Confession

The owner of this bed shall remain anonymous to protect the guilty

They say confession is good for the soul.
My soul could use a little boost, so here goes:
I am not a bed-maker.
To those who know me well (Hi, Mom!) this will come as no great surprise.
Despite my mother's best efforts, I have never been a bed-maker.
I like how a nicely-made bed looks, of course.  And I don't mind when someone else makes mine for me.  But it just isn't something that makes my daily to-do list.
I've never quite understood why bed-making is considered such a virtue, though I have suffered from embarrassment a time or two when my messy mattress has been viewed by others.
That's social conditioning for you.
I used to make my bed as a kid, but only because I had to.  As soon as I had a little more freedom, that was one of the first things to go.
One summer at my grandma's, I must have been 12 or 13, she apparently couldn't stand my messiness any longer.  Grandma asked my Aunt Ruthie to pick up after me. I remember an embarrassment so acute it manifested in a heady dose of adolescent anger.  I've always been embarrassed that Aunt Ruthie, the Queen of Neat (rumor has it she used to iron her sheets), saw my slovenly ways.
You see, not only do I not make my bed, but I often don't put my clothes away at night.  And sometimes, not very often mind you, I don't shut my dresser drawers, either.
After a couple days of this, my bedroom can start looking pretty messy.  It's usually about then that I reach my tolerance limit for disarray and I tidy up.
But I still don't make my bed.
My husband is out of the country this week.  I must admit, when he's away, I slide a little further down disheveled drive.  We have a king size bed, which comes in handy for our nightly cat slumber parties. There's usually plenty of room for 3 or 4 or more cats, my husband, and myself.
But when he not here, I tend to nest.
It's handy to keep both TV remotes on his side, along with a couple of magazines, my Kindle, tissues, bathrobe, lip balm, and whatever else I might want nearby.
And though I love him dearly, it's kind of frustrating to give up my little snuggery to make room for him when he comes home.
Fortunately, my husband isn't a neat freak. And, um, neither are my kids.
I'll apologize right now to my future sons- and daughters-in-law.
I don't equate non-bed-making with laziness.  It just isn't a priority.   
I think I might be the only one of my three sisters who doesn't regularly make her bed.
I've made peace with my untidy ways.
Sorry, Mom.  
Three out of four isn't bad.

Just another day...

I'm having a hard time getting myself going today.
I stayed up late watching season 2 of Downton Abbey.
Shame on me.
Then Fern woke me up a 3 a.m. to let me know the food bowls were mostly empty (at least the ones she prefers) and she was about to keel over from starvation.
Gus woke up for the day at 5:10, which means that's when my day started, too.
He was pretty good this morning - he only opened a kitchen cupboard once, then was satisfied for a little while with the paper plate I gave him.  (You can't ruin all the paper plates at once, honey.  Only one at a time).
He found part of an empty box to chew and dragged the extra refrigerator water filter out from under the sink.  It was still in its box, so I let him drag it around and chew on it while I chugged my first cup o' joe.
Hey, he only rang the bell twice after he ate this morning, which meant I only had to sit outside on the top step in the freezing cold for about 10 minutes.
I'll take what I can get.
Add in chasing a cat or two and that first hour and a half went pretty fast.
(No, I didn't chase them - he did).
By the time Melissa came down at 6:30 to get read for school Gus had crawled up on my lap for a little snooze.
Melissa fetched both her breakfast and my second cup of salvation, which I drained in record time.
Then I quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and my boots to scoot her off to school and Gus to daycare.
It is now, by the way, 7:15.
Gus couldn't wait to get in the door at daycare, nearly bowling over the owner in his excitement to see his friends.
"It sure is Monday," she sighed.
Hmm, maybe I'm not the only one to bore my dog?
Then home, taking care of Wally, feeding cats (again), breakfast.
I decide to skip the elliptical.
Yeah, that was a big mistake.
On a day like today, without that extra endorphin boost, I'm doomed.
Sarah heads off to class, I head off to a long, hot bath, which also serves to reinforce my fatigue.
I plan to watch another episode of Downton Abbey, but haven't quite left myself enough time before leaving to pick Melissa up.  So I decide to waste my time online.  I pay another $500 on a credit card, which gives me a temporary jolt of contentment.  I refuse to worry about financial emergencies and enjoy looking at the lower balance.
I remember I told Melissa I'd help her research the "human predicament" for a paper she's writing. I realize that I, perhaps, am a natural-born existentialist.  While I'd be the first to agree that life is absurd and its ultimate ending is death, I don't believe it is totally meaningless.
My life's meaning comes from the simple, everyday interactions I have with the people and the world around me; from loving and caring for my family and pets, to caring for those in need in my community, being a good steward of the earth, and simply appreciating the natural beauty all around me.
Whew. Heavy stuff for the sleep-deprived.
Once we're back home, I contemplate making a cake and some biscuits to use up the half gallon of whole milk that spoiled.  Being that I'm having difficulty stringing words together coherently (I'm going to sit in the sunny shiningness, I declared, then mumbled something about the sun mocking me).
Melissa urges me not to.  It is, after all, only the second day of the 14 days Michael is working in Chile.  She knows how bad things can get.
I feel ridiculously guilty for not using up that milk, but I acquiesce to her clarity of judgment.
Right now I'm waiting for bread to rise.  Once it's baked, I'm planning to dive right into bed for a delicious nap before picking Gus up.
Supper is easy tonight - garlic pasta, peas and homemade bread.
The girls and I will indulge in an episode or three of Desperate Housewives.
Then, if I'm lucky, I'll get in a couple chapters of a book before lights out.
If I'm smart, there'll be no Downton Abbey tonight.
If I'm truly lucky, the dog will sleep until 6 tomorrow.
I can smell the coffee already.

Cat-in-the-Box

 Watch out

 He's just waiting

To jump up and scare the crap out of you!

Majesty

We've regularly been walking around Gray's Lake this winter.  It's great exercise and a good way to tire out the dog.

A couple weeks ago we noticed an eagle there nearly every time we walked.  Then, Michael and Melissa spotted what they thought was a nest.  The next day, Melissa and I walked there and thought we could see the white head of a bald eagle sticking up from the top of the nest.

 Soon after a sign was erected noting the nest and warning people not to disturb them.

The lake trail runs along the bank of the Racoon River.  The nest is completely across the river in a stand of trees on the opposite bank.

Today on our walk we spied this eagle perched in a tree near its nest.  The males and females take turns sitting on the eggs, so we don't know if this was the male or the female.

This photo, though still zoomed in, gives a better idea of how far away we actually were standing.

And here is the other eagle sitting in the nest.  You can see it's white head sticking up above.  These nests are enormous and can weigh as much as two tons.

I can't begin to describe how awe-inspiring this is to see. We look forward to watching the eagles throughout their nesting season - and I hope they have a successful hatching.

It's also pretty amazing that Melissa was able to get pictures of this quality with her small digital camera on zoom - no special lenses or anything!

Boring

Gus picked up a bug - actually a parasite - from daycare last week.
It cost us an extra $100 at the vet to have a stool sample checked and medications prescribed for both dogs.
Now I guess I finally know what it's like to have a child in daycare.  You really are at the mercy of the other mommies and daddies to keep their kids home when they're sick.
Anyway, Gus wasn't allowed to go back to daycare until his treatment was over - a total of 7 days.
Actually, we could have sent him, but the vet said it would be "morally wrong."
I know this because after day 3, I called and asked.
So, for seven looong days, Gussie had to hang out at home with me and the old dog.
He was not happy.
In fact, the poor little guy was bored out of his mind.
And I nearly lost mine.
It's been a long time since we've had Gus home day after day without daycare.  In fact, it's been since we started taking him at 4 1/2 months old.
I thought I'd go crazy those first few months; I remember Googling "How to have a puppy and still have a life."
This week, it all came back to me.
It's not that Gus is a bad dog.  He's just still so puppy-ish - full of energy, inquisitive, and an early riser.
Two of those three things I am not.
We thought we were so clever teaching him to ring a bell attached to the door whenever he needs to potty.  Our old dog has no way to tell us when nature calls except via body language.  That and a pretty consistent schedule.
This works fine when I'm around, but other household members are not quite as adept at reading his signs.
So, Gus learned to ring the bell when he needs to go out.  And it works great.  He hasn't had an accident now for months and months.
The problem is that Gus has learned to ring the bell whenever he wants to go outside for any reason.
Have a hankering for a good sniff around the yard?  Ring the bell.
Want a treat?  Ring the bell.  All you have to do is squeeze out a single drop!
Need to check on that rawhide you buried?  Yep, just give the old bell a pull.
All this bell-ringing requires a lot of up and down and in and out on my part.
At least I won't get blood clots in my legs.

And when he's in the house?
It's always fun to chase a cat, or grab something off the table, or "fetch" the mail.  All those toys are old hat.  He needs something to do!
Don't let those short little legs fool you - basset hounds are adept counter surfers - nothing is safe.  If you ever come over to my house and see loaves of bread on top of the cupboards and cakes on top of the refrigerator this is why.
After a couple hours of Gus duty the other morning, I thought he'd finally found some toy to interest him.  Turns out, he'd been taking potatoes off the counter and chewing them up.  Fortunately we caught him after the third spud.
On the flip side, Gus can squirm under almost anything.  His favorite is to go under the foot stool to grab magazines and/or cats, or just to lick the floor.  Which is fine, but if he licks too much before we've had a chance to vacuum, he throws up fur that night in his kennel.  Usually around 2:35.
Of course, this doesn't mean he can get his bone or his ball out from under the couch.  Or the TV cupboard, or the end table, the refrigerator, the stove...
We've also discovered that our sweet little hound fashions himself a bit of a climber.  That's right - we often have to pull him down from the back of the couch, grab him as he perches on top of a chair reaching for the mantle, and dash in for a rescue when he climbs the woodpile outdoors.
He can't be out in the yard alone for several reasons, tops among them his tendency to eat stuff he shouldn't.  This ranges from old chicken bones and candy wrappers the neighbor kids throw over the fence (yes, I live in that kind of neighborhood) to cat poop from the areas stray cats (the woman who lives behind us feeds the strays creating an ever burgeoning problem with feral cats).
Inevitably he finds one of these delicacies when I'm in my robe and slippers.  Basset hounds are known for their selective hearing and Gus is no exception.  No amount of calling can persuade him to leave such a treasure.  And it's no fun to tromp across the wet, cold lawn at 6 a.m. in my pj.'s.
Gus loves coffee.  This often requires a certain amount of juggling of the cup until he decides it's no longer worth the effort to sneak a quick taste.  The wild slurping we heard the other day wasn't Gus getting a drink of water.  Nope, someone had left a half-full cup of coffee on the dining room table.  I caught him balanced on a chair lapping it up as fast he could.
Finally, after only three full-time Gus days, we realized there was only one thing to do.  A tired dog equals a happy owner, so we took him to the dog park, making sure to grab his poop before it hit the ground (fortunately, Gus rarely poops at the park).  After a good hour and a half, after which he needed a bath from all the mud (he is, after all, a low-to-the-ground hound), he was conked out for the rest of the day.

The final two days without daycare went much the same - the first couple of hours were incessant, followed by a trip to the dog park or a two-mile walk around the lake - then the sweet peace of a darling basset boy draped across my lap for the rest of the day.
Whew.
It's a good thing I love him.

Fruitful

I've been working hard to be more mindful.

This grew out of the desire to be debt-free once-and-for-all as soon as possible.

We're aiming for 3 years, though I'm hoping for 2.

We've budgeted the heck out of everything, accounting for every penny, and using the cash only system.  We refinanced our mortgage (saving us $600 a month!), refinanced our cars, transferred debt onto a fantastically low-rate card from our new credit union.

We don't have cable and haven't had it for several years.  But I had been using Amazon Video on Demand and purchasing episodes and series right and left.  Now, if it's not in the budget, I wait for the Netflix disk.  I get one disk at a time and instant watch.
I've put the cobosh on my Kindle habit.  Now I go to the library weekly and pay attention to those due dates!
I've always cooked from scratch, but I've succeeded in making all our breads from scratch for the past two months.  I've made artisan bread in 5 minutes a day, both white and whole wheat, raisin bread, sunflower millet bread, cinnamon rolls, coffee cakes, muffins, hamburger buns.  You name it.
My husband and I each get $100 a week - his needs to cover gas for the cars and mine covers groceries.  Our "fun" money is included in this amount, giving us an even greater incentive toward frugality.
And we're making incredible headway!
So far, since the first of the year, we have paid off three credit cards and socked away a nice sum in our savings account.
This week I decided not to grocery shop.  We have a ton of food in the house and it wasn't really necessary.  Except for fruit - we were almost out of fresh fruit.
What to do?
Well, I have lots of frozen fruit and we love smoothies.  So, every day, we've had a smoothie with one of our meals, usually lunch or supper.
These things are so chock-full of fruit that I'm sure each serving equals more than a single serving of fruit.

Here's what we do:
Add more than a quart of slightly thawed strawberries, two or more cups of either frozen blueberries or frozen mixed berries to the blender.  A splash or two of lime juice, enough orange juice to start the blending.  Stir in a spoonful or two of sugar.  Serve.
These things are so incredibly good, it's hard to believe.
We've also made them using frozen strawberries, mangoes, and pineapple.  Yum.

Oh, and those lovely glasses?
They are empty 12 ounce peanut butter jars.
Can't get much more economical than that.

It feel so good to be disciplined.
Um, I guess I should say self-disciplined.
Oh, um, well.
What I mean to say is being mindful of every expenditure is truly empowering.

Why Mommy Can't Have Nice Things

Unlike the beautiful homes in the magazines, I can't keep flower bouquets on the table.

 I can't keep them on the kitchen island or the kitchen counter.

 Nor can I set a bouquet on the desk, on a side table or on the coffee table.

No, in my house, flower bouquets end up on the mantle, the refrigerator, or way on top of a cupboard.

I think you can see why.

Winter's Blooms

Yesterday.

February 22,  2012.

We spotted the first crocus in our yard.

 In case that didn't sink in, I said flowers blooming in Iowa in February.

I'm sure this isn't the first time this has ever happened, but in the 20-plus years I've lived in Iowa I don't remember another winter that's been this warm and devoid of snow.

We haven't had a single below zero temperature reading all winter.  We've only had one somewhat significant snowfall and even it didn't hang around very long.

Believe me, I'm not complaining.

When the temperature hit 50-something earlier this week my daughter and I walked around the lake without our coats and were quite comfortable.

Today it's back down to the upper 30s, but it's raining, not snowing.

Spring is just around the corner.  I'm looking forward to it just as much as if we'd had a terribly cold and snowy winter.

Mother Nature sure knows how to make me smile!

Valentine

Gussie loves you!

Two days in October

 Are you okay, Mom?

Whew.
Today is one of those days.
My fibromyalgia and EDS have decided to let me know that walking every day of the week last week was pushing things just a little too far.
But despite the all-encompassing fatigue and body aches the exercise was worth it.
I haven't been able to exercise - and by exercise I mean walking either 30 minutes on the elliptical or walking outside for at least a mile (maybe two) - this much since early September.
I had been going great guns - yoga alternating with walking - and feeling great.
Until early one morning in September when taking the dogs out my ankle gave way on the deck steps and down I went, full-force onto the patio.  I still have the scar on my knee from the scraping. I injured the heels of both hands, and sprained my ankle.
And just like that, with one splat, my exercising came to a screeching halt.
Now, the sprain wasn't a bad one, but I don't heal quickly these days, especially when I injure a joint.  I figured I just needed a couple of weeks and I'd be back in the saddle, so to speak.
In those intervening weeks I suffered an infected root canal, requiring antibiotics and pain meds and a quite unpleasant re-root canal.  I remained grounded.  The pain meds made me so loopy that I was pretty much bed-bound for a whole week. 
The only good thing about hydrocodone was that I could lie in bed all day and my back didn't hurt.
Finally, the infection cleared, and while I couldn't yet return to yoga, I was up for a little exercise, so we took a little trip to the dog park.
All was going well as I gingerly tested out my ankle and unused muscles.
Then it happened.
I recognized a man on the other side of the fence in the small dog area.  Actually, I recognized his dog.  I raised my hand, gave an  exuberant waive, calling out a gregarious "Hi!."
In the midst of this, I somehow stepped on an errant tennis ball.  We were on our way out of the park and were going at a good clip, when my waive coincided with stepping on that ball.
What happened next took only seconds, but was all slow motion in my head.  I felt myself going down, but my body automatically tried to save me by leaning forward and increasing my momentum.  I knew it was a lost cause.  I was going down and going down hard.
I crashed into the dirt, landing full force on my left side - hip, leg, shoulder, wrist and hand.
Of course I began to laugh hysterically, my daughters punctuating their cries of concern with crazed laughter of their own.
They helped me up, brushed me off, and I managed to limp to the car.
I don't think the guy with the dog even noticed what happened.  Either that or our slightly demented response scared him off.
So, what did I decide to do?
I was determined to regain my lost stamina, so the next day - yes, the very next day - I limped to the dog park.  All was going well as I ever so carefully minced my way over the rough ground keeping an eagle-eye for deadly tennis balls.  As we walked the exercise loop, Gus frolicked with two other puppies, a retriever of some sort and a super-fast something-or-other hound.  Rounding the corner, I was feeling good, when bam!  All three dogs careened into my legs from behind, knocking me off my feet.  I landed with a splat on my right side.  Hips, knee, legs, shoulder, wrist.
I didn't laugh this time.
The only consolation I had as I was helped to my feet was that this time wasn't my fault and Gussie stopped running long enough to make sure I was still breathing.
Ow.
I hobbled out of the dog park and managed to drive home to a big dose of Aleve.
I had injured my wrists badly enough with all the falls that I had to have my daughter do all the driving for a week.
It took weeks to recuperate enough for an occasional stroll outside, never mind the elliptical.
Now it's been months and I can finally walk most days, though I'm afraid my wrists will never be the same.
Recounting these events brought to mind a limerick I wrote for my 7th grade English class:

There once was a man from France
who tried to teach me to dance
I leaped in the air
and tripped over a chair
My, he exclaimed, you can't prance

Even then I lacked a certain gracefulness of movement.
And I still can't dance.
I seem to walk a fine line when it comes to exercise - a little too much and I'm done in, sometimes for a couple of days.  But when I hit it just right, oh, how much better I feel!
So today I'm going to need to rest a lot and my husband might very well need to make supper.
But tomorrow?
I'm aiming for the dog park.

Lazy

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon.
For me, that is.
My darling husband is busy washing bottles for his home brew.  This is his first batch in years and years, so I hope it turns out.
Poor guy had to do up the dishes before he could even reach the sink (I know, that doesn't really make sense, but without a photo I'm trying to give you an idea of just how many dirty dishes there actually were).
Our dishwasher conked out last week and this time it wasn't because of a fur clog.  I know this because my husband removed two fur clogs in the past couple of weeks - that's how long the dishwasher has been acting up.
Repair guys came yesterday - some little doohickey part isn't working properly - total repair cost?  Nearly $300.  Yep, that's 2/3 the cost of the 2 year-old dishwasher itself.
I think it's time to hit the library for a dishwasher repair manual before the next breakdown happens.
Granted, I do use the dishwasher a lot - often running two full loads a day, but still.
Nobody felt like washing the dishes last night, so they were lying in ambush for the first person who really needed to use the sink.
Enter darling husband.  He even had to wash up after his own morning cooking adventure - delicious blueberry buckle.
Love that stuff. 
Love him, too.
As I write this, one dog is zonked in front of the fire, dog number two is racked out on the couch soaking up some rays, and a cat is curled on the back of the couch.  I know she's actually asleep and not just 'resting' as her tail has stopped flicking.
Son No. 1 is on his laptop, slurping the first cup o' java of the day.  He must have had a late night.  Both girls are upstairs in their respective rooms doing homework - such good girls they are.
And I'm practicing my hobby - procrastination.
I'm trying to work up the oomph to get started on a new afghan, with new yarn, and a new pattern.  It's the new pattern that has me dithering.  As usual, any new project must have the requisite activation energy.
I'm pretty sure I'll overcome inertia later this afternoon.
Sometimes I worry that I don't get out enough, don't make the effort to expand my social circle.  And I probably don't.
But right now, here at home, is where I want to be.
I think I'll just sit back and soak it in.
For a while, anyway.

Sentinel

"Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
Who sows a field, or trains a flower,
Or plants a tree, is more than all."
-- John Greenleaf Whittier

I have had an interesting relationship with trees.
Perhaps this is due to my father's influence.  As a horticulturist, it seems my dad was always either planting a tree, harvesting from a tree, pruning a tree, espalier-ing a tree, or even cutting down a tree 
My son jokes that whenever we move to a new house, something we've done quite a few times in the past decade or so, I set about murdering all the trees.
But I learned from my dad that a tree isn't just a tree and that trees need to be properly placed, both in relation to buildings and other plantings, as well as to usage and climate.
Sounds kind of snobby, but it really isn't.
I'm just particular about trees.
It bothers me to see a tree planted too close to a house or road, knowing that it's beauty will suffer as it grows squished up tightly to the building or its branches will end up being chopped off haphazardly when they grow to tangle in wires or interfere with traffic.  Some trees are "junk" trees, truly out of place in the city or suburbs.  If trees are too crowded none of them will do well, requiring a thinning of the stand.
I remember a trip to Wisconsin when I was about 7 when my dad dug a dozen or more pine trees, Blue Spruce, I think.  He probably had planted them on our property there as well, though I don't remember that.  We drove home, our VW Bus packed with trees and me perched on a box between the two front seats.  I don't remember who the trees were for initially, but I know some of them ended up planted around the perimeter of our backyard in Waseca, Minn.  That was more than 40 years ago, and sometimes I wonder if any of them are still there.
My son told me the other day that a pine tree we planted at our first house here in Iowa, three houses ago now, was recently cut down.  I remember my dad being here nearly 20 years ago when my boys, then 3 and 5, helped him and my husband plant that tree.  Every now and then I would drive through the old neighborhood just to take a look at that tree.  I suppose it had grown too large for the space or perhaps wasn't in good enough condition to remain. 
My parents used to drive up from Arkansas to visit us at Thanksgiving, a Christmas tree tied onto the back of their pickup.  My Dad had planted those pines on his retirement property and brought us one each December for years.  Every summer I canned applesauce from his apple orchard and for a time enjoyed cider he pressed himself.
I was never a tree climber, unlike my daughters, who loved to ascend into the branches and hang out together.  I climbed a tree once in my life and was then too afraid to climb down.  My cousin had to retrieve my uncle to give me a lift.  And while my dad didn't mind a kid climbing a tree, swinging from the branches was most definitely frowned upon.  It wasn't good for the tree, you see.  It still bugs me to see someone mistreating a tree in this way.
Our second house in Iowa had way too many trees for a suburban yard.  A tornado in 1997 took care of that problem, requiring us to pull down many a damaged tree.  A lovely huge pine tree in the front yard was nearly uprooted.  The day my husband cut it down, I held my then three-year-old daughter while she sobbed with a sorrow so big she couldn't contain it.
Our backyard neighbors there had a huge, old locust tree - a junk tree if ever there was one - that liked to drop its three-inch long thorns across the fence into our yard.  Many times one of my little ones came crying to the door for me to bandage a nasty poke.  My dad told us how we could secretly poison the tree from our side of the fence, but we were too chicken to follow through.
When we buried my dad's ashes, nearly seven years ago now, in the old family cemetery in southeastern Iowa, I was struck by another tree memory.  I looked up at the stately pines planted on the far side of the cemetery and remembered being there with my dad when he planted them.  It must have been sometime after my grandfather died in 1969.  The trees were quite small, maybe two feet high then, and I helped my dad carry buckets of water to water them in.  In 2004, the trees were huge.  I can't even begin to estimate how tall they were. 
I'm looking forward to moving to our next and final house, hopefully as soon as two years.  While we haven't settled on a location - city or country, we just aren't sure - I know I will plant trees.  Shade trees, fruit trees, and a couple of pines for Christmas lights and cones.
While my dad's knowledge of horticulture didn't really rub off on me, his love of trees surely did.  And for that, I am grateful.
Trees truly are sentinels of time.

Bouquet

I love flowers.

Inside, outside, in vases or beds, flowers simply make me happy.

One thing I especially like about perennials is the beauty that remains once the fancy dressing of summer is discarded.

 The structure of each flower is gorgeous in its own right.

And the colors!  Deep, dark browns and light camel tans... pale linens and intense auburn... less flashy than the summer purples and yellows, but beautiful nonetheless.

Melissa picked this bouquet last week before the snow fell.  Soon, I'll be yearning for tulips and daffodils, but until then, this bouquet sits in the kitchen.  A reminder of the garden's year-round beauty.

Unearthed

Found this gem while searching for a crochet hook of a certain size today:

12 Facts About Mommy

Mommy is kind,

Mommy is cool,

She sits on the steps

when we go to the pool.

Mommy is sweet,

Mommy's not sour,

She checks the email 

before her shower.

Mommy is smart,

Mommy is clever,

She'd like to take naps

forever and ever.

Mommy is nice,

Mommy is pretty,

Mommy's adored

Because she is witty.

Love, Sarah

And there you have my legacy in a nutshell.

Cozy

It's difficult to find a seat in our house without sharing.  I almost always have some version of the above on my lap.  Taking a nap?  Elmer lies on my head, Fern on my feet, and one or two of the other guys usually spread out somewhere else on the bed.  At night, there is a similar distribution, though the players tend to be somewhat restless and often shift positions or leave and re-enter the scene multiple times.

When I'm old and everyone has left home I'll likely be found most days with animals draped over, under and across me.  Not a bad fate, you know?

The only problem I foresee is having no one to slide them over onto when I want to get up.

In the wee small hours of the morning...

My husband keeps long hours; rising at 5 a.m., working until 6 (or later), into bed by 10.  One daily activity that keeps him cool, calm, and collected is meditation.

When we first met I was suspicious of TM.  I worked as the managing editor of my college newspaper and frequently received press releases from Maharishi International University in Fairfield, Iowa, touting meditation as the route to curing all the world's ills and featuring meditators who "fly."  (This is basically a feat of athleticism - sort of a cross-legged jump a few feet into the air). 

While I still hold a healthy dose of skepticism for the most radical claims of TM, what I do know is that daily meditation makes my husband feel relaxed, invigorated, and ready to face the challenges of his day.

These days, however, he doesn't meditate alone.  Wally and Gus join him in this daily search for Nirvana.  The three of them snuggle up together on the couch, wrapped in homemade blankets, finding their inner peace.  It's quiet and warm in the darkness, though sometimes there's quite a bit of snoring from the two youngest meditators.

Sometimes the cats even pile on for a little TM - those are Henry's whiskers in front of the camera

I am no longer jealous of the time Michael takes to meditate, probably because I can remain peacefully in bed instead of dealing with babies and toddlers alone.  There are, apparently, some benefits to getting older.

I'm bracing myself for the business travel that's coming up - the dogs aren't nearly as well-behaved without their morning meditation.  In fact, when Michael's away from home, the dogs often arise as early as 4:30 and Gus is then up and ready to play.  I do not meditate, and they know it.  No amount of coaxing will convince them to snuggle up with me for an hour - or even 20 minutes.  And banishment to the kennel leaves Gus so distraught that he howls in emotional agony for hours.  

So I'm bracing myself for my own exhaustion and emotional distress when Michael's annual two-week trip to Chile comes along at the end of the month.

Meanwhile, I'm savoring my early mornings spent in bed.