Abe. Age 12.

This oldest boy of mine doesn’t always appear on my blog as often as he used to.

He doesn’t spill his milk or play in toilets. He no longer demands I take pictures of his latest Play-Doh creation or mistakenly say silly words that don’t make sense.

He’s growing up. He has come to a stage that takes a bit more thought for me to write about (Legos and messy faces are easy) -- a stage that I feel deserves a bit more care and caution when it comes to putting his life down here in a public place.(And let’s be honest. He isn’t always the most willing photo subject.)

But, it may surprise you to hear (particularly if you just read my post of despair over Anders getting a buzz cut and looking slightly less babyish) that I am not pining away for days that are past; not full of panic over “kids growing up” and the passage of time.

I loved little boy Abe. And, I occasionally get nervous about the things older Abe will confront as he goes through his teenage years; but, . . . I like my growing up boy. I like so much my life with little ones, yes, but not just little ones anymore.

I like having someone who will recommend a good book to me, or stay up late to watch an older show with just Mike and I. I like laughing with someone not just because they did something silly and cute, but because they actually said something maturely clever and witty.

It’s not so bad having your babies grow up a bit after all. I kind of like seeing those tiny, wonderful and exhausting babies turn into . . . I don’t know . . . real and enjoyable humans. (Although I suppose my little people are technically humans as well.)

What Have I Done!!!?

Weep. Weep. Weep.

Here was my Anders on Saturday morning:

By Saturday afternoon, he looked something like this:

I don’t recall feeling so distraught by a first hair cut before. But with this one . . . well . . . I wanted to fall on my knees next to his little pile of shorn hair and cry, “Why! Why would you do such a thing to your own son? What kind of mother would ever remove such beautiful soft fluff!?”

The back was far too long. I knew it was coming. In fact I kept asking Mike to do it. He wondered if I wanted to take him someplace to have it done, but I insisted that he would just scream for whoever cut it and it would be best if we just buzzed it quickly here . . .

I spent the rest of the day, and the following day, wishing I could reverse time; wishing I hadn’t turned my baby into a little boy in one quick swoop.

Luckily his cousin Blaire sent him red moccasins on the same day. They softened the blow. (How could they not! Look at them!)

But until I get used to it, I just keep kissing him and hugging him and . . . missing him.

And telling him I hope he likes long hair . . . because we will never cut it again. . . .

Root Beer and Cards

We don’t drink soda outside of the kitchen.

Definitely not in the front room.

And especially not while playing cards (balancing soda precariously -- picking up and discarding).


And, as a mother, I know consistency is crucial. Things can’t be fine one minute and forbidden the next. . . .

Which is why I never bend the rules.

Never. No matter how darling the would-be rule breaker might be.


I am glad I never waiver in my strict adherence to rules. My rigid control. My kids know never to even question it.

The End.

Light and Dark

I like trying to capture images of my kids in a way that feels . . . clean and bright and cheery. Light.
(Hey Jesse. There you are cutting, and gluing, and taping up an old paper towel roll. Remember that once when Anders put tons of toilet paper in the toilet and then pulled it out of the toilet and spread it all over the bathroom? Remember when I came out from cleaning it up and there you were, at the previously clean counter, surrounded by cut up debris, blobs of glue, and tape pieces? Remember how you didn’t pause to look up, busy making mess as you were, but commented, “I’m making you a telescope ‘cause your stressed, Mom.”? That was thoughtful . . . ish.)

But yesterday it suddenly seemed that I absolutely must capture my children in shadows and half-darkness. It’s not that I wanted to stray from the feelings of cheeriness that come with brightly captured moments. I just wanted to capture a little more seriousness. A little more thoughtfulness. Maybe a little more moodiness and drama (heaven knows there is a wee bit of that involved in mothering as well as cheeriness ).

So I placed my girls here and there -- in doorways and windows (as they are beginning to become resigned to me doing) . I turned off lights and turned on other lights. I tried to figure how to expose and take photos in a way that was foreign and unnatural to me.

I frowned at mistakes and felt inadequate by lack of knowledge and lack of equipment. I didn’t get the exact images that I had pictured in my head when I started, but I did have a few  moments of feeling like I’d almost grasped some new principle; some new trick. And, in the end, my experimenting did yield a few successes!

Happy Fancy-Pants Almost Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.

It’s no small thing being loved by people. No small thing having people to love.

And there are so many to love in my world.

I have gotten a little better in the past year or two at  reaching inside of myself and pulling out love – strong, hopeful, and glowing red (or maybe pink?) – and handing it confidently over to those who should always have a claim on it.

I know. All of mankind should have a claim on it. And, I have improved there a little too.

But there are many within my sphere that deserve – simply by their existing – to always have a surety of that love. 

There are still holes: still so many, even among just my family, that I need to make aware of my unconditional acceptance and adoration without reserve.

I have improved though.

I have two aunts – my father’s one remaining sister, and my mom’s half-sister – who never seemed to make frequency of contact or even lack of awareness about happenings in my life be any sort of hindrance to their love for me – any sort of excuse to miss a hug or expression of concern or affection.

I always knew that, in their mind, I belonged to them. It didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing or even how much they knew of it. I was theirs. They loved me.

That is what I want to be, and that is where I have been growing in tiny little steps.

It makes me realize that I do like some things about getting older. I like seeing small smidgens of growth; small increases in understanding and compassion. I like having less hesitancy and more certainty.

Loving people well sometimes feels strangely like physical pain. But it also feels like completeness and wholeness and happiness and rightness.

And it has been kind of spectacular for me to see – as I’ve sought to give love a little more openly and with a little less worry about what anyone might think -- how quickly it bursts into flame; lights up inside me, all real and true and bright, just from its having been offered.

And, because I can’t always think of a perfectly good excuse for every picture I want to share, I will end with these:

We took our kids to Christmas Village with their out-of-state cousins this past December. My sister-in-law Rhonda took these two pictures of Anders and I that, to be honest, I thought I looked rather darling in (there . . . I said it . . . no making excuses for why I shared these two!).

Rhonda did lend me her gloves. (My hands were frozen solid. . . . I hope that doesn’t mean her hands had to be frozen solid instead? Hmm. I like to think she had two pair.) Anyway, we all must admit that these pictures wouldn’t look nearly so cute had I just had plain old hands and wrists coming out of too-short coat sleeves.

Also, Jesse’s new past-time:

Imagine, if I’d let him plug it in, how ironed all our jammies would be!