This is what expectation looks like:

Lines

I've been thinking a lot about music lately. I think its because I've started to take song writing and song refining seriously in the last few months. Addison's nap times have become beautiful spaces for quiet and creativity. So I'm going to share some of my favorite lines from the songs I've been listening to recently. Feel free to share yours with me!

"Who's that conscience stickin' on the sole of my shoe? " Paul Simon

"We've seen the landfill rainbow. We've seen the junkyard of love. Baby its no place for you and me." Over the Rhine

"Let your love rage like a lion. Let your heart break like a lamb." Andrew Osenga

"If the thief had come to plunder when the children were alone. If he ravaged every daughter and murdered every son. Would not their father see this? Would not his anger burn. And would he not repay the tyrant the day of his return? Await, await the day of his return." Ben Shive

"Show me the love that never fails/the compassion and attention/midst confustion and dissention/like small ramparts for the soul/how it matters." Sara Groves

"If not for you, Babe, I couldn't find the door. I couldn't even see the floor; I'd be sad and blue, if not for you. " Bob Dylan

I'm Frankly Jealous That I Didn't Think of This

Merry Christmas!

tastes of childhood

I was concocting a little dinner just now - rice with butter and soy sauce - and was taken right back. There are just some flavors that carry tremendous amounts of nostalgia. I would like to share a few of my nostalgic flavors with you.

1. rice with butter and soy sauce (it struck me for the first time tonight that this may not be a normal dinner option. . . created by budget savvy parents???)
2. pinole - this is a crushed popcorn beverage that the Tarahumara drink. we drank ours in milk with sugar. a very common snack in the Taylor household.
3. chile and sugar. in any form. trust me, there are many forms
4. cornbread in milk with syrup for breakfast
5. popcorn and hot chocolate (must be eaten with a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie)
6. Dad's famous "hot rice cereal" with or without the bloated raisins - I just read that and it sounds disgusting, it really isn't
7. plain yoghurt with jello powder sprinkled on top
8. coke from a bottle.

what are your favorite childhood flavors?

Thought for Thursday

Something I've been pondering:

Why is it so much more acceptable (even in the church) to talk about social justice issues than to talk about evangelism? Is this biblical? Is this true?

Your responses

The template is:
" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too (adj.)." complained (female name). "I've decided to (verb) to (geographical location). A/an (adj.) fellow there has been writing me letters."

And your responses are:

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too prosy" complained Pippin. "Ive decided to genuflect to Zanzibar. A populated fellow there has been writing me letters."

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too whimsical." complained Winnie. "I've decided to limp to Baton Rouge. A snarky fellow there has been writing me letters."

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too friendly." complained Barbara. "I've decided to cry to Bismark, ND. A heavy fellow there has been writing me letters."

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too milky." complained Shirley. "I've decided to emulate to the Jungle of Nool. A hopeful fellow there has been writing me letters."

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too morose." complained Ed (short for Edwina). "I've decided to galavant to Oskaloosa, IA. An other-worldly fellow there has been writing me letters."

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too blue." complained Karina. "I've decided to masticate to Nome, AK. A superfluous fellow there has been writing me letters."

" I don't think this is going anywhere, Hawkins. You are just too pernicious." complained Stella. "I've decided to spit to Chihuahua. A perpendicular fellow there has been writing me letters."

"No creo que vale la pena, Hawkins. Eres demasiado loco." Quejo Isabella. "He decidido arodillarme al fondo del mar. Hay un hombre suave alla que me escribe cartas."

Thanks friends!! You guys are hilarious. :)

A MadLib of sorts

Friends:
I need a a verb, two adjectives, a woman's name, and a geographical location.
Please leave your responses as comments. This will work best if you don't look at the other comments before you write.
teehee

Teething

Addison has been teething. I thought she had a cold for a while, and then we connected her fussiness, stuffy nose, fever, and renewed aversion to sleep to the two pearly whites peaking through her gums! They are pretty cute! and sharp!

She seems to be getting better, although her sleeping patterns are in a general mess. I'm looking forward to a lull in the sea of crankiness. Its a good thing she is just stinkin adorable. . .

Blame Facebook

OK. ok. yes, I think Facebook is groovy. Yes, I now have access to more pictures of my friends than I will ever finish scrolling through. Yes, I will no longer have an excuse to miss a birthday. Yes, I have ample opportunity to portray myself as both witty and unsophisticated. I even appreciate the reconnection with people from my past.
But I was right. I knew it. I'm behind in yet another area of my life. And instead of writing on this blog, I surf Facebook. I just wanted to send a giant "i told you so" into the void.

Monday Thinking

Yesterday I visited Redeemer - the new Zion church plant. It was a good experience for me to remember what it is like to be a stranger. And I needed to hear the message. I've been thinking about it this morning. Pastor Toby used an illustration involving G.K Chesterton. I guess a newspaper printed an article titled "What's Wrong with the World?" and Chesterton wrote the newspaper the following letter,

"Dear Sirs: I am.
Sincerely Yours,
G.K. Chesterton"

I love it. I'm aware this morning of how easily I point to things outside of myself to explain what is wrong with the world. Pastor Toby talked about how we make lists, how different groups of Christians have different "lists" that they feel are the primary responsibilities of walking with God. He described how we use our lists to put ourselves in opposition to people who have different lists than we do. We feel that THEY have it all wrong. I'm deeply convicted of my list this morning, of how easily I justify a sense of superiority because my list is the right one. I do not feel that I am what is wrong with the world.

So this is my confession this morning. I'm fumbling through what it means to love Jesus. I'm tripped up so often by my own "righteousness." The truth is that my list is an elaborate cover up to hide my profound insecurities about what makes me a worthy person. Stripped of this list I find myself exposed, clinging to the shreds of manipulative self-discipline to prove that I deserve to hold my head up. Here I shudder. Here I give up. Here I need a Savior. Here I align myself with all that I understand to be wrong with the world, and I join the hands lifted for mercy.

Concert this Sunday

Come to Grace Chapel at 7pm on Sunday evening (the 9th) to see Christopher Williams! Its going to be a good time!

this just in

Since my last post I have had many thoughts. However, on this gorgeous November afternoon, only one is uppermost in my brain:

If you were to introduce one food, only ONE food, to a visiting alien who had never tasted the culinary delights of earth, what would you give it?

For my father on this his 51st Birthday

Dale Harrison Taylor always seemed larger than life to me. I think I grew up believing that he was the Indiana Jones of the Amazon. Dad doesn't tell stories on himself, but there are stories that have followed him his whole life. We loved to hear him talk about growing up in the jungle, fishing around the piranhas and the boas. We believed him when he said that he could navigate the waters of the Amazon in a canoe - we had seen him jump from a rock face to a tree nearby, just to see if he could do it. Dad made fire without matches, performed rudimentary surgery on wounded neighbors who lived too far from a hospital to get medical care, skinned animals, delivered babies, taught through the Bible from Genesis to Revelation in an unwritten language that no white man spoke better. He challenged his four children to soccer games that he always won.

But his accomplishments in "civilization" are the feats that have made my father the man that I deeply respect today. His acts of bravery outside of the jungle have made him real to me. My father turned his back on his magnum opus to save his family. He risked the thing he was made to do to confess the thing he most feared. Every day he chooses to don the collar and the dress shoes. Every day he crafts his opus, adding note and crescendo with every new trial, every word rightly spoken, every defense made for people who need him to speak for them. In a world far away from canyon sermons and the gospel's first tellings, Dad preaches in yet another rare language - the language of patient hope, of joyful service, of gentle kindness to this particular hillside's forgotten people. I see this. And I love him.

10-17-08

I am not

But after this weekend, I have sung his songs 5 times at different weddings.
This last one was a blast. Congratulations Courtney and Levi!!

A it is

Chapter 6

"Oh, I have some food to deliver to some needy families at the wharf and I'd like you two to join me."

The wharf. He just as easily could have said "the pit of despair." I was struck with a knee quaking terror. I had not been back to the water line since my father's timely introduction to organized crime. This was unacceptable. But before I could gain my composure to protest, Frankie was dragging me out into the sunlight and walking me home.

All during the following school day I dreaded the final bell. I scribbled life jackets on all my school notes. I grew steadily more agitated as each class ate speedily through the rotations of the clock. Frankie met me outside as the blustery afternoon embraced a gray and darkening sky line. I willed my legs to keep up with my friend as we made our way to the church.

Father Filipepi had organized the preparation of two warm meals that were designated for two separate families in the parish. Frankie and I held paper sacks that emanated warm delicious smells. But even the heat from freshly baked dinner rolls couldn't warm my hands or the knot in my stomach. Try as I might I could not keep my eyes from staring at the black water that peaked from underneath the planks of the wharf as I walked behind Frankie. It lapped at the pylons, splashed on my shoes, grabbed at me in my imagination as it rose and fell under my feet. And precisely because I was looking down so intently, I didn't see the uneven surface in front of me. With a sudden jolt I felt my toes catch behind me as my body continued forward. I lost hold of my paper sack, I felt the hard planks against my side, the sound of Frankie calling my name sounded far away, and I hit the water with a splash. I thought I saw Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. Almost without thinking I began to paddle with my hands and feet. Dark frigid water swirled around me, pulling at my clothes. I could see the dock at intervals as I came in and out of the water and I could see people shouting and pointing. And then an incredible thing happened. I stood up. My body felt incredibly heavy as my knees straightened and I discovered that well over three fourths of my frame was out of the water. I was standing in a foot of water, planted, dripping, in the seam of the sea.

I drew my hands to my face. I touched my lips to living finger tips. I blew a kiss to the lapping waves. And I walked to my friend and the priest.

a wins

Chapter 5

Frankie wasted no time. Perhaps it was the use of his full name that gave him the extra gall, but without answering the question, he swung his fist in the direction of the Father's face.

Do you know the experience of having a moment play in slow motion? I watched the swing of Frankie's fist for hours, rushing through the air like Japanese anime. I remember thinking that perhaps living in terror of the shoreline was better than premeditated violence against a man of the cloth. But there I was, watching it happen. I saw the knowledge of impending disfigurement dawn in Father Filipepi's eyes. I saw Frankie's seasoned upper-cut connect with the priest's chin. I perceived with some surprise that Father Filipepi was laughing. . . Laughing? Yes, rubbing his jaw line and laughing, in fact wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks. Frankie and I looked at each other bewildered.
"Oh, by all the saints, that was a surprise!" the priest choked out between fits of hilarity. "Not often do I get the pleasure of such a greeting, my young delinquents!" And he sat down in a heap on the pew, slapping his knees and weezing.
I think Frankie was overcoming with some difficulty a disappointment in the effect that his fist had produced. I found my tongue more quickly,
"Father, please forgive us. You have to understand. Frankie had to do it. Mr. Lanski won't let us be friends if he thinks Frankie is going soft and this was the only way we could prove that he wasn't. Oh, please don't send us to Hell." This speach sent the priest into another round of knee slaps and laughter. It was some time before Father Filipepi had recovered his composure.
"My, my, that does seem like a reasonable plan. I certainly haven't felt so invigorated in some time. . . Rosie and Francisco, I know you meant well and certainly some penance will suffice to cover this heinous crime. In fact, if you promise to come by tomorrow to help me after school, I will personally speak with Mr. Lanski and clear up any confusion. Perhaps this minor scratch on my chin could be somewhat persuading." The priest winked and for the first time in days I felt as if I could breathe again. We had accepted the proposal and were walking through the church door into the crisp fall afternoon when Frankie turned and asked what the Father had in mind for us to do for him the following day.


a.) "Oh, I have some food to deliver to some needy families at the wharf and I'd like you two to join me."

b.) "Well, I have a substantial list of mothers who have come to me concerned about their boys being beaten up at school and I thought you two could help me visit and comfort them with your beautiful story of repentance."

c.) "Rosie, your father has informed me of his desire to leave his life of crime. I would like you children to hear what he has to say, and perhaps learn from him."

option c

Chapter 4

"Frankie, would you fight whoever I asked you to?"

Frankie stopped his retreat. Black hair shiny and worn like a helmet from the peak of his forehead to his collar, Frankie gave me his toughest look. "Ah, Rosie. Don't get me in trouble again, but you know I would." I sized up my friend in that moment, noting his 14 year old attempt at facial hair, his arms too long for his torso, the scuffle marks on his trousers left over from the day's skirmish. I wasn't overly optimistic, and for the second time, opened my mouth against my better judgement.
"Well, I just wondered if maybe you wouldn't just for me, and because I specifically ask you to, see if you couldn't fight Father Filipepi?"
"What!?! Rosie, your kiddin me! The priest? Don't you know what happens to people who hit priests? Ah, no way, you're nuts!" And Frankie turned to go.
"No, wait, Frankie, wait. Listen for a second. You know your father won't let us be friends, and you know that means my father won't let us neither. But the whole reason your father don't like me is because I take you to Mass. Just listen. What if you hit Father Filipepi and then your old man won't think you are getting soft and maybe you and I can be friends? C'mon, Frankie. For me?"

It seemed like a good plan at the time. The last thing I wanted was for my father to leave the mob. He would certainly go back to sailing and my worst nightmares still included visions of the shoreline opening its black mouth to slurp me in. Our plan was formed and not even my father's voice in my head could dissuade me, "Rosie, you know I don't speak my mind, Rosie (pause for moustache twirl). But never, never, ever hit a priest."

We decided to stage the fight the next day. Frankie and I stopped in at the church after school and we sat quietly on the pew, waiting in the coolness of the building for Frankie's turn to confess. I sat nervously repeating my Hail Mary's, trying to ignore the canon ball in my stomach at the thought of what we were about to do.

"Ah, Francisco. Good to see you, son." Father Filipepi's voice broke our agitated silence. "And Rosie, welcome. What can I do for my two favorite sinners this afternoon?"

a) Frankie wasted no time. Perhaps it was the use of his full name that gave him the extra gall, but without answering the question, he swung his fist in the direction of the Father's face.

b) I had opened my mouth to answer when heavy footsteps approached us from behind. I knew with a profound dread exactly who it was before Father Filipepi said, "Mr. Lanski, what a surprise!"

Why do I love her?

I've been thinking about this today. Seems like it should be a pretty obvious answer, but as I ponder the question, it becomes harder to articulate. She's got some points against her. 

• she never says thank you
• she tends to leave substances on my clothes
• she doesn't understand, "mom's time for herself" time
• she restricts my social life
• she hurt A LOT coming out
• she cries sometimes for no apparent reason
• she can't carry on a decent conversation
• she must be fed. even at night when I'm sleeping
• she didn't come with a "pause" button
• she passes gas, without discretion I might add, in public

So, why do I love her? Why can I look at her for hours at a time? Why do I love to wake her up in the morning? Why do I stoop to making ridiculous faces to get her to smile?

Because she is. Because she is harvest - she put skin on the love I have for Ben. She is part of me, but wholly other. She carries with her the hope of our families, the prayer we have for the future. I love her because she is ours, and so utterly lost without us. I love her with a deep compassion for someone totally unable to defend herself. I love her with the delight of watching a mystery wake up. I love her in awe. In her is the story, darkened with each telling, of beauty lost and desire twisted. In her is the echo of a Father's "come home," of a redemption paid dearly, for her. She is alive here because of my strength and will some day be strong for me. I love Addison because I can't not love her. 

definitely B

Chapter 3

And I did know. I knew many things. And I knew I wasn't about to stop seeing Frankie. You see, I was 12 and Italian and my name was Rosie and the world was not kind to my sort in Brooklyn in 1942. It became especially difficult when the playground found out about my irrational fear of the seam of the sea. Frankie was my friend, and my fighter, and not too shabby to look at either. 

It was Fall. We had started to wear coats to school in the morning, which we swung around like old-fashioned sling-shots in the warmer afternoon. The streets began to feel damp, and the night air smelled somehow cleaner. Frankie and I were walking home from school, discussing with a forced air of penance the recent beating Frankie had given like a benediction after the last bell of the day. I knew my father would be working on the car in the driveway, having just woken up after a long night with Mr. Lansky. We saw him as we approached the house. Frankie had turned to leave me, anxious not to be seen, when I said something I would later regret. . .

a.) "Frankie, have you ever thought about becoming a monk?"

b.) "Frankie, will you teach me how to swim?"

c.) "Frankie, would you fight whoever I asked you to?"

on a side note

I googled the meaning of my name. This is what I found.
Crystal means:

• Ice
• Earth Mineral or Brilliant Glass
• Crystal (genius)
  
• As clear as crystal
• Clear, Bright

I find myself at the same place I started. What does your name mean?

option c

Chapter 2

I was 12 when I decided to do something about it. This state of affairs was getting no one anywhere. So I talked my father into joining the mob.

It was relatively easy. I fed him some spirited mumbo jumbo about "justice, honor and vengeance." Perhaps more compelling was the threat of death. I told him that Lansky, THE Lansky, was upset that I had taught his son how to pray the rosary and was going to send Murder Inc. after us if we didn't join. It was the 1940s. My father had enough trouble in Brooklyn being Italian. Deep inside, I think he was glad. He hadn't been in a good fight since Napoli. And I was elated to be nestled safely in the heart of the city, far away from the sucking waves at the shoreline.

"Rosie, " My father always punctuated my name with a twist of his moustache. "You still hanging around with that little Lansky? The Boss say we are swimming to Italy if his son becomes a priest." Turning his head to look at me straight, my father gave me the only piece of advice I ever heard from his lips, "You keep away from boys, Rosie. They'll gamble away your hairpins."

Well, I didn't want to stop hanging out with "Little Lansky." His name was Frankie and he was always getting into fights over me at lunch. Some freckled kid with a last name like Porter would call me some sort of name and then Frankie would call him something back and give him a swing to the jaw to remember it later. We would stop by the church on the way back from school and Frankie would confess his daily pounding. Secretly, I wished he would hold my hand.

"Rosie," (twist of the moustache) "Remember to pray for your stupid fear. No one can amount to much in this country afraid of stupid things."
"Yes, Papa."
"And don't hang out with the Little Lansky. I'm not stupid afraid like you but I can't swim to our Italy."
"Yes, Papa."
"You know I don't give my wisdom often."
"I know, Papa."

a) Finally, it was for the proctection offered and threatened by the mafia that I stopped seeing Frankie

b.) And I did know. I knew many things. And I knew I wasn't about to stop seeing Frankie

and now for a brief word from our sponsor. . .

For those of you wondering where all the beautiful pictures of Addison went, please divert your gaze to the right and click on the "Addison" link. We will try to keep it updated to your satisfaction.
the management

option wins

Chapter 1

I felt, back then, as useless as a left handed oyster. The world can be very unkind to a left handed oyster. They say. My father used to tell me, "Rosie, you can't be afraid of something stupid forever." And then he would raise his broad Italian shoulders in a sad shrug, as if he had already lived through forever and knew these sorts of things. You see, its bad enough being scared of the sea, Thalassophobia to be exact, but if your family works on a sailboat. . . its tragic. Maybe I should clarify. I loved the sea. Once we were out on the water, and the snap of the sail above cracked in the wind over salty waves, I was content. It was the shore line that terrified me. The space between the dock and the side of the boat made me so petrified I frequently lost my lunch on the spot. It was the transition, the seam of the sea and solid ground. I know this may sound ridiculous but try to understand. Have you never looked with even mild discomfort at the place where the escalator becomes the airport floor? Does your mind never skid to a horrified halt at the prospect of being SUCKED IN? If not, than you may have every right to think me barking mad.
I was a mess. And a shame to my family, so proud to be offering sightseeing tours to visitors of Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn. As second generation imigrants, my parents were bursting with pride for their little sailboat that sped along the coastline of the New Jersey they loved. They tried to hide their embarrasment over their only child clinging to the planks of the family's slip.
I was 12 when I decided to do something about it. This state of affairs was getting no one anywhere. So I. . .

a.) hopped on the 4:55 train to Philadelphia, and from there to the only place I knew had no bodies of water.

b.) decided to try fear therapy. My therapist, ironically enough was Dr. Phish.

c.) talked my father into joining the mob.

Choose your Own Adventure #2

Ok. This was so great last time that I thought we could do it again. It works the same. You vote on the way you want the story to go and the most votes chooses the next segment of the adventure. I don't know where the story goes any more than you do until its written. So much fun. And this time, you get to vote on the first line!

a) I once shot a man's ear clean off.

b) When I was a girl I was convinced I was a mermaid, conch shells included.

c) I felt, back then, as useless as a left-handed oyster. The world can be very unkind to a left-handed oyster. They say.

Famous Addie

So this is a fun story. A photographer named Roger Bruhn is being featured at the Modern Arts Midwest Gallery above the Mill in the Haymarket. He is doing a series called "About Face" and Addison's picture is in it! Our dear friend Renee Welstead was the person who introduced us to Roger as he was looking for a new baby to photograph for the display. The website calls the series ". . . colossal giclee prints dealing with the human face by renowned local photographer Roger Bruhn." The pictures are being featured all this month so they should still be on display for a few more days. So I guess if you would like a ginormous picture of Addison Davy for a mere $1,500, head on down to the Modern Arts Midwest Gallery and hand over the cash. :) Here is a picture of some of the fam contemplating her hugeness.

Its a pretty sweet project that captures the beauty of aging. So even if you aren't interested in decorating an entire wall with Addison's chubby cheeks it would be worth it to stroll through the exhibit.

bonus

And because I didn't post a picture of Addison in the last post. the audacity. She is getting so much better at grabbing things. This is her new favorite grab/slobber toy.

Life without Cheese

Is no life at all. Naturally, the rest of the world may have an aversion to my incessant grumbling about this topic. Therefore, I strive to preserve it for the occasional rant. Like this one. You see, my body doesn't make a sufficient supply of the enzyme lactase. Hence, no lactose (insert "yummy food") in my diet. Addison can't digest dairy. Practically, this means no cheese. At one time, I could have imagined consuming a diet of milk products. Think about it. cottage cheese. ice cream. cheese. cheese whiz. cream cheese. cheese cake. yoghurt. chocolate milk. slabs of butter. to name a few. The contemplation of said diet now gives me shivers. Lots and lots of unhappy. So, I would like to include here a list of the things that I love that don't have dairy:

Hummus, turkey and tomato (from our garden) sandwich on whole wheat bread
ginger cookies
bbq chicken
cereal with soy milk
soy chai
egg salad sandwich with sprouts on toasted whole wheat bread
razzleberry pie from Marie Calendars
mango sorbet
sour gummy candy (did you know that you can lick a gummy bear and it will stick to your forehead?)
dal
black beans and rice
pinneaple
stir fry

Ok. I'm feeling less sorry for myself. And honestly, tofutti ice cream, although made with tofu, is not a shabby ice cream alternative. So here is my challenge. For all of you people with joy in your lives and milk in your bellies, think back to the last time you ate a meal without one drop of dairy (this means no butter. . . really). Let me know what it was - maybe I'll discover another of my favorite non-gas-inducing foods. I'll raise my glass of soy milk to that!

Its Official

She's a girl. Even in Mexico. Last Friday, Ben and I took Addison to get her ears pierced. She was a champ! Cried for about 15 seconds and then perked right up to look around and show off her little ears. I know that some of you may need a little background. I was the first Taylor child born in Mexico, and the first girl. Although my parents initially resisted the social pressure to have my ears pierced, they eventually succumbed because their pastor pulled my father aside and said, "Brother, everyone thinks your daughter is a boy. You have to pierce her ears." So they did. Melissa had her ears pierced in the hospital. So when Addie was born, the conversation of when we could pierce her ears was an early one. Up in these here United States you have to wait until the baby has had her 2 month shots. So we waited until such a day came and made her gender official. :) This explanation may still leave some of you puzzled and uncertain. I offer as proof positive that this was a good idea the undeniable cuteness of my daughter. (Notice that all the pictures are from the side . . .her cheeks are so chubby that you can't see her ears in a straight on shot)


This last picture was taken last Sunday. My Grandparents on my mother's side are in town and it has been so great having them around. Addison has loved meeting them. She is here with her great grandma Sue.

The Wedding

Ben, Addison and I went to a wedding in Pennsylvania last weekend. I thought I'd post some pictures for you all to see! Ben and Andy Gear have been friends since they were boys playing ninja in Andy's basement. Andy lived right down the street from the Davy's in Norfolk so many childhood memories for Ben involve the Gear family. At the rehearsal dinner, Andy introduced Ben to everyone and said that he has a picture at home of the two of them plus Andy's brother Greg and Ben's brother Jesse in a bathtub together. This was to illustrate how long they have been friends (for the sake of your peace of mind, at least 5 years. . . ). It was just great to see how much joy and commraderie is shared by Andy and Ben - it meant a lot that we were there. Andy and his now wife met in East Asia while teaching English with ELI. They will be going to seminary in St. Louis and we are pumped about them being in the same continent and even within driving distance!
Andy and Hannah as they left the church. We love Andy. We think he's stellar. Andy is definitely marrying up. :)
This is the house that we got to stay in during our time in Harrisburg. It was HUGE and beautiful. This is a view of the back side of the house; behind the camera is a tennis court and a private lighted baseball field. Let me say that again. Private Lighted Baseball Field. We stayed in the apartment above their garage that was roomy and comfortable. The people who so generously let us stay with them are called the Parmers. They stocked our kitchen with food, prepared the apartment beautifully for us and were extremely generous with their time. Definitely a highlight of the trip.
And this is my friend, the one and only, Jessi Noblitt. She flew out with me and Addison (we had separate flights from Ben) and was an incomparable fellow traveler. It was delightful getting to spend so much time with her. She made traveling with a 2 month old very doable! And since we rarely get chances to really catch up, I LOVED the times of chilling out and talking. I have never met anyone who gets so much joy from caring for other people.

And now we are home and finally back into our regular routine. Addison has been glad to be home and around her familiar smells. She's been a little clingy and fussy - understandably with all the adjusting she was doing over the long weekend. So good to be back to the swing of wonder and the butt-vibrating bouncy seat. :) I feel the same way, Addie Ann.

Finally, in case you haven't checked, the comments section of the last post is great - I've truly appreciated the input. Check it out and give me your thoughts if you are so inclined.

oblique angles

"Somehow it is the balladeer, the artist, the poet, the song-writer, the filmmaker who ends up wrestling with life’s conundrums, capturing or being captured by an idea and then packaging, presenting and unwittingly popularizing that idea across whole strata of societies. Unlike the preacher, professor, scientist and car-mechanic, the artist seems to have a sacred responsibility to come at truth from an oblique angle, through story and shades of light, to cause whole nations to reconsider, take a second look, think again or just receive." Stefan Eicher

Stefan Eicher is an artist who runs a gallery in New Delhi, India. The king of random acquaintances, Case Maranvile, connected us to him. Stefan has some great thoughts and beautiful thought provoking paintings. The concept of art penetrating defenses because it can come at truth from an oblique angle has been sticking with me these days. I keep thinking about it. I know that I have been consistently shaken and moved by concepts that seemed to sneak up on me, tumbling through my brain on the melody line of a beautiful song. So why can't "worship music" be that way. This is my thought tonight. (forgive me) Why must we fall back on the line "Holy is the Lord" or "Fall on my knees"? Because it rhymes with the last line? Because the syllables are easy to match with a melody? Because we haven't interacted with the God of the Bible deeply enough to come away with metaphor or comparison that hints at honest, ground sanctifying awe? I sound critical. I am. I am also deeply suspicious of my own creative crutches, and as the music director at my church I keep asking these questions because the last thing I want to be a part of is a trite, easy, worship service that pumps recycled spiritual air through the same dusty vents. Not that using words like "holy" or "falling" are bad. But what if the command to worship with a new song is a challenge to craft word and melody with the kind of artistry that could awaken longing, surprise with wonder, or shake with fear? Maybe it could come to us at oblique angles.

What do you think? Can we worship that way? I'd love to know what you think.

Two months

Addison is officially two months old today! She chose to commemorate this auspicious occasion by not eating well and crying at most available moments. Hmmm. Apparently she dislikes getting old. I did get some pretty great pictures of her sitting in her car seat, though. Notice, she looks nostalgic.

This picture cracks me up. Ben took it this morning. She wasn't ready for the flash . . .

Mondays

I wonder if we would feel differently about Mondays if they were on a different day of the week. . .

Mondays are my days to be productive. I do laundry on Mondays, buy groceries for the week, go to staff meeting, attempt to catch up on emails. The last two weekends we have gone up to Norfolk for Friday and Saturday, and I know that we wear the same number of clothing articles in Norfolk but I feel like we have twice as much laundry. This is inexplicable.

When I get it all done on a Monday I feel pretty good - like I'm ready for whatever the rest of the week will hold. It would be misleading for me to let you imagine that this happens every Monday. Sometimes I don't brush my teeth until 4pm. whew, now that we have that out on the table, I can also admit to rarely flossing.

On a side note, if you were unable to participate in the Choose your Own Adventure series, click here for the first chapter. The comments section lists the votes. Thanks to everybody who contributed! Good times. :)

option a

Chapter 5

East of Hwy 51, snug against the tree line of Giant City State Park, Makanda Illinois writes its name on the map. Its boardwalk is scuffed by the slow tread of hippies; its train tracks smoothed by more people going than coming. Bing found himself on Hwy 51 but 5 miles from Makanda. It had not taken too much explaining to convince Prism and Marley that he needed to go home. To defy, to stick it to the man, was a quest worth sacrifice in their minds. And so he willed his little feet once more to wander and trudged along the asphalt. Trusting the hospitality of a friendly truck driver, Bing made his way to an intersection with train tracks.

We leave our little friend here. Truth be told, the world knew little more of Bing Keefer. He never returned to the safe shelter of his Aunt and Uncle's farm. He never gave another doleful sermon to his sheep, never again prayed to the twelve saintly cats. Bing's trail was lost in the outskirts of Makanda. However. . .

Some thirty years later, from the mountain heights of Kashmir, a book was written and later published under the name King Beefer. The book was titled "A god in my image: memoirs and confessions."

option a wins

Chapter 4

Bing hesitated. With a shrug and a light step, Bing followed the hippie Marley. Indeed, the confidence that he was shortly to accomplish his Divine mandate overshadowed any nagging misgivings about the eccentric stranger. And eccentric he was!
Marley extended his hand to little Bing and began to weave his way through the tents and rvs. His long hair fascinated the boy. His raiment looked well worn and smelled of earth and camp fire. Marley's voice boomed like a prophet's. And it boomed now as it greeted other bearded figures (Bing didn't always know if they were men or women) along the way.

"Hey, man, what's trippin?"
"Diamond, you've gotta meet my new friend; he'll blow your mind!"
"GROOVY, Billy."
"Prism! I've got someone you need to meet."

And with the last explosion of jargon, Marley swung Bing around to face the much anticipated Prism. By now Bing was beginning to sense the strangeness of his current situation. The scenery was different. These people were different. And all at once he missed his 12 cats. He missed the docile receptivity of his uncle's sheep. He missed his Aunt Constance. This woman was no Aunt Constance.
Prism was indeed a beautiful woman. Every square inch of her person jingled or sparkled. Bing was overcome with the impression that the person in front of him had been rolled in glitter and wind chimes. With long wild red hair and colorful clothing, she rivaled Marley for "loudness." And now she was pumping Bing's hand with vigor and welcoming him to the pad. Bing was fed a sandwich and given a glass of milk. He was called "dear" and "hun" and "small fry." He was offered a beverage that smelled like Uncle Danny's garage. He drank his milk.

"I'm looking for green pastures," Bing began. He looked to Marley's wise face. "You know where they are right?"
"Far out, little man. Far out. You lookin for that too, huh. Prism, what can we say to that?" Marley replied and then was arrested by an expression of deep thought. It seemed to occupy him for some time.
Prism ventured, "Well, hun, that's a big question for someone so young. You've come to the right place if you think the establishment is a drag. This crash pad is yours if you need a place to chill for a while." At this invitation, Marley nodded his assent and added, "Like I said, Bing, welcome to greener pastures."

It was at precisely this moment that Bing began to doubt his calling. He felt his spirits lagging. In his heart he could feel the black trusting eyes of his woolly congregation looking to him for guidance. He had promised them this obedience. He would lie down in green pastures. And yet, he had never anticipated that the angelic heralds of the will of God would answer to Prism and Marley. Without a doubt, green plants abounded in this place. Each carefully tended plot was guarded by an earnest if not somewhat languid personage. Bing had observed several people actually laying down by these small verdant patches, and imagined they too had heard and obeyed. And yet . . . his confidence wavered. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should go home.

What happens next?
a. Bing walks back to the highway
b. Bing discovers that Prism makes cherry pie and is instantly convinced to stay
c. Bing converts to Buddhism

After these pics we'll be right back

Its been a while since I've posted some pictures, so here we go! We were with family last weekend, which was fantastic. Addison does so well with all the holding and the loving. Some of the pics are from this weekend and some from the last few weeks. When we come back, (a) wins.

option c wins!

Chapter 3

And when the jostling of the moving vehicle finally ceased, Bing's eyes adjusted to the light of his destination, a hippie commune.
Still taking in the scene before him, Bing was startled by a gruff voice saying, "Well hello, little fella. Welcome to greener pastures." This was all too serendipitous. The young lad's heart swelled with gratitude. His eyes filled with tears. Hot from his long ride and hungry from the journey, Bing had arrived at his destination!
"Hello" replied the boy. "My name is Bing Keefer."
"Marley," the tall man replied and he stretched out a steady hand. "Where are your parents young Bing?"
Bing raised his eyes, now moist with happiness, to the stranger. A patriarch, thought the boy. Just like Aunt Constance's flannel-graph figures. Marley was clothed in coarse material, colorful, simple with an ample beard that descended from his face and neck to his belly button. Surely a man who resembles a flamboyant Moses can be trusted.
"They are dead." Bing answered truthfully.
"Well, that's a shame! You all alone at your age. You will just have to come with Marley. We'll give you some sweet nectar of the earth and fill your belly. You will find that we are all family here. Come on, I know Prism will be delighted to meet you." With this welcome fresh on his lips, Marley turned and motioned for Bing to follow.
A conflict now raged within the lad's chest. He had been taught, along with all the other little boys in the neighborhood to not only disdain the use of matches as play toys but to never absolutely never go with strangers. But Marley looked like Moses, spoke with nearly prophetic clarity of the green pastures long anticipated, and even promised sustenance. This was cruel indeed. Bing hesitated.

a. With a shrug and a light step, Bing followed the hippie Marley.

b. Remembering with sudden clarity the earnest warnings of his Aunt and Uncle, and reasoning that they had never made exceptions for Biblical characters in the flesh, Bing resolutely ran in the opposite direction.

option c

Chapter 2

Bing was 6 * when he came to live with Mr and Mrs Daniel Keefer and the only thing he grew to love more than the dozen saintly cats was . . . playing "melancholy minister" with his uncle's sheep. Danny and Constance often puzzled over the doleful, sometimes macabre tones that Bing chose to employ in the spiritual shepherding of his uncle's flock. Happening upon the congregation one day, Danny overhead the following monologue:

"Open your Bibles please." Bing directed with as deep a voice as he could muster. Bing held a sizable flat rock in his pudgy hands. As he commenced his sermon, Bing directed a drooping gaze at the half a dozen sheep now meditating on the grass at his feet.
"The Lord is my shepherd," he began, "I shall not want. But I don't know why I don't want Him. The Bible says I don't want Him. He makes me lie down in green pastures. Do you like to lie down? I don't. So, sheep, you are just going to have to obey and lie down. I don't think you can pray to the cats. I prayed to the cats like Auntie Constance and it didn't work. So you'll just have to do what it says." A note of pathos in his voice, Bing set aside his Scripture, and solemnly patted each sheep on the head, ending his exhortation with an amen.

Danny was amused and looked for his dear Constance to recount the quaint episode. In so doing, he missed Bing's closing statement entirely.

"Brethren," the little lad's voice became resolute, "I will obey too. I know what happens to bad little boys." This said, Bing pointed his morose face in the direction of town and began to walk. His earnest zeal gave strength to his feet and within a half hour's time he was not only marching up main street, but within sight of the brown van that everyone said could get anything you wanted, anywhere you wanted it to go. Surely the vehicle with UPS on its side would know how to find a place called "green pastures" where one could fulfill one's duty to lie down. And so it was that Bing Keefer found himself in the bowels of the United States postal service, trusting as it were its kind bosom to transport him from his "Ur" to the promised land (though he did not know whither he went). And when the jostling of the moving vehicle finally ceased, Bing's eyes adjusted to the light of his destination, . . .

a. the big city of Cincinnati

b. a giant sign reading, "Hatam Sofer Jewish school for Boys"

c. a hippie commune

*author's edit for plausability

Choose Your Own Adventure

Here's how it works. Leave a comment if you want to decide where the story is going. The option with the most comments will "win" and decide what happens in the next segment. I've never done this before. It should be fun.

Chapter 1

If not for Danny Keefer's love for medicinal spirits, he may never have married the lovely Constance Gray. You see, physical beauty aside, Constance had the misfortune of being Methodist. Danny was Catholic. And so it was that twenty five years went by before Danny's bottled admiration gave utterance to professions of undying love. Constance would never know how indebted she was to the liquid courage that settled Danny's seasonal cough and loosed his ardent tongue. They were fifty and fifty three when they wed, each with their youth cleanly spent and their respective pews comfortably worn in their respective houses of God. They said their vows in the apple orchard behind Mason's hardware store. They prayed to Jesus and Mary.

Danny and Constance may have found love late, but they wasted no time in sharing it. Within two years they had adopted 12 barn cats, named after the 12 apostles, and been given custody of Danny's great-nephew Bing, the only grandson of his sister Mary. Bing was 4 when he came to live with Mr and Mrs Daniel Keefer and the only thing he grew to love more than the dozen saintly cats was . . .

a. knives

b. eating Aunt Constance's pies

c. playing "melancholy minister" with his uncle's sheep

two weeks

Happy Two Week Birthday Addison Davy



I don't know that I expected to feel this way at 2 weeks. Two weeks with a daughter. Two weeks not working. Two weeks of fitful sleep. Its a strange mix of exhilaration and wonder and exhaustion. Beauty and surprise. Its "I can't believe she belongs to me." My days are full of feedings, diapers, naps, diapers, feedings, kisses upon kisses. I wonder now how I used to live. She's perfect. I tell her that and she smiles knowingly at me. (we pretend that she smiles cause she means to)

You've done well, Addie Ann. You've single-mittened-handedly made us all fall chronically in love with you.

No memory

Today is our first day "flying solo." Addison and I have been hanging out today in the quiet house as Ben is at work again, Jay and Liz are very far away, and Mom went home to Norfolk on Saturday. We have been chilling. We took a walk to the local grocery store and bought coffee, watered the newly planted flowers in the yard, took a nap, visited with some friends that stopped by this afternoon. For the most part it has been great. . . except that Addie is cranky today. I think she misses everybody. I don't think she knows how cool I am to be around yet. And I think she has no memory. Just ponder this one - I would get cranky too if every time I was hungry I thought I was going to starve to death. I would be easily upset if I thought my poopy diaper was only going to increase in its poopiness. And I might not be consolable if I couldn't remember soft hands cleaning, soothing, patting away this overshadowing unhappy. So she kicks her pudgy feet and thrashes around with her mittened hands and gets 3 shades darker instantly. And since she is temporarily myopic, she can't even see the help that is coming. Hmmmm, Addison darling, I don't think you are alone in this one.

Sleeper

This post is for Liz. Liz is in Michigan while her husband (my brother) is in Lincoln. And I just want Liz to know a couple things:

1. Jay is great with Addie
2. She is SO CUTE in the clothes you gave her
3. You were right, Ben is a smitten man with his daughter. He kisses her all over and then says, "remember, Addie, kisses are gross."
4. We miss you and pray for you often

Liz and Jay are in Michigan at Spring Hill this summer and then will be spending a school year teaching in Mexico where the Taylors grew up. Amazing things! Check out Jay and Liz's blogs. And then send them big fat checks so that they can eat next year!

Bienvenida

Allow me the great pleasure of introducing to you all Addison Ann Davy. She is 4 days old and counting. Click the links below for more pictures. More posts coming. I think you should all know that we are impossibly proud and happy. I mean, just look at her!

Days 1 and 2
Day 3

wake up

"I like to wake up to the smell of crackling bacon. so sue me" - Michael (The Office)

Not sure that I want a George Foreman in my bedroom. And though I love bacon, I don't think I want it to greet me fresh out of slumber. I like to wake up because the sun is bright enough to shine through my closed eyelids. I like to wake up to the smell of coffee. I like to wake up to the sound of rain on my window.

What do you like to wake up to?

I can't help myself

I wanted to post about something else. I really did. I even started it and it was really lame. But I just can't not write about what I think about ALL DAY LONG.

This little person inside me wants to come out now. I know it. BD has been stretching like a maniac. Which means my ribs and pelvis and backbone have been tested for elasticity and been found wanting. I know I want BD to come out. Baby Davy has been Baby Davy too long. Plus, Ben and I extended our GAP preoccupation one step further and found some baby clothes that are ridiculously cute. They need little arms and little legs and a little butt to fill them!

Don't misunderstand me. I'm savoring the quiet moments of late morning with Ben. I'm taking extra long showers on purpose. I am grateful for the (relative) ease with which I can jump (ease) into a car without worrying about a car seat. But I know that just around the corner is a little person that was meant to be in my family. It has a gender and a personality and a sense of humor. I think its time for an official introduction. And it needs to come out so that it can hear about its newest future friend!

So Baby Davy, if you read blogs and if you happen to read mine - know that there is a whole world of people just ecstatic to meet you. Take as long as you need. I know you may need a few more days to get good and ready. You may even need weeks. So grow strong little one. Get your little face all pointed in the right direction. Stretch and wiggle all you need. Throw a few good luck punches at my bladder. And then come on out and meet your mom and dad. We are ready to hold you.

No

yet.

Still

no theory

I usually have theories about things, admittedly random theories at times. I think that Maalox is the mastermind behind a giant conspiracy to sneak lactose into packaged food. For example.

However, i don't have a hidden theory behind this question. It honestly puzzles me and seems to have no explanation at times. What song do you have playing in your head right now? Don't think, just hum.

one week ago

One week ago, Ben and I were in Kentucky. We were sitting with our friends Scott and Carissa at a quirky, classy restaurant called Natasha's in downtown Lexington. I drank decaf french-press and they tasted international wines to the toe-tappin tunes of a blues band. It was delightful. The whole weekend was a much anticipated and enjoyed retreat - our last vacation "just the two of us." Ben and Scott played 7 games of Settlers of Catan. Carissa and I made yummies in the kitchen and spent some much needed girl time. It was just so good to be us, to be with friends, to be lazy and spoiled.

And Carissa offered to take some pregnancy pictures for me. She is great at what she does. You should check out her blog. She set up the camera and lights on Sunday afternoon and I came away with some pictures that I will treasure always. I'm not super excited about splashing my belly across the blogosphere, but I'll share a few "safe" ones - if you'd like to see the rest, come on over for a visit. We'll drink tea and look at bellies.

Part of Andrew Peterson's Resurrection Letters

"We welcome you in because we think you'll give us what we want. We believe

that our true motives are hidden from you--you who made the world with a
word. We spread our coats and wave our hands and cry "save" and you ride
with your back straight and your face drawn, indulging us because you don't
want to hurt our feelings. You accept our hosannas because you know that
even if the heart is false the words are true, and for now, that is enough.
You come in the name of the Lord. Son of David, you come to save us. You
come to save a fickle people, who one minute cry for help and the next cry
for blood, and it is both help and blood that you give us."

los pies

Its been a while now since I've been able to see my toes. I discovered recently that I can no longer see the bottom half of my belly either. Its underside disappears right after my belly button. This is strange. I'm pretty reconciled to not seeing the back of my head, or my shoulder blades, or even the underside of my knees . . . but my toes?!? Don't get me wrong, I do not have my sisters feet. I don't miss the sight of them for any aesthetic value they may add to my life. But they've been a pretty constant companion these last 25 years . . . and to see them but infrequently is an adjustment. So I painted my toes tonight. Getting to them was the tricky part, but I waved the little brush around in their general direction and managed to keep the color on my feet and not on the couch.
I'm ridiculously proud of myself.

Justice

Ben and I had several great conversations with people this weekend. The kind of conversation that you wake up thinking about the next day. I find myself replaying snippets of the dialog in my head, discovering that I've been given a wider understanding of what it means to care deeply about the world I live in. One of the conversations happened last night over 3 pounds of popcorn with very dear friends. We talked about inequality, racism, genocide, and the realizations that call us into action. We talked about politics. We disagreed. We came to a common expression of discontent and frustration - to anger over the "least of these" who inevitably suffer in the meantime. And I was once again resolved to care deeply about injustice, to surround myself with people who care, to DO something.
And then I got a speeding ticket today.
I wasn't in a hurry. I was passing someone who was going "too slow." I was going 43 in a 35 zone when I saw the cop car swing out behind me.
And I was angry.
I don't get speeding tickets. I don't go to STOP class. I'm the one who could find myself looking into the my rear-view mirror at flashing lights, thinking of reasons why I don't deserve to owe 119 dollars to the Lincoln Police Department!
Because I think I love the idea of justice when I am undeniably on its side.

The Hermans

I'd like to describe one of the happiest things about my life right now. The Hermans. It all started with my brother Jay, who started calling my sister Melissa "Herman" (what you get when the Spanish word for sister - hermana - is edited to remove the feminine "a" ending). This nickname quickly spread to the rest of the siblings. You see, we can all be Herman because its gender neutral! Which makes Christmas a bit tricky unless we agree to use our real names. As the siblings have started getting married, the Hermans have grown to include Ben and Liz. And right now, all the Hermans live in Lincoln. I can't even describe how brilliantly wonderful this is. Ben lives approximately 5 blocks away. Melissa's house is a 5 minute drive away. Jay and Liz live even closer . . . If the couch I am sitting on were to crash through my floor, I would be in their apartment. This is bliss.
It is honestly one of the greatest things about this time in my life. Melissa randomly stopped by this evening. Jay and Liz heard my obnoxiously loud greeting I'm sure and came up to investigate. I get to bump into my family all the time. And I always love the afternoons when all 6 of the Hermans end up in the same place. I don't know how long this will last, but for now its one of the sweetest things ever. And if all goes according to plan, all the Hermans will be around in May to welcome the first member of the generation of "Prims". . . hmmm, new tradition?

tagged by Sarah

My friend Sarah tagged me. I'm supposed write 10 random/weird/unknown things about myself. Thanks, Sarah, for thinking of me - in classic elementary school fashion I feel cool because now I'm "it." And here is my list of maybe not so unknown, potentially random facts:

1. I have no middle name.
2. I had the opportunity to give myself one and chickened in the moment of decision.
3. My list of favorite breakfasts includes malto meal with a peanut butter/honey sandwich submerged inside it, corn bread with syrup and milk, and my father's raisin and rice hot cereal.
4. I have never seen "Forest Gump." Since I can't eat most chocolate I find the central analogy of the film to be inaccessible.
5. In the last 5 years I have been slowly overcoming an allergy to soap.
6. I am such a Spanish nerd that I am ready at a moments notice to dialogue with feeling about the following topic: the cultural and linguistic implications of the existence of the subjunctive for the hispanic experience
7. Ben was the first man I ever dated. Ever kissed. (no, Mom, you can't count the Canadian boy when I was 6)
8. I don't own a toaster
9. I may have an inordinate number of soap boxes, but one of the more significant ones is the current human rights crisis in India for the Dalit (the untouchables) and what it looks like when the gospel has hands and feet for them.
10. I still hesitate momentarily when I check "Caucasian" on surveys.

top of the morning to you

This has been a challenging semester for Ben. His wife is growing larger (and more clumsy and more awkward and taking up more space in the bed) daily. He is also taking a very demanding class for his masters degree. Lots of reading. Lots of papers. I'm learning a fair bit about the current heath care crisis just by listening to him process it all. Needless to say, Ben is spending a good bit of his time preparing for his Tuesday evening class. So this has become our morning routine:
Ben wakes up an hour before I do, makes coffee, sits himself in our easy chair in the living room and studies. This is a new thing in our marriage. Ben has always appreciated the theoretical beauty of early morning. He has felt very little need to experience it personally. You could say perhaps that in our marriage the "early bird moved into the late night owl's nest" (Andy Gullahorn). But Ben has been up early nearly every morning. I find him settled into he easy chair with computer on his lap and coffee in his hand.
I take my mulivitamin, take my shower; Ben is typing. We usually eat breakfast together. We read together. Ben may or may not go back to his studying. I get ready for work and make our lunches. We are usually heading out the door for work at about the same time. I like this arrangement.

I invite you to imagine with me how different our morning schedules are going to be in just 10 short weeks!

crazy fast. . .

. . . I am not. My friend Lori posted today with a link to a website that tests how quickly you can type. I can type at 71 wpm (not whales per martini) and I had six errors - one of which was to spell couch, "COUACH." Now, I don't remember how I scored in high-school in computer class but I'm pretty sure I have become sluggish and inaccurate in my older age. I remember (randomly) that when the computer program tracked my speed on words like "understand" and "however" I was FLYING. Go ahead and test yourself. Let me know how you score. And if you have any speed typing tips, share friend share.

belly

I was informed that my belly needed to be given more attention on this blog. So here it is. And lest you be concerned that I am not of a positive disposition concerning its current size and roundness, I included a picture of my happy face. Inside that happy bump is a 2 pound, 28 week old gender-unknown child. If it were to receive a progress report (forgive me, I can't help myself) this is what would be sent home:
Baby Davy

size & weight 50th percentile (note, we do not want baby davy to be in the 100th percentile. ouch)
ability to aim for and hit mother's bladder - satisfactory
consistent, strong movement throughout the day - A+
moves on Dad's command - unsatisfactory
makes Mom want to eat like an adolescent boy - A++
overall performance - please come to parent/teacher conferences on May 9th

Little one, I have known you as near as my heart but I have yet to meet you. Can't wait

A little hilarity

Ben and I watched this video on Andrew Osenga's blog. I can't remember the last time I've laughed so hard. Granted it was late at night. . . but I still think its brilliant. Charlie's face is priceless. Enough said.

brrr

We don't have hot water at our house. The water heater may be broken. A spider may have died in the gas line and clogged it. I haven't checked around . . . maybe the whole city is out of hot water. Maybe we used our winterly quota. Heck, the weather has been bad in the whole region this week. Could it be that the snow storms blew away the hot water? I just don't even know. I just know that I washed dishes in cold water tonight. Turn the cold water handle, out comes cold water. Turn the hot water handle, yep, still cold water coming out.

But don't panic. Should this happen to you, I know how to heat up water on the stove and make a very comfortable bucket shower. At least the fire sticks still work.

a moment

What I hear:
the washing machine downstairs is rinsing another load.
the heat just whirred on, and I can hear the fan through the grate.
I hear my fingers typing on the keys.

What I see:
All that is familiar about my living room.
The snow on the cedar tree outside, through the dining room window.
The shadow of tree trunks on the frosted plastic window insulation, highlighted by late afternoon sun. Jay and Liz coming back from working out at the YMCA.

What I feel:
My couch under my bare feet. the smooth keys. Baby davy is shifting in my belly, stretching maybe after an afternoon nap, exploring down South with a swift jab of its heel. I feel a pillow behind my back, and the bright sunlight on my eyelids. Warmth. Softness.

Hidden, unwritten, holding up and sustaining all these senses are the things I take for granted nearly every moment of my life. Sometimes it just takes a snow day to put things in perspective. That and long hours of quiet interrupted only by house noises.

February is Coming. . .

Noteworthy Events of January 2008:
My 25th Birthday
Ben's 28th Birthday
Baby Davy's negative .25 Birthday
I officially retired all of my "normal person" jeans
I became even more part-time at school
I resolved to write more
Ben cleaned yet more nicotine goo from our bathroom ceiling (remnants of the previous owner's expansive smoking habits)
I successfully avoided laundry perhaps 4 times (something that is actually impossible)
I posted my actual weight on the world wide web for the first time in my life. 147 libras.
Without or without your consent, you are now caught up.

tubs

I found this picture on my computer. This was the tin tub that we took baths in until I was probably in junior high (it follows that this was what my parents bathed in for perhaps 10 years). I can remember the water hose that became too hot to touch when we filled it up. I remember the feeling of the cold tile on my feel when I would step out. I remember the clinking noises that the walls of the tub would make with our bath toys. And yes, I remember taking baths with Jay. . . barely.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. It takes all the hard edges off memories. I'm very much a fan of proper showers and instant hot water that can become instantly mixed with cold. I enjoy carpet under my feet and coffee within 5 minutes of waking up. I don't really miss huddling up close to the wood burning stove to thaw out our jeans on winter mornings. But I know I loved it. I even loved brushing the "daddy long leg" spiders off the twisted, knobby fire wood (the smell of the freshly cut pieces would always mean winter to me) stacked in uneasy rows in the wood shed. . .

6 months

This is me tonight. I'm not sure why I am standing by the clock. Perhaps because it is huge and round. like me! I am approximately six months along and feeling presently that May 9th is never ever going to get here and that sleeping with a pillow between my knees will become a permanent necessity. Alas.
I am however feeling great, attracting loads of attention at the YMCA when I heave myself and baby davy (aka. "cousin mica") onto the treadmill, and currently well fortified with folic acid.