and her proud Papa.
(That hair! I know).
Congratulations Seth and Em. We love you and your pretty baby.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Penny Packard
and her proud Papa.
(That hair! I know).
Congratulations Seth and Em. We love you and your pretty baby.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
How in the World...
does time pass so quickly?
did I forget to post these pictures?
did Asher get so big?
Yes.
Thanks for a great year Miss Morgan. You are loved, missed, and deeply appreciated.
did I forget to post these pictures?
did Asher get so big?
Yes.
Thanks for a great year Miss Morgan. You are loved, missed, and deeply appreciated.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
What You Missed on Facebook
(or more accurately, What I Didn't Post of Facebook.)
Erin Bigler made it safe and sound!
It is possible to take three small kids on a 2,000 mile road trip without a DVD player. Audio books and Frosties all the way!
Erin Bigler loves the sticky South.
When packing, using towels and linens as padding is a good idea. At least until you reach your destination and realize you'll have to unpack EVERY box you've got before you find a single fitted sheet.
Our house is full of fleas. FLEAS!
Frankie has potty trained herself. And I mean really. No treats, step stools, plastic seats, stickers, bribes, nothin'. C'est fini.
Erin Bigler stood outside to listen to the crickets.
Today while we were out running errands Frankie asked if she could go and play with Carter and Callen because they're her "cousins AND friends." Asher told her "We can go as soon as we're invited." Then Jensie shook her head and explained "Asher, we can see them anytime. They're our family." If nothing else, our time in Utah was worth that lesson alone.
Nate told Asher he could paint his room pink. No, Nate's not that progressive. Asher wanted a pink bike. Nate thought if the boy had to have something pink it'd still be best to "keep it inside." After an hour or so at Lowe's Asher chose a color called "Satin Sheets." It's as bad as it sounds.
Erin Bigler paints. (Again!)
I miss Natalie oh so much. In the past two days, as I've cooked, cleaned, erranded (yeah, I made that up), unpacked and painted with three cooped-up whiny kids I've wondered again and again Where's a little sister when you need her?
Die suckers. Die!
Erin Bigler thinks more friends should hang out when chores are being done. Seriously, I don't want you to do my laundry, I just want you to talk to me while I run a load or two.
Mike and Gen showed up with pizza and a lot of energy. It was just what the whole family needed tonight. Thanks guys. It's good to be home.
What I Missed on Facebook
Nate dedicating this song to me:My mind was full of gooey love thoughts when I spotted his post, which is, of course, exactly how it should be. I'd been savoring these words (from ee cummings' "i carry your heart with me"):
it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
I tell ya, we are M.F.E.O.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Disco Inferno
Jensie did a great job at her dance recital last night with Center Stage. That girl can do a mean "robot"--took me down to Funky Town, most def.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Timp
My dad told me that when the Ranger leading their tour through the cave asked, "Are there any questions before we enter the cave?", Asher raised his hand and said "I like to read about Spider-Man all the time, 'cause I'm a weird boy."
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Camping
Lately
Jensie came home from school bubbling with excitement. When I asked what was up she asked enthusiastically "Mom guess what place I took in the school 5k?!"
"I don't know" I said, thinking Second? Third?
"515th!" she beamed.
"Wow! Now that's something." I exclaimed trying to hide my surprised laughter. "Were there lots of kids that finished before and after you too?"
"Oh no," she grinned. "No one finished after me. I was the very last one!"
Asher: Mom, is Santa real?
Me: Of course.
Asher: But he's magic?
Me: Yep.
Asher: Like God and...Tyler?!
Tyler is my sister Kate's boyfriend who's got a never ending supply of ear-quarters and magically appearing candy. He is apparently also a near-deity. Thanks Ty!
The other day, over dinner, Asher asked "Mom, when will you have another baby?"
I did my best to explain that we wouldn't be adding anymore to the Bigler brood, by saying "We're not going to have more babies. Dad and I talked about it and we decided that three babies is just the right number for us."
"Well when you get another husband you'll have more." Asher insisted.
I told the kids I wasn't really in the market for another husband, as I'm really thrilled with the one I've got.
"But if Dad dies you'll get a new husband," added my pragmatic firstborn. "You'll need someone else to give you money!"
I had to laugh--the girl had a point. "That's true," I said. "If Daddy died, I might get married again someday."
"And then you could have another baby!" Asher crowed.
Jensie let that settle for moment before crying out in disgust "Ugh! Then you'd be an old mom."
Today a napping Frankie was startled awake by the crunch of a Vlasic commercial. I guess they're not kidding about that "Big Pickle Crunch!"
Jensie: Why are you crying?!
Me: I just miss your dad.
Jensie: Well so do we, but you don't see us choking up and freaking out, do you.
"I don't know" I said, thinking Second? Third?
"515th!" she beamed.
"Wow! Now that's something." I exclaimed trying to hide my surprised laughter. "Were there lots of kids that finished before and after you too?"
"Oh no," she grinned. "No one finished after me. I was the very last one!"
________________________________________________
Asher: Mom, is Santa real?
Me: Of course.
Asher: But he's magic?
Me: Yep.
Asher: Like God and...Tyler?!
Tyler is my sister Kate's boyfriend who's got a never ending supply of ear-quarters and magically appearing candy. He is apparently also a near-deity. Thanks Ty!
________________________________________________
The other day, over dinner, Asher asked "Mom, when will you have another baby?"
I did my best to explain that we wouldn't be adding anymore to the Bigler brood, by saying "We're not going to have more babies. Dad and I talked about it and we decided that three babies is just the right number for us."
"Well when you get another husband you'll have more." Asher insisted.
I told the kids I wasn't really in the market for another husband, as I'm really thrilled with the one I've got.
"But if Dad dies you'll get a new husband," added my pragmatic firstborn. "You'll need someone else to give you money!"
I had to laugh--the girl had a point. "That's true," I said. "If Daddy died, I might get married again someday."
"And then you could have another baby!" Asher crowed.
Jensie let that settle for moment before crying out in disgust "Ugh! Then you'd be an old mom."
________________________________________________
Today a napping Frankie was startled awake by the crunch of a Vlasic commercial. I guess they're not kidding about that "Big Pickle Crunch!"
________________________________________________
Jensie: Why are you crying?!
Me: I just miss your dad.
Jensie: Well so do we, but you don't see us choking up and freaking out, do you.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Check
I haven't forgotten the spring goals I set last year. And that one about learning to slaughter a turkey? Done and done.
Charlie at Benjamin Farms helped me dress an 18 lb. heirloom Holland White, and my dad cooked him up fancy just for Mother's Day.
I'd never met Charlie when I called and asked him to teach me how to slaughter a bird. And while it's probably not a request he often gets, he agreed and patiently walked me through the entire process.
I was nervous about being totally disgusted, but the whole time I was at the farm, I felt proud and happy. It never felt gross. Sure, the smell of boiled turkey feathers is somewhat off-putting, but in a few short hours I learned so much.
I learned more about what I'm capable of, and more about community. I so appreciated Charlie's willingness to share the things he knows. I just kept thinking This is how it's supposed to be--healthy, well fed animals being killed quickly and respectfully, neighbors helping neighbors--this is what it's all about.
So guys, go learn something. And if you have to, ask a stranger for help. Trust me, you'll be glad you did.
Charlie at Benjamin Farms helped me dress an 18 lb. heirloom Holland White, and my dad cooked him up fancy just for Mother's Day.
I'd never met Charlie when I called and asked him to teach me how to slaughter a bird. And while it's probably not a request he often gets, he agreed and patiently walked me through the entire process.
I was nervous about being totally disgusted, but the whole time I was at the farm, I felt proud and happy. It never felt gross. Sure, the smell of boiled turkey feathers is somewhat off-putting, but in a few short hours I learned so much.
I learned more about what I'm capable of, and more about community. I so appreciated Charlie's willingness to share the things he knows. I just kept thinking This is how it's supposed to be--healthy, well fed animals being killed quickly and respectfully, neighbors helping neighbors--this is what it's all about.
So guys, go learn something. And if you have to, ask a stranger for help. Trust me, you'll be glad you did.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Backyard in Prose
Before leaving Columbus I tried to write about the things I'd come to love about the sweet sticky South--I tried to write about my trees.
Through days of reflection words flowed freely in my mind, often bringing me to tears of gratitude and frustration. I did mean to record my arboreal musings, but the time preceding our Westward move was busy and full. Too late I paused, putting pen to paper, and found that my thoughts had stilled.
The words I'd so hoped to say are, quite simply, gone and will not be recalled.
This is all I have left:
"Growing up a desert-dweller, you will"
"when you move to Georgia"
Unlikely first lines to a draft incomplete.
Though the right words elude me still, I would like to say this: having spent my young life in the high golden desert, the seductive canopy of a forty foot maple is a temptation I can not resist.
A way down in Dixie each home for sale is buried in blankets of fallen needles and the dull crunch of last year's deciduous greens.
Forgetting the actual house where you'll live, you'll see in your mind's eye warm afternoon's spent in the shade. You envision the mounds of red fallen leaves, the laughter of children with chilled running noses, catch a glimpse of winter's gray light seeping through windows patterned by shadows of each sleeping limb.
Your husband might ask "Wouldn't you like something newer?" "How about something with a little less maintenance?" No. Without hesitation you insist that the shade dappled lawn be made yours. Only after you've signed and been handed the deed do you begin to remember you are after all, in unfamiliar territory, unaccustomed to much but sage brush and scrub oak.
Trees aren't always what they seem. Yet, having sworn your allegiance, their burden is yours to bear.
Young roaches that drop to your roof from the tall boughs above aren't able to find their way home, and so make their way into yours instead.
You'll discover a gluttonous tick burrowed deep, engorged, and delighted--determined to stay. A doctor will ask "Do you live in the woods?" and you'll sheepishly answer "why yes, yes I do."
Two failed seasons of limp tomatoes and hollowed squash will prove that without any sunlight, your garden will fail. You'll sit and you'll think and decide in the end, nine trees must go. Nine trees is the price you'll pay for self-sufficiency. As men turn their saws to the dogwood and elm, you'll excuse yourself calmly, make your way to the door, and weep for the loss of each blossom and stem.
From December to May, while tornadoes churn, you'll cower anxiously in the hopeful safety of your porcelain tub. Majestic oaks, tall brittle ancients, uproot in the night, crashing through windows, side-swiping the porch, passing by, once again, the rooms where your children lay sleeping. Stepping out the next morning, you see houses destroyed, buildings over turned, a city in ruins. You know just how lucky you are and give thanks.
Then one sunny day, on your way to the street, you'll hear a strange sound coming out from the depths of a prickly pine. Stepping nearer you realize it's thousands of mouths, the crunch of an evergreen being devoured where it stands. An expert "tree guy" will confirm your fears, ravenous beetles have hollowed its core, and while kicking the trunk just to show you he means it, the tree will begin to moan and collapse. "It's likely" he says "that they've reached others too." The solution is simple, fell them all quickly and grind down the stumps, but it will cost you a pretty penny for the tall pine alone. From where you stand 30 more can be seen and you stop counting then because it's useless to argue. The safety of your children depends on the health of your trees. So you say "Go ahead," and stand back and wait, knowing full well that today could be it--you'll lose your shirt for those large lofty pines.
Every worry you face in that alien land is all on account of those big green damn trees. When your last day arrives and you finally leave, backing out of the driveway you think Well good riddance! though you know in your heart that those big green damn trees, growing tall on the laughter of good Southern folk, are what, in this place, you love most of all.
And back on the sod of your childhood home, where mountains erupt from a dry barren land, you'll long to return to your corner of Eden.
Through days of reflection words flowed freely in my mind, often bringing me to tears of gratitude and frustration. I did mean to record my arboreal musings, but the time preceding our Westward move was busy and full. Too late I paused, putting pen to paper, and found that my thoughts had stilled.
The words I'd so hoped to say are, quite simply, gone and will not be recalled.
This is all I have left:
"Growing up a desert-dweller, you will"
"when you move to Georgia"
Unlikely first lines to a draft incomplete.
Though the right words elude me still, I would like to say this: having spent my young life in the high golden desert, the seductive canopy of a forty foot maple is a temptation I can not resist.
A way down in Dixie each home for sale is buried in blankets of fallen needles and the dull crunch of last year's deciduous greens.
Forgetting the actual house where you'll live, you'll see in your mind's eye warm afternoon's spent in the shade. You envision the mounds of red fallen leaves, the laughter of children with chilled running noses, catch a glimpse of winter's gray light seeping through windows patterned by shadows of each sleeping limb.
Your husband might ask "Wouldn't you like something newer?" "How about something with a little less maintenance?" No. Without hesitation you insist that the shade dappled lawn be made yours. Only after you've signed and been handed the deed do you begin to remember you are after all, in unfamiliar territory, unaccustomed to much but sage brush and scrub oak.
Trees aren't always what they seem. Yet, having sworn your allegiance, their burden is yours to bear.
Young roaches that drop to your roof from the tall boughs above aren't able to find their way home, and so make their way into yours instead.
You'll discover a gluttonous tick burrowed deep, engorged, and delighted--determined to stay. A doctor will ask "Do you live in the woods?" and you'll sheepishly answer "why yes, yes I do."
Two failed seasons of limp tomatoes and hollowed squash will prove that without any sunlight, your garden will fail. You'll sit and you'll think and decide in the end, nine trees must go. Nine trees is the price you'll pay for self-sufficiency. As men turn their saws to the dogwood and elm, you'll excuse yourself calmly, make your way to the door, and weep for the loss of each blossom and stem.
From December to May, while tornadoes churn, you'll cower anxiously in the hopeful safety of your porcelain tub. Majestic oaks, tall brittle ancients, uproot in the night, crashing through windows, side-swiping the porch, passing by, once again, the rooms where your children lay sleeping. Stepping out the next morning, you see houses destroyed, buildings over turned, a city in ruins. You know just how lucky you are and give thanks.
Then one sunny day, on your way to the street, you'll hear a strange sound coming out from the depths of a prickly pine. Stepping nearer you realize it's thousands of mouths, the crunch of an evergreen being devoured where it stands. An expert "tree guy" will confirm your fears, ravenous beetles have hollowed its core, and while kicking the trunk just to show you he means it, the tree will begin to moan and collapse. "It's likely" he says "that they've reached others too." The solution is simple, fell them all quickly and grind down the stumps, but it will cost you a pretty penny for the tall pine alone. From where you stand 30 more can be seen and you stop counting then because it's useless to argue. The safety of your children depends on the health of your trees. So you say "Go ahead," and stand back and wait, knowing full well that today could be it--you'll lose your shirt for those large lofty pines.
Every worry you face in that alien land is all on account of those big green damn trees. When your last day arrives and you finally leave, backing out of the driveway you think Well good riddance! though you know in your heart that those big green damn trees, growing tall on the laughter of good Southern folk, are what, in this place, you love most of all.
And back on the sod of your childhood home, where mountains erupt from a dry barren land, you'll long to return to your corner of Eden.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
--William Carlos Williams
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
--William Carlos Williams
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Like Father Like Son
"Fergie?" I cried, "Fergie?! But what about Penlope Cruz, and Charlize Theron, and..."
"Hey you didn't ask who had the most class," he insisted "you just said 'beautiful'."
Last fall, Nate, Mike, and Gen gathered 'round the Straz family "jumbo-tron" to watch the VMAs. Nate sat mesmerized through an oozing performance of "Paparazzi" and announced a profound respect for Lady Gaga.
This afternoon as we were driving Jensie to tumbling, the radio cut out on NPR. Having recently loaned most of the kids' favorite CDs to a friend, I turned to the local "Top Hits" station--something I almost never do for fear being audibly accosted by the likes of Kid Rock or worse, Hinder. ("Lips of an Angel"-worst song ever.)
Gaga's "Poker Face" blasted through the speakers of the minivan. With a look of disgust, Asher called out "This song is weird!" then quickly added "Can you put it on repeat?"
Ugh, men.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)