Noah's on the go!

13 months.

White Curtains

Oh My!

Ike and Noey

Coffee

Why We Don't Have Pets . . .

Moment

This evening I had a slight (maybe that's a bit mild) breakdown. Noah was crying. Kate was crying. Isaac was asking question after question. With three wonderful children, a husband stuck in class, an influenza wrapping itself up, lack of sleep on everyone's part, there is bound to be some chaos, right? So I would like to say that my eyes filled up with tears and I moved forward. But in fact I think I went straight to the ugly cry. Does anyone really cry beautifully? That's besides the point I guess. Anyhoo, sweet Isaac looked at me strangely and stated, "Why are you crying? You're the Mom. You're not supposed to cry." He followed me around for a while, wiping my weepy eyes with a tea towel, offering words of encouragement, and a bundle of affection. I love him.

Entryway Bench

Laughing Ike

Noah

Flu Bug . . . Again

My Boys

Brothers

Most Important?

Bill has been reading the kids a Bible story after dinner. A couple nights ago he read them the story of Adam and Eve. At the end Bill quizzed them on what he read.

"Who was the most important man that God created?" Bill asked.

Isaac quickly responded, "SANTA CLAUS!"

Hmmm . . .

Those Who Can Not Play Mario . . . Draw Him Instead

Fresh Paint

The Last Poem

Goddesses want

to hug themselves.

The saint

flees earth to fly

forever free

in wild splendor

beyond barnstorming.

Roaring over Olympus,

touching the gods,

flirting with angels.

Seraphims gasp

and cover their eyes

as the saint

flits through sky,

vaporizing clouds,

hugging heaven.

~June M. Eggan

Bonus Room

Peaceful (Moment) Saturday

I had to take a picture of this -- pure bliss. Everyone playing nicely, quietly . . . long enough for me to get my camera and snap a picture. Moments later a tower collapsed making the rubble free-for-all. Tears. Crying. Block throwing followed. Even the littlest joined in on the crying . . . although he wasn't quite certain what for.

Budding Artists

It appears that all my children seem to have a flare for art . . . Whoever invented the washable marker, please know that you are truly, truly appreciated.

Jammy Bars

Williams-Sonoma's Oatmeal Jammy Bars

Diary of a Poet

I knew it was coming in the mail. My sister called to tell me that while going through my Grandmother's belongings, my Aunt had found a journal I had given my Grandmother as a birthday gift years ago. Inside, my Aunt found the card I had given her along with the gift. I heard she ran it to the post office -- she knew I would want it.

I prepared myself. I was excited to receive her journal --her poetry. I have been running to the mailbox every day to see if it had arrived.

Today her journal arrived. I stopped at the mailbox on my way to pick Isaac up from school and there it was. I was so excited to get the package, yet somehow frightened by it. I set it next to me. I tried to breathe.

It set on the passenger seat the whole way to school. I contemplated opening it at every red light. I managed to wait until I got to the parking lot before ripping open the wrinkled, white envelope. Flipping through the pages, I became overwhelmed and drove home.

I knew what would be inside. I knew it would be her silly, playful poems. I knew it would be her sensitive, private heart. What I didn't expect her was her soul. I shook. I choked. I cried. I was rendered breathless at moments. I feel like I had one last conversation with my dear, dear friend. I feel I was given a gift.

Taste Tester

She's at such a gloriously curious stage! If I so much as bang a pot in the kitchen I see no body, but a chair moving toward the kitchen island. Soon the chair curves around the island and situates itself where I WAS standing. Up pops this eager helper asking for a spoon so she can get right to work. How can I resist a willing spirit and hands that need to be kept busy?