It's Farmin' Season

As demonstrated below, The Farmer's been a gardening maniac these past few weeks. Although I get out there when I can, I mainly hold down the fort so that he can garden to his heart's content. It's in his genes after all.

Greens and roots


Rhubarb, raspberries, gooseberries, and future site of tomatoes


Asparagus, cabbage, and beans


Fuzzy little peaches



Blackberries, grapes, and blueberries



Future cucumbers and zucchini






Strawberry patch






Orchard





We've already eaten a few things from the garden, some things will take two or three years to harvest, and many things will be lost to grubs, turtles, fungus, and weather. The battle's on.

A Love Letter

Dear Laundry,

You are relentless.
You are water leaking into a boat, ceaselessly scooped with a bucket, lest all the inhabitants sink and drown.
I can never escape you. For a family can function with dusty shelves and unscrubbed sinks, but not without something to wear. You stick with me like a tick in a scalp.

And yet.

In the quiet of the afternoon, when I sit surrounded by you on the couch, gently folding your Spring Breeze-scented articles, I realize I love you.
For you are the fullness of life.
You are chocolate ice cream dripping from a cone.
You are sweet potatoes and turkey mixed with fortified rice cereal.
You are grass stains after an awesome slide toward the ball.
You are sweat from an invigorating run.
You are soil and compost and manure.

In two decades hence when you have grown frail and thin, I will miss your abundance. I will yearn for the liquids and semi-solids you hold from sweet-cheeked babies. I will long for your mud, your paint, and your spilled milk. Thoughts of your sawdust and dog hair will bring a wistful smile to my lips.

I love you, Laundry. You are my number one chore.

Yours Truly

Does Anyone Else See a Resemblance Here?

I knew Kai reminded me of someone, with his downsloping eyebrows and cute little round chin.




I figured it out when he woke up with hair sticking up in the shape of ears.

Bye-Bye Night-Night

The "night-night" has been a part of our family for the past four years, since Micah was about nine months old. He wasn't much for sucking on a pacifier, but he sure liked a mouth full of fleecy goodness (the surged edges to be precise) to lull himself to sleep.



"Night-night" (pronounced "nie-nie" initially) was his first word. And besides bringing suck-induced sleep, the night-night provided comfort during times of separation, injury, or fear.



It is now half its original size and has lost most of it's fleecy-ness, but no other fleece blanket would do. Must be something about its distinctive smell. (I used to wash it in its very own load to prevent said smell from rubbing off on our clothes.)

(Not sure what happened to Seth's eyes here.)

Last year, I declared a new rule that the night-night had to stay on Micah's bed. He obeyed but would occasionally go up to his room for a quick suck. Recently, I've been encouraging Micah to just snuggle it and not suck on it at night. He always replied, "I won't do it."



But one night about a week or two ago, he declared, "I'm not going to suck on my night-night tonight." And he tossed it under his bed. He's tossed it under his bed ever since.



And at the same time he's suddenly into letters and writing words and counting and even started reading a little.

I think Mommy's realized she was a little attached to night-night too.