Wild, Crazy Loon Calls in Wilderness: Ahhhhhh!

Last weekend, baking decadent double-dark chocolate cookie bars for the imminent eight-member family reunion the day after we returned from a wild packing-house week, I did the same crazy thing my mother once did to a rhubarb cake (a feat I used to shake my head in disbelief over). Curious, I watched as the cookies spread in great, muddy pools over the cookie sheet. Then my mother said, "What's this flour doing here?" This was the bowl of flour I had completely forgotten to blend with the wet ingredients. . .we scraped the fudgey mess back into the bowl and mixed it all up again. (I watched incredulously as my mother shoveled the semi-raw batter into her mouth. Not fair: she always warned us religiously not to eat raw dough; we'd get worms or salmonella; I've spent my entire life consistently turning down delicious tastes of raw dough. And I will continue, out of a sort of primal fear, despite the disillusioning vision of my mother possibly giving herself worms or salmonella.)


On Monday morning, the last of our family left. We said goodbye to my parents; my father was eager for the trip and my mother choked back tears (which always makes me feel like crying, too); then they drove off down the street on their five day trek across the country to Seattle. That morning found me yelling a greeting of sorts down the stairs to our guests (a father and his two-year old) from my seat on the toilet where I was also breastfeeding. . .

That afternoon I baked yet more for our twice-annual exam-week open house for Martin's students. This time I worked in the overripe, stinky bananas into a triple recipe of Joy's deliciously cakey quick bread. Shuffling through the freezer I found some bagged pecan bits my mother had left and sprinkled them freely over all three loaves. Better taste them, I thought, after all the loaves had been doused, and dabbed some of the pecans on my tongue. What home did these pecans enjoy prior to my freezer? Likely they were the leftovers from some Thanksgiving sweet potato or curry dish, for the pecans were mixed with salty chili pepper. Hoping that this would be an exciting and successful new twist on banana bread, I overcompensated by layering the chili powder topping with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Somebody, I heard, asked for the recipe. I heard this because I only made two appearances at the open house, one to haul off Elspeth to bed, and the other to redirect Merry, who had suddenly gone "wild" (in the words of one of Martin's bluntly-spoken students) upstairs to a quiet read while I breastfed marathon-feeding baby until I fell asleep.

Two more days of no-Martin all day and evening (practically) and I have my friends to thank for saving me from illegal substance abuse. So thanks to the members of the robust Elaine Society: Tonya, who stopped by for a chat with a gorgeous blanket she had sewed for B; Nancy, who whisks Merry away twice a week for the schooling I never give her and feel guilty about; Sally, who upon entering our house plucked B from my hands and held her even as she ate lunch, and who, to boot, took the crazy, always-in-trouble Elspeth (eating butter, scattering compost, hitting Merry) down our hill to the creek (yesterday) and then called this morning to offer to take her away in her boots to some undisclosed but presumably muddy place (right before she arrived Elspeth, who suddenly seems huge, rolled on the baby, the baby who squalled so pitifully that I felt like squalling myself). . . .

These sorts of friends are truly angelic. Thank God! for these women, and I mean that in the most grateful and humble way.

Tomorrow sees Martin finishing school. Thank God! Ditto! Ditto! The garden is overgrown with sod; we'll be lucky to find the strawberry plants underneath the weeds. . .Ah, but then, does it matter all that much? Summer is about to start, officially, yes, mama, yes. We've been saving the trip to Douglass Nursery (heirloom tomato seedlings and all) for a reward. And the weather, which has been grey, cold, and rainy all week, cannot stay that way for long. We've got enough salsa and cheese for a big party with good friends at some point soon, and we've got marshmallows for the fire pit and reserve ice cream in the downstairs freezer. All our red buds have bloomed and only one crab apple seems dead.

Summer. Starts. Tomorrow. Huzzah.

More Activity but then again, more Sleep than Expected

We've been sleeping more than could be hoped for. Beatrix is a wonderful dozer and a brilliant night baby.

This is fortunate, for there has been much activity. I took off with the three girls to help my parents pack up their house for their new adventure in Seattle. I have never seen the like before--so many people at their house as they wrapped and packed, and parties and big dinners and fun, fun, fun, and so much sorting and errands and craziness. At one point there were five children in the house; my father, maneuvering a piece of furniture through a doorway over a crawling baby, wryly muttered, "The moving brochure advises you to hire a babysitter while you pack." But what fun would that be?

The girls and I mellowed to Iron and Wine as we drove through glorious early spring back to PA--as I drove, with the three girls lined up in the back of the car, I suddenly realized, by Jove, I have three children. What a strange and good thing.

Back to town, a whirl of unpacking, and now we have a family reunion at our house--all my mother's five-sibling family, bar one sibling--and Martin's final exam week next week. It's busy and jolly.

And here's some happy news, too--Beatrix LOVES the outdoors; the porch is ready and gorgeous; so is the back deck; the lawn is partially mown; the perennials are all greening and shooting and promising. All our trees except two show happy growing and blooming signs; the world smells lovely and perfect.

Little Girls (Thank heaven for)

Beatrix is a Dream Baby

It's true, she really is a dream baby. And strong, by Diana--I'm so proud of another strong little woman--picks her head and neck up like a 3-month old and takes everything in like a sage old medicine woman. She's going to make a great gardener and naturalist-baby and dirt-eater and sun-lover.

I've been back in the garden. It's intoxicating when the weeds don't choke my enthusiasm.

Pictures soon, of the gaudy forsythia, and Beatrix, and her sisters, and Martin's dumptruck loads of mulch and sand. Projects abound. He's got three more weeks of school and then we'll all be in the garden, all day, for endless days. The Russian Sage is returning, the tulips bloom, and the deer fence is up. Meals arrive with happy regularity at our doorstep (Cheers to the Mennonites!!!) And gardening is so much easier without a baby inside.

Hair, and how!

Another great picture from Alyson.

Beatrix ... Hurrah!

Thanks to our friend Alyson Case for these lovely photos.

Beatrix is born!

This morning, Sunday, at 7:45, we welcomed Beatrix Fern to the world. Mom and daughter are healthy, tired, and happy--they're both sleeping soundly now, Bea on Kim's bosom.

She weighed just shy of eight pounds at birth (7lbs, 14oz) and measured 20 inches from end to end. She's got a little smushed nose (which seems to be unsmushing itself), a round face, alert blue eyes, and a full head of dark brown hair.

But don't count on a brunette; I think I see blonde roots!

Labor was longer than either Kim or I expected (she outlasted Merry and Elspeth), and delivery was painful but fast. I think she was out in four or five good pushes.

Our thanks to all of you who supported us in this, whether through kind words, prayers, gifts, or a little of everything. We'll post pictures when we're able.

Oh, and for those who don't know: Kim and Bea share a birthday!

Happy Inutero

At the midwife's office yesterday: "Step back a minute. . .If that baby was any lower, she'd fall out!"

I put B in the sun to attempt to encourage her to join the rest of us in the spring. . .though the midwife offered to make her come last night, we've decided to give her a little more space to make up her own mind.

Ah, the slightly bizarre belly pictures. Why do we feel the need to document this common but always flabbergasting state of being? (And why didn't I clean my mirror of Elspeth's many fingerprints before snapping away?)

Immmmm

Hey, naturalist baby: daffodils sprucing, crocus blooms! Grass greening--buds near bursting--why linger so long in hot gloom? Come, join hands with your bright sisters, welcome spring, earthworm and glossy robin!