Blessings

Here are my blessings, conveniently posing together in one picture:

I am the luckiest. Even when they eat grass and pick their noses and stare seriously off into the distance.

Maybe especially so then.

Berries from the Garden

My husband is a wonderful, wonderful man who has, over the years, perfected the art of gardening, with the result of fabulous, homegrown food for our family every spring and summer. We even enjoy the fruits of his labors throughout the fall and winter, as he is also a person who genuinely enjoys canning and preserving said homegrown food.

Like I said: wonderful, wonderful man.

A couple of years ago we planted some strawberry runners and have, since then, anxiously awaited their bounty. (In case you don't know, strawberry plants take a couple of years to bear fruit.) Last year we got a grand total of about three berries, but this year they've started to produce more fruit, and for the last few mornings I've found prizes on my kitchen counter.

They are the sweetest, most flavorful berries I've ever tasted. If you've never had the chance to grow berries or at least pick them from a farm, please endeavor to do so as soon as possible.

And then, if you haven't already got one, endeavor to get yourself a spouse like this: hard-working, focused, determined, kind, patient, loving, and, of course, handsome.

But mainly sarcastic. He is, after all, a very sarcastic person. With a furrowed brow.

Who brings me berries from the garden.

What I Wore Wednesday Thursday

I promise I meant to post this yesterday and appear all ironic and cute, but then I thought maybe it would come across more "smartass" than anything else. And then I got busy and failed to post altogether, so I'm doing my take on What I Wore Wednesday (a cute feature that other, more polished bloggers than I are good about doing...on time, I might add) on Thursday and come across like not only a smartass, but a lazy one at that.

In all things, I strive for smartassery.

What I Wore Wednesday. On Thursday.

T-shirt: Stretched out, spat-upon boyfriend tee from Target.
Baby carrier: Ergo. Worth more than your arm, but totally worth the price. The BEST carrier.
Baby: Single edition, from my loins. Sorry, as much as you might like this one, he's ours.

And yes, I did wear him nearly all day. We are still living under the shadow that is TEETHING IN EARNEST and so he is not happy at all, oh no.

Happy Thursday, friends. Go forth and wear babies.

A Courtship

Today is our anniversary.

And so I present to you...

a courtship.

In five acts.

Act I:

The Professor and I met our freshman year of college, except here's the thing: I don't actually remember meeting him for the first time. He does; for me, he was just always there, part of an extended group of friends, a nice guy but not anything I was romantically interested in. I was dating someone else, and also if you had asked my future husband what he thought about me then, 11 years ago, he would have simply said, "She's loud. Cute, but loud."

Well. I am pretty loud. I'll give him that.

I wasn't interested in him, but I caught on pretty quickly that he was a set-in-his-ways, focused kind of guy who was easily flustered by out-of-the-ordinary things. Like cute, loud girls. Who yelled--nay, bellowed--his name from across campus whenever he was spotted. Every dang time. And every dang time, I'd watch him stop in his tracks, jerk up his head, turn every which way, and then finally spot me and give a large, languid wave hello. Later, when we were becoming an item, I learned that this simultaneously completely unnerved and thrilled him. I just found joy in watching him get flustered.

Act II:

Cut to September of our sophomore year. My boyfriend and I had just broken up, and while it was absolutely the right thing to happen, I was pretty sore about it, as you may expect. One evening one of my friends, Courtney, said she had to take The Professor (who was simply The Student then) to our homegroup leader's house to give back some tool. Actually, I'm not really sure of the details, I was confused about the errand even then. I was fancy free and suddenly it crossed my mind: That kid. He's pretty cute. I could hang out with him. He might be a nice friend to have on my side.

I insisted we take my car and showed up as a cheerful, oblivious third wheel. (The Professor and Courtney both later admitted that they would have never worked; they were seriously way too alike.) We took the tool (a saw? why did a college student have a saw?) and then pestered The Professor to tell us if he had any money. He sheepishly admitted that he had a twenty, and please understand that right there and then I was very impressed. I mean, I had like two bucks in my checking account, and this kid had riches untold. Whoa. Pay attention, Christine.

We insisted he take us on a group date to Steak N Shake, where he bought us cheese fries and I hopped around like a crazy person because the shoes I had borrowed from Raechel, my roommate, were too small and giving me foot cramps. (Note: Rae, your feet are like two whole sizes smaller than mine. What in the heck was I doing wearing your shoes?)

When we were all in my car The Professor spotted a book, Spindle's End by my favorite author, Robin McKinley, and immediately snatched it and began reading the description from the book jacket in a high, singsong falsetto. I laughed and pretended to be offended, but I did notice when he stopped fooling around and quietly began reading the description in earnest. I didn't know it then, but I had found a kindred spirit.

Act III:

I must have made a good impression with my fantasy novel and my crazed Steak N Shake jumping, because this kid started taking an interest in me. In fact he attempted to call me, but in that day and age before cell phones, he had to rely on the student phone directory. Little did he know that there was another student in our grade who had my same name (first and last), and so of course he called her and left a message with her roommate. She never did get back with him. Likely she understood the mix-up before he did. She and I got used to this sort of thing over the years.

Clearly we had a psychic connection, because I called him a short while later without knowing about the previous, mistaken phone call. We agreed that this was funny and also amazing, and then set a date: Barnes and Noble.

So we went. And we left the bookstore amazed, each more than a little hopeful, because here were two people who had read, read a lot, and, as it turned out, read almost exactly the same things. We sat in the children's section for over an hour, crouched on the floor, pointing out titles, remembering characters, and over and over again confirming that yes, we had both read that one, now what about that one? Oh, that one too? Like a thousand times? One of my favorites too.

I had long ago resigned myself to never finding someone who shared my desire to always be reading. I would never find anyone who read for pleasure to the same degree that I did, nor would I find anyone who read from the same genres. To this day I have only met a handful of others who have the history of reading that I do, and all of them are women with the exception of The Professor.

So. I had found my book soul mate. That much was clear.

Seriously. Christine. Pay attention.

Act IV:

Fall break was coming very soon, and we made plans to meet up at an outlet mall in between his house and my friend Sally's house in Michigan, where Courtney and I were staying. Just before fall break I contracted pink eye (ask Rae sometime about how I woke her up that morning frantically calling my parents), which, as you know in college, is a tragedy, especially as I had to forego my contacts and wear my rather owlish, high prescription lenses.

Very embarrassing.

The Professor heard of my plight and took pity on me. He decided that the best way he could show solidarity and kindness was through--you guessed it--a book, and gave me a copy of The Princess Bride. I had of course seen the movie approximately 738 times, but had never realized that it was a book. I was touched and delighted that he had loaned me something so important to him, since he did tell me (rather gravely, in my memory--he didn't lend books easily back then) that it was one of his all-time favorites and that he thought I should have it for fall break.

I read it every waking moment during fall break, in between a dozen loads of laundry that Sally, Courtney, and I had brought to Sally's folks' house. In the middle of fall break we met The Professor and his best friend at the predetermined outlet mall, where we all hung out lightheartedly and I bought a red, pocketed scarf that was to be my signature winter item for many years. Later I learned The Professor had brought his friend to meet me and tell him what he thought of me. I guess I did okay; said friend was our best man.

Act V:

We all returned to school after fall break, and that first evening I called him and told him I had loved the book and wanted to get it back to him. He was in the middle of studying and said I could bring it by the library; I threw him off course for a few moments by suggesting he give up studying and meet me at the coffee shop. (One thing you should know about him: My husband is a focused person who very rarely does things spur-of-the-moment.) We met, chatted about the book and our breaks, and then the rest, as they say, is history.

Epilogue:

We dated all of our sophomore year. Before Thanksgiving break he said goodbye to me at the back door of my apartment, then kissed my cheek. Before I had time to react to this first kiss (whoo, cheek!), he had run halfway across the parking lot and was giving one of his signature languid waves.

I loved him for a very long time before he would admit the same to himself and to me.

We both applied to study at Oxford and both went the next September, the fall of our junior year. He had, unbeknownst to me, picked out and purchased a ring before he left. His mother brought it, wearing it on her finger on the plane, when our families came to visit in November. He proposed to me on December 6, 2003, just a few days before we returned to the States.

We had a long engagement, which we considered shortening before facing the realities of no money. We graduated and then had a two week break before the wedding. In those two weeks we had to find an apartment and a job for me, and then get our belongings from four separate states (Illinois, Michigan, Kansas, and Texas) to our first home in Oxford, Mississippi. We were young and so of course we managed to do all of it successfully.

And then we were married on May 21, 2005.

And we haven't looked back.

photos courtesy of Brennan

Happy anniversary to the hands-down most awesome guy I know. I would like for us to fill our home with books for the next multiple decades.

Doings and Look-Alikes

Things have been pretty chill around here, which is how we like it. We like to keep a non-busy schedule that is nonetheless structured around work, play, and long naps. We don't rush, rush, rush very much, and when we do, we get flustered. The last few weeks the big boys have been attending "kindergarten boot camp" every Thursday evening, and while they've been enjoying it and we've been enjoying their exploits, it makes for busy, car-centric Thursdays. So of course I'm ready for that to be done. How will our family respond to school? We will probably all have simultaneous nervous breakdowns.

I have no earth-shattering, spiritually enlightening, thought-provoking blog posts for you. I actually have very little soupy brain matter to spare, as H was not content with his developmental leaps last week and has decided to get his second tooth this week and HE WANTS YOU ALL TO KNOW THAT IT SUCKS. Seriously, it's insane, and neither he nor I is getting enough sleep, and also the amber necklace is on and I'm not seeing an appreciable difference yet. I am willing to concede that, yes, we just got it last week, so I'll give it time. I'll continue to look at it all askance, though. It's in my nature.

Anyway, with a noticeable lack of anything awesome to say, I'll give you some photos and ramble on like the doting mother I am. Feel free to bail here. I still love ya.

Here is the Raisin Baby, having a fabulously messy lunch consisting of pancakes, cheese, bread, and blackberries.

He had blackberries oozing down his thighs. A bath immediately followed this lunch.

And all those books that are housed within his grubby reach? They need baths, too.

Next, in the nature of all mothers of multiple kids everywhere, I am amazed at how alike two of my children look. And no, I'm not talking about the twins. Sure, they look very similar, but they are not identical; they have always had distinctly different features, not to mention personalities. But J and his wee brother H? So alike. So eerily alike.

I present to you a picture of J at just over 8 months:

(If I remember correctly, at this age he developed a slight orange tint due to his devotion to sweet potatoes.)

(That ugly doll is so dead behind him, you guys.)

And a recent photo of H, at just over 7 months:

I don't know, maybe you don't see it, but seriously, their resemblance is uncanny. In five years I'm going to have a mini-J running around here, his red, curly, cowlicked hair unruly to the max.

Yes, he is only wearing a shirt in this photo. I have no idea why, I promise he is usually wearing cloth diapers. And an amber necklace. And chewing on a Sophie giraffe. Thus making our hippie trifecta complete.

And just so you know: Now I'm going through pictures of the twins at this age, peering at their open mouths, thinking, Did they have teeth? And you know what? Because I do not keep formal baby books and hadn't yet started a blog, I will never know.

Let this be a lesson to all lazy mothers everywhere.

Okay, done rambling. I hope your weekend is as wonderful, warm, and relaxing as ours promises to be.

Mother of a Day

Last year I got such a nice bit of photography on Mother's Day. Everyone looked generally happy to be near me, and I was only having to physically control one of my children.

This year didn't go so well. This year no one could be contained.

Good grief. I promise I still have four of them.

The View

The view from my front porch right now:

Purple irises, pink roses, budding roses, red snapdragons, and a crazy climbing clematis that threatens to bloom any day now.

Not pictured: the millions of weeds that I absolutely must tackle this weekend, lest they blanket us all in their choking runners.

I am so happy.

H's Big Week

This has been a really big week (already! on a Wednesday!) for the Raisin Baby. Over the weekend we officially switched him to the crib and set up a twin bed for his sister, both in the same room, since he had been sleeping through the night for several weeks and it seemed a good time to get C off of the crib mattress on her big brothers' floor. High time, in fact.

The day after the switcheroo was complete, H began teething in earnest after several months of preparatory drooling. And when I say "in earnest," I mean HOLY CATS THIS TOOTH IS A JERK. My big three had the typical rough time teething, so I thought I knew what to expect. But of course H wanted to remind me that he is the most awesome and best at everything, which includes being miserable and needy to the max come teething time. Back C went into her brother's room while I dealt with a sleepless baby (who was then cranky when awake) with purple gums, a fountaining nose, and a general terrible attitude. And I only felt misery with him, especially after feeling the sharp, sharky tooth emerging from his gum. Poor guy.

(Note: In desperation on Monday, I ordered an amber teething necklace. I am verrrry skeptical of these things and honestly dismiss their supposed healing properties as hoodoo voodoo, along with magical healing magnets, young earth creationists, and chunky peanut butter. But Monday caught me in a low place, and so a necklace is on the way. Please don't bother berating me for my views or even telling me how awesome they really are--I've heard it all, and I'm ready to leave H on the doorstep of the next person who says, "This too shall pass." Consider yourself warned.)

So we were all already exhausted and tender last night when I looked up from a book to see H scooting across the floor, going after a toy. The Professor was on the floor, too, reading a book to the big kids, and I hollered something eloquent like "BLARG HE'S CRAWLING, LOOK, LOOOOOK." I didn't get quite the amazed reaction I was expecting; my husband looked up, grinned, and then went back to reading, unperturbed by this miraculous turn of events in an already ridiculously crazy week. I suppose after four kids, very little surprises you when you're a dad.

Anyway. He's doing it. Here's proof. And yes, I purposefully placed two off-limits items, a paper airplane and a Micro Machine, in front of him to get him to move. And then took them away from him. Sue me. He won't remember it.



Since typing this he has crawled the length and width of the living room, wedged himself underneath the couch, tasted some shoes by the front door, wedged himself underneath an end table, discovered a cabinet door, and smooshed his face with a pillow. What a big day!

And in case the Christine of the Future finds this post in an attempt to nail down just when H started crawling (I don't keep baby books--unapologetically, in fact.), let it be known that he was 7 months old a mere four days ago.

And that his jerk first tooth is halfway through his gum.

I think I need a nap.

Thank You, From Jean-Luc

This is for you. You know who you are, even if I'm rather clueless. You made my day today, and I thank you. From the bottom of my whiny, crybaby heart. And I do the biggest and most splendid thing I can think of in response: I offer you the Picard Slow Clap.

I mean, seriously. I don't just hand these babies out. So take it from me: your gesture made me melt, and I think I can make it knowing you have my back.

(You should know that "The Pines of Rome" is playing in the background right now, and I don't know a more inspirational and throbbingly emotional piece of music out there. If my thank-you seems a little melodramatic, then you know why.)

I Spy

If you showed up on my doorstep this afternoon, and if I decided that you looked not-crazy and invited you in, these are some things you might spy...

...my planter, full of annuals that I hope will someday soon grow large enough to take over the porch...

...a basket full of clean, folded clothes and a basket full of clean, unfolded towels...

...plastic animals and Star Wars coloring pages strewn across my bedroom floor, with a bonus fingerpaint sighting...

...a dinosaur in a bowl of lavender...

...two firetrucks expertly contructed in kindergarten boot camp by two red-headed boys...

...another boy's weekend reading material...

...a freshly baked batch of cookies...

(I know you're jealous of the gold-flecked countertop.)

...a sink full of dirty dishes and Micro Machines...

...a fridge front full of colorful art...

...and best of all, a leetle baby boy with his leetle curly feet in his leetle red highchair.

Happy Saturday to all!

A Big Crybaby and a Wee Improvement

I know I'm going to sound like a whiny little privileged baby, but I'm just going to say it:

Graduate school is cramping my style.

Mainly my "extra money for home improvements" style. Because when you are a family of six living off of one graduate student's stipend, things are understandably tight. Also understandable: we knew things were going to be very tight, very reduced, and very basic when we got ourselves into this two years ago. We knew it was going to mean sacrificing things like house projects, fun money, vacations, landscaping (sob), new clothing, and other extras, and we also knew that it would be temporary. We agreed enduring these short term sacrifices were well worth the payout in the long run, and we knew that such a phenomenal offer from such a fabulous program was never going to happen again.

We knew all this. We still do.

But dang it, if that siding doesn't get crappier looking every day. And those last six, refusing-to-open windows with ripped screens are just sitting there, glaring at me. The basement has standing water when it rains. The kitchen is an embarrassment, with its original, cheap cabinets and six layers of linoleum and six inches of counter space. All three bedrooms are in major need of major decorating, and if I have to look at the peach paint in the upstairs hallway one more time, I'm going to scream. Minor projects get started and then languish for months after we run out of funds.

I could go on and on, because that's just the kind of rotten mood I'm in. I'm ungrateful for this amazing, once-in-a-lifetime doctoral program that has been such a gift to my fabulously intelligent and hardworking husband. I'm ungrateful for the fact that we have A HOUSE, an actual, we-own-it HOUSE with heating and central air conditioning and a solid roof and running water. I'm ungrateful that we are healthy and without major debt and living in a safe neighborhood in a safe city in a safe country. We are so fabulously wealthy, when you come down to it, and I'm ignoring that fact and am just going to wallow in misery because I can't justify the purchase of a gallon of paint, much less a new camera or those six final windows.

Poor me.

Thank you for enduring that. It was mildly therapeutic. And very embarrassing.

Anyway, my poor husband takes great pity on me, because, as he sees it, he gets all the great parts that go along with these sacrifices (namely, you know, THE DEGREE) without much of the crappier aspects. He's not a homemaker, so he is better able to ignore the niggling, unfinished or worn-out details that make me see red, nor is he left alone to single parent four children for long swathes of time, so he is sympathetic. Probably overly so, since I am a huge, ungrateful baby when you get down to brass tacks. (I have always wanted to use that phrase and I desperately hope I am using it correctly.)

So this month, when we did the budget and I got all pissy because we, once again, couldn't manage any house projects, he gave me a little wad of cash, not much in the grand scheme of things but worth quite a bit to us right now, and said, "Here. This is yours. I don't care how you spend it. Use it how you see fit." And I was determined to not just fritter this away on needful things for the children (those children) or, I don't know, coffee, but instead get at least one house project, no matter how minor, done and crossed off my list of about 672 other projects. It needed to be obvious so that I could see it everyday and say, "Hey. We did that. Woo us!" I needed a high that would stay in my system for a few weeks and positively contribute to our home.

Except actually my father-in-law did it after I handed him the raw materials. Behold, a place for my children to hang their things:

It's not much, but it makes a big difference in our getting-in-the-house-and-corralling-all-the-coats process. Here's what we call our "welcome center" directly above it, just to your left as you walk in our front door. Sure, it has hooks, but they are too high for our kids to reach, plus the board itself doesn't hold much weight. The blank space underneath had been driving me nuts for awhile, and I considered finding a small, narrow table before hitting on this much more functional and kid-friendly idea. And it works! They are trained.

I see that King Peter the Boy has even hung up her My Little Pony. Impressive.

I should note that I completely copied my sister-in-law, Janie, with this project, and that all glory goes to her, along with a fair amount to my father-in-law, who patiently measured and drilled and got everything actually on the wall. You guys rock.

Oh, and the mirror was clearanced out at our Target (they are expanding it into what I call a Real Target, after being at demi-Target status for years, and much has been clearanced in the expansion) and I found the hooks at Hobby Lobby. Total project cost: $12.

And because I'm embarrassed that I have been so grouchy lately, I offer this as penitence for my sins: a view of the "shoe rug" directly underneath the hooks.

They're technically ON the rug, okay?

I'm going to go drown my sorrows in cookies. At least I still have cookies.