Isaiah 55:12-13

For you shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace:

the mountains and the hills shall sing praises before you,

and all the trees of the country shall clap their hands.

Instead of the shrub, shall come up the fir tree, and instead of the nettle, shall come up the myrtle tree: and the Lord shall be named for an everlasting sign, that shall not be taken away.

A Bowl Of Flowers

My children picked me a bowl of flowers this afternoon.

A yard's worth of stemless marigolds, perfect to float in a bowl.

If someone had shown up at my door with a bag full of gold in trade for those flowers, I don't think I would have done it.

It was flowers my children offered as a token of their love.  Not money.

Blogging My Way Through New England: Maine

Wow.  Either I'm getting old, or John-Luke is sucking the brain cells right out of my head, or I really do have adult-onset ADD.  Anyway, I just now realized that I didn't post my final installment of the Great Camping Trip.


Ok, so we left New Hampshire, driven out by the cold and the savage beasts that circled our tent at night, plotting our demise.


With no real plan and no campground booked, we just sort of followed the sun south, using the glories of GPS and smartphones to find a suitable place.


Crossing into Maine:

From the looks of this picture, I was either a. still frozen,  b. drunk,  or c. taking pictures in a car going 70 down the highway.


Or, I guess, d. all of the above.

We found a campground just outside Freeport, Maine.  It seemed empty, but in reality, most of the sites had already been staked out by mountain bikers who were going to compete in some 12 hour endurance thingie to be held that weekend.  It was deserted at the time, but by Friday night, all hell was going to break loose as bikers from all over the place descended upon Bradbury Mountain State Park.


But we didn't care.  At that moment, we had a fire, we had sun, and we had weather that didn't require Mt. Everest-grade technical clothing.


We ended up at Two Lights State Park, which was once a WWII seacoast battery bunker.  The bunker is still there, but its allure paled in comparison with this:

Which is what lay beyond the bunker.

Very severely worded signs reminded us that swimming, wading, and scuba diving were all absolutely forbidden in the area.  Which of course meant that the kids tried their hardest to "accidentally" fall into the water.

Failing that, they made do with tidal pools.

Or rather, Lotus made do with tidal pools.  The boys watched her, horrified that there were living snails in there.

Maine was very pretty, but we decided to clear out before the bikers rolled into town.  Which was probably smart, but meant that vacation was officially over, and I had this to deal with:

And, of course, this:

Which, in case you don't understand what you're seeing, is a week's worth of laundry for a family of seven.  Stuffed into IKEA bags.  And although I diligently kept "clean" clothes isolated from "dirty", at the end of a camping trip, everything smells like camp smoke, and it all gets thrown in the washer.

Only most of it hasn't.  It's still sitting there in half-unpacked bags.

I figure if I leave it there long enough, packing for our next trip will be all done for me!

Scenes From A Weekend

Here's what I did with my weekend:

I cooked pancakes with my favorite three year old.  Who is not wearing anything but Lightening McQueen underwear under this apron.  I'm glad he was thoughtful enough to keep the underwear on.


It's the little things, really.

I tried to take pictures of my baby in this really cute "London Underground" onesie his Auntie Erinn gave him, but he kept rolling over and thwarting my efforts.  So instead I amused myself by noting that he has more cellulite on his thunder thighs than I do.


In the midst of the above photo shoot, I hear my name being called from outside.  It's my beloved husband, requesting my presence out in the yard.  Heart all atwitter (he wants to watch the sunrise with me, holding me tenderly in his arms!), I run out to him.


I was rewarded with a dead mole on a shovel, Diesel's newest kill.


Never one to pass up the photography practice a dead model provides, I ran back inside to get my camera.

This is an ex-mole.


His freakish hands completely captivated me.  Look at the fingernails!  The brilliance in the design!

Looking at those hands, there is no doubt for what purpose that mole was created.  
To wreak havoc on my vegetable garden!  And I'm glad he's dead!

Good job, Diesel.  Cabbage head.  But don't come near me with that mole-mouth.  Ick.

We followed that up with breakfast.  Because what whets the appetite like dead mole?  Just ask the dog.

We were out of eggs, so breakfast was Krusteze Pancakes, savior of egg-less mothers everywhere.

Then we had two cords of wood delivered.  But they were delivered three hours apart, which totally blew my mind, because when I came outside and saw this:

I thought it was two cords.  But oh no.  That's only one cord.  Which now had to be stacked.  By us.

And by "us", I really mean Ken.  Because all that wood gave me horrible fits of ADD...

Wow.  That's a lot of wood to stack.  And the best place to start in a situation like this is by getting a good look at the task at hand.  A good, close look.  

Have I mentioned how much I'd like my next camera lens to be a macro?  Man do I love those macro shots...

While I monkeyed around with my camera, my virile husband showed that cord of wood who was boss.

Since he had that all under control, I went inside and baked things.

More macros!


And got some eggs, so the next breakfast wouldn't be so pathetic.

And then, at the end of a long day of honest work, we sat around and burnt things.

(burned things?  burnt?  Whatever.  Set them on fire.)

New Hair Cut: Before and After

Up until 1:45 this afternoon, my hair looked like this:

Or this:

But usually like this:

And this:

(yes, this picture again.  I still love it.)


But my hair was starting to feel like a giant summation of my laziness in diet, exercise, housekeeping, reading and taxes.


Ok, not taxes, but you know what I mean.


So I went to the salon down the street, ending up with a stylist who lives in my neighborhood, and gave her my usual blend of instructions both vague and unrealistically specific.  "Make me look like Maggie Gyllenhal.  Or whatever.  Hair grows back."


I got home and was greeted by the following reactions:
Ken:  Wow.  You cut a lot off.  A lot.  And wait- did you get it colored?  Exactly how much did you spend there?  Dang, you got a lot cut off.


Lotus:  Mama!  I love it!  Can I get my hair cut just like yours?


Joaquin:  You cut your hair?  You look pretty.


Gabriel and Jude are still sleeping, so they haven't seen it.  John-Luke just woke up from a monster nap, so hungry that I could have shaved my whole head and replaced it with astroturf and he'd still think I was pretty, so long as I was offering up the milk.


As for me- I love it.  I look so dang good right now that I've got on a pair of funky shoes and am hoping Ken gets a second wind after his wood-stacking and decides to take me out on the town.


With five kids in tow.
What?  It could happen.

An Open Email to Kim

My best friend is moving to Alaska.  Which, since I left her first, doesn't fill me with distress and sorrow, so much as giggles at the thought of Kim on a snowmobile, shotgun cradled in her right arm, scouring the frozen tundra for moose to shoot and turn into burgers.

See?  I'm giggling right now, thinking about it.  Plus, since I'm a highly visual person, in my head, the arctic wind has blown a lock of her red hair out of her fur-lined hood, and the wisp of hair is floating behind her as she speeds along, brow furrowed in concentration, mentally wondering if she still has breadcrumbs to make the moose burgers when she gets home.

Oh, after the moose has been gutted and skinned and ground up and all that.  I bet Ben will do that.

Anyway, they're leaving Memphis with nothing but what they can each carry on a plane, which means they're selling all that they leave behind.  Which means every time I talk to Kim on the phone, she asks me what I want from her house.

This conversation makes me feel uncomfortable and prickly.  Like walking through a dead person's house, grabbing all their stuff, while the dead person is actually alive, and watching you from a corner.

Like I said, I'm a visual person.  In my head the not-dead-dead-person is also smoking a cigarette, so go figure.

Right.  All I could think of were her crucifixes.  Last night, I couldn't sleep, and I found myself mentally walking through Kim's house in my head. It was easy enough, I spent so many happy hours there.  Plus, I helped tile the entire ground floor, so I'm kind of familiar with it.

I woke up this morning, and having made a list of things I wanted from her house, sent her this email, which I reprint here because I think it's funny and I'd like to share funny things with you.

Plus, the hotlink to the Montana survival guide is hilarious!

Happy weekend!

_________________________________________

Subject:  Send this to Liz.  Immediately

I can't believe we let Liz leave for Montana without this helpful website: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/03/rural-montana-survival-guide.html Fix that.  Now. I will send you a check for all my crucifixes.  Crucifixi?  I don't know how to make that into its plural form.  Weird. I miss you.  Last night, I couldn't sleep, and so did a mental walk through of your house to see what I wanted to take with me.  It made me horribly sad.  And hungry for your fajitas.  But I did think of two other things.  No, three.  And I bet they're all sold.  Bitch. 1. Your Treasure Box books 2. That framed cross thingie with the weirdo greek on it.  It's in a shadow box in your kitchen or hallway. 3. Your picture of Mary that you gave me a copy of.  That way, I'll have yours, and when you get your own house, I can mail it back to you, and we'll both have the same picture in our houses.  This is important. 4. Alex 5-10. Maryjohn, Benjamin, Logan, Simon and Dominic.  That way, all my kids will have their best friends there, and I'll have my godsons. 6. Ben's Dark Tower game.  Just kidding! 7. You Ok, that's a bit more than 3.  or 4.  I can't count. Love, C

I Don't Like Thursdays

Thursdays are the worst day of the week for me.
Thursdays make me suspect that I do not actually move forward in time, like the rest of creation does, but rather hangs suspended in a sort of eerie stasis.

I really, really don't like them.

By Thursday, I sort of feel like an egg yolk that broke while it was leaving the shell, and is now leaking its yellowy essence everywhere.

The kids want to go play with the neighbor kids before they finish history?  Sure, whatever.
They want to go traipsing through the hedgerows with no shoes on?  Sure, whatever.
Someone wants brinner?  Sure, whatever.
The dog is licking the baby's face, giving him the first bath he's had in three days?  Sure, whatever.

Thought I'd share that, since I missed posting yesterday, due to an overload of fresh air and physical labor.
I'll just blame it on Thursday.

Proper Things Parents Should Be Warned About

At this very moment, I have an eight year old daughter up in bed, singing herself bittersweet, tear-filled songs about the Little Prince, which we finished reading tonight.

Good grief, how come nobody warned me that in it, a child commits suicide by snakebite?  It seems like that would be something that a body would give a heads up on.  Like when I mentioned reading the stupid book in a previous blog post, a "Hey, dumbass hippy- you are aware that the child dies at the end, right?" in the comments section would have been deeply appreciated.


Only the French could come up with a children's book where the main character offs himself in the final pages.  Robin Williams got it right. 
I give a cigarette to a baby.

(heads up.  Robin Williams drops the F-bomb like the French drop atomic bombs.)


Hey, maybe we'll watch "Old Yeller" for family movie night this week.
Ok.  I'm going to go sing myself bittersweet songs about the Little Prince.  He was a cutie.  Right up until he let a deadly snake fatally bite him on the ankle.  Just to be clear to any other parents out there who are reading this book to their kids and, like me, forgot that the French are all more than slightly insane. 

Blogging My Way Through New England: The Great North Woods

Next stop on the crazy train was Coleman State Park, which was soundly in the Great North Woods, and some 10 miles from the border.


Let's just get one thing clear here-  I grew up in Michigan.  I've been camping on Easter weekends when Easter fell as early as it possibly could, and Ken and I woke up in our tent to find it frost lined.  I've been camping with friends of ours when it got so cold at night that I shamelessly ditched Ken and Harvey to go sleep in our friends' pop-up, which had a heater.


I've camped in the cold.


I've never camped in cold like this.

It was cold, and rainy.  Look at that cloud bank to the left.  Wicked storms like that would come through, soak us, then we'd be teased with tiny glimpses of sun, only to have our hopes crushed by the next round of rain.


But it was so, so unbelievably beautiful up there:

And really, when geography puts it like this:

it seems like you could make it a "glass if half full" sort of thing, climate-wise.


But it's probably a good thing that it was so cold and rainy, otherwise I would have been tempted to send Ken back to Connecticut alone, leaving the kids and me to set up a semi-permanent camp in New Hampshire, where Ken could make weekend visits.


After all, when you have a place that has signs like this all over the stretch of road commonly called "Moose Alley":

And then a sign like this for all the idiots who drive up and down "Moose Alley" for the express purpose of spotting one of the dang things:

It's easy to see how the kids and I would spend the work week.  Even the border patrol officer who stopped us to make sure we were looking for moose and not running drugs was a fascinating fellow.


I really loved New Hampshire.


I'd even keep the dumb dog with us, since he had the time of his life doing this, over and over again.  In freezing water:

 That water was freezing.  Even for a dog bred to swim in freezing water, I'm sure it had to have been cold.  But big dummy didn't show any signs of stopping.  Oh no. 

If you throw it, he will fetch...


We were booked at the campground for three nights, and given its almost total state of desertion, we could have stayed there longer if we'd wanted.  And if it had been ten degrees warmer, we would have, but when it gets down to the thirties at night, and your sleeping bag is only rated to 40 degrees, and the rain is leaking into your tent, and you don't sleep at night so much as endure, you start dreaming about moving down south.


Like to Maine.


By the second day, the little boys had perpetually blue lips, I was looking like a zombie:

(but a zombie with good oral hygiene).
Joaquin had fallen into a fire pit in the pitch black:

(those are Rice Krispies hanging out of his mouth, not part of the fire pit injury).
And we had to start stashing John-Luke under a tarp to keep him warm and dry:

we knew it was time to go.


Plus, for as beautiful as it was there, as fun as it was to find lakes where Diesel could swim his big dumb heart out while we watched loons drifting by, and as exciting it was to actually spot a moose, it got scary there at night.
Since I never fell into a deep sleep, most noises woke me.  Some of them, like the loon yodel, woke everyone (you have to hear it to believe it.  Click on this link, scroll down to the bottom of the page, and click on "Listen to Loon's Yodel".  Then, click on "Listen to Loon's Wail".  Imagine yourself freezing in the total dark of the Great North Woods, and hearing that.  Fun!).
Other noises just Ken and I heard.  Like the one night we tried to brave the cold and have a fire.  That lasted until we heard coyotes in the not-so-distant-distance.  They sounded like this:  click on this link and then click on "6. Coyote Group".  And one noise only Ken heard.  He said it was an owl, which hooted three times in a very distinctive manner.  When we got home, I played sound clips of Great Grey Owls, and they matched what he heard.
It's possible, I guess.  But I'd rather not believe him, since those birds are something like two and a half feet tall, and probably eat small children every chance they get.

So we ran a load of laundry, used the pay showers, packed up Big B, and followed the sun down south.

All the way to Maine.

I love you New Hampshire, but I'm a wimp who gets cold easily and is scared of the dark.

Blogging My Way Through New England: Beer, Ice Cream, Beer

Ken loves to brew beer.  I love to drink beer.  Plus, I love Ken, so pretty much it's a warm and mushy match made in heaven.

Some of those weirdo hippies I mentioned in the previous post also love to brew beer, because there are an awful lot of craft breweries in New England.  In fact, two of our new favorites were located in Vermont alone!  You go, you crazy hippies!  Brew me some delicious beers!

The first one is Long Trail Brewery.  They look like this:

And while I'm sure they would cringe at having so many kids in an unsolicited endorsement, it's still delicious.

Their brewery is located right off the Long Trail, which is the oldest long-distance hiking trail in the country.  The trail runs the entire length of the state, and with delicious breweries like this one adjacent to it, hiking it is a cinch!  So much so, that the brewery's pint glasses encourage you to drink and hike!

The trail and the brewery attract people from all over the country, and there's a giant map up on one of the walls where you can stick a push pin into your hometown.  There was already several in the Hartford/Simsbury area, so we stuck one in to represent Olive Branch, baby!

Ok, I just like this one:

The other Vermont craft brewery we visited was Ken's favorite. 

 It's called Magic Hat, and it is my personal opinion that the people who run it are more than a little insane.  My proof?  Things like this:

This piece of sculpture/architecture/junk was a focal point of the building and a central image on all their merchandise.  I have no idea what it is.  A tower of beer?

Inside the asylum, there were things like this:

That's a refrigerator turned into merchandise shelf with a cardboard head.  Weirdo hippies. 
Whatever- they make absolutely delicious beer, so the inmates can run the asylum all they want.  Yum.

Speaking of inmates running the asylum, Ben and Jerry's is located in Vermont.  THOSE fellows are some whackjob hippies.  In the fullest sense of the word.  But they make some damn good ice cream.

And I don't even like ice cream.

I love/hate/roll my eyes at slogans like this one.  If I ran my life according to the "if it's not fun, why do it?" philosophy, then my laundry would never get done, my windows never washed, my bathrooms never cleaned.

Oh.  Wait.

Well, moving on, we shelled out a whopping six bucks and took the:

Where we were even less able to take pictures than in the "Whales:Tahora" exhibit at the Boston Museum of Science, and the slightly cultish movie we were made to watch showed exactly three pictures of the founders (none current) and had a breathless "Official Archivist" extolling the Founders' Virtues.

Very.  Very. Weird.
Hippies.

The tour ended with a visit to the "flavor graveyard", where I was horrified to discover that I was older than even the oldest flavor in the graveyard:

What?  I have age issues.  I've explained that before, right?

Then, I took a picture of myself with my baby, and all my old lady wrinkles showed up, but worked in an "old lady who is in love with life" sort of way:

This is my new favorite self-portrait.  Ben and Jerry, for all their strange hippiness, bring out the best in me- photographically speaking, anyway.

Tomorrow we make it to the Great North Woods, and begin to stare winter in the face.  In mid-September.