fire, toile and a potted plant

So let's say your house is on fire. You have only seconds to grab what you can and run out the door. What do you grab? The photo album? The row of journals on your bookshelf documenting the early days of dating your husband? Your heirloom wedding gown? Or, in a desperate attempt to grab what is most valuable does all rational thought fly out the window and it suddenly become essential that you grab your L.L. Bean pea coat and that potted plant by the door?

Evidently, I would grab the plant. No, my house has never been on fire. But almost as bad, I did one day get a call from my sister stating that she and a friend were on their way over to "see how cute the twins room is!" It was like someone yelled "Fire!" in a crowded building because, let me assure you, their room was in no condition for an open house. It was a wreck. So what did I do? Make the beds? Pick up toys? Vacuum? Of course not. True to my inability to properly prioritize, I quickly decided the single most important thing to do between the phone call and the doorbell was to line the inside of their drawers with scrapbook paper.The girls have this used-to-be-changing-table-now-a-dresser dresser in their room. When they were babies, these drawers were so cute with the see through window in them. I would fold fuzzy burp cloths and proudly display them in neat rows of yellows and pinks. And then they turned 3 and the dresser became the toy chest and all of a sudden, it wasn't so cute anymore.

So I cut paper. And scotch taped it to the inside of the drawers. The girls were fighting in the background and I stuffed toys under the bed with my feet. But that dresser, it looked so cute when I was done. I finished with time to spare. Boy, do I know how to prioritize.
It definitely wasn't perfect. I had actually planned to get some fabric for this project. But seeing as how I kind of hyperventilate when I go into a fabric store (unless The Nester is there to talk me through it), that was not to be. The paper was only 12x12 but my drawers are wider than that. I had to piece them together. Lucky for me, toile just looks all toiley from far away, so it's hard to see where one paper stops and the other begins.Can you tell? Bet you can't. It's been over a year since I did this little project and now the tape is beginning to fail, as you can see from this inside shot.
My sister recently posted about lining the back of her dish hutch (what do you call that thing, anyway?) which kind of reminded me of this little project. She also used scrapbook paper, but she used a glue gun. Evidently tape is for amateurs. Seeing as how mine is falling apart, I guess I agree with that.

So now, instead of seeing this...I get to see this...
It fits in nicely with my cleaning habits.

my weekend with the Nester

We are so different, she and I. But not so much that we don't thoroughly enjoy each others company and perspective. I make her laugh. She makes things funny. I go to bed late. She turns in early. I like my coffee hot. She'd rather have it over ice. We both love chocolate cake and Pushing Daisies and laughing. Hard. At nearly everything. She helps me not take myself too seriously. I think I do the same for her.

I spent this weekend with her. The men were out of town, so we decided to join forces. Otherwise, we would be in our prospective houses not sleeping, listening for all the killers who were targeting our man-less households. But with all of us together under one roof, we were so much safer. We had each other and all of our six kids ages 10 and under to protect us, after all.

She spent a lot of time this weekend doing what she does...namely, nesting.
She pulled ribbons from cabinets like this to wrap gifts. There are several of them.

She wrapped up some tassels she made and is selling. But first she took photos of them. Then she said goodbye. Then she cried a little. She gets very attached.

She also spent time putting together this centerpiece for a shower. Why all this nesting? No, she's not pregnant. She's the Nester (or haven't you heard?) I kept busy helping her. I worked real hard on this.
There's something so special about having another person in the world who has the same parents as you. We stayed up talking late one night about growing up memories. It always surprises me that I am surprised when we talk about those days. Because even though we lived in the same house with the same parents and ate the same food, we turned out so different from one another. And we remember it all differently as well.

Family history is becoming increasingly important to me. We don't have any surviving grandparents so any stories that exist remain with our parents, aunts and uncles. I want to remember to ask them to remember. Because I don't know what I don't know so I don't know what to ask. In other words, it was good to hang with my big sister. Because she has stories, too. Different from mine...they overlap, certainly. But they are different. Just like us.

And I'm happy to report, no killers. The whole weekend.

And completely irrelevant to anything in this post (or in my life, for that matter), Ryan Seacrest just asked Jessica Alba if she'll be breastfeeding her baby. Live. On the red carpet. At the Oscars. I just don't think I can handle hearing Ryan Seacrest say "breastfeeding". From the looks of it, neither could Jessica Alba.

keep the change

The split-level house smelled of cigarette smoke, Chanel No. 5 and burnt cinnamon rolls. It was the home where my grandparents lived. Familiar. Comfortable. It was the house where I had celebrated every Christmas, birthday and fourth of July since I could remember. Predictable. Safe. I was in the bathroom and I didn't want to come out. It was the summer of 1987.

Standing there that morning, I remember wishing I could crawl under the sink and not come out. Maybe they'll just leave without me. I can stay here. Under the sink. With Grandma. But I knew that couldn't happen. Because we were moving...from our small, Indiana town, where I had lived all my life, where my parents had met and gone to high school, where our cousins and aunts and grandparents lived...we were leaving all things right and familiar and heading to Iowa, the land of all things different. One last trip to the bathroom, and it was time to make the 6 hour drive to what would be our new home. I was 11. And I didn't want to go.

And so began my personal life-long journey of learning to accept change. I've been thinking a lot about change lately. Not even the worst kind of change, like from divorce or sickness or death. Just regular, life-stage change. It isn't as scary as it was that day in my grandmother's bathroom. But it is still definitely not my favorite. I find myself looking at women who are pregnant for the first time or high school seniors or friends who are preparing to move far away and I think about all that is ahead for them...exciting days for sure. But also unknown, unpredictable days. Long days. Lonely days.

I tend to want to avoid the long and lonely, the unknown and unpredictable. I find unhealthy comfort in believing in the illusion that I have control over my future. But the more I live, the more I see that not only do I not have control, but I don't think I want to. Not really. It's too much pressure. Because though the days can be lonely and crazy-scary to anticipate, they are also dependent days...days of knowing that I can't so He must. Days of resting in His provision because that's all I really can do anyway. And many times, days of waiting for all of those words that I know are true to become true in my experience.

Sometimes I wish character and patience and growth could happen without all the change. So far I haven't found a successful way to avoid it. But I'll keep you posted.

Goodwill diamonds

You know how people say bigger isn't always better? I guess I agree with that. Consider a nose, for example. Or a wart. But if we're talking diamonds, in my humble opinion, bigger is better. Or chocolate, for that matter. But that's not the point. I think my love for all things diamond was acquired honestly. After all, it is my birthstone. In light of this fact, its no wonder that my eye was drawn to this fine piece of ge-u-ine, sparkly goodness.
I know, what is it, right? I had to zoom in to get a clear look at its authenticity.
But here it is from far away. That's right, its Ross's diamond studded collar. Chandler has one, too. And Rachel has a pink rhinestone necklace. These friends are just so cool.
Look, there's the rest of the gang! Hi, gang. Phoebe, your earrings are to die for.
What a great photo. Look how happy they all are. Lucky for me that I can carry around the mid-90s wherever I want.Hello, Friends. Aren't you glad that freaks like me can't resist paying real money for paraphernalia with your photo on it no matter how unacceptable? You were in desperate need of rescuing. I just couldn't pass you up, what with all those eyes watching me as I tried to pass you by. Not to mention the shiny, blinding bling.

Warning to all you people I know in real life: you may be seeing this again. In a gift bag. Addressed to you. On your birthday. Don't say I didn't warn you.

And for what it's worth, turns out Ross and I have more in common than a love for diamonds, as my 71% celebrity look-alike match is David Schwimmer. Not kidding. Wish I were.

Deceptive? Absolutely. Delicious? Not so much.

Let me just say if it smells like a dirty diaper while steaming, chances are it will taste like poop in your eggs.

I just got that cookbook by Jessica Seinfield (Deceptively Delicious) where you steam, puree and hide veggies in foods your kids will eat. But cauliflower eggs? Even I couldn't convince myself they were good. I thought it was just because I knew there was cauliflower in them so maybe that's why they were gross.

Bracing for the worst, I told the girls "Your eggs might taste different today because they have cheese in them." Not a lie. They did have cheese.

But one bite and 13 gags later, the man was in the kitchen making "normal eggs".

Please don't take offense, Jessica. You are so pretty. And your husband is so funny. And I totally believe you that your didn't copy your book idea from that other girl. As for the recipes, so far the turkey chili and couscous with pureed red pepper and carrots were both really good. And even the cauliflower banana bread was a hit (so I added chocolate chips to it. Sue me.) But eggs and cauliflower will never be okay. Never. I know you said that you tested out these recipes many times on your kids. Seriously? The throw up eggs? Come on.

I'm not giving up, though. There is a mac and cheese recipe that I can't wait to try. And the little pizzas with hidden spinach might pass the test, too. Besides, I can't stop now. I have 47 little packages of liquid veggies in my fridge.

a different kind of chatting

Walking along the greens across from the harbor last summer while on vacation with my family, my plan was to capture the lighthouse during sunset with my new low-light lens. As it turns out, the sun hid behind the clouds, casting mediocre light at best. I put the lens cap on my camera and turned my attention inward.

I became aware of a deep sadness while standing there in the wind...a longing left unmet. The word “hopeless” darted across the screen of my mind and the feeling that followed was just that. So I sat, and told the Lord what I had so many times fully expecting to get up and walk away feeling a sense of defeat and fear of unmet need.

This time, though, I spoke out loud, my voice carried quickly away on the wind. And somehow, a change...slight and almost unnoticeable. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I may have missed it. But I continued to repeat the truth about God…He is good, He has good things planned for me, He is with me, His loving-kindness endures forever. In that moment, light began to make its way through the darkness and the heaviness began to lift. It wasn't drastic or immediate, but it was life-giving to hear my own voice speak what is true.

God did it, too. He said, "Let there be light." And there was light (Genesis 1:3). He could have thought about light in His head, and light would have come. But He chose to speak and He tells us to speak as well. Jesus told His disciples that if they had faith the size of a mustard seed "you will say to this mountain, 'move from here to there,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you." (Matthew 17:20). He didn't tell them to think at the mountain. He told them to speak to the mountain.

I've thought about that day often in the past eight months. And I am becoming convinced of the creative, healing power of speaking truth out loud. To think, say, and hear the words said in my own voice forces me to stop and get out of my own head...which if I'm honest, can be the scariest place of all to get stuck in.

yesterday was show and tell

Chat du ciel

This is my blog translated into French. I can't think of a more important way for Google to spend their time...I mean, really. Don't you just picture a long line of desks in a blue-lit room with a bunch of people from different countries sitting at computers, frantically translating blogs into their native languages? I think I like my site better in French. See what i mean? I feel so smart, so cultured. It looks like I've got lots and lots of important things to say. I even look better in French.
I guess those French people aren't as self-focused as we are over here. They apparently have no translation for 'about me'.

It makes me think of the time I was interpreting for a student (have I mentioned I use to work as a sign language interpreter? Well, I did. Before I had all these kids, that is). Anyway, I was interpreting for a high school student who asked me if 56 and fifty-six sounded the same when spoken out loud. Wha.....t? But then I thought more about it and realized what a legitimate question it was. In sign language, the number 56 is signed 5 - 6. And if you spell it out, well, you spell it out. But when you say the number or the word in English, it's the same.

I really do love languages. I'll have to share more about my life as an interpreter. There are many wonderful tales to be told. In the meantime, check out your blog translated into French. It's cool. And it will make all those people in the blue-lit room feel as though their work has purpose. It could help to off set the excruciating pain they experience from the carpal tunnel syndrome.

*10:20 pm: It has just been brought to my attention that my blog name has been translated "sky cat". The real French translators must be on a writer's strike. Consider my name changed from chatty to catty. Thank you and have a nice day.

trash vs. treasure: an insecure perspective

Hi. I am being forced against my will to introduce myself. I requested a close up because, well, a full-length photo is too vulnerable for me right now. You see, I'm a bit shy. Understandable, as I have been spending my days in the midst of other disregarded, unwanted...things. And it does a number on a girls self-esteem.
Oh. Oh no. There she goes, backing up. Fine. I can do this. Ok, so I am blue. I have brown trim. I am clean and sturdy and perfect...or so I thought. Evidently, someone else did not think as much, as they sent me off with their ugly pillows and broken radios to the Goodwill. But there is nothing wrong with me. I am not wrong. I am right. Right?
Oh, geez whiz. I'm blushing, can you tell? I guess it's good to be wanted again. Even if it was for the low, low price of $3. Still, I am wanted. And that is good. But my heart is torn as I consider the friends I left behind. So please. I beg you. Do not forget the tossed-aside and rejected at your local Goodwill.

my daily bread

Ever find yourself wishing you could eat a really big lunch and then not have to make dinner? Better yet, let's make our huge breakfast be the only meal we have to eat all day. I do that sometimes, when it's just me. I've yet to convince the rest of the fam what a good plan it is.

Don't get me wrong. I really do like to eat. And I like to cook, too. I just don't like to HAVE to eat. Or cook. It would be so much better if, on those days when we are tired and unmotivated, we could just eat once and have it last.

But we can't. That's just not how it works.

Sometimes I think the same way about time with the Lord. I wish on an exhausting, no-good day, I could pull out a 2 hour bible study I had back in '98. Like a quiet-time filing cabinet that was stocked before I had kids. But that is me trying to be all checklist-y, as if time with the Lord were equivalent to cutting the tomato and roasting the chicken (as if I ever roast a chicken).

In my head, I used to be really great. That is, before I had kids. Even better before I got married. I was patient, sweet, organized and practically perfect in every way. I remember being so depressed those first few months of marriage. Who is this crazy, emotional, needy woman and what did she do with patient, sweet, amazing me? And I was sure my new husband was thinking the same thing. Until I realized there was really never such a thing as patient, sweet me and I had certainly never been amazing. At least not in the way I thought. It's just now that I was married, there was someone always there to reflect the reality of my lack.

And to graciously remind me of my need for a Savior without saying a word. No more hiding. No more faking it.

And so, after a few more years of life under my belt, time with the Lord is looking different now than it used to. I think it is messy, desperate, sweet, frustrating. And sometimes it is dry, quiet, non-existent. But it is more real than it used to be. He is more real than He use to be. And that can't be pulled out of a filing cabinet.

*sigh* Now I gotta go make dinner.

Mike Seaver is coming your way...

Well, the winner has been chosen. Congratulations to Denise!! You are the lucky winner of the Growing Pains DVD. I hope you enjoy watching Mike and his Dad at the Springsteen concert and Carol go to work with her mom and Ben making Mike his slave as much as I did. And don't forget to watch the Seaver family reunion with S'mores and more...they sing the theme song together accapella lead by Alan Thicke. You don't wanna miss that. Thanks for entering everyone. It was great to discover I'm not alone in my love for this 80s show.

comfort and joy

The great bloggy giveaway has got me thinking...(check out the previous post if you don't know what I'm talking about). Let me just start by saying I know I'm a little bit of a loser. But I derive an arguably unhealthy amount of comfort and joy from certain TV shows. There. I said it.

It started with The Brady Bunch and continued with Survivor. (I know I've talked about this here before.) But tonight is big because it marks the end of an eight month long TV induced depression... when LOST aired its season finale. More importantly, though, its been eight months of living life here without my sister living 5 minutes away. But also, eight months of wondering how they get off the island and why they would want to go back. Seriously, though, its been eight months since John and I left our old church and started over at a new one. What?

And thus continues this strange journey I've been on of realizing how closely I associate certain TV shows with stages of my life.

I don't watch THAT much TV, I'm just fiercely loyal to those shows I do watch, largely because of the sentiment I attach to them. It's not even that I so like LOST, for example. I mean, I watch it...yeah. And I look somewhat forward to watching it. But more than that, I look forward to looking forward to watching it with PEOPLE. See...its the anticipation and the company. I'm making dinner tonight for the season premiere. We're having some of our favorite people over...because LOST is dinner and Breyers ice cream and favorite people. Same as Survivor will always be good food at my sisters' when her boys still used sippy cups and their house was only minutes away.

And then there's Friends. I didn't watch it regularly when it was actually on the air, but I borrowed Season 1 from a friend when my girls were small and I was nursing (this seems to be a pattern for me) and I found such joy, such sweet company. So I shamelessly asked for the entire series for Christmas last year and thanks to John and Costco, look what I got.
That's 10 seasons, people. So its now what I watch when John is out of town or I feel anxious at night and just need a laugh or a...friend (I now officially hate myself). So while I'm down here (you know, in the place where NBC executives most want me to be: addicted, needy, wrapped up, tricked), let me go ahead and show you these.

Look, it's 1994 Joey..
And 2004 Joey.
Yeah...still hating myself. Seriously, though, doesn't everyone do this? Maybe they don't, which is what I'm starting to realize. Because to me, The Wonder Years is a cold, cozy, rainy school night in Iowa, The Smurfs is a long john donut on a Saturday morning, and The Brady Bunch is afternoon sunshine and an after school snack. Right? RIGHT?! I'm starting to hyperventilate. Maybe 1994 Rachel will make me feel better.
Oh, and by the way, a long john donut is what my sister and I called chocolate eclairs because what kid knows the word 'eclair'?

show me that smile again...

Anyone feel like a carnival? Rocks in My Dryer is hosting one and I wanted to play. So welcome! Click on the little logo to see the master list of giveaway goodies. But once you see what I have, you will look no further. I know you want it. I also know you wish you didn't. But you do.
I bought this the summer after the baby was born mainly because I spent a lot of time nursing and in the middle of the night, reading requires too much light (not to mention thinking) and we didn't have cable. Besides, who doesn't want to revert back to 1985 in the middle of the night while nursing a newborn...?

I expected it to be somewhat entertaining. After all, Kirk Cameron was quite the heart-throb, was he not? What I didn't expect, however, was that everything would be so...familiar: the greenhouse back porch, Mike's leather jacket, Carol's big red glasses, the wooden truck on the shelf in the kitchen. I even found myself thinking the lines in my head before the characters said them. What? Where in my brain is there room to store the 20 year old script to Growing Pains? I was equal parts pleased and embarrassed by this ability of mine.

But I am no longer nursing and I have it memorized anyway. So now its your turn! As long as you live in the US, you are eligible! Aren't you lucky? The winner will be randomly picked and posted on Saturday. Just leave a comment (with an email if you don't have a blog link) to be entered to win your very own used-but-still-good copy of season one of Growing Pains.

Mike Seaver is waiting.

or her, either

So I just posted about one twin...and now I'm feeling guilty for not posting about the other. See how that works? And I wonder why I can never give them one-on-one attention. Because it isn't FAIR! (A word I have come to hate, by the way. How did they learn that word, anyway? Certainly not from me). But in this case, it just doesn't seem right to talk of one and not the other. So if you stop reading now because you're having my-kids-overload, I'll understand.

Still here? Then let me introduce you to twin B:
When we found out I was pregnant, it was a great day as we had been trying for over 6 months and then, there it was. Two lines. (Actually, 6 lines...I took 3 tests just to be sure.) Then I started getting really, grossly sick. Then I found out there were 2 kids growing in there. Then I had a nervous breakdown. Not really, but almost.

The doctors guessed our twins were identical from what they could tell in the ultrasounds (I'll spare you the details about placentas). But when they were born, they were different from the start. We needed no DNA test to tell us the obvious: these girls were fraternal. And so it began.

While I always thought of her sister as an older woman in a baby's body, this one was a genuine rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed ball of baby. She laughed hard, cried hard, slept hard and played hard. And she still does. It often seems as though the party doesn't start until she arrives. She loves football almost as much as helping me cook. She idolizes her older boy cousins. She is responsible, sensitive, funny and a sucker for chocolate. She likes the fact that her name has 2 L's. She is the spitting image of my mother-in-law.

As I think of her growing up into a young woman, I imagine she and I will get along well. Maybe that's because I don't see much of myself in her. She will be a compassionate, life-loving grown up. And though I'm not a fan of that I Love you Forever book (you know, the one where the grown man's mom sneaks into his house at night to hold him like she did when he was a baby...creepy), I can kind of relate to the sentiment. She is the best snuggler in the house. I know I will miss that one day.

because it's never all about her

I've been thinking a lot lately about parenting and how we only get one shot. The girls go to preschool a few times a week now and that means the baby and I get lots of time together, just us. And I'm beginning to reap the benefits of that, as I notice my fuse with him is much longer than with his older sisters. I don't like that. But it has reminded me to notice the girls as individuals and to see them as they are, not as I think they should be.

And so I look at her to see her and not just to hand her a juice. She is one of two, shared a womb, a birthday, then a crib, now a room. She answers to "Girls!" and hardly ever gets a parent to herself.

She thinks that the Prince is Cinderella's daddy. She has to kiss me on both cheeks and hug on both sides when saying goodbye. She likes long hair. She could play pretend by herself for hours. She refuses to wear hair clips because she's convinced they'll blow away. She won't let toys float in the bathtub because she's afraid they'll go down the drain. She likes carrots and loves to dance, though not in public. She is girly and dainty, feisty and sweet, and is crazy about Diego. And she's looking more like me everyday.

She is our first-born...our only child for 2 minutes. And then her sister came following quickly after and she's been sharing her world ever since. I am so thankful they have each other...what a blessing to have a sister who is the same age to play with now and to depend on later. But there are challenges that come with the blessing and I want to learn creative ways for them to feel special and separate as well as having a strong relationship with each other.

So this is a step for me...to focus on one at a time. To receive from the Lord a holy imagination concerning them and who He has made them to be, both now and later. So here's to you, sweet girl. Thanks for sharing the spotlight.

my disorder

Something is seriously wrong with me.

I'm pretty sure I've said those words here before, but this time it's really and seriously true.

How is it that a 30 year old college graduate, wife and mother of three does not know how to clean her house? What is the DEAL? The girls have been with my parents for a few days, so during the day, it's just been me and the baby. I wanted to take advantage of the time without all the kids here to clean up a bit...you know, without distractions. But guess what? Turns out I AM the distraction.

Yesterday I go to the girls room and I'm cleaning: emptying the toy basket onto the floor and sorting out purses from wigs, Barbie shoes from baby doll clothes...you know, cleaning. I start to notice groups of things that go together. Like these baby dolls.
Look at them. None of them have clothes (except the littlest one upon which I took pity. Is it normal that my girls only UNdress the dolls?) As I continued to clean, I saw another grouping take shape.
I felt like I was doing something, making progress. Grouping like things with like things. Until I realized maybe this isn't really cleaning. Did I change a sheet? No I did not. Did I windex anything? No I did not. Did I vacuum? Of course I did not vacuum.

I sorted. I organized. I rearranged. This is not cleaning, people. It is a component of cleaning, I know. But this is a problem, a compulsion to have all things that match be put together, a disorder of ordering. Instead of changing sheets, I took photos of naked baby dolls in a pile. Worse, after I took the photo, I stuffed all the dolls in a cabinet in disarray to get them out of the way. At least they were all in one place. What is wrong with me? That is what kids do when mom says "clean your room". That is not what mom does when cleaning kids room.

I have another problem. I have heard of people who clean one. room. at. a time. How is this to be done?
I start here and almost get the bed almost made. But then I remember Oh yeah. I need to finish adding towels to this.
Then, I walk right by this.
...and turn my head the other way. On my way back to my room to finish the bed, I see this:
So guess what I did? You're lookin' at it.

Everything I've read about housekeeping talks about routines. What is that word? I think it is important, but I'm not sure how to have one. I did FlyLady for a while. She talks about baby steps and starting with keeping your sink clean and shiny. That worked for a while. Until it didn't anymore (as you can clearly see).

So there you have it. I like to sort. I like to organize. And I really like to have clean clothes and clean dishes but I'm not so crazy about actually cleaning them. I would love to hear from anyone who has a routine and actually follows it. Because truth is, I really do sort of enjoy keeping house...I just want it to work for me and not against me. Any ideas?

chatting at the sky

In her song Tuesday, Sarah Masen sings about the tired ending of a too-long day. The lyrics aren't explicit, but I think they describe a girl who had lived a regular day in a regular life without making space for her soul to breathe. It seems like sometimes when we most need a source outside of ourselves we are least likely to seek one.

I find myself in a similar place on my very own Tuesday. I am foggy and droopy and I need a shower. The days are running together lately. I am still clinching my jaw. I feel behind. I have a vague sense that I have been looking for me. In the foreground is the task, the day, the laundry, the meal, the living. But in the background, there is still just a girl. And it is in this place of need where I remember that it is not left to me alone to finish the task, to have the right answer, to be amazing and perfect while saving the world. But it is up to me to be the girl that He has made...and to trust Him to be Himself in and around me.

At the end of the day, the girl in the song stops and takes notice of the beauty in life that surrounded her...and she doesn't only notice, she enters in. She stops to chat at the sky. And in doing so, she sees her Creator.

So while this blog is a place for me to chat about parenting and coffee and photo-taking and bargains, I hope for it to also be a place to remember. A place to just be and invite others to be alongside of me. A place that encourages me to write and reflect and find meaning in the mundane. And maybe, by chatting in this place, I will find treasures of His presence weaved into the days I am blessed to reflect upon.

go to Target

I hate Target for having bathing suits out in January. But I love it for the same reason...because bathing suits in January means 75% off wintery clothes.

I bought this outfit for $7.73. And by outfit, I mean shirt and pants. Throw in the cowboy boots from my mother-in-law, and you're lookin' at $13.08 for the outfit. Including tax. She got those boots at the beach last summer for $5. I guess those beach bums don't have much use for cowboy boots. Fools.

I know it isn't much...but a long sleeve t-shirt and a pair of comfortable fitting cords for less than 8 bucks is hard to beat. I just can't stay away from a good bargain even if it sometimes means spending money I wouldn't have spent otherwise. Kind of like my addiction to selling bargains at yard sales.

But I felt inclined to share this with the masses. Six racks of 75% off at Target! But stay away from the bathing suits. It would only encourage them. And discourage you. If you're like me, anyway.

a plea, an apology and a thank you

Dear Pediatrician,

I know you do very important work like saving the lives of children and stuff like that. I also know that you are very smart because you went to school for 25 years or something. Waiting at a doctor's office is a necessary evil. I know this, too. I do.

What I do not understand is why you insist on calling me back into the exam room (that measures exactly 8 square feet) when you know it will be another hour before the doctor will see my child. It is mean. It gets my hopes up, and then causes me to spend an hour keeping my less-than-2-year-old son off chairs that have wheels and dirty throw-up floors. I would rather wait in the spacious waiting room. At least there are more toys out there. And better magazines.

I also do not understand why you keep the urine sample cups in the bottom drawers of said exam rooms. My son thinks they are Tupperware. He stacks them. And licks them. I know they are clean, but this is not ok with me. I try to keep him out of these drawers, but it is difficult to keep him occupied for an hour short of letting him throw tongue depressors in the garbage. Which we have done. And I am sorry.

I do want to thank you, however, for having the "Note to Parents" posted on the back of the door. It keeps me up on my anagram skills. (Parents: part, rent, sent, ten, net, star, trap, nest, rant...) I think I'm up to 25 words. At least that's all I can figure without writing them down.

Anyway, I don't want to be part of the problem, I'd rather be part of the solution. That's why I propose it be made illegal to force parents with children under 5 to wait at the doctors office.

Thank you and have a nice day.
Emily

i never do this (portrait of a kitchen)

My sister (The Nester) recently blogged about my kitchen redo. What a novel idea, thought I. Who doesn't love a good before and after? She often writes of window treatments and her love of fabric (that she has so graciously passed onto me). I don't usually write about this type of thing, but with it being my kitchen and all, I thought it could be fun to post some significant shots of it before the love and after the love. So here we go. This was our kitchen on move in day, August of 2005.Please notice the lovely shade of dark mauve under the chair rail. Oh, and the sponging. What self-respecting woman in the early 90's didn't love a good sponged wall?
The bones of this kitchen were great, I thought. It just needed a little love.
And love it we did. First, we painted the kitchen Ivoire from Sherwin Williams. Actually, first we replaced the stove, but that's not as fun to talk about. Then we lived with it for a while. I talked a lot with The Nester about what I wanted to do in the kitchen. She encouraged me to look through magazines and find photos of what I really liked, realistic or not. It helped to think this way and get a feel for what my likes are. Sometimes I have a hard time with that. Then, I found this, my inspiration photo:
It's actually an ad for that stuff that's on the ceiling, but I didn't care about that. I noticed that the walls were the same color as mine and those cabinets looked great! And it also made me want a dog. And a friend. And coffee. But whatever.

I knew we couldn't replace the cabinets, so I just had to choose what color I wanted them to be. I decided black was the only way to go. I also liked the fact that the black made our dishwasher disappear. So we hired a friend to do the dirty work (you didn't think I did this all myself, did you?) and off we went. We also replaced the sink and the countertops, which was by far our biggest expense. Add a subway tile backsplash and here is the final product.
And another one with my butcher block/island included.

Here is a close up of the window treatment. I picked out the fabric and The Nester helped me hang it. I'll let her reveal her secrets. Let me just say it cost $10.
I found these bubbled glass knobs at Anthropologie. Love. Them. Oh, and by the way, we do have a refrigerator. I just had no before shots from that angle so I didn't bother taking any after shots of it either. Incase you were wondering.

Let's see that one more time, shall we?
We do have to replace our off white outlets with white ones, but other than that, we're pretty much finished. Now if we only had a dog...