Running Out of Breathing Room

So Febuary wanes.


And there are four weeks left until Beatrix sees the world, her father, her sweet sisters.


Her room, if not anything else, is ready--three beds all in a row, Madeline style.


Elspeth, though of course I do not think she understands the full purport of my lack of breathing room these days, seems to understand that there's a Beatrix inside Mommy's uterus--she shares toys, icing, snacks, and books with her new little sister by shoving them close to my belly button.


Merry continues the incredibly helpful oldest child (surely she will not always appreciate this title as I do). And she is still as wildly imaginative as ever, living in her own worlds, concocting bizarre outfits, drawing long books and now--writing narrative to accompany them.


We continue well, loving our children, our community, our home and food, and we're planning a glorious summer garden in the warmth of the sun, this time with three girls (unless the fellow was wrong and Beatrix is indeed a boy). Martin received another lovely piece of news to go along with his generous arts grant: an almost "free" semester next fall in which to write and enjoy his grant. He'll teach only 1 1/2 classes, and per my warning (only just less than half in jest), he promises not to go moody, inward, and brooding--such things are simply not allowed at Wazoo Farm.

Plan your summer trip now, and join us among the struggling fruit trees, the zinnias, the seas of herbs and the not-so-neat rows of vegetables. All Martin asks is that you bring a few bricks with you as a host[ess] gift!

Febuary Grey

This is a cliche, especially in our part of Pennsylvania. A cliche that nevertheless preys on all those who spend a good part of their time indoors. It's not elephant grey or the grey of a lovely old woman who has lived long. . .it's the grey of my grandfather's overwashed socks that drifts across the sky in watery oatmeal patterns. It's the grey that makes me want to order Crunchie Bars from England and brightly painted miniature play food from Germany. It's the grey that makes me want to wear dowdy old sweaters and slippers.

There are good things, I suppose, to grey: hot tea, nothing much to do except enjoy being with the children, a slight push toward cleaning, painting, making large pots of soup and crusty loaves of bread. If I were alone it would be a perfect grey for a whole day of writing or reading. As it is, Merry is pairing socks, Elspeth is padding around in tiger pants with a runny nose, and I am putting of using the restroom for as long as possible (I do not want to sit on the cold seat). We are getting an England fix with "Wind in the Willows" on the TV and the Wiggle's Monkey dance. I am contemplating cleaning and Merry looks spry in a summer-sky blue dress. . . .

Blah on Febuary.

Week Draws to Close, Parents Recollect Sanity

By Jove! The week is over!

Highlights include Elspeth eating soap; the snow melting; Martin working long hours and singing Woodie Guthrie; Merry making leaps and bounds in her reading. Yes, folks, it's been a great, busy whirlwind of a week and now it's over.

Whooopie kiyay!

It is grey late mid-Febuary but it is a warm evening in the Cockroft's orange kitchen, where the floor is dirty and the bread machine groaning out pizza dough.

I hope you have great cause and a good crowd with whom to celebrate this happy Friday.

Snow, Sleet, and a Bright Warm Kitchen

Today I unearthed myself from piles of laundry just in time to find three hopeful neighborhood children at the door. "Can we go sledding on the hill?" the chosen one asked, an older girl with red cheeks and nose.

I crushed their hopes by explaining that when the grass pokes through the snow, sleds create ruts in our soil. They could feel free to come back after a couple more inches fell. This morning on the way to pick up Merry from school at our friend Nancy's house, sleety, icy slush kicked off the windshield with every wipe of the blades, so the sad sledders are out of luck.

Though it may be gloomy and drab outside, my kitchen positively explodes with color: bright, traffic-cone orange and the yellow of a mellow afternoon. Sound insane? During the process you may have assumed correctly, but the final result (minus one final coat on one wall) pleases me immensely. Our kitchen positively glows, especially in the evenings. I ripped down most of my kitchen cabinets and now the whole room has taken on a different flavor--Tuscany, perhaps? I expect it's all too wild for Tuscany, though I have enjoyed immersing myself in Frances Mayes (the book is a good escape read--the movie so atrocious that I hide the cover of the book, which features a silly photo of Diane Lane, from strangers) and her endless house projects and rows of lavendar, olive trees, and roses.

Many thanks to my mother in particular, who tackled the kitchen with unparralled gusto; to my father who makes me incredibly nervous with loaded paintbrushes; to Martin who somewhat grumpily but still moved the antique winerack (among other things) to its new home in the kitchen.

I shall post pictures at some point, but I am waiting for completion.

A last note to those of you who know my family well: my father and mother just excepted a new post with World Concern in Washington State, and while we will miss the proximity to us (previously four hours), we wish them all love and best wishes in their new adventure in the rainforest land of good coffee, much water, and luscious gardens. As a side note, it turns out that my parents, in 35 years of marriage, have lived in at least 23 or 24 houses together. As Martin says, every family has an overarching narrative by which they identify themselves: our's must be gardening, or hobbit-holing; their's is adventure; what's your's?

PS. To my shame, the spell-check seems out of commission today--I feel as though the above post must be utterly riddled with mistakes, so be generous and overlook them, eh?