Coneflowers

This post is for my sister, Becky... who takes whatever life gives her and makes it into art.

With a few snatches of time, some moments I stole away... I cut this lino print.

When I'm cutting a lino, I have a rough idea of how it will look, but it really takes a life of its own. A line that I meant to cut into a flower turns into a grass like shape. On top of that, everything is cut in mirror image so that the print is pulled to reflect the true image.

It's a good exercise... to take a delicate drawing, flip it to its mirror image and take a chisel to pull out the most important features of its character. Forces me to think, "What matters most in this image?"

There's a message there. I'll let you draw it out for yourself. :)

Enjoy. I sure have.

Pool Day

Warning: There will be no pictures on this post. None. None whatsoever.

My husband went on a camping trip this weekend with some buddies. I'd like to tell you I was jealous, but camping falls into the vacation category "what to do when you want to appreciate home more". It's a category I reserve for the worst of vacation ideas.

But I digress. I decided to take my daughters to the pool today and learned a great deal that I'd like to share with the wide world of bloggyville.

First, it took about one hour to get ready for the pool. We had to find the pool passes. And grease up the kiddos with sunscreen. And find the pool diapers. And pack drinks. I have no idea why it took that long.

Upon arriving at the pool, I discovered that the baby pool was under maintenance. Bugger. No worries, I'll let Eve test the zero-depth entry of our pool.

I learned something new about Eve today. She likes to jump in the deep end. She has the common sense of a tadpole and the energy of a caffeinated cheetah. I turned my head one second, then turned it back to find my Eve under water. Not swimming. In the process of drowning. So I scooped her up and encouraged her to swim in the non-drowning end of the pool.

At one point Eve bolted from my grasp circumference. I found myself reluctantly jogging after my toddler (who was laughing) while I recalled why working out earlier in the year would have been better than now. Let me know when they make Spandex full-body bathing suits, would ya?

One particularly funny moment was when Eve *desperately* wanted "icicle" (popsicle) and stood in front of an older girl who was enjoying a popsicle and smiled her prettiest, dimple-est smile at her, looking alternately at her popsicle and the girl's face. I swear that if that chica turned her head, she'd find her frozen snack snatched from her grasp while a 2 year old ran away laughing with her mother on her heals.

Shortly after, it was time for us to leave.

Upon re-entering our house, all hell broke loose from Eve's pool diaper. I found Eve crying and sliding on the hardwood floor, repeatedly falling in a wet, diapery mess. I thought of how tired I was having such melodramatic transitions from house to pool and pool to house. I mean, why can't it be like NASA? Don't they prepare their astronauts for re-entry into earth's atmosphere?

I'm unsure what perks come with this transitional assistance, but I would very much appreciate the same foresight: a cold drink upon re-entry into my house, followed by a comforting grandma figure for my over-tired cheetah daughter and gentle classical music flooding my mudroom, so as to give audible clues to my daughters as to how to behave.

You can see I've had too much sun today.

Kitchen Naming

In recent months, it has come to my attention that I hate my kitchen.

"Hate" is the word my mother always responded to by saying "Hate is a very strong word" in order to deter us from saying it.

I still stand by my assessment.

My kitchen doesn't bring me peace. In order to unload the dishwasher, I have to put most of my dishes on the counter, close the dishwasher and then put them in the cabinets. Though it's a good size of kitchen, the storage is horrible; things get lost. I use two other closets on the first floor for overflow. There are myriads of other reasons that I dislike this room, which is a shame because I enjoy cooking for my family.

I have had three other kitchens before this one; this one tops the cake.

I have bought scores of organizing do-dads for this kitchen. No matter what I do, it seems to put a bandaid on something that is worthy of surgery.

Recently I came to the conclusion that the hate I have for my kitchen is so large that it is about to swallow me the way my 2 year old tries to swallow Munchkin Donuts: whole and entirely.

*Gulp*

So in a weak moment, I finally decided to pray about my kitchen situation. I think I might have told God that I hated my kitchen so much that I wanted to burn it down. That I didn't know what I was getting into when we bought this house. And that I'd really like the hate to subside. And that I'd like another one, please-oh-please-oh-puh-lease.

I'd like to tell you that, as a result of the prayer, the Internal Revenue Service found an error on our taxes and essentially paid for a brand new kitchen for us.

Instead, I re-named my kitchen. I named it "Faith Kitchen". This nomenclature hasn't kept items from plummeting out of cabinets onto my seething head, but it has placed something into God's hands instead of mine.

What's more, I need to wait for the right plan to be revealed. I have no idea how I would want my kitchen redesigned even if I were ready to go.

I do know that I want a kitchen where people feel welcome and invited. If anyone comes into my *new* kitchen and feels overawed by hoity-toity design, then it has lost its heart. I've been in kitchens like that: Show kitchens. Nope, I want it to be a place of peace, of nurturing and of good conversations.

So keep me accountable. If you walk into my kitchen one day and find me screeching smack about it, remind me to leave it in God's hands.

On Aging

I can't tell you how many times I have attempted to write this blog post. I've written it in my head a dozen different ways... snippets, really. Today I'm attempting to navigate some emotions which may not make sense to some and may irritate others, but that's half the fun of blogging anyway.

*ahem*

A few months ago, I was laughing with my hair stylist and conversing about the latest signs of aging I've noticed on my person. I asked her, "So when does one give up trying to fight aging and just let it all happen?" She stopped and her tone became very serious: "You must never, never, ever give up. You must fight it all the way." Uh-huh. I gulped. I tucked that nugget in my "note to self" file.

In recent days, I have found a small family of bright white hairs which settled nicely on the crown of my head. I immediately plucked them out and grimaced at them, daring them to produce more.

Other signs of mortality include extra smile lines and a gentle relaxing of the skin. I stare them down in the mirror until they don't bother me as much anymore.

I've started to workout again and secretly spurn my younger self for thinking that all one had to do was sweat a bunch to achieve a certain image. Mercy, this is hard.

I do manage to find gratefulness in the midst of these observations. Instead of speaking ill of my body, I remember its purpose: Legs are for walking and serving my family. Arms are for hugging and making dinner. Lips are for smiling.

And then: There is my dear Morgan. She's seven years old and doesn't know that she is pretty yet. I tell her she looks beautiful, but I don't have the guts to tell her that I think she is one of the most beautiful creatures I know. Somehow in the past seven years she has developed into a somewhat confident, amazingly creative and downright good looking child.

Now here is the part that I find difficult to express because it will sound like I want to be complimented or pitied and I may sound vain, none of which I desire:
Like most people, my inner junior-high-age side of me remembers the awkwardness of learning to do my hair and wear makeup and have people like or not like me based on how I looked that day. So it strikes me to my core when I see that, by golly, something beautiful came from my life.

And in the midst of that thought, I see a little girl looking into my eyes and telling me in not-so-many words that she is looking to me to see how to be a woman.

*Gulp*


I must be brave, I tell myself. I must shun thoughts of self-deprecation.

The sharp chin I've always disliked about myself? Hush, self. She's inherited it from you and she looks beautiful.

The melodramatic creativity? Be patient, Emily. She's a mini version of you.

The enthusiasm for making gifts for people? You.

The way her day is "really really good" or "the worst day ever"? You again.

And years from now when she finds that the magazines are telling her to do the impossible to look a certain way... she will look to you, Emily, to tell her how to be grateful for the way she is made.

God willing, I will be there when she delivers her first baby. I'll be there in the days after when she doesn't feel pretty and that her whole purpose is to produce milk for her baby. Which, in truth, it is.

God willing, I'll be there when she is a radiant bride. And a breathtaking date for prom. And a sleep-deprived mother. And a middle aged woman.

For today, I'll enjoy being her middle aged mother who needs to embrace all that God made me so that she will have the confidence to do the same. Spurn those white hairs.