I have three children. What a strange and good thing.

Back to town, a whirl of unpacking, and now we have a family reunion at our house--all my mother's five-sibling family, bar one sibling--and Martin's final exam week next week. It's busy and jolly.

And here's some happy news, too--Beatrix LOVES the outdoors; the porch is ready and gorgeous; so is the back deck; the lawn is partially mown; the perennials are all greening and shooting and promising. All our trees except two show happy growing and blooming signs; the world smells lovely and perfect.

Little Girls (Thank heaven for)

Beatrix is a Dream Baby

It's true, she really is a dream baby. And strong, by Diana--I'm so proud of another strong little woman--picks her head and neck up like a 3-month old and takes everything in like a sage old medicine woman. She's going to make a great gardener and naturalist-baby and dirt-eater and sun-lover.

I've been back in the garden. It's intoxicating when the weeds don't choke my enthusiasm.

Pictures soon, of the gaudy forsythia, and Beatrix, and her sisters, and Martin's dumptruck loads of mulch and sand. Projects abound. He's got three more weeks of school and then we'll all be in the garden, all day, for endless days. The Russian Sage is returning, the tulips bloom, and the deer fence is up. Meals arrive with happy regularity at our doorstep (Cheers to the Mennonites!!!) And gardening is so much easier without a baby inside.

Hair, and how!

Another great picture from Alyson.

Beatrix ... Hurrah!

Thanks to our friend Alyson Case for these lovely photos.

Beatrix is born!

This morning, Sunday, at 7:45, we welcomed Beatrix Fern to the world. Mom and daughter are healthy, tired, and happy--they're both sleeping soundly now, Bea on Kim's bosom.

She weighed just shy of eight pounds at birth (7lbs, 14oz) and measured 20 inches from end to end. She's got a little smushed nose (which seems to be unsmushing itself), a round face, alert blue eyes, and a full head of dark brown hair.

But don't count on a brunette; I think I see blonde roots!

Labor was longer than either Kim or I expected (she outlasted Merry and Elspeth), and delivery was painful but fast. I think she was out in four or five good pushes.

Our thanks to all of you who supported us in this, whether through kind words, prayers, gifts, or a little of everything. We'll post pictures when we're able.

Oh, and for those who don't know: Kim and Bea share a birthday!

Happy Inutero

At the midwife's office yesterday: "Step back a minute. . .If that baby was any lower, she'd fall out!"

I put B in the sun to attempt to encourage her to join the rest of us in the spring. . .though the midwife offered to make her come last night, we've decided to give her a little more space to make up her own mind.

Ah, the slightly bizarre belly pictures. Why do we feel the need to document this common but always flabbergasting state of being? (And why didn't I clean my mirror of Elspeth's many fingerprints before snapping away?)

Immmmm

Hey, naturalist baby: daffodils sprucing, crocus blooms! Grass greening--buds near bursting--why linger so long in hot gloom? Come, join hands with your bright sisters, welcome spring, earthworm and glossy robin!

Instead of Baby, New Trees Arrive

Here's a little glimpse of Easter morning. Please note that nobody is brushed or bathed, but we managed a jolly, early Easter egg hunt in the lovely shafts of morning sunlight.

Martin just came in from the dark, where he was digging up sod and replanting the last of the tea roses. We also now delight in a very promising row of Eastern redbuds and crabapples in our front yard. And I, who decided an unborn baby who gives indication of someday appearing but then decides she's more comfortable where she is would no longer stop me from getting on, finally began my big spring pruning exercises. I think perhaps, due to my laziness last fall, I may have lost a few roses--but only time will tell.

And my mother cooked us the best turkey dinner I think I have ever tasted. And that, folks, is the news from Wazoo.

Kitchen Pictures

Well, these are not really up-to-snuff, as we took them rather late at night and the lighting is just wretched. But it gives you an idea, anyway.

We've since removed the paper lanterns.

Be NICE

Elspeth's favorite activity these days is playing in a shallow, large bin of beans, which she makes into soups and landslides her little people under. In a bid to gain some peanuts for her bean soup this morning (one of endless "cooking" experiments), Elspeth admonished, "Be NICE," which she has clearly heard us say, as well as "No. I said NO."

I should heed her advice, though, when it comes to my end-of-pregnancy obsession, which is ice-crunching. I dread my dentist's appointment post-Beatrix. But I can't seem to help myself--a freezer door opens and I'm suddenly stuffing myself with ice, crunching down the stuff with dispatch, regardless of my crowned and weak teeth. The smell of our car's air-conditioning and freezer burn sends me round the bend with desire. So far I've suffered from aching teeth and sore cheeks from where I've chomped into my numb mouth. Yesterday was heaven--IKEA has the most wonderful, soft, chewy ice. I walked around the store in a daze, eating the perfect little nuggets like popcorn. Oh, and my hair is getting curlier and I swear it's turning white around my temples. Hormones. What wonderful things.

Well, Merry's recouperating from a cold and besides my mother's much lauded arrival and the fact Martin and I actually went out for a DATE yesterday (and not the raiseny kind, a real one), there's nothing terribly interesting to share this morning except that I finally folded some clean baby clothes for Beatrix--and she must have known what I was doing (and that her grandmother has finally arrived), since she rewarded me with a good set of nice contractions that tapered off as the morning progressed. Surely she's close? It's really a bit of a bore, this not knowing the schedule. I do want to get all the hospital over with and just be back home with our family again. I realized that the excitement of the rush to the hospital, the labor process, the charm and dizziness of having a new baby and nurses and nurseries has paled now by the third. Now I want to just pop in, get the process over with, and get on with life.

Wonderful birds have begun to perch on the bare walnut tree outside my window again--a robin, a blue jay, all soft and bosomy and bursting with spring. Sunshine streams in our windows again, and it is not dark anymore when we sit down to supper. Martin has gone absolutely drooly-gaga with spring fever. Every time we see bricks on the side of the road he all but derails the car from the highway. I will have to post his amazing garden plans soon.

PS. Oh, I don't suppose anyone cares to cook a turkey for me? I have to get the thing out of my freezer; I can barely stand the smell of roasting meat; and I'm half afraid I'll suck the bird dry of freezer burn before I even get it in the oven. We could split the fellow. . .

Spring Fever

Martin's spring fever sees new levels of insanity. Outside, the snow is blowing in a regular storm. Outside, I just watched Martin shoveling piles of just-hauled horse manure into the compost piles. Earlier he dug up grass for roses. He sped off in the blue Subaru and I have no idea where he is now. He will smell like a banquet when he finally notices that he is gardening in the middle of a blizzard and comes inside.

Beatrix? She's working it--increasing contractions but no regularity.

Elspeth has taken to addressing my foot as if it is a person. She gives the foot hugs and kisses, brings it things to eat and material to read. I suppose whereas Beatrix remains unresponsive to her advances, at least foot nods or shakes his "head," that is, toes. She instructed Martin to sing her a song about a foot last night, and then a song about Merry traveling in the back seat of a car eating a sock.

And I watched Merry reveling in a bin of raw beans this morning, bathing her face and hands in them as if they were clear cool spring water.

Conclusions? We are all a little off, but at least we're happy about it.

Beatrix? In time for Easter???

Well, the midwife said today that her guess is within the next week.

Not that anyone can really predict it, I guess. On the way home from the doctor's I was so exhausted and tired of Elspeth's feet in my back (kicking my seat the whole way) that I just LOST IT. I spent the ride hunched over my huge uterus, crying down at my feet to the sound track of annoying 1970's music with unbelievably repetitive choruses.

Martin was in a frenzy to get to his night class, for which he was unprepared, I felt overwhelmed by the looming responsibility of getting the girls in bed another night by myself when my ligaments MOAN. . .and then we reached home. Oddly and unexpectedly, the evening mellowed. The girls were content and I weathered a few contractions in relative bliss, eyes closed, head back. . .and from there the night flowed along smoothly, and now here I am, toothbrush in mouth; the house is silent; I feel fine; and an early bedtime stands just within my grasp. Sadly I left my book in the car, and Martin is still out teaching, but there is plenty more to read in the house. There's a flood warning tonight, but our house sits high and the rain feels comforting speckling the windowpanes.

It feels hard to believe that soon another daughter will sleep in our house at night, but the reality of her arrival grows ever more imminent. I will be glad, though I always find the idea of another human joining us absolutely ludicrous and unimaginable until I find the solidness of a body in my arms, and then all is well and it seems ridiculous that our family was ever complete without the new one. I trust the same will be true for this little bird. . .and now there's nothing to do, really (except the long list of things I should, like unearth the baby clothes), but wait.

For Dreaming

Those of you who know my obsession with Sweden, you will be pleased to feast your eyes on this particular gardening site, which doesn't seem quite real:

Tyra's Garden

Does this person spend all her living seconds working her garden? I love her sense of order balanced with a flourish for the viney and romantic. . .hmmm. Better think about replanting my roses.

Oh! Two things to celebrate: 1. Beatrix is now full-term and we are just waiting; 2. The first crocuses are up, deep purple with buttery hearts. If I can get my truly American, only-wishes-to-be-Scandinavian self together, I will actually take a few pictures.

Husband is Genius, Wife Admits Occasionally

Over last week Martin impressed me to no end, not with weights or cars or prowess of the (narrow, historic, Roman/killing animals) celebrated variety, but with the myopic scrawling of figures and jotting of numbers. I swooned watching him at work with a ruler and pencil. These are gifts of which I have none. Rulers make me hyperventilate and only recently did I approve the existence of levels with their self-satisfied, inflexible water bubbles. And the endless scrawling of straight lines and minuscule numbers almost sends me into active labor.

But our shelves are up, all except one, and our kitchen seems to be enjoying itself. I will post pictures of this amazing feat--and amazing it was, in our 100-year old house with its oddly placed studs (narrow, horizontal instead of vertical), a weird wall partially wallboard/plaster/masonry, and my dreams of cup hooks and everything simple but happily in its right place. (Imagine tea cups staggered perfectly, hanging smugly on their own hooks).

Martin conquered all. Occasionally I admit to his genius. This is one of those times.

A BREAK

Martin's off for Spring break, and today he finished his grading. (Simultaneously I think I blew up the vacuum cleaner with a wooden puzzle piece).

And tonight, at our dear friends with the crazy-steep driveway and the warm home, we completely STUFFED ourselves. First the little girls (four of them) had tea with real sugar cubes and scones, and then we ate an incredible dinner, and then we revelled in delightfully sinful desserts called the somewhat scandalous name Chocolate Explosions. (They do indeed explode--baked to a soft, porous cakelike outside, at a touch of a fork the insides rush forth in a chocolate lava--delicious). All in all, a wonderfully promising beginning to a much-anticipated week-long break.

Running Out of Breathing Room

So Febuary wanes.


And there are four weeks left until Beatrix sees the world, her father, her sweet sisters.


Her room, if not anything else, is ready--three beds all in a row, Madeline style.


Elspeth, though of course I do not think she understands the full purport of my lack of breathing room these days, seems to understand that there's a Beatrix inside Mommy's uterus--she shares toys, icing, snacks, and books with her new little sister by shoving them close to my belly button.


Merry continues the incredibly helpful oldest child (surely she will not always appreciate this title as I do). And she is still as wildly imaginative as ever, living in her own worlds, concocting bizarre outfits, drawing long books and now--writing narrative to accompany them.


We continue well, loving our children, our community, our home and food, and we're planning a glorious summer garden in the warmth of the sun, this time with three girls (unless the fellow was wrong and Beatrix is indeed a boy). Martin received another lovely piece of news to go along with his generous arts grant: an almost "free" semester next fall in which to write and enjoy his grant. He'll teach only 1 1/2 classes, and per my warning (only just less than half in jest), he promises not to go moody, inward, and brooding--such things are simply not allowed at Wazoo Farm.

Plan your summer trip now, and join us among the struggling fruit trees, the zinnias, the seas of herbs and the not-so-neat rows of vegetables. All Martin asks is that you bring a few bricks with you as a host[ess] gift!

Febuary Grey

This is a cliche, especially in our part of Pennsylvania. A cliche that nevertheless preys on all those who spend a good part of their time indoors. It's not elephant grey or the grey of a lovely old woman who has lived long. . .it's the grey of my grandfather's overwashed socks that drifts across the sky in watery oatmeal patterns. It's the grey that makes me want to order Crunchie Bars from England and brightly painted miniature play food from Germany. It's the grey that makes me want to wear dowdy old sweaters and slippers.

There are good things, I suppose, to grey: hot tea, nothing much to do except enjoy being with the children, a slight push toward cleaning, painting, making large pots of soup and crusty loaves of bread. If I were alone it would be a perfect grey for a whole day of writing or reading. As it is, Merry is pairing socks, Elspeth is padding around in tiger pants with a runny nose, and I am putting of using the restroom for as long as possible (I do not want to sit on the cold seat). We are getting an England fix with "Wind in the Willows" on the TV and the Wiggle's Monkey dance. I am contemplating cleaning and Merry looks spry in a summer-sky blue dress. . . .

Blah on Febuary.

Week Draws to Close, Parents Recollect Sanity

By Jove! The week is over!

Highlights include Elspeth eating soap; the snow melting; Martin working long hours and singing Woodie Guthrie; Merry making leaps and bounds in her reading. Yes, folks, it's been a great, busy whirlwind of a week and now it's over.

Whooopie kiyay!

It is grey late mid-Febuary but it is a warm evening in the Cockroft's orange kitchen, where the floor is dirty and the bread machine groaning out pizza dough.

I hope you have great cause and a good crowd with whom to celebrate this happy Friday.

Snow, Sleet, and a Bright Warm Kitchen

Today I unearthed myself from piles of laundry just in time to find three hopeful neighborhood children at the door. "Can we go sledding on the hill?" the chosen one asked, an older girl with red cheeks and nose.

I crushed their hopes by explaining that when the grass pokes through the snow, sleds create ruts in our soil. They could feel free to come back after a couple more inches fell. This morning on the way to pick up Merry from school at our friend Nancy's house, sleety, icy slush kicked off the windshield with every wipe of the blades, so the sad sledders are out of luck.

Though it may be gloomy and drab outside, my kitchen positively explodes with color: bright, traffic-cone orange and the yellow of a mellow afternoon. Sound insane? During the process you may have assumed correctly, but the final result (minus one final coat on one wall) pleases me immensely. Our kitchen positively glows, especially in the evenings. I ripped down most of my kitchen cabinets and now the whole room has taken on a different flavor--Tuscany, perhaps? I expect it's all too wild for Tuscany, though I have enjoyed immersing myself in Frances Mayes (the book is a good escape read--the movie so atrocious that I hide the cover of the book, which features a silly photo of Diane Lane, from strangers) and her endless house projects and rows of lavendar, olive trees, and roses.

Many thanks to my mother in particular, who tackled the kitchen with unparralled gusto; to my father who makes me incredibly nervous with loaded paintbrushes; to Martin who somewhat grumpily but still moved the antique winerack (among other things) to its new home in the kitchen.

I shall post pictures at some point, but I am waiting for completion.

A last note to those of you who know my family well: my father and mother just excepted a new post with World Concern in Washington State, and while we will miss the proximity to us (previously four hours), we wish them all love and best wishes in their new adventure in the rainforest land of good coffee, much water, and luscious gardens. As a side note, it turns out that my parents, in 35 years of marriage, have lived in at least 23 or 24 houses together. As Martin says, every family has an overarching narrative by which they identify themselves: our's must be gardening, or hobbit-holing; their's is adventure; what's your's?

PS. To my shame, the spell-check seems out of commission today--I feel as though the above post must be utterly riddled with mistakes, so be generous and overlook them, eh?

"My Naughty Little Sister"

Tonight at dinner, over a pot of turkey and rice, Merry looked up with great expectation. "Can I tell Daddy about our day?" she asked with excitement. I felt all too ready to acquiesce. Of course she told Daddy about the epic part of the day, this morning when

I decided, through my dread, to carve up a turkey that finished baking at midnight last night. The well-browned, well-endowed fowl nestled in its mass of gulutunous juices. I covered my bases, cleaning off counters and sink and positioning Elspeth in her chair, equipping her with a long length of butcher paper and crayons. I retreived the electric knive from the shadowy dusty corners of an unused cabinet and set to.

I had not set to very long, however, before Elspeth got wind of my distracted, grease-covered state and completed her transformation into Grendel--no, actually, Grendel's mother. NO MERCY. She immediately scribbled on a newly painted wall and began tearing around the house. I rinsed my hands and disciplined her, and cleaned the wall, and then returned to the exasperating electrical cord and trembling turkey fat. Elspeth once again pounced.

She pushed a chair to the counter, helped herself to cake, unloaded a kitchen cabinet, ran laps around the house with chokables in her mouth, colored on the same wall again, stole more crayons. By this time I was scooping masses of indistiguishable gook, along with the turkey carcass, into a pot for stewing. The kitchen resembled a war zone, and I was the defeated, dirty, grumpy general.

Let me wrap up this entry with the following picture: Martin leaves for the night, for a meeting and reading. Merry quietly brushes Elspeth's teeth, reads her books, and I enter a darkened room from a much-needed break to find Merry rocking Elspeth on her lap, singing The Water Is Wide.

Yes, this last scene really happened. Bless the Merry-girl, and her naughty little sister, too.

Skipping Church

Yesterday was a busy day, between Martin's conference and a sweet third child at our house and a wild painting experience (orange is the color of choice in our googoo house at the moment--the only major color NOT on our walls from the color wheel is purple), I had the overwhelming, tired sensation that it was time to stay home and have a family day. This was in conjunction with the knowledge that Martin's next week is busy-extra-busy and I will be taking off with my mother to help her sort through her house pre-move.

So we skipped church. After Martin overcame his guilt (left-over from never-miss Sunday attendance as a child--a what-if-Jesus-came-back-right-now feeling I can completely relate to), we had a beautiful day--our friends came over and we, heathen-like, in bad clothes, ate a pile of french toast with syrup, after which everyone (except me) went sledding and then came in for more food. And now Elspeth sleeps, Martin and Merry are out for a few moments together, and I am hunched over my computer briefly before sacking out flat with a book.

I do have a piece of outstanding news to report on my husband's behalf: Martin found out yesterday that he is (based on his work alone) the recipient of a PA arts grant, the total sum of which will go to finance his poetry for the next year. This wonderful news is well-deserved by my brilliant poet-in-residence (if I do say so myself). In a fortuitous turn, the poet himself brought home two bottles of wine, so if you would care to toast his happiness, drop by and we'll pour you a glass.

A Note to South Africa

Hello Out There!

Karaduck, are you reading all the way out in South Africa? How are you? I think about you! Is it warm? Is the work good?

Merry asked me who my special friend was when I was little and I said, "Well, you know her now. . .she was just here. . ."

Funny to think of the long evenings spent at your house, eating wedges of Cadbury and digestive biscuits and pickles. Funny to think of our conversations about boys and teachers. . .funny now that I am telling my six year old about you, whom she knows, but not as I know you.

I miss you!

Misdiagnosed

I think I'd better share with everyone the happy news of my misdiagnosis.

I am still pregnant (they were right on that account, and still right, as the kicking within asserts).

I do not, however, as far as midwife #2 and I can see, have PUPPPs. Only incredibly dry skin. Hallelujah. So everyone may now cease feeling pity for poor me, since I am not poor at all but own lots of Twinings English Breakfast Tea.

I have a sort of frenzied energy still, but in spurts, an energy that led me to reorganize kitchen cabinets and pull off pieces of wallpaper in our "butler's pantry" today. (Thinking it might be nice bright, traffic-cone orange.) Also I've taken to eating two smallish but not modest bowls of ice-cream every night: one dreamsicle orange and vanilla, one Dutch chocolate with peanuts. Martin kindly inquired whether I'd care for two spoons, but I limit myself to one. One spoon, two bowls.

My children are happy and sweet, Beatrix kicks but is not a nuisance, we read newly found Shirley Hughes books from the library all day and did not fall on our icy front steps. Looming recession or no, clementines were on sale and the tea kettle's water is almost free. The creek is frozen white, books fill our house, the mice are absent. I have, at the moment, no complaints at all. I hope you too enjoy all life's small happinesses this evening.

PS. Yes, the Elaine Society (our chapter, the only chapter named thus) has been officially launched. It is tons of fun and only goes to prove there is great strength in numbers (at least of people who like, for the most part, to be positive). One meeting down and a blog launched, we are on our way to tapping into the great energy which so often alludes full-time parents but which we all dream about and in our better moments achieve.

Snowy, Snowy Day

I love the book by Ezra Jack Keats about the little boy on the snowy, snowy day. Seeing his peaked hood and silent grey footprints brings back my childhood. And today is indeed snowy. I finally tackled the debacle that is our back porch today (precoffee, too): left Martin clattering about making eggs for the girls and ventured into the cold to sweep up spilled precomposting coffee grounds. The back porch felt absolutely freezing--indeed the coffee grounds in our compost bowl were frozen solid--but when I stepped out to our balcony (a romantic sounding name for what is a basic, dirty platform), balmy winds greeted me.

What to say? How baffling! Turns out I enjoyed being witness to the three minutes or so of balmy winds as two weather storms collided. And now the creek, the bare arms of the trees, the bright orange splash of our neighbor's playplace, covers quickly with snow.

Yesterday, I finally whipped out my blunt scissors and wire cutters and harvested all the dried herbs in our sunroom. A large basket overflows with roses, lavender, feverfew, thyme: echoes from the hot summer. . .I crumbled huge bunches of genovese and lemon basil into Ziplocks, gently eased crisp spearmint leaves into bags. The scent was so overwhelming it made me almost dizzy and a little nauseous.

I finished the evening of what had turned into an exhausting but lovely day (morning at IKEA with two children!) with a late-night chapter of my current escape book, Under the Tuscan Sun, whe