In the time it's taken you to forget about this blog,

I've
  -lost my computer to a virus
  -lost my phone to St. Louis humidity
  -got blocked from my email
  -moved to a new state
  -settled into a new home
  -found three snakes in the house
  -joined a book club
  -watched the dog chase a cow out of the backyard
  -repeatedly bribed my child with gum to get through church services.
  

What I haven't done
  -updated this blog.

 
Consider it done.

Thrifty? Or just hopeful?

Part of this year's move is downsizing.  I've acquired a piano (it was Great-Grandmother's, how could I say no?), and I intend to make space for it in the moving van by ditching it's cubic-foot equivalent in boxes of other stuff.  So it's out with the extra tongs and rarely-used spatulas, vanilla scented candles and flower vases, lidless Tupperware and tired-out clothes.  I'm even sorting through boxes the boxes we we left in the basement labeled, but unpacked.

There's one corner of the basement, though, that pains me each time I walk past.  It's the corner where we've piled up the bins of clothes our son has outgrown, the supports for the cradle we no longer use, the baby toys he doesn't like anymore, the box of maternity clothes I haven't worn in years.

In saving them, I had no question I would need some of them again- at least the maternity clothes.  But possibly those baby clothes as well.  We could have another boy!   So we kept them.  A year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them that summer, thinking they'd save us money if we had another boy on vicarage.  But the year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them again.  Another year has passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  Now they sit in the corner of the basement, reminding me all the while that there still is no other baby to wear the clothes, despite all of our prayers.

I can't help but wonder if there ever will be another baby to wear those clothes.  I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the small wonders happening around me with the son I do have by holding on to those clothes and moving them one more time.  I can't help but wonder if I ought to let someone else get some use out of them, and trust that God will provide should he see fit to give us another child.  Perhaps letting go of those clothes would help ease some of the pain.

Market to market

In a few short weeks, I'll be moving home.  Home, I say.  Home.  As in, the place where memories meet futures and I can sit for long evenings at my mother's table and share with my son the stories of our lives.  As Call Day approached, I had imagined I would end up feeling a bit like Sarai or Ruth; but like Naomi, I get to go home.  While I'll still be 75 miles from my mother's kitchen table, I'm certain I'll find it's a rather short distance for my homesick heart.

What's more, I'm not just returning a place where my mother is.  I'm returning to a place whose stories have become intertwined with mine.  A place whose customs and traditions have influenced my view of the world, and set me apart from so many others I've met along the way.  A place like no other place; the good life.  I am content.

A Pie is Worth a Thousand Words

When it comes to meeting new people, I can rock it for all of ten minutes.  I'm good with names, and can come up with a few good questions to get some key details and information out of someone.  But put me with a stranger for any longer than ten minutes, and I'll start wishing I had a Smartphone, a magazine, or anything to draw the attention away from my inability to gab.

So with Call Day two weeks away, I've come to realize that I'll soon be thrust into a congregation full of strangers, and expected to talk to them.  I figure I'll be set for the first few Sundays.  Those early Narthex chats will be all about basic information, and I'll rock.  After that, my plan is to hand out pie.*  They'll forgive my speechlessness if I'm passing out homemade confections, right?

Mmmmmm, boy! Pie Heaven!

*You may be wondering why I would pick pie.  After all, it has a reputation of being finicky, and Pillsbury seems to be making a killing off everyone's fear of crusts.   I don't mean to brag, but merely state the facts.  I always rock at pie.  Always.

Sometimes I feel like a hamster

A month ago I thought to myself, "Ahh.  I finally feel settled in this wonderful house."

Good timing, as Call Day is May 1, and I'll get to pack everything back up this summer to start over.  Again.

If only it were that easy . . .

We'll Keep It

Once in college, I shelled out twenty-five dollars for a faded loveseat that harkened back to the 70s.  It was my first furniture purchase (and so far, my only furniture purchase-everything we now own was either a gift from family, or found sitting on the side of the road begging to be plastered with beer labels).   Though it was a bit small, I found that it was perfect for all the reading I did to get that English concentration, and, if I tucked up my legs enough, would sleep quite comfortably.

But it was kind of ugly.  So I tried covering it- first with a fitted sheet that forever had to be readjusted, and then by putting my high school set-building skills to work and attaching fabric to it with a staple gun.  Eventually, I made a slip cover, once the staples starting pulling out and stabbing my arm every time I attempted to use the arm rest.  So the little couch moved from dorm room to dorm room, and once I married, fit quite nicely into our oddly narrow living room.  It's now been lugged from state to state with all of our moving, even though we've acquired a real, unfaded couch.

Last summer, I overhead my parents discussing this little couch as it was loaded into our moving pods.  "How many more moves before they ditch that thing?" my father asked my mother. Well, Pops, that little couch isn't going anywhere soon.  I have visions of passing it on to my son when he moves out of the house.  It would be quite poetic.  After all, it's the very place I sat all those hours, weeks, months (!) after he was born- nursing, napping, eating, pumping.  The only seat in house I could find that was both comfortable to sit, and possible to leave.  And since my kid took for.ever. to nurse, and wanted to nurse every two hours, and wouldn't sleep unless someone was holding him, I spent a lot of time on that little loveseat.  Enough time, in fact, to catch up on the past seasons of House, CSI, and Friday Night Lights. 

Besides all that, it's still the most comfortable seat in the house, and should I have pleasure of nursing another child, I can't imagine anywhere else I'd sit.  Unless, of course, someone feels like buying me one of these: