The babies are upstairs AGAIN, about the 6th time in an hour. I should be up there right now, bringing them downstairs, but I can hear them, and they are laughing and talking, both of which are good signs that they're not choking on anything or hitting each other. I know I should be intimately involved in whatever it is they're doing, but I'm just not that kind of a parent (or caretaker). Feel free to be shocked. I just wanted to finish checking email and blogs--a task that should take only 15 minutes, and has taken an hour because of said babies. I'm not bitter, just a bit stubborn and determined.
I can hear things being dumped out. It's making a great banging, clashing noise, and quite a mess I'm sure. I guess I'll go intervene now. Halle and Chloe are going to be very unhappy about the state of their room when they get home from school...
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Friday, February 24, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
Good Words
A couple of things I've read or heard in the past few days have really struck a chord with me. I hope you like them too.
"The span between life as we intend it and life as we receive it is vast. Our true purpose is worked out in that gap." --from "Schedule, Interrupted" by Mark Buchanan, Christianity Today.com This article actually relates pretty well to the conversation going on at Adam's blog.
Also, part of a song by Derek Webb:
"Beloved, listen to me
Don't believe all that you see
And don't you ever let anyone tell you
That there's anything that you need
But Me"
"The span between life as we intend it and life as we receive it is vast. Our true purpose is worked out in that gap." --from "Schedule, Interrupted" by Mark Buchanan, Christianity Today.com This article actually relates pretty well to the conversation going on at Adam's blog.
Also, part of a song by Derek Webb:
"Beloved, listen to me
Don't believe all that you see
And don't you ever let anyone tell you
That there's anything that you need
But Me"
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Memaw
My mom's mom died yesterday morning. She was known as "Memaw" to just about everybody, except her kids, who, being from the North, called her "Ma". She'd had emphysema for several years, and was slowly becoming senile. She went to the ER with very low blood oxygen levels on Tuesday morning, then slipped into a coma and never woke up. My mom flew up there (Marine City, Michigan) Tuesday night and was able to see her before she died.
My Memaw lived in Marine City in a little community called Cherry Beach, right on the St. Clair River. From Memaw's house you can look down the street and see the river and, across it, Canada.
We used to go up there for a couple of weeks every summer (that's Halle in the picture), and the beach and the river are very closely connected with Memaw in my mind.
I remember the gin club that included Memaw, my mom, and her Aunt Jane (Memaw's sister), who lives two blocks over from Memaw. They didn't play gin, though--they drank gin, and played Scrabble.
I remember games of Liverpool Rum with the family gathered around the table in Memaw's back room. I remember the poodle skirt she sewed for me when I was in the third grade--I adored it. I remember once when I was really young my Grandmother (who died about a year and a half ago) and Memaw were together at my house and Memaw said something along the lines of "Oh, shit!" Grandmother, having been born and bred in the Bible Belt, was horrified and said sternly "Shirley!" (Grandmother was among those who did NOT call her Memaw.) Memaw replied, "Well, it's a lot better than some other things I could have said."
I remember my senior year of high school when Memaw came to stay with us for the winter (lots of Michiganders go south for the winter). She noticed that I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich every morning for breakfast. One morning I walked into the kitchen and she had already made my sandwich. She made it every day after that, till she went home. That same year Memaw made a lovely waist-length cream-colored cloak to go with the red dress I wore to my first formal dance.
I remember walking with her in Florida, crossing the street from the Falcon Lodge to the beach, and I was just as tall as she was. I remember in later years, as I grew and she "shrank", that I became a very little bit taller than her. I remember road trips in her van, from her house to Toronto; to Niagara Falls; to London, Ontario; to Virginia. I remember breakfasts in her kitchen, dinners in her dining room. I remember one Christmas at her house we found a whole bunch of old glass balls and cleaned them up to put on the tree. It was a good Christmas, even if, for the first time in 40 years, it didn't snow anywhere in the Lower Peninsula.
I remember her nightgowns and I remember her reading in bed. I remember the jar of Oreos in her kitchen and her morning ritual of peanut butter toast. I remember she used to order black coffee at every restaurant we ever visited, no matter what time of day it was. I remember birthday cards that always came with a check, and I remember when they stopped coming because she started to forget. I remember her standard outfit of a nice t-shirt and a denim skirt. I remember every inch of her house, and her neighborhood, and the beach. I remember one
specific denim shirt I would pull out of the downstairs closet for those cool Michigan summer evenings. I remember watching fireworks from the dock on the 4th of July and I remember puzzles on the table in her back room. I remember taking the ferry over to Sarnia (Canada) and I remember driving to Port Huron to go to the mall. I remember driving over the Port Huron Bridge, with the river on one side and Lake Huron on the other, opening up into this massive body of blue, blue water, stretching out forever, looking for all the world like the ocean. I remember the soft, lush, deep green Michigan grass, and I remember how darn cold the river always is.
It's hard to believe she's really gone. We've been losing her for a couple of years, but now she's really gone. It makes me sad, and it hurts, but there is peace, too. Memaw died in her sleep, which is an answered prayer. Her death could have been long and painful, but it wasn't, and I'm very grateful. It had been a few years since I'd last seen her, but I was able to go to Michigan this past summer and got to spend some time with her, and I'm so glad. She was in a pretty good mental state while I was there, always knew who I was, and got a big kick out of Noah. She called him the best-behaved baby she'd ever seen, and that's quite a compliment! Memaw knew the Lord, and knows Him now better than ever. She's no longer in pain, she's whole and happy, and I know I will see her again. But until then, I remember.
My Memaw lived in Marine City in a little community called Cherry Beach, right on the St. Clair River. From Memaw's house you can look down the street and see the river and, across it, Canada.
We used to go up there for a couple of weeks every summer (that's Halle in the picture), and the beach and the river are very closely connected with Memaw in my mind.I remember the gin club that included Memaw, my mom, and her Aunt Jane (Memaw's sister), who lives two blocks over from Memaw. They didn't play gin, though--they drank gin, and played Scrabble.
I remember games of Liverpool Rum with the family gathered around the table in Memaw's back room. I remember the poodle skirt she sewed for me when I was in the third grade--I adored it. I remember once when I was really young my Grandmother (who died about a year and a half ago) and Memaw were together at my house and Memaw said something along the lines of "Oh, shit!" Grandmother, having been born and bred in the Bible Belt, was horrified and said sternly "Shirley!" (Grandmother was among those who did NOT call her Memaw.) Memaw replied, "Well, it's a lot better than some other things I could have said."I remember my senior year of high school when Memaw came to stay with us for the winter (lots of Michiganders go south for the winter). She noticed that I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich every morning for breakfast. One morning I walked into the kitchen and she had already made my sandwich. She made it every day after that, till she went home. That same year Memaw made a lovely waist-length cream-colored cloak to go with the red dress I wore to my first formal dance.
I remember walking with her in Florida, crossing the street from the Falcon Lodge to the beach, and I was just as tall as she was. I remember in later years, as I grew and she "shrank", that I became a very little bit taller than her. I remember road trips in her van, from her house to Toronto; to Niagara Falls; to London, Ontario; to Virginia. I remember breakfasts in her kitchen, dinners in her dining room. I remember one Christmas at her house we found a whole bunch of old glass balls and cleaned them up to put on the tree. It was a good Christmas, even if, for the first time in 40 years, it didn't snow anywhere in the Lower Peninsula.
I remember her nightgowns and I remember her reading in bed. I remember the jar of Oreos in her kitchen and her morning ritual of peanut butter toast. I remember she used to order black coffee at every restaurant we ever visited, no matter what time of day it was. I remember birthday cards that always came with a check, and I remember when they stopped coming because she started to forget. I remember her standard outfit of a nice t-shirt and a denim skirt. I remember every inch of her house, and her neighborhood, and the beach. I remember one
specific denim shirt I would pull out of the downstairs closet for those cool Michigan summer evenings. I remember watching fireworks from the dock on the 4th of July and I remember puzzles on the table in her back room. I remember taking the ferry over to Sarnia (Canada) and I remember driving to Port Huron to go to the mall. I remember driving over the Port Huron Bridge, with the river on one side and Lake Huron on the other, opening up into this massive body of blue, blue water, stretching out forever, looking for all the world like the ocean. I remember the soft, lush, deep green Michigan grass, and I remember how darn cold the river always is.
It's hard to believe she's really gone. We've been losing her for a couple of years, but now she's really gone. It makes me sad, and it hurts, but there is peace, too. Memaw died in her sleep, which is an answered prayer. Her death could have been long and painful, but it wasn't, and I'm very grateful. It had been a few years since I'd last seen her, but I was able to go to Michigan this past summer and got to spend some time with her, and I'm so glad. She was in a pretty good mental state while I was there, always knew who I was, and got a big kick out of Noah. She called him the best-behaved baby she'd ever seen, and that's quite a compliment! Memaw knew the Lord, and knows Him now better than ever. She's no longer in pain, she's whole and happy, and I know I will see her again. But until then, I remember.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Another blogspot convert
Please note that Angie has moved to blogspot, further proof that blogspot is the best blogging site in the world (sticks her tongue out at all other blogging sites).
Also, Angie, I think the "d" in "desertbloom" is supposed to be lowercase. And, ditto.
Also, Angie, I think the "d" in "desertbloom" is supposed to be lowercase. And, ditto.
Friday, February 03, 2006
No More Raccoon
The raccoon has departed our house and this world. It's sort of a sad story, so I won't go into too many details. The re-rigged live trap worked, but because of safety concerns Aaron felt it was better to kill the raccoon rather than risk getting attacked while trying to set it free. I made the mistake of looking at the raccoon while he was still alive and uninjured, and he looked sad and scared. I was wise enough to not hang around for anything after that. I shut myself in our room and cried a bit before retreating into "Rilla of Ingleside" to take my mind off of other things. Before it was all said and done, even Aaron was feeling sorry for the raccoon. If you want more details than that, ask Aaron. In any case, we shouldn't have any more problems with nighttime noises.
On a much lighter note, the following pictures were taken the other day after Noah decided to eat dirt. It's not the first time he's done it, and he's done it since. I don't know why. It can't taste very good, but almost every time he goes outside he digs in the dirt with his hands and then sticks them in his mouth. He doesn't even make "Oh-yuck-I-shouldn't-have-done-that" faces afterwards. (The face he IS making is because I wouldn't let him have the camera.) He actually seems to enjoy it. I think maybe it's hardwired into him as a boy thing? I don't remember the girls doing that. At least, if they did, they immediately regretted it. What you can't see in these pictures is the dirt all over his teeth and tongue. Very gross.
On a much lighter note, the following pictures were taken the other day after Noah decided to eat dirt. It's not the first time he's done it, and he's done it since. I don't know why. It can't taste very good, but almost every time he goes outside he digs in the dirt with his hands and then sticks them in his mouth. He doesn't even make "Oh-yuck-I-shouldn't-have-done-that" faces afterwards. (The face he IS making is because I wouldn't let him have the camera.) He actually seems to enjoy it. I think maybe it's hardwired into him as a boy thing? I don't remember the girls doing that. At least, if they did, they immediately regretted it. What you can't see in these pictures is the dirt all over his teeth and tongue. Very gross.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Raccoon Update
We heard from our raccoon sometime again this weekend (now I'm all fuzzy on which day), but it was much more muffled and sort of half-hearted. We thought maybe it was the death rattle, since the thing is wounded and has had no food or water for several days (at least, as far as we know). But he was back with renewed vigor on Monday night, chewing and scratching louder than ever before. One of Aaron's co-workers loaned us a live trap big enough for a raccoon, as Animal Control still has not contacted us, and we baited it last night, but to no avail. No chewing, no clawing--no attic noises at all--and no raccoon in the trap. We're not quite sure what this means. Is it dead? Is it alive? Only time will tell! Stay tuned to this blog for the exciting conclusion of the Raccoon Adventures!
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