Spring done sprung up ’round here in the last few weeks. As documented by the pollen-covered baby crawling around on my front porch.
Said baby is right on the cusp of walking. He practices by pushing his brothers and sisters around the room. He grabs them by the waist and won’t let go until they hold his hands and help him “walk.” He’s quite the tyrant about it. Fortunately, they don’t mind too much, although Mira finds it difficult to get him off her back.
When the kids aren’t around, Finn practices with the kitchen trash can. The other day, I found it pushed into the master bathroom and then abandoned. Fortunately, Finn left his favorite ball carefully deposited inside so I knew who the culprit was.
Many of you have nicely asked about the bees. I promise a full post is coming soon, but Andrew convinced me to visit them in their new hive. I got close enough to take this picture before squealing like a little girl and running away.
I did it all for you people.
Never doubt that you are loved, bloggy eyeballs.
I’m slowly finding my footing here as we begin to claim “the new normal” after moving and a winter of sickness. I even hauled out my grain mill a few weekends ago and attempted bread. There’s no picture because it was my typical failure and because we ate it all.
However, one of my kitchen fortes is breakfast. The kids expect at least one “fancy” breakfast on the weekends. Andrew started this while I was on bed rest with Finn. He felt bad that the kids ate nothing but cereal all week so he treated them to donuts on Saturday. The kids decided this was a Scripturally mandated tradition that had to be carried on.
After a year and a half, we’re putting our foot down and wresting breakfast back from their sugar-filled paws. To appease them for our lack of runs to the donut store, I made homemade donuts. Sort of.
They’re actually more like giant donut holes. Or donut muffins? I made them in muffin tins because I don’t have a fancy donut pan. I try to share my Saturday morning breakfasts with a recipe on Instagram, so you’re welcome to follow me there if you’re into lousy photos of breakfast.
When he’s not playing with bees or keeping us all in line, Andrew has been playing lumberjack. There are several trees that needed to come down on the property so he bought himself a chain saw and learned how to use it.
Confession: I cried when this tree fell. I knew why it had to go (it’s five feet from our house and with the tornados we get, could easily fall on the kids’ bedrooms.) But I suddenly hated the backyard. I didn’t want it to change. I didn’t want the light to be different in my kitchen. I didn’t want to lose all the shade on the back porch.
And it struck me: this place feels like home now. It didn’t when we first moved in. It needed so much work, it was so unfamiliar. And there’s still much we need to and want to do.
But I’ve stood at my kitchen window every morning for five months now and watched the sun come over the trees in the backyard and it’s never failed to make me smile and worship my Creator. I’ve sat on the front porch with friends while we laughed and solved all the world’s problems. I’ve sipped coffee with Andrew on the porch swing and dreamed about all the “some days” while the kids play under the Japanese maple.
We’ve all delighted in each new bloom or bud around here, like a present on Christmas morning. “Look! Jasmine!”
“Did you see the sweet william coming up in this patch?”
But jasmine and sweet william aren’t the only things growing these days.
We’re growing into our house, beginning to blossom under its eaves.
And it feels like home.
Even if it does come with a healthy dose of pollen…