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!

Instead of Baby, New Trees Arrive

Here's a little glimpse of Easter morning. Please note that nobody is brushed or bathed, but we managed a jolly, early Easter egg hunt in the lovely shafts of morning sunlight.

Martin just came in from the dark, where he was digging up sod and replanting the last of the tea roses. We also now delight in a very promising row of Eastern redbuds and crabapples in our front yard. And I, who decided an unborn baby who gives indication of someday appearing but then decides she's more comfortable where she is would no longer stop me from getting on, finally began my big spring pruning exercises. I think perhaps, due to my laziness last fall, I may have lost a few roses--but only time will tell.

And my mother cooked us the best turkey dinner I think I have ever tasted. And that, folks, is the news from Wazoo.

Kitchen Pictures

Well, these are not really up-to-snuff, as we took them rather late at night and the lighting is just wretched. But it gives you an idea, anyway.

We've since removed the paper lanterns.

Be NICE

Elspeth's favorite activity these days is playing in a shallow, large bin of beans, which she makes into soups and landslides her little people under. In a bid to gain some peanuts for her bean soup this morning (one of endless "cooking" experiments), Elspeth admonished, "Be NICE," which she has clearly heard us say, as well as "No. I said NO."

I should heed her advice, though, when it comes to my end-of-pregnancy obsession, which is ice-crunching. I dread my dentist's appointment post-Beatrix. But I can't seem to help myself--a freezer door opens and I'm suddenly stuffing myself with ice, crunching down the stuff with dispatch, regardless of my crowned and weak teeth. The smell of our car's air-conditioning and freezer burn sends me round the bend with desire. So far I've suffered from aching teeth and sore cheeks from where I've chomped into my numb mouth. Yesterday was heaven--IKEA has the most wonderful, soft, chewy ice. I walked around the store in a daze, eating the perfect little nuggets like popcorn. Oh, and my hair is getting curlier and I swear it's turning white around my temples. Hormones. What wonderful things.

Well, Merry's recouperating from a cold and besides my mother's much lauded arrival and the fact Martin and I actually went out for a DATE yesterday (and not the raiseny kind, a real one), there's nothing terribly interesting to share this morning except that I finally folded some clean baby clothes for Beatrix--and she must have known what I was doing (and that her grandmother has finally arrived), since she rewarded me with a good set of nice contractions that tapered off as the morning progressed. Surely she's close? It's really a bit of a bore, this not knowing the schedule. I do want to get all the hospital over with and just be back home with our family again. I realized that the excitement of the rush to the hospital, the labor process, the charm and dizziness of having a new baby and nurses and nurseries has paled now by the third. Now I want to just pop in, get the process over with, and get on with life.

Wonderful birds have begun to perch on the bare walnut tree outside my window again--a robin, a blue jay, all soft and bosomy and bursting with spring. Sunshine streams in our windows again, and it is not dark anymore when we sit down to supper. Martin has gone absolutely drooly-gaga with spring fever. Every time we see bricks on the side of the road he all but derails the car from the highway. I will have to post his amazing garden plans soon.

PS. Oh, I don't suppose anyone cares to cook a turkey for me? I have to get the thing out of my freezer; I can barely stand the smell of roasting meat; and I'm half afraid I'll suck the bird dry of freezer burn before I even get it in the oven. We could split the fellow. . .

Spring Fever

Martin's spring fever sees new levels of insanity. Outside, the snow is blowing in a regular storm. Outside, I just watched Martin shoveling piles of just-hauled horse manure into the compost piles. Earlier he dug up grass for roses. He sped off in the blue Subaru and I have no idea where he is now. He will smell like a banquet when he finally notices that he is gardening in the middle of a blizzard and comes inside.

Beatrix? She's working it--increasing contractions but no regularity.

Elspeth has taken to addressing my foot as if it is a person. She gives the foot hugs and kisses, brings it things to eat and material to read. I suppose whereas Beatrix remains unresponsive to her advances, at least foot nods or shakes his "head," that is, toes. She instructed Martin to sing her a song about a foot last night, and then a song about Merry traveling in the back seat of a car eating a sock.

And I watched Merry reveling in a bin of raw beans this morning, bathing her face and hands in them as if they were clear cool spring water.

Conclusions? We are all a little off, but at least we're happy about it.

Beatrix? In time for Easter???

Well, the midwife said today that her guess is within the next week.

Not that anyone can really predict it, I guess. On the way home from the doctor's I was so exhausted and tired of Elspeth's feet in my back (kicking my seat the whole way) that I just LOST IT. I spent the ride hunched over my huge uterus, crying down at my feet to the sound track of annoying 1970's music with unbelievably repetitive choruses.

Martin was in a frenzy to get to his night class, for which he was unprepared, I felt overwhelmed by the looming responsibility of getting the girls in bed another night by myself when my ligaments MOAN. . .and then we reached home. Oddly and unexpectedly, the evening mellowed. The girls were content and I weathered a few contractions in relative bliss, eyes closed, head back. . .and from there the night flowed along smoothly, and now here I am, toothbrush in mouth; the house is silent; I feel fine; and an early bedtime stands just within my grasp. Sadly I left my book in the car, and Martin is still out teaching, but there is plenty more to read in the house. There's a flood warning tonight, but our house sits high and the rain feels comforting speckling the windowpanes.

It feels hard to believe that soon another daughter will sleep in our house at night, but the reality of her arrival grows ever more imminent. I will be glad, though I always find the idea of another human joining us absolutely ludicrous and unimaginable until I find the solidness of a body in my arms, and then all is well and it seems ridiculous that our family was ever complete without the new one. I trust the same will be true for this little bird. . .and now there's nothing to do, really (except the long list of things I should, like unearth the baby clothes), but wait.

For Dreaming

Those of you who know my obsession with Sweden, you will be pleased to feast your eyes on this particular gardening site, which doesn't seem quite real:

Tyra's Garden

Does this person spend all her living seconds working her garden? I love her sense of order balanced with a flourish for the viney and romantic. . .hmmm. Better think about replanting my roses.

Oh! Two things to celebrate: 1. Beatrix is now full-term and we are just waiting; 2. The first crocuses are up, deep purple with buttery hearts. If I can get my truly American, only-wishes-to-be-Scandinavian self together, I will actually take a few pictures.

Husband is Genius, Wife Admits Occasionally

Over last week Martin impressed me to no end, not with weights or cars or prowess of the (narrow, historic, Roman/killing animals) celebrated variety, but with the myopic scrawling of figures and jotting of numbers. I swooned watching him at work with a ruler and pencil. These are gifts of which I have none. Rulers make me hyperventilate and only recently did I approve the existence of levels with their self-satisfied, inflexible water bubbles. And the endless scrawling of straight lines and minuscule numbers almost sends me into active labor.

But our shelves are up, all except one, and our kitchen seems to be enjoying itself. I will post pictures of this amazing feat--and amazing it was, in our 100-year old house with its oddly placed studs (narrow, horizontal instead of vertical), a weird wall partially wallboard/plaster/masonry, and my dreams of cup hooks and everything simple but happily in its right place. (Imagine tea cups staggered perfectly, hanging smugly on their own hooks).

Martin conquered all. Occasionally I admit to his genius. This is one of those times.

A BREAK

Martin's off for Spring break, and today he finished his grading. (Simultaneously I think I blew up the vacuum cleaner with a wooden puzzle piece).

And tonight, at our dear friends with the crazy-steep driveway and the warm home, we completely STUFFED ourselves. First the little girls (four of them) had tea with real sugar cubes and scones, and then we ate an incredible dinner, and then we revelled in delightfully sinful desserts called the somewhat scandalous name Chocolate Explosions. (They do indeed explode--baked to a soft, porous cakelike outside, at a touch of a fork the insides rush forth in a chocolate lava--delicious). All in all, a wonderfully promising beginning to a much-anticipated week-long break.

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?

"My Naughty Little Sister"

Tonight at dinner, over a pot of turkey and rice, Merry looked up with great expectation. "Can I tell Daddy about our day?" she asked with excitement. I felt all too ready to acquiesce. Of course she told Daddy about the epic part of the day, this morning when

I decided, through my dread, to carve up a turkey that finished baking at midnight last night. The well-browned, well-endowed fowl nestled in its mass of gulutunous juices. I covered my bases, cleaning off counters and sink and positioning Elspeth in her chair, equipping her with a long length of butcher paper and crayons. I retreived the electric knive from the shadowy dusty corners of an unused cabinet and set to.

I had not set to very long, however, before Elspeth got wind of my distracted, grease-covered state and completed her transformation into Grendel--no, actually, Grendel's mother. NO MERCY. She immediately scribbled on a newly painted wall and began tearing around the house. I rinsed my hands and disciplined her, and cleaned the wall, and then returned to the exasperating electrical cord and trembling turkey fat. Elspeth once again pounced.

She pushed a chair to the counter, helped herself to cake, unloaded a kitchen cabinet, ran laps around the house with chokables in her mouth, colored on the same wall again, stole more crayons. By this time I was scooping masses of indistiguishable gook, along with the turkey carcass, into a pot for stewing. The kitchen resembled a war zone, and I was the defeated, dirty, grumpy general.

Let me wrap up this entry with the following picture: Martin leaves for the night, for a meeting and reading. Merry quietly brushes Elspeth's teeth, reads her books, and I enter a darkened room from a much-needed break to find Merry rocking Elspeth on her lap, singing The Water Is Wide.

Yes, this last scene really happened. Bless the Merry-girl, and her naughty little sister, too.