In like a lion...out like a pissed off baracuda.

V has been home from school for a week and a half: we can't get to Grandma's, and most of the stores/movie theaters/places of entertainment have been closed during this time. We all have a terrible case of cabin fever. So we bundled up and went out to the backyard yesterday, to burn off some three year old energy, dig for treasure, eat falling snowflakes, and make snow angels.

You may recognize this bonnet from last winter, when it was new. I could make her a new one, but this one still fits, and I'm lazy. The pattern is from Amy Karol's Angry Chicken pattern. It looks like they're restocked for Easter. It's a well written, easy to follow pattern that takes me a little less than an hour, start to finish. (There are many more examples in this flickr group.)

V likes the bonnet because it keeps her ears warm, and it also shields her eyes from the sun. Yesterday it helped keep the snow from blowing straight into her face. I think bonnets are so underappreciated in today's world.


Anyway, as you can see, at least one person in Fargo-Moorhead had fun yesterday. Hope you find time to make yourself a snow angel today.

Insult to injury

Sarah and Robby's, yesterday. The plank in the forefront is the railing of the deck. You can see on the tree where the river crested, froze, and is now dropping. This is the view out of their basement door. On the other side of those sandbags is over 5 feet of river water. It's kinda freaky.

Anyway, the water is receding, slowly, but right now it's snowing. They tell us this precipitation will not significantly change the river levels, but it certainly slows down traffic and makes me worry about powerlines and Hendrum, too, where my mom and sister and her family live.
The snow is coming very fast, but as you can see it is fairly light.

Our house remains safe and dry, thankfully. With this new snowstorm will come strong winds, and so we hope the levees hold, and the giant ice sheets on the Red hold the water down and don't become battering rams that break through.

It feels as though spring will never come.

Waiting for a miracle

Most of my dear readers know that our city, Moorhead, Minnesota, is waging an enormous flood fight. It's difficult to blog about as it happens, because there is so much uncertainty, and any minute I'm not trying to directly make things better I feel guilty. But Shaun is working today, so I'm home with V with no vehicle, so here we sit, and here I blog.

On Saturday & Monday I was at Sarah & Robby's, friends of ours who have a beautiful home. On Rivershore Drive. Their house takes water at 36 feet, and our crest (which is still rising) is predicted between 41-43 feet. This photo is from their back deck, which normally stretches 100 yards or more to the river (I think. I'm not great with distance, but it's a ways). The river is at about 34 feet in this picture. That little black dot in the center of the photo is their tire swing. Man, I hate it when my tire swing is 9 feet underwater.

A few days ago, Fargo's mayor suggested we should all be prepared for evacuation. Better to be prepared than not. So I gathered a few things: it's daunting, though, thinking about leaving. In all likelihood, our basement would fill with water, but little on our main floor would be affected (at least that's what I'm telling myself). It's more of a matter of what we absolutely need to live a week or two away from home. I packed all our medications, our IDs, V's social security card/birth certificate/baby book, our wedding/honeymoon/reception photos. Then I packed 3 pairs of underwear for each of us. And then I stopped. Because really, as I'm watching people staggering under the exhaustion of sandbagging and worry, I figured we could wear the same clothes for a few days until the crest passed and we could come back home. Despite the fact that I'm a packrat, material possessions do not define me, and though we don't have flood insurance, we would manage. There is so little in our lives that is irreplaceable.

But now it's a few days later, and I find myself packing a second suitcase. Clothes, pajamas, socks for all three of us. A couple of the collage projects I've completed. V's harmonica. Then I remembered that tucked away in a corner of the basement, I had a few things I might miss, after all.

On the left, a pile of quilt blocks I forgot I even owned. I'm not at all sure how to put them together, but I'm not leaving them to be eaten by the river, either. In the center is a completed quilt top, the only one I have that's not quilted, and the hardest pattern I've ever done (which is funny, since I've only done about 3 patterns in my life). On the right is our reception guest book, which I made in the form of quilt blocks, and which all our friends and family signed. It makes my stomach hurt, now, to think I might have left those behind. I would've been really, really upset. I'm upset at myself for not remembering them in the first place.

Now, though, they're tucked safely away in a suitcase by our door, awaiting further orders. Hopefully the river will crest lower than predicted. Hopefully all the sandbags and clay will hold the water. Hopefully life will be back to normal soon. Because I have some quilts I need to finish up.

Women gone wild

I'm really annoyed when the media/world/general public refers to females over the age of 18 as "girls." Yet I also remember being a freshman in college and struggling to get used to us being called "women" by our professors. And though males over 18 are often called "guys" instead of "men," it's somehow just more casual, rather than demeaning. Language is so complicated. But wait, that's not the point of this post. Sorry. I've been on spring break all week, and I tend to digress even more than usual when I'm not working.Last weekend, four of my friends and I rented a cabin near Brainerd, Minnesota, packed up our favorite kinds of snacks and liquor, and left our spouses and 8 children at home so we could laugh and eat and put on too many fake tattoos and update facebook and talk and watch movies from the '80s and drink margaritas and champagne and pretend we were cougars and go to new bars and eat exotic bar food. We were gone for two nights, which was a scheduling miracle, and just long enough to start to kind of miss our families. A little.

It was wonderful. Sarah thought it up, sending us an e-mail in mid-February saying essentially "I'm going crazy! Can we run away?" I think she was surprised when Carla, Tenessa, Susanne, and I all said "Us too. Let's go."

Motherhood rocks. So does finding a person with whom you want to share your life. But both are exhausting, too. Despite the Disney myth of happily ever after, or the social construct of fulfillment through family, I need more. I need 48 hours of laughing until vodka comes out my nose (oh, it burns!) and waking up with a houseful of people who don't need me to do anything for them before we can start our day. It makes me a better Mama, and a better wife. It makes me, most importantly, a happier girl. Or woman. Either way.

Why I Took my Daughter to Dairy Queen

(Photos are from last weekend, and are unrelated to this post except in spirit).

On Friday, on V's way home from school, I started telling her the story of how her father and I got married. She's heard parts of this before, but not details, like how Uncle Steve was home from Texas, and Auntie Beth was home from Colorado, and they both did readings for us. And how Auntie Jess brought her guitar and sang "You Are My Sunshine" as my parents walked/wheeled me down the driveway (she liked that part a lot).
Then she asked "Where was I?"

"Uh, well, you weren't born yet." That was easy enough. But she wasn't letting me off the hook yet.

"Oh. So you left me at home." She said this like of course, this is what you do all the time, you lousy parents.
"What? No, we didn't leave you at home! We didn't even know if we were going to have babies yet when we got married. It was almost seven years ago, and you're only three." Logic seemed the only way out of this conversation.

"Well where was I then?" Math had failed me once again. The fact that she would've been negative 3 1/2 didn't seem to phase her. I decided to go all philosphical on her.

"You didn't exist yet. You hadn't been made. There was no such person on earth named V Elizabeth yet." (you reincarnationalists can be quiet out there)

Her tiny brow furrowed. "So I was still in your tummy?" I've never liked it when women call their uterus their tummy, but it is much easier to explain, anatomically. And finally, I saw a chance for resolution.

"Yes. Yes. You were still in my tummy, and in Daddy's body, and we hadn't made you yet." I had to give him partial credit, I figured. I hadn't planned on covering the birds and the bees just yet, but if she was gonna keep asking, I was gonna keep answering.

"Okay," she said, looking out the window. "I wish I had some ice cream."

Mercy. You're not the only one, child.

And it was delicious.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree...

I'm impressed at how well these two are listening really closely to Shaun.... ...and then to Grandma Mary....

...and then back to Shaun again.

Nothing quite like supper together at Grandma and Grandpa's to capture the attention of wee ones and retirees alike.

Moonlight

Saturday night was cold and clear, and the moon was a lovely silver sliver. Since I've been having some luck with photos recently, I thought I'd try to get a picture. I took about 15 shots, and this is the best one.How sad is that? I just can't hold still enough to make it not blurry. So I embraced the blurry.I moved the camera on purpose. Slowly, quickly, all over. Standing in the dark in -19 degrees, I played with moonlight. Swoop. Swish.

Then I thought hm, I wonder if I could make something recognizable with this moonlight blur?
Well, look at that.
And again.

I'm trying to explain to V that most mothers do not write their child's name in moonlight, that she's so lucky. I assume she'll appreciate me eventually.

V and I played with the saturation and color settings on the computer, and came up with these. She thought that was pretty cool.

I'm so glad we didn't name her Elizabeth.

Girl in a cute dress

Remember the end of this post? Way down at the bottom? I finally got a photo of our thrift store treasure on our wee human treasure. Here she is, all dressed up to go out for breakfast with Grandma Myra.

V really liked the fluttery sleeves.

And later in the day, after the dress had come untied, and it was time to wear Mama's shoes instead of her own.

We are behind in our recycling, so it's spilled out into the kitchen proper. Please disregard. Focus on the cute parts. That's how I try to live my life.

Jeez, where've ya been?

I've been on Facebook. I realize I'm about 4 years behind the curve, and really, I find the blog a more satisfying communication form. But...well, it's likely most of you already understand the lure of Facebook, so I won't go into it. I'm not proud of myself. It's just how it is.

If you were hoping for a blog post with substance or positivity, you should go here instead.

In related news, this is one of my new favorite blogs. Be careful, though: I often find myself laughing out loud. Normally this is fine, but when I'm at work and Sara (who shares a cubicle wall with me) has a student in her office and I suddenly guffaw, um, it's awkward. I can't help it if I think a blog about cakes gone wrong is a fabulous idea. Really. Plus, it makes me hungry for buttercream frosting.

I have about 6 posts floating around in my brain. I just need to find the time/energy/right mix of liquor to get them out. Until then, don't despair, Languishers. I'm here. I'm cold and ornery and I hate February, but I'm still here.

February planting time

When I taught in Crookston, every Friday was Plant Sale Friday, and for $1 or $2, you could buy a variety of funny little plants. Most of the plants in our picture window are from there, even though it's been four years since I got to go to Plant Sale Friday. I don't know that this proves I have a green thumb so much as shows the hardiness of Crookston's plants.

February is so bleak, I can barely stand it. So this weekend V and I got inspired to try something different. I bought two bags of soil, pulled two overgrown pots of some type of aloe-vera (I think) from our picture windowsill, and we went to work.V put marbles in the bottom of our thrift-store pots, to help with drainage, and then scooped dirt from one container to another. We got good and dirty. Since it was a long process, we had to snack, too, so you'll note the nearby animal crackers.It was really fun to do this with V. She gets excited about getting dirty inside, and likes pouring and scooping stuff. I tried to play teacher and talk to her about roots and sunlight and water and the nutrition plants get from soil, but she mostly wanted to play. I can think of nothing better to chase away the midwinter blues than playing in dirt, can you?

So two overgrown pots became seven reasonable ones. The one on the far right got taken to school today (V loves the mason jar, because she can see the dirt), and the middle orange one went to Grandma Myra's, but the rest are available for adoption. Who wants a nice new plant?

Regular price, four bucks, four bucks.

Twice a year, one of our area thrift stores has an enormous bag sale, where all clothes, shoes, purses, and belts are $4 for a paper grocery sack full. And everytime it comes around, I think, ah, I think I'll skip it this year. We don't need anything, and we have too much crap already...and then somehow I end up there at 9am, waiting in line for the doors to open with the families of immigrants and the people who have cars packed so full of stuff that they can't see out their windows. When V was an infant, I used a baby carrier, tied her to my body, and took her along for the ride. The last few years, I've left her at home with her Daddy or coerced Grandma to come play, because this sale is not for the faint of heart. This year, though, Grandma was spoken for, and it was Daddy's turn to sleep in. So I braved this crazy place with a three year old, giving her strict instructions to stay by me, and if she couldn't see me, she was to call out "Lumpy?" and I'd answer "Bubbles!" until we found each other. We had to do that twice, but there were no tears, we were in and out in an hour and twenty minutes, and scored two bags worth of clothes for us, Grandma Myra, Auntie Jess, and cousins Will and Emmy.

These are the store tags, all removed. V and I added them up, and you wanna guess the regular thrift store prices for all our items? $87. Eighty seven THRIFT STORE dollars. You can imagine our excitement at paying less than 10% of that. (see kids? Math can be fun). The bright orange ones are actually new products Target donates when they can't sell something. I love it when that happens.

Cooler still is this price tag, on a pair of pants I bought that will probably be too big for my sister. You can't tell in the photo, but they are a lovely black cord with a pattern, and apparently the pattern is made of pure gold, because the store tag reads $98. That can't be right, can it? No one on this planet pays $98 for a pair of pants. Do they? At any rate, if they ARE too big, let me know if you want them. I'll sell them for $47. Otherwise, I'm cutting it these up to put in a quilt. A magic quilt made of gold.

Here's the main pile. Across the top and middle there, you'll see sweet plaid pants, some jeans, four sweaters, a turtleneck, and a green corduroy Land's End jumper, all for V to wear within the next year. Across the bottom, a blouse for Jess, a fleece pullover for Will, and the cutest purple flowered corduroy jacket I've ever seen for Emmy. Also, that blue cardigan in the middle has a faux-fur collar. Also for Emmy, I'm pretty sure my sister wouldn't buy her such a garment, but I'm excited to see her in it. Every baby needs some faux fur.

I asked Shaun to take a picture of just the denim skirt, but he refused. So here we are. I like this picture, because it reminds me of a freakshow photo where a regular sized person stands next to a giant for scale. See, here I'm the giant. The apparently unflattering sweater was already mine, but I didn't have a good long denim skirt. Not pictured for me (because the photos came out worse than that one, above) are a short corduroy skirt in burgundy and rose pink slacks for work. I wouldn't normally chose rose pink slacks, and they look a little like scrubs, but they will be a nice change this spring from my black trouser uniform.

But the best part? You knew I'd save the best part for last, didn't you? The best part has to be these two dresses, the first two things I found as we swarmed the store with the rest of the crowd. Both vintage, both just right for V to wear in the next year (though this first one may be a little big). I could not be more excited! First, a cotton number with corduroy trim:
And this? This may be the most glorious dress I could ever have imagined. Except it's polyester. But the skirt? That's embroidery, people. Nobody embroiders on kids clothes anymore. You think you're gonna find something this pretty at Old Navy? Nuh-uh. Old Navy sells thong underwear for five year olds. This dress is the antidote to thong underwear. After she wears it a few times, I may just have to frame it, I like it so much.May all your future polyester dresses be this fancy. May your bags be full of bargains. And may all your underwear offer full, comfortable coverage.

Teetering on the edge

Forget waterboarding. Real torture is watching your child be sick. And I'm just talking bad cold/ear infection sick here, realizing that many parents suffer through so much worse. But seriously, V woke up crying "It hurts, Mama! It hurts!" then coughed until she threw up. Twice. There is just nothing good about starting a day that way. Add in sleep deprivation and grading, and you've got one distressed Mama.

But I'm not going to dwell. Because if I dwell, I'm gonna lose my shit and start screaming my bloody head off, and then nobody wins.

Here's something I've been trying to think of how to share with y'all for awhile. It's my version of collage, or ATC, or some such thing. It started with this photo album, bought at a thrift store. It's so pretty, and was in such good shape. But nobody prints 2 1/2 x 3" photos anymore...so I decided to make little collages for each photo slot. I did this in fits and spurts, often while watching evening TV with Shauners after V had gone to bed. Using this method took me about four years to complete all the collages, so I'm not necessarily recommending it. But it was very satisfying: each is supposed to stand alone as a tiny artwork, but also as part of the page layouts. I've tried to find pleasing arrangements.

Sometimes they reflect what was going on in our lives at the time (like the V one with white roses, a few months after she was born, or the one on the bottom right, above, which has a butterfly and the words "Thinking of better jobs" made when I was six months pregnant and unemployed, having just interviewed for my current position), but often they just came together from the materials I had in front of me. The elements come from old calendars, National Geographics, rubber stamps, a prayer tract (I don't know where I got that...), some cool stickers I'd been hoarding, leftover copies of the program from our wedding reception, old Bingo cards... I used a glue stick, primarily, as adhesive, and the backgrounds are generally white or cream cardstock with oil pastels, acrylics, watercolors, or, on two occassions, oil paints. Almost every card has a word or phrase, or sometimes two.

Now that it's done, I'm not quite sure what to do with it. It's difficult to photograph as a whole, obviously, though this image led to this necklace, which was cool.

Beyond that, though, I mean, I make anyone who comes over look at it (those poor Jehovah's Witnesses are still praying for me...) and tell me what they think. And V thinks it's fascinating. I assume when I'm a famous artist this will be a primary exhibit...but until then, you'll have to come visit and see it in person. Trust me, it's totally worth it.