Mandy and Owen
Evan, Rebecca and Sophie picking vegetables in Nick's beautiful garden
Evan and Sophie taking over the Wiffle Ball field (along with Lauren and Chris)
Mike helping Sophie with her swing
Greg, Jenna and James
"You really can make Wiffle Ball your own game. Every field is different." —Michael Benson
(Thanks to my love who has a love for photographing such things.)
"If you want to live and thrive, let the spider run alive." —American Quaker saying
Several weeks ago I decided I really, really, really wanted a cookie-dough Blast from Bruster's. And, I thought, Sophie deserved a scoop of chocolate ice cream. But I was by myself, in the mini van, with all three kids, returning from a trip up north to visit family.
I decided there was no way I could handle two carriers, Sophie and ice cream (I didn't have the double stroller with me), so I drove through Bruster's drive-thru and ordered the two ice-cream treats. Then I parked. I took both boys out of the van, but left them in their car seats, and set the carriers on top of one of Bruster's outdoor tables. And then Sophie and I sat on the benches, and ate.
I felt so bold. So brave. So free. It seems so minor—ice cream. But the incident-free event made me think I could take all three children to the park, out to lunch, to the library—maybe even the zoo.
I remember feeling this way the first time I took Sophie somewhere, by myself. It was similar to the first time I drove somewhere by myself. The first time I rode a school bus by myself. The first time I spent the night at a friend's house by myself.
The I-can-do-this, or, perhaps, more accurately, the I-did-this feeling is one of life's best. Age never diminishes it and I never tire of it.
"I had always thought that once you grew up you could do anything you wanted—stay up all night or eat ice-cream straight out of the container." —Bill Bryson
I called five Starbucks today. Five. It was 5pm. I could barely keep my eyes open. I wanted to surprise Andy by bringing all three kids, by myself, to his 6:30pm softball game. And all I wanted was a Frappuccino. (I had a gift card!)
The idea of driving to our closest Starbucks, which has no drive-thru, and unloading all three kids just for a drink, was exhausting. (And I already was so tired.) So I went to Starbucks' website in search of a store with a drive-thru. The closest one was in Anderson. So I made a mental note of the address, and loaded all the kids, a bulging diaper bag, double stroller and quilt in the van. Forty-five minutes early. Just for a Frappuccino. But unfortunately, according to my Garmin, that Starbucks no longer exists. So I searched for all Starbucks and started calling them (my Garmin nicely supplies phone numbers as well as addresses for locations). "No," "no," "no," I heard over and over again. And by now Owen and James were crying. And Sophie was lamenting the fact that we weren't going anywhere.
I got mad. Then unreasonably panicky (I was so tired). Then determined. I drove. And drove and drove and drove in search of someplace with a drive-thru that would have something like a Frappuccino. I drove until I risked being late for Andy's game.
Deflated, I drove through a Frisch's drive-thru.
"May I please take your order?" a woman's voice said.
"Do you have anything at all like a coffee Frappuccino?" I asked.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
I repeated my question.
"No," she said.
I ordered a Diet Coke.
It tasted terrible.
We made it to Andy's game on time. The boys drank breast milk and Sophie delighted in slurping water from the water fountain while I held her, getting soaking wet. But I was so bitter. All I wanted was a Starbucks with a drive-thru. All I wanted was an icy, cold, caffeine-filled Frappuccino.
What is wrong with me?
"It is inhumane, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait in line behind people who apparently view it as some kind of recreational activity. I bet this kind of thing does not happen to heroin addicts. I bet that when serious heroin addicts go to purchase their heroin, they do not tolerate waiting in line while some dilettante in front of them orders a hazelnut smack-a-cino with cinnamon sprinkles." —Dave Barry
our first outside meal at the new house
feeding goldfish, one (small) piece of food at a time, at Farmer Brown's
visiting grandma
visiting the family's full restored farmhouse, which my uncle Roger and his son Sam worked tirelessly on
"The family—that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to." —Dodie Smith
Housework and naps (note the sleeping 2-year-old on the couch) and most everything else was a little out of control for a few weeks after the move. Thankfully, rooms—and our routines—are a bit more organized now.
"If your house is really a mess and a stranger comes to the door greet him with, 'Who could have done this? We have no enemies.'" —Phyllis Diller
We've been in our new house for more than a month now. Above is a picture of our old house, a few days before the renters moved in (yes, we're landlords now).
I love our new house, and am so thankful for it, but I do, as I suspected I would, miss a lot from our old house—our built-in bookcases, our big yard, our neighbors (Sophie especially misses Griffin, and Tucker, Cooper), and, of course, Pat and Harold.
I was (and am) so proud of all the work we did, including turning this:
into this:
We painted most every room, and I loved the colors. We added French doors, replaced light fixtures, fixed the gutters, put in a new furnace and air conditioner, completely re-landscaped. Here, in our new house, we have much painting (and wallpaper removal) still to do.
Andy built a beautiful fence at our old house (which you can sort of see here). I miss that fence. And long for one here.
We planted a garden our first summer at the old house. We had no idea one tomato plant could yield so many tomatoes, and I was so eager for fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes that I think we planted 15 tomato plants. As such, we ate tomatoes with every meal for weeks, and gave so many away.
We celebrated birthdays, holidays (and clearly underestimated the height of our ceilings when cutting down the tree shown above), new jobs, promotions, pregnancies and life for five-and-a-half years in that house. 
It's the house we brought Sophie home to (note the cradle, still in the box, on the porch), and Owen and James, too.
But the projects, the painting, the remodeling, the building and the fixing is ongoing, no matter where we are (and especially where we are, as we seem to love 100-year-old, stone foundation homes). The memories, though, are unchanging. I'll always have them. There. Here. Anywhere. And for that, I'm thankful for my brain. And pictures. And journals. And blogs.
I know renters often don't treat houses as nicely as they would something they own (I, certainly, didn't spend hundreds of dollars on landscaping the many of years I spent renting). But I hope they know how much that house meant to us—still means to me. I hope Sophie remembers it. I hope Owen and James someday look at pictures of it.
I often thought of the people who lived in our old house—in the 1920s, 1950s, 1980s. I hope we made our mark on the house and served it well. And I hope it's home to many more happy memories in the years to come.
"One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening—the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life—and can never find again. After you leave home, you may find yourself feeling homesick, even if you have a new home that has nicer wallpaper and a more efficient dishwasher than the home in which you grew up." —Lemony Snicket
It's difficult and easy to believe my boys turned three months old yesterday. Time, especially in the middle of the night, has moved so slowly. And yet, I can't believe we're (well) into August. August! The time when I was pregnant seems so long ago. The time I spent in the hospital and in the NICU seems so long ago. The time when I was afraid to touch the boys, because they were so very, very small, seems so long ago. And yet today I struggled to fit Owen's 0-3 month onesie over his cloth diaper. And last night I realized I no longer have to roll up the sleeves on James' newborn pajamas. And then Sophie is talking to Nini about cartoon characters "not focusing." How in the world does she know about focusing? I remember when she was the one I was struggling to fit into 0-3 month clothes, when she was the one I was afraid to bathe, when she was the one who elicited such excitement from me simply because of a smile or a coo.
Happy three-month birthday, my loves. I can't believe (and am so thankful for) how much you've grown.
"But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day." —Benjamin Disraeli
I used to be so strict about TV time. And using the chair as a jungle gym. And getting out all the toys in the toy basket without putting any away. But these days, so much of my time is spent nursing, bottle feeding, pumping and diapering—the boys, not Sophie. Thankfully, Sophie does well with independent play. But she's 2. Independent play only can last so long before boredom sets in, wanting my attention sets in, trying to get away with things she's usually not allowed to do sets in.
But I don't mind stickers on me—never have. And Andy thought it was particularly funny, once home, when he found a sticker of a blue hat placed perfectly on top of my head (unknown to me). And really, that makes perfect sense—putting a hat sticker on top of a head. And if covering me in stickers keeps Sophie happy, and means one less crying child in the room, well, I'm happy to walk around covered in them any day.
"All man's troubles come from not knowing how to sit still in one room." —Blaise Pascal
"In a big family the first child is kind of like the first pancake. If it's not perfect, that's OK, there are a lot more coming along." —Antonin Scalia
