Dear Mads | 8 Months Old

Mama & Mads at the Misfit Mercantile, in Apex

My Huckleberry Friend,

I may not be the best housekeeper, but damn I love you, and I love your good-looking, good-doing Papa, and I even love, so dearly, that smelly grump of a mutt of his, Lunchbox.  I put a lot more energy into loving you lot than dusting the furniture, and I'm okay with that if you are.  [I think you are.  In fact, you demand even more love, always, which makes vacuuming the carpet a hasty, one-armed affair.]  Your Great-Grandma Clacher freely admits she's not much for cleaning house, never has been.  She keeps her counters wiped down and sink clear of dishes [as do I], but has far better things to do than get down on hands and knees scrubbing or weeding.  She, primarily, is an artist, an activist, a reader and thinker, a talker, a mom and then a grandma.  I can't thank her enough for that time spent with child-me on her lap, drawing pictures of our pets and writing out simple words, when she could've [some might say should've] been wiping down ceiling fans instead.  Dust allergies are a small price to pay for actually living this life.  Don't you think?

A few nights ago, you refused your bedtime.  You were awake well past the sun, but the night was warm enough to take you out onto the back deck to star gaze and soak up some moon glow.  Your Papa and I managed to point out Jupiter, but we need a little help identifying the other myriad stars, planets, constellations.  I think we'll get better with practice, as summer lingers on and on, and you get more headstrong about making your own schedule.  In a couple years, you and your dad can set a tent out in the back yard and try your hand at camping.  And then it won't be long after that before your Grandpa Bob and Papa are taking you out into the real woods, to teach you to tie knots, build fires, to do all manner of efficient, scouting things.  

Long before I met your father I knew the man I'd marry would be able to do three things: grow a beard, build a fire, and talk to animals.  Your Papa does all that and you will one day, too.  It's so easy for me to picture you as a man--I don't know if it's due to your personality or what.  I'm excited about the man you'll be.  But even then, your age in the double digits, a beard on your cheeks, you'll still be my baby.  When you're 80 years old, you'll still be my baby, and we'll still be your Mama and Papa.  Nothing will change that.

I love you, sweet boy, now and forever,

Mama

31 Weeks, with Sgt. Doofus

32 Weeks, wearing a onesie tie-dyed by Selena

33 Weeks, in a pile of laundry, showing off your new teeth

34 Weeks, impossible to photograph without blur

Photo Journal, no. 60 | February Snow #throwbackthursday

As I type this, a month and a half after the fact, it's hot out--an 80 degree day, to be precise.  Sierra, when she learns of the day's temperature says, "Well, we got one day of Spring, at least."  Hard to believe that just a handful of weeks ago, I took these photos clomping around our land in Wolfman's Doc Martins with the neon orange laces.  Whenever it snows down here, I think of my pen pal, Kath, in Alberta.  She lives with snow for months out of the year, but she still always expresses a sense of awe at the first snow of the season.  Nearly every snow we get is the first, because it is so often the last.  This year was a bit different--we had a handful of days of ice as precursor to snow.  The tinkling of ice on our roof and back deck was particularly foreboding this past February, as Sierra and I listened to it, alone with our babies, worrying over our men who were out on the road, trying to make it home to us.  This year's snow happened over night, luckily, and in the morning Wolfman and The Kid elected to stay at home and enjoy it [and give their wives some peace of mind].  We huddled in the living room together where the menfolk got out guitars and the babies shrieked and wiggled.  It was nice, just that--to be with family, to be warm, to watch the snow pile up around us.