Nursing

When M was 11 days old, she had to go to the hospital and we stayed there for seven days. When Doc B told me she had to go to the hospital, I said, "But I'm nursing her..." and he said, "Well, go with her."
So I did go with her.
And I didn't set her down for 7 days, except once each day to shower. I held her for 7 days. There was no one to help me at the hospital, I think, because I did not ask. I could not bring myself to ask for help holding my screaming newborn child.

I did ask that the nurses bring a bed into the room so that I could nurse M and sleep, and I hung out with her in the bed, nursing and sleeping for 7 days. My arms and head hurt and my back ached but I did not set M down. I held her to my chest, I propped her in my arms in pillows, and I cuddled her next to me.

I watched movies that Frank brought me:
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
A Christmas Story
Mr. Brooks ( I don't recommend this one at all.)
Disturbia (or this).

I read a huge variety of non-horrifying (i.e. one detective vs. one murderer) murder mysteries. I ate all the hospital food they would bring me, including snacks in the night. It still was Not Fun.

M had to have a spinal tap on three different days, with multiple needle attempts each time. They poked and prodded at her constantly, and she cried a lot. Even when I was holding her, she still cried a lot. She was little, and bright red and so hot all the time. I tried not to panic about the constant crying. I thought, one day, that I should just go home and leave her there. I stayed.

She did not cry when she was nursing. I nursed her as much as I could, and while she nursed, I would go to sleep. Then, eventually, she would go to sleep. Later, she would wake up and cry, and I would nurse her, and I would go to sleep...Occasionally, people would come into the room and wake us up, telling me that they were sure that I would suffocate her by accident.

I did not suffocate her. I nursed her.

Finally, they let us go home.

It seemed that M had gotten used to being held all of the time. That's how it seemed. And it also seemed that she nursed alot.

She never really slept through the night, and so I would nurse her. Maybe even 4 times a night. It never bothered me, and it never bothered her. She was so sweet at night. I was so sad when Big T stopped nursing that I knew I should enjoy this small stage with her while it lasted.

Little by little, though, we've decided that she can nurse less and less, until there has been just one nursing session left each day, one before bed.
On Christmas Eve, she was running around the room like a nut, laughing and giggling. Then she'd come back and nurse, pinch me, grin at me, spit a big mouthful of milk out, laugh and run away again. Giggle. Giggle. Pinch. Pinch. Even Big T was shocked at her behavior and he kept walking after her and saying, "Come back. Come back, Mydyeeuh, Come back and nurse." Then he and I sighed exasperatedly.
So, that's it. She's done nursing.
F gave her a cup of milk before bed last night. He said she looked like, "She knew something was different but didn't care too much." And then, after she was in bed, we went and had 2 glasses of wine each!
Tonight, I gave her a cup of milk before bed. I must tell you, there was a little bit of screaming and clutching at my shirt. She didn't drink any milk, but I walked her and patted her. I told her, "M, I'm gonna put you in your bed. It's okay, though, you'll be able to sleep just fine. I held you and nursed you for seven whole days once, because you needed it, and I'd hold you and nurse you for seven more, if you need it...It's just that, now, I'm telling you big peanut pie, you don't need it." And I plopped her down in her bed, put on her music, and she went to sleep.










And then T woke up. Isn't it ironic?

Fudge

If, while Frank and the kids are upstairs napping, I go ahead and eat all the fudge, that would be okay, wouldn't it?

I may have a sweets problem.

A Cookie Story

I have read some blog postings where others muse about the way they personify themselves on the blog they write, and whether these personifications are true to life, or if they represent themselves differently than they "really" are.

Here's who I really am, and my goodness, what a picture it paints:


On the way home tonight from work, I thought about all the Christmas cookies that were waiting for me, ahem, us, at the house.

As soon as we got in the door, I told T we were going downstairs to eat cookies and then we would have supper. Indirectly, I'm sure M heard about this, but my statement was really addressed to T. I'm still holding out many sweets for myself, ahem, I mean, holding out and not letting M eat alot of sweets, because she's just a baby.

I grabbed a ziploc baggie of spritz cookies and headed downstairs, T at my heels. When I got downstairs, I handed T a cookie. Then I ate some myself. He stared at his cookie, then he pointed at the bag. "Cookie." "Cookie.", he shouted.

I ate some more cookies while I pointed out that he had a cookie in his hand and surely he was going to eat that one first, before he got any others. He stared at his cookie dejectedly. I ate some more cookies, then I realized that his cookie was a sort of rectangular shaped spritz. I thought perhaps he didn't realize that it was a cookie. I thought perhaps maybe he mistakenly thought all cookies were round. I took his spritz and gave him a round cookie.

Not paying any attention to him, I popped his spritz into my mouth. I ate some more cookies as I realized that I was in the midst of a skirmish. T was pointing at my face and trying to climb up my leg. He was saying, "That's my cookie." "Mommy! That's my cookie." "Cookie." and still reaching and climbing to get at the rectangular spritz that I had already chewed and swallowed.

Thinking quickly, I looked down at the bag of cookies in my hand, pulled out a rectangular spritz, palmed it, and fake spit it out from my very full mouth of cookies. I handed him this whole and perfect spritz and he gratefully accepted it ("thank you, mommy"), but still he pointed at the bag of cookies, and said "Cookie." "Cookie." I looked down and the bag was empty.

I think he just wanted more than one cookie at a time. I don't know where he'd get that piggishness from.

Bling at 1 year

Miss M at 1 year.

They are very tiny, but you can see her little (and new) earrings.

He said "Clap"

Eating

Last night I called F and offered to make him an extra batch of hearty buckwheat pancakes. You see, someone had eaten all of the first batch of buckwheat pancakes and there would have been nothing for F to eat when he got home.

He said, "No, thanks. I've eaten already and am full."

What a creep! Who actually stops eating when they are "full" and refuses homemade, fresh and wonderful, buckwheat pancakes?

Not I.

And that's why in precisely 1.3 months I'm going to weigh 400 pounds.

I feel that there is nothing I can really do to stop the impending weight gain, but here are some things I am going to, or am already doing. At least I can feel like I have a plan.

• I have a scale in my bathroom now. I have never had a scale in my bathroom before that wasn't completely covered with dust.
• I am getting on the scale every day. --When I was in LPN school, I remember JJunker telling us that she weighed herself daily, and if she noticed a weight change then she made immediate changes in her behavior. She's a darn good-looking woman and I hope it works for me like it has worked for her.
• I am dipping my fork in the salad dressing rather than putting dressing on the salad.
• I am recording my exercise sessions so that I can track my progress.
• I have replaced 2 percent milk with skim. This was very sad for me, but it's not all that bad.
• I have replaced ritz crackers with rice cakes. Let's never speak of this again.
• I am looking at the labels of the food I eat. I have never really done this before, and let me tell you, it is disheartening, not because of the calories and fat calories, but because of the ingredients. There is not a lot of good stuff going on in this packaged food.
• I am eating a whipped chocolate mousse yogurt thing at night time instead of ice cream. Let's never speak of this again.

That's it. That's all I'm currently doing.
I'm open to any suggestions, as I would like to not be an Orca. I am not open to going to Weight Watchers because it's pretty expensive. Anything else, I'm game for.

I am going to do the following things but have not started yet:

• I am going to eat a snack at work before I go home, and not eat while I am making dinner.
• I am not going to snack on things while I am standing up.
• I am going to start doing my hair better--but that's neither here nor there.

So that's it. I'm out of ideas.

--Orcamanda

The Birthday Girl

Ya'll have been holding out on me.

Birthday Cake

Considering that my model was a faded cake photo from the 1970 Wilton yearbook, that I've only made two other decorative cakes in my life (Elmo and the Xmas cake), and that the Wilton yearbook instructions were three sentences long (for those who are regular cake decorators), I was rather pleased with how the cake turned out.
And because I used four layers of butter fudge cake with fudge icing in between, I was even more pleased with how it tasted. I ate almost all the leftovers myself--sacrificing my own figure, really, to help the children stay on nutritional track.

Because of how lovely M's cake ended up turning out--Lovely, from my own creator perspective--I have decided that there is hope for the Xmas cake (see last years model below), and I will bravely continue on making it every year. The goal is that by the end of time it will look exactly like the cake in "Picture This" and that everything on it will be edible. Fondant, fondant, more fondant, and the "Wilton basket weave technique" will all be necessary. For this year though, I think I will work on the "smooth icing" and bordering techniques.

Here are the smallest children oohing and aahing over my cake. Ahem, I mean, M's cake.

T tried to blow out the candle.

Then he tried to dive head first into the cake. He had to be forcibly removed from my arm, and even then, he clung to my pant leg all the way that I walked to the kitchen. He cried, and squirmed, and said, "flowers, flowers, please, Mommy, flowers...." I ignored him while I attempted to serve myself, ahem, guests, but did note that he knew they were flowers without being told. Smart boy. And props again to my decorating skills. I'm pretty sure the local bakery is hiring.

Halloween T!

I had to greedily clutch the candy in my hands, because Big T kept saying "Thank you" and putting the candy back in the basket. We didn't get it across to him until much later in the evening that he should say "Thank you" and put the candy in his bag for me, ahem, I mean, him, to eat later.

Halloween M!

"Things That Should be Private, But Now Aren't", or, "This Photo is in Poor Taste"

In which M experiences an unsightly problem.

5 Months Left, Thank goodness...

My favorite thing about the military is when you get copied on an email, out of the blue, that contains a bunch of your administrative paperwork. The email is sent to 3 other people, one titled a "deployment specialist of the USAR". There's no text in the message, and no contact information other than names and titles.
And I'm not in the USAR anymore. I'm in the National Guard now. What in the world?

Ethan Allen

On one wall, when I was growing up, there was a giant bookcase/dresser/desk/hutch combination. From the time I was very little, I remember liking it. I liked to play near it and open all the drawers. My Mom kept a great variety of things in it. There was a drawer full of greeting cards, drawers with wrapping paper, a drawer with jewelry that we got to wear to church, a drawer with some wallets made by prisoners, a drawer with several 2 dollar bills...On the shelves were some older book sets, oil lamps, a brass frog that opened his mouth when you clicked his back, a fossil, a decorative tin full of safety pins, a tiny set of antique-ish pans, including a miniature muffin tin...
Basically, it was a treasure trove for anyone under the age of 6. Or, if you have a personality like mine, you'd probably still enjoy looking at all of these varied items.

Plus, you could climb up the drawers, cling to the top of the desk portion, thread your way to the left and get to the actual top of the unit.
As a result of my gymnastic endeavors, there was always quite a bit of shouting, "Amanda, get away from the ethanallen!" and shoulder-grabbing, serious discussions, "Amanda, that ethanallen is dangerous, and we don't want you to climb on it, because it could tip over onto you..."
The ethanallen, although very dangerous, was a lot of fun.
In later elementary school, I remember going to my friend's house. They, too, had a big wall unit, shelf/desk/dresser/tv center/hutch piece of furniture. I wanted to be polite and make a good impression, so I said to the mom, "What a nice ethanallen you have."
And the Mom stared oddly and blankly at me.
Because I don't let things go, I'm sure I repeated my "intelligent" comment to that Mom several times.


When I got home, I reported my comment and the blank staring "odd" response of that parent, and I'm sure my Mom stared blankly at me as well.
Finally, she realized that I thought an ethanallen was basically any huge piece of furniture with a combination of drawers/shelves/places to set and display things, that wasn't supposed to be climbed on. She then told me that ethanallen was a brand of furniture and not a style. Ethan Allen, not ethanallen.
Well, I liked that Ethan Allen.

And so I still like it and I want a bunch of it. I don't want new Ethan Allen. I wouldn't turn that down if it was foisted upon me by some well-meaning gift giver, of course, but I really do prefer to grab at it from garage sales, and newspaper ads, and estate sales...I like thinking about who may have owned it before, and how many kids ate at the table, and who might have scratched the right corner of it and tried to hide the scratch from their parents by using brown crayon to "fix" the scratch all the while hoping and praying that no one came down the stairs to catch them...Ahem.
I like a little patina of love on the piece. (See how hoity-toity I am? I'm calling my garage sale finds "pieces".)

In some cases, it's a patina of something else, such as mold...Frank brought a table home to me last month. The seller told him fondly how it had been her parents, yet she had stored it in the basement, without any care, and it had molded in some spots. I was driven to think how little regard she must have had for the table. Didn't she want to share it with her own kids? Didn't she want to keep it nice?

In late September, I drove to STL to purchase a table and chairs. I met the sellers at a small, well-maintained home. I brought my minivan. I was hoping everything would fit. I began to load. The man hovered about. "Be careful!", he said.
"Are you sure that chair won't tip into the glass when you turn?"
"Do you think you brought enough padding?"

As I turned to tell him to "butt out", he started to say, "Are those chairs too close? Mom wouldn't want her chairs scratched."
I closed my mouth. I saw what was happening. I was at his Mom's house. For one reason or another, his Mom's table was being sold. I began to reassure him, "Look, I want you to know that I'm very excited about this set. I'm going to take very good care of it and it will be with our family a long time. I like this table set a lot, and it was kind of a birthday treat for me. My birthday was yesterday and this is a gift to myself."
His mouth opened. His wife said, "Yesterday was your birthday?"
"Yes."
"Wow!" she said.
"Wow!" he said.
Apparently, his Mom, Inez, had turned 95 years old on my birthday. My birthday was her birthday! Her birthday was my birthday! She was "with it" but had recently fallen and was going to need some more help than she could get in her own house. They were getting the house ready for sale.
He had been born in that house. Inside the actual house.
Inez had lived there for 67 years.
She'd raised all her kids there.
The Ethan Allen was her "most fancy" table.
She'd carefully cross-stitched a table cloth and eight matching napkins for the table.
They'd eaten many dinners at it. Inez would carefully get the dining room ready. She'd polish. She'd add both leaves. She'd set the table pads on top. She dress it up with decorative linens. She'd load it with dishes. She'd load it with people.
I imagine there was merriment, and as it is in truth with families, I imagine sometimes there was not.
On November 10th, I'll do the same as Inez. I'll initiate her table by celebrating Mardella's 1st birthday at it. We'll celebrate. We'll make memories. The kids will grow up liking ethanallen.

l'chaim to you Inez. l'chaim.

M's Costume

Complete with hat and giant shoes.

Drumming on the Pumpkin.

Ballerina

I'm not sure what the costume is "supposed" to be, what with the hat with a stem, the giant shoes, and the winged dress. However, I'm fairly certain that anything with itchy tulle on the skirt qualifies as a ballerina costume.

John Vs. Jacob

This photo hangs in the guest room. We are Beatles people. It's who we are.
I'm probably violating some kind of copyright by posting this photo, but this, for those of you who do not know, is John Lennon, as photographed by Richard Avedon.
It is not Jacob.



This is Jacob, as photographed by Big A.

There is a small resemblance.

If you are 2 and a half and someone you love very much is only around part of the week, I suppose the resemblance could grow over time. It could become a large resemblance, and you could stand staring up at the photo each day and say "Jacob". "That's Jacob."
In a way it's very funny.


In a way, it's very sad.

Halloween 1

Can you believe this was Big T? That was still at West Cook street in the perfectly decorated nursery...
He was so little. And fat faced. His face is slim now, not like a baby anymore.



Sigh.

Baptism

M was baptized on September 27th. It was a beautiful and fun experience.

Here is a photo of the parents, godparents, and kiddos. The "bunny blanket" was a stand-in for Grandma.

Daddy had the honor of holding her during the sacrament.

I got the honor of holding a middle child.
He kept saying "down", "down".
Of course, I couldn't let him down.
He stopped saying "down", and his little eyes lit up gleefully as Father handed me M's baptism candle. Thankfully, I was able to quickly pass the torch to M's godfather! No one was harmed.

I'm not sure what happened in the photo below. I do want to point out how patient Jake is.

Here's our ladies, Marg, and Sister Brendan.

5 Months Left

I completed October drill last weekend. 5 more months left in the military. I'm so excited, but here's the nutty thing...

I'm also NOT excited.

How could this be?
I want to leave the military, but I will also very much miss the military.

I am excited:

• to never have to take a PT test again
• to never have to salute anyone again
• to never have to sit in on a spontaneous three hour lecture about "force escalation"
• to never have to learn another acronym to replace an acronym that we'd been using for the last 2 decades
• to never have to wonder if the water in the buffalo was tested for purity by a Private or a Captain
• to never have to wonder if toilet paper and food will be provided when we get there or if we should pack it...

I am not excited:

• to never get to take a PT test again
• to never get to salute anyone again
• to never get ordered to spontaneously give a three hour lecture, to a captive audience, about something I've never heard of before
• to never get the chance to razz the "management" about their insistence that we use a nine letter acronym instead of the word, "car"
• to never get to sit around with a group of people that I'd never met before and am now suddenly best friends with, and wonder if the water is going to make us all ill or not, and how the previously mentioned lack of supplies will impact this situation...

Because, as much as the military has become a hardship and a chore, it is also something special. The very same things that make it difficult are also what make it rewarding. The things that you've shared with strangers, who immediately became your friends make it worthwhile. There are things that you get to experience in the military that you would never have the chance to experience on the civilian side. I worry that I'll miss out on all those future military experiences.

Plus the recruiters have already started hounding me with promises of bonuses and other lovely things.

The thing I'll have to keep in mind for the next 5 months, as they tantalize me with dollar signs, and I reminisce about "That one hilarious time that...", is that there are things in the civilian side too, that you would never get to experience in the military. And I don't want to miss out on those future civilian experiences:

I wouldn't want to miss out on any of their experiences.

And because of them, these will be my last 5 months, no matter how high the bonus numbers get.

Firefighter

I like firetrucks.

More than dolls. See how I am casting aside this tiny doll to play with the ever so cool firetruck?

However, I'm going to be a ballerina for Halloween and not a firefighter. I'm okay with this. Wait until you see my cute costume. My Mom has rationalized her purchase of my costume by telling herself that I needed an outfit to wear for my October photos.

My October photos will be professionally done, so I will be in focus, and other things that may happen to be in the photo will be out of focus.

Did I mention that I'm ten months old, and as Juno said in that moive, "I don't really know what kind of girl I am."
Meaning: I don't really know if I like firetrucks or dolls. Many of my ideas are foisted upon me by my mother.
Did I mention that she wanted to be a firetruck when she grew up? There was no mis-typing there; she wanted to be a firetruck.
I think I like firetrucks too.

Photography Tutorial

I bought a big dog camera and am learning to use it. In my spare time. Between the 3 jobs, and the many children...I digress.

Anyway, I read this other blog called the Pioneer Woman, and in her blog, she has a whole section where she does photography and photoshop tutorials.

I also read a blog called beanski she sometimes talks about photography, and her blog links to many, many other blogs that talk about photography, or have really well done photos.

So anyway, I think I'm getting good enough to do my own sorts of photography tutorials. Here is one, for example...

In the following photo, you can see how I've used the focus to highlight the most important area of the picture, drawing the eyes to the intended subject. By using the focus in this manner, you can create artistically beautiful images with depth and integrity...






Yup. Oh yeah. That's my photo. With the CHAIRS in focus, and my sweet little son OUT OF FOCUS. He's going to be so thrilled with his scrapbook when he gets older. He'll probably have to attend some sort of counseling sessions.

"Yes," he'll say to the therapist, "My Mom really did love the furniture more than me. Look here, I can prove it."

Then, he'll take out This Very Photo, and the therapist will gasp and tell him that she doesn't think she can be of any help to him.

Don't Ever Leave Anything at Our House.

For example, don't ever leave a very nice reusable bag on our table. See what happens...



See the mis-use of this item, that isn't even ours...


Thankfully, I discovered the situation quick enough and was able to spot clean the bag and return it to its rightful owner.

I hope she doesn't read this and discover what her bag has been through.

M's Photo Update

Movie Night

Frank and I had a rare movie night last night. We were able to watch 2 movies back to back. While it was nice, I wish we had made more "uplifting" choices. Instead, we watched "Gone Baby Gone" and "In the Valley of Elah".
We watched them back to back. And now we are totally sickened and depressed.
It doesn't help that I'm up now and Sunday is turning out to be rainy and grey.


Has anyone seen either of those movies?
I think they were well done... Well-acted. Well-plotted. But did they need to be so graphic and shocking? I suppose they did.

That's great.

We have a bedtime routine.
I bathe them. I get clean jammies on them. We all go into big T's room and I sit on a bean bag chair and read story after story. After story. And then another story. And then I take M into her room, nurse her, and dump her into her crib. Then I go back into T's room and snuggle with him a while. Then I dump him into his bed.
Then I go and have wine.

It always happens in this order. Every night, same order. Minimal variance from the routine. I'm one of those Moms.
Last night, M was upset and overtired and crying. I nursed her before the bath. I bathed them. Then I put jammies on them. Then I took T into his room. And shut the gate. He was very upset. I was telling him, "I'm coming back." "I'm coming back." "I'll only be gone for a minute."
I dumped M into her crib.
I went back to T's room. I opened the gate. He was immediately quite happy, pressed his hand to his head and said, "That's great. Mommy. That's great." and pulled out the bean bag chair for me to sit on.
He loves me. I felt like a queen.

Escapee

I'm not going to mention any names, but someone who turned 2 in May and lives in our house full-time, can now hurdle all of the protective barriers known as "baby gates".

And again, no names mentioned, but said person did not even come and proudly wake the people that he calls parents. He just ran up and down the hallway like a madman.

Costume Search

I love Halloween. It is one of my two favorite holidays, second only to Easter. I'm already making big preparations for the big day.
One of the preparations is spreading news around our neighborhood that we will have full-size candy bars this year. Last year, in our first year in the new house, we did not get a single trick-or-treater. This was very depressing, so I ate all the candy myself.
The other preparation is getting the kids properly outfitted.

• If we have Jake this year, he has agreed to lay out in the yard in a mock-up coffin. We'll see if he continues to agree to that as the time draws nearer.

• T will be Elmo. I got an Elmo costume on e-bay for 2.99 (that was including shipping...)!

• This will be M's first Halloween. I chose a cute unisex firefighter costume for her.

Frank was mad. "I want her to be something really girly." he said.
Nothing seemed quite right. I looked and looked. I finally found a little pink Rock Star costume, complete with a guitar and microphone. I thought this seemed perfect.
"No." he said.
"What in the world do you want her to be?" I asked.
"You'll get mad." he said.
"I won't get mad." I said. How bad could it really be?
Frank wants his daughter to spend her first Halloween as a princess or a ballerina. He wants the most girly, frilly, and sparkling costume I can find for her.
I could not believe my ears. What happened to women's lib? What happened to us being cheapskates?

Here's what I found so far for 40 dollars. Look at the child. She even looks alarmed. She says, "But I wanted to be a firefighter! These shoes hurt!"

Our House

My parents are selling the house and part of the land where I grew up. This is very traumatic for me. I'm not joking. I wake up sobbing about it. I'm still not joking. I'm sure it seems very melodramatic, but understand: I did live there all of my childhood, except for roughly 9 months in California, where I was born. I'm very fond of the house and land. We lived out of town, and I had few friends growing up. The majority of my time as a younger kid was spent playing outside, exploring the fields and pastures, and riding my bike a half mile to the old, abandoned house near the river. When I was older, I'd still ride my bike around, just usually the other direction. I would always hope that John Davis would look out the window and think I was cute!
It's upsetting to me to think of other people living in the house, decorating it, painting it, putting up new barns on the land and tearing down the old barn. In fact, I'm sure I've written a bad, teen angst-filled poem about that barn. I'll try and track it down. What a treat that would be!
In my grand plans, I had always thought that any kids I had, would end up spending summers there. I knew, before I had the kids, that because of the divorce, this would not be the case. So, I have been preparing, but I am still heartbroken that my kids won't spend any time at the farm.
I feel displaced. I feel out of sorts.

When I was about five, and felt out of sorts, I would run away.
I would run away to the city.
Now, because we lived six miles away from the nearest semblance of a town, finding the "city" was a bit difficult. I knew that the city was also known as the "concrete jungle", so I settled for the nearest concrete available. I would pack up my little blue polka-dotted vinyl bag and matching umbrella, and retreat to a tiny patch of concrete sidewalk that had never gotten connected to the decks, or house. It was at least 15 feet away from the house.
If I was still feeling out of sorts, and that distance seemed too close to the humanity of my household, I would retreat to a city that was even further away. 25 feet away from the house was a patch of concrete that would eventually hold an enormous satellite dish. It was yet still empty, and I would sulk about. I would huff and sigh. I would think of all the ways I was mistreated. I would eat my snack that I packed and then complain that I was still hungry, starving, in fact! I would realize that even though the city afforded me an independence of some kind, there was no one loving to hear my plaintive cries.
I would pack it all up and go home. I would always be welcomed there.

There is no point to this story. I just remembered it and so I am sharing.

I always thought that I would go home, welcomed, and I would take the kids and husband outside and point at the places where I used to play, or run away to, or not-so-secretly smoke cigarettes. If the house sells, which it eventually will, then that scenario becomes awkward. You cannot wander around property that isn't yours, and point out where you built a mosquito haven or where you found your favorite batch of kittens. Even in the far reaches of the North, the police would be called, and you would be escorted off the land.
So with no visits to trigger my memory, I worry that I'll forget what to tell the kids. I worry that they won't know that for years we had a butterscotch-colored hippie van in our driveway, and that my parents drove it from California to Minnesota, with 2 kids, and I think, a cat. The house and land are very connected to my, to our, memories, and without them, how will I do at giving these kids the history of a family that's now slightly bent? How will I tell them, if I can't show them that we were all happy?

Shameless Plug

Buy this house.

9 month photos

Note the new haircut!