Another Ridiculous Video

Hand of Provision?

Today, I stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few 'necessities.' One of these is, for my husband, "rich, chocolaty" Ovaltine. As I went to grab a container from the shelf, I noticed, to my horror, that the price had gone up from $3.69 to $3.99. I know this is nothing compared to the rising gas prices, but for some reason, the rising Ovaltine price, combined with the rising milk price, affected me more.

Hearing all the news stories lately, and feeling a little stressed in my own pocketbook due to all of the things going on in the Knight household these days, I immediately started thinking about all the sacrifices we will have to make if things get 'worse.' We will have to cut back on ice-cream. Chris might not get to drink his Ovaltine. The kids might have to get used to eating lentils, and we might have to experience the feeling of hunger a little more. Or [gasp] we might even have to cancel our internet service. Things aren't looking so good, I thought to myself. I wish I had an acre sized garden... and that I could actually grow a decent crop of veggies...

On the drive home, I realized some of this overreaction might be related to the pregnant hormones coursing through my veins, coupled with the fact that I can't seem to eat enough to really feel satisfied and the fact that I am not sleeping well... But this didn't make me feel any better.

At home, I put away the groceries, fixed the kids a bite to eat, then went downstairs to check my e-mail. One of the three e-mails was from Amazon.com, notifying me that a 5-pack of Ovaltine was now available for sale at the price of $17.44 ($3.49/can) and is eligible for super-saver shipping. God is laughing at me. I guess I'd better laugh with him.

Flowers From the Yard

Today, I went down to our swing by the creek and picked a few stems of the lily-of-the-valley that was blooming. They have an amazing, sweet smell. I put them and a red anemone in a little, brown glass bottle on the window sill above the kitchen sink.

When the daffodils were blooming, I would pick three to put in a little vase in my kitchen window. They looked beautiful.

There is something wonderful about bringing cut flowers from your own garden into your home.
Store bought flowers just aren't the same.

Toe Rhymes With Joe

I like to let my kids go barefoot. Unfortunately, since Joe hasn't figured out how to pedal yet, he tools around the driveway Flinstone style, which tears up those big toes.

Gardening Woes and Joys

So far, my vegetable garden has been very unimpressive.

I love snow peas, and for the second time, decided to try to grow some. For the second time, my crop has failed. My first mistake was to plant them in the top of a mounded row. It seemed like a good idea at the time... After all, cucumbers and squash are planted in mounds, and it was easy to see where my mounded rows were. However, after a nice watering from above, I realized that most of the seeds probably washed out. The few that did sprout were quickly eaten by rabbits or trampled by who-knows-what. No peas.

My spinach suffered the same washout, but I had enough seed to replant some. I have yet to see but one sprout.

I planted some lettuce. They were also washed out of the rows, but I got a better germination rate, so I might end up with a small, haphazard lettuce patch. I am tempted to blame some of my failure on bad seed.

I have planted eight tomato plants that I started from seed (and have two others still in pots). I have hope that at least my tomatoes will survive.

I have just realized that I should have planted my carrots weeks ago. Better late than never?

Another challenge is trying to figure out how to teach a two year old boy not to tromp across my rows and watch where he puts his feet so my tomatoes have a fighting chance. I would hate to ban him from playing in the dirt altogether.

Oh yes... and there is another thing I can blame on my husband. Sort of. We have lots of wonderful leaves in the fall that beg to be turned into compost, so every year, I pile the bin high. It works best to shred the leaves, then turn the compost every couple of weeks through the winter (or so Mike McGrath says), otherwise, it could take two or three years to get a decent compost. Last year, since we don't have a shredder, I took the weed-eater to the leaves in an attempt to get them as shredded as possible. This year, I didn't (and was hoping that Chris would do it for me but... he didn't), so all I have is a mass a wet, slimy leaves.

I am wishing that I had a serious gardening mentor nearby. Unfortunately, one neighbor has the horribly bad habit of spraying Round-Up to kill all the weeds in his garden every spring, then just transplants everything into that a week or two later. That isn't exactly the sort of gardening I want to get into... So any advice anyone wants to give... just e-mail or comment.

On the other hand, I do have beautiful flowers. Too bad they don't fill the belly like a vegetable does. One of my favorite spring bloomers are my anemones.

I took the kids down to one of the flower beds by our swing to do some weeding, and discovered my columbine was blooming.

As I re-edged and weeded the flower bed, we looked for worms. When I would find one, I would give it to one of the kids to hold for a minute, and then they would dump it back into the dirt so it could dig its way back to relative safety. They were completely infatuated with the worms, and not once this morning did Finley ask if she could watch TV. These are the sort of things that make me happy.

Mr. Tidwell Lives On

Some of you might remember a post about Mr. Tidwell from last year. We saw him for the first time this year, mowing the neighbor's yard. He is about to turn 93 later this month.

Chris went over to say hello, and, as usual, had a good conversation with him. This time, Mr. Tidwell decided to share his 'secret' for longevity with Chris. He said he was the sixth child of ten, and every single one of them has died. But he told Chris that his secret was obeying God. He used to smoke and drink, and, at one point, even made his own moonshine. But then God told him to stay away from evil, and that he would die a natural death. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and doesn't watch TV or listen to the news.

He said that one of his sisters smoked 'that tobacco' and drank, and he had to watch her die. They ended up amputating her legs, and not long after that, she died. He said it was pitiful. Mr. Tidwell, on the other hand, hasn't been to the doctor in decades. The social security administration once investigated to see if someone else was cashing his checks, since there was no record of Mr. Tidwell seeing a doctor.

He told Chris that he doesn't work Saturdays. Chris asked him if he was a Jehovah's Witness. No, he said. God told him to 'get out from under religion.'

I can't get over this man. It's no wonder that so many people are fascinated by him. He said there is a white man who calls him every night, and Chris gets the impression there are a lot of people that keep tabs on him... How can you not respect and admire a 90+ year old man who works harder that most men 1/3 his age, never seems to be in a hurry, and is always more than willing to talk to you?

It is always a relief to see Mr. Tidwell show up in the spring for the first mow. He is like a favorite perennial you always hope to see poking up out of the ground in the spring. But when he does have to go, my personal wish is that he doesn't just die a peaceful death in his sleep someday... I'd like to see him disappear like Enoch.

Attic Progress

Above is a view of the vanity/bath area. The shower is on the other side of the wall from the vanity, and you can see the toilet through the doorway if you look closely. We just picked out tile to put in the bathroom and around the vanity.

A shot of the top of the shower enclosure so far. We had to do some careful measuring and cutting on the left side. Since the shower is in such a tight space, we bought a cheap tub/shower remodeling kit that includes white, smooth, plastic sheets to line the ceiling and upper walls with. This was only a few dollars more than buying the only truly waterproof material that you can buy by the sheet. (It is this bumpy stuff that is found in every nasty, restaurant kitchen and many public bathrooms... which has greatly biased me against the stuff.)

A picture of the ceiling. Thanks to the imperfections of an old house, Chris will have to do some magic with the drywall mud to make this seam look even remotely straight.

Fin

At the library recently, I lost the valdiated parking ticket. This usually means paying something like $5 instead of $.75. I was frantically searching the van, realizing I had dropped it somewhere in the library or parking garage, and it wasn't going to be easy to track down. Finley, sensing my frustration and panic said, "It's alright, Mom. We'll deal with it later."

Last Sunday, Chris was mowing the yard, and he rode by on the mower, Finley called out to him, "You're doing a good job mowing the yard!" Later, as I was pulling weeds, she told me I was "doing a good job pulling weeds."

One day this week, Our neighbor's granddaughter came over to play. She is a year older than Finley. She wanted to bring her tricycle over to our driveway, even though we have one just like it she could ride. She wanted me to carry it over, but instead, told her if she wanted it, she would have to ride and/or drag it through the grass to our place... which she did. Later, Melissa's dad came to pick her up, and ignoring the fact that her tricycle was still there, left. Finley saw that Melissa had left her tricycle, and wanted to get it back to her. I told her that if Melissa wanted it, Melissa could come and get it. Finley insisted on dragging it back over to our neighbor's, even though it was much harder for her to move the thing through the grass tha it was for Melissa. I was so impressed with Finley's desire and determination to get the trike back to the person it belonged to, that I offered to help when I saw that she was struggling a bit. She refused my help, and got it back to the neighbor's driveway, even putting it in the same spot that Melissa 'parks' it.

Finley has been wanting her own scissors. I told her that she needed to remind me when we were at a store, half hoping that she would forget. At the grocery store, she spotted some, so I had to fulfill my promise to her and get her a pair. Remembering the frustration of those kiddie 'safety scissors' that can hardly cut anything, I opted for a decent small pair. When we got home, I remembered to tell her not to stick her fingers between the blades, not run with them, and not play with them while walking. Thinking I had covered all the bases, I gave her a sheet of paper, and let her go at it. A while later, she ran over to tell me, "I can cut my hair with these scissors!" "Yes, you could, but only Mama is allowed to cut your hair. Do not cut your own hair with your scissors... Or Joes." I was thankful that she had brought the possibilty to my attention before any damage was done. It was a few minutes later that I went in to inspect her progress that I realized she meant she HAD been able to cut her hair with her scissors. A careful inspection revealed a few locks of her bangs had been severed. Thankfully, she cut them about eyebrow level, and only gave herself a slighlty layered look that no one will notice. Today, she wanted to 'cut shapes' again. Once again, when I wasn't looking, she cut some hair. Hopefully, the threat of losing scissor priviledges altogether will prevent further hair cuts. I am worried that I might end up with a short-haired girl.

Name That Baby

Maybe I take this too seriously, but I've been stressing out a little about naming this baby. In the Bible, children were frequently named in a way that reflected the circumstances that brought about their existence (Isaac), or the way they came into existence (Jacob), or a name that would define their existence (Jesus). So I tend to take this a bit seriously.

Anyway, I have been having a long conversation with God (and myself... therein probably lies my first mistake) about who this baby is.

With Finley and Joe, part of their naming came from my desire for what kind of character these two would hold: Finley means 'fair warrior,' her middle name, 'noble and kind.' Joe's middle names basically mean 'passionate follower of Christ.'

Part of what I'm debating within myself is... how much of what God is talking to me about is for just me, or does it relate directly to who I am carrying in my womb as well? When I was pregnant with Joe, I was really focused on the work of building things. I read a book about a man who moved to Alaska and built a log cabin and all the furniture inside with hand tools. I obsessed about learning how to make furniture and dreaming about the day when the kids would be old enough and I could spend hours in a wood shop making things. God was (and still is) talking to me about our heritage... How three of Joe's four great-grandfathers were carpenter types who either built or modified their own homes and were constantly making things they wanted or needed instead of buying them. Joe is named after one of these great-grandfathers. Who knows if he will ever really take to working with his hands like they did, but when some people from my church were praying for him before he was born, one of them (who didn't know me well or what I'd been thinking about) felt that he would be a builder... That could mean many things, of course.

Anyway, I have been in a season of 'obsessing' about the earth, and the restoration of things to the way God intended them to be. When I really stop to listen, it keeps coming back, and I'm not sure what to do with it.

I have been poking around the internet, trying to find a name that reflects this concept, but the very few that I find, I'm not sure I like... which is another problem. I'm really picky. I want to like my daughter's name, and really don't want an ultra-girly name or an obvious boys name made feminine. So I've been making a list. My hope is that in another month or two, I'll have a list 20 or 30 long, and that Chris will look at it and see a few he likes, and that the meanings will resonate with what we feel God is talking to us about this kid.

That or we'll have to pull a Johnson... just live with her for a year before we decide. I just don't know how the hospital would deal with that, though.

The Harmonica(s)

Uncle Mike brought Finley a harmonica for a present yesterday. Today, she tried it out, then let Joe try it. Joe didn't want to give it back. I remembered that we had another one that had been hidden away for awhile, and dug it out so that both kids could have fun. (In other words, not fight over it. Sometimes sharing and taking turns works well... other times, not so much.)

Joe has been carrying his around all day since I gave it to him. He has even started to play different notes on purpose, and once in a while, will try a slightly different rhythm. Kind of fun. I'm trying not to envision him as the next Buddy Greene...

In the Past

The pacifiers are gone, and the second night, Joe didn't fuss, and we didn't hear from him until 3 a.m. when he needed help covering himself back up with his blankets. Kids are more adaptable than we think.

Naps are still a struggle, but I think that is more an issue of Joe asserting himself than him missing his pacifiers. Welcome to two.

Going Cold Turkey

We decided that it was time. We had been putting it off long enough, but several nights of waking up to Joe yelling, "Wheredit GO!" has finally convinced us that we need to rid him of the pacifier habit. Another prompt for me was his climbing up on top of the dresser to get the pacifier off the five foot high shelf during the daytime in order to sneak some sucks outside of sleep time. I have read in several sources that a baby should be weaned of a pacifier around 6 months... before they develop a serious addiction to the thing. Sorry, Joe. We've failed you.

Last night was his first night without one. He cried off and on for 15-20 minutes, before he settled down and eventually drifted off to sleep. Not bad, I thought. And when I woke up to him yelling, "Ma-mom!" around midnight, I figured it wasn't going to be quite the sleepless night I thought it was. Little did I know that Chris had already been upstairs several times before that. I had just slept through it all. So today, we are all a little tired.

Joe has just gone down for his first nap without the pacifier. After showing him (at his request) that, indeed, the pacifier was gone from the shelf, I put him in bed. The next half hour was spent with him crying to the point of snuffles, and him trying repeatedly to get out of bed. The crying has subsided, but I don't think he's asleep yet. Hopefully, it will be a long nap.
Note to self: Wean third baby from pacifier at 6 months.

For the Love of...

Elastic.

About six (or more?) years ago, I received a pair of Carhartts for Christmas. They were the rusty-orange colored, work jeans that don't really match anything. I loved them. By the time I had Finley, I had broken them in so much so that they were tan, and were so soft, you would mistake them for fine flannel if your eyes were closed.

It took me a while after Finley was born for them to fit properly again, and I was happy when then did.

Then Joe came along. Once again, I started dreaming of the day when I could wear my favorite jeans again. Months went by, and I finally got the courage to try them on. They didn't feel quite right, so I waited a few more months, then tried again. Slowly, the realization hit me: I am not the same. Internal somethings must have shifted. Other somethings must not have tightened back up all the way. Something... I have a pile of clothes that I stare at and wonder if it is possible if I could ever fit into them again. I can hardly bear the thought of giving them away... or should I say, trashing them (since most of them are worn to the point that no one else would wear them).

Now, with this third pregnancy, even clothes I remember wearing comfortably with the first two don't seem to feel right, and typical pregnancy clothes don't normally fit me well either. Now, I dream of elastic. I fantasize about finding pants with elastic waist bands cool enough that no one would suspect what they really are. Now, I wear overalls, and disillusion myself with the thought that someday, maybe with intense pilates and yoga workouts, I'll be wearing my Carhartts comfortably again.