Oh, and also

We need milk.

Trying out delight for size, in five

I started it. My list.

1. Red front doors.

Things to be thankful for, not just things that make me happy. But they do make me happy. I recognize the joy in them. The delight.

2. A fire on a cold day.

They're not there for nothing. Not given for waste. There is only one reason beauty exists in this world. Common grace.

3. My firstborn, 9 and healthy.

I could be cynical and ignore it. I try to. Only for the flowery, I say. Only for the farmer women, the super holy ones, the ones who cry watching the Hallmark channel.

4. Cookies for breakfast.

This is not for the woman with hard lines, with snark and sass and attitude. Not for the doubter, the wanderer.

5. Pink cheeks to match her pink shirt.

But it is. Because it's a crime, a sin, to not bear witness. To recognize it, to delight in it, to accept it is saying thank you.

6. A moose hat to keep the wee lad warm.

It is saying, "I know. I see You. It's all from You, and it's all Yours."

7. A roomy apartment to shelter us. (Forgive me... I have been so ungrateful for it.)

He withholds no good thing from us.

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Five Minute Friday with GypsyMama.

Heart-shaped pizza for five, please

I spent the day with my four valentines.

The first Valentine, he is all heart and soul, rising early for cuddles and carefully signing Transformers valentines for his classmates. He calls each one friend, and for this, I'm so grateful.

The second Valentine spent most of this February day in soccer shorts, with multiple watches and armbands aligning each wrist and throwing away the sweet little clips I hoped - one day, maybe just one day - would adorn her hair. She spends her quiet time practicing her hearts, bringing me her best, sealed with a kiss.

My third Valentine had a bit of a nudity problem as the night wore on, having spent most of the day in his jimmer jammers, jammin' on his guitar and wedging himself into crevices. His affection for me is carefully balanced with screams, as he follows me yelling, "HUGS!" or "MOVIE!" or "I DIDN'T DO IT!" These outbursts are quickly followed by kisses, baby snot, and the eventual stripping, streaking and bathtime.

This is how a mother spends her Valentine's Day, surrounded by these creatures of mystery, sharing a heart-shaped pizza and refilling cups of milk.

And the fourth Valentine? He cleaned the kitchen and kissed me long as he headed out the door for a meeting. Those two gifts were equally amazing.



How did you spend your Valentine's Day?

As it is with the menu, so it shall also be with you {part 3 of 52... maybe}

I am a terrible planner and organizer, and by extension, a kind of lazy and frantic mother. Implementing long term strategies isn't something I think about in between nappy changes, feeding frenzies, and the snooze alarm. So menu planning kind of scares me. Literally. The words menu and planning could not be less intrinsically karen.

But here I find myself a month into menu planning (project five from One Bite at a Time, which is also available for free download). I'm not talking a freezer stocked with a month's worth of meals, casseroles, and soups. I'm talking a week. One week. That's it. My menu planning is for one week at a time. And then I start again.

Here's how it works:

Start with the sales.

On Tuesday night/Wednesday morning when the sale papers come out, I scour for the cheapest produce. For us, it's usually chicken and/or ground beef (sometimes roast or pork).

Search recipes based on produce.

Once the produce is decided, I peruse my recipe book or my Delicious account for dinner recipes. When I find a few recipes or some meal stand-bys I know we all love, I go back to the sale paper and look for additions: side dishes, snacks, veg, dairy... anything that will complement the meals or feed us in between times.

Only plan for dinner.

The key here is I only plan for dinner (as Tsh suggests). Breakfast is very low key at our house: coffee for everyone and cereal for most (I kid). Lunchtime finds us all scattered, so we usually get by on sandwiches or leftovers or more coffee.

Coupons if you have 'em.

So once I have my menu, and then my shopping list off my menu, I check coupons. Usually those are few and far between. I could shop only off coupons and then have a fridge full of junk we'd never eat, so I'm careful to only clip and use what I know we'll eat. But occasionally they line up and I know I can stock up and save more!



Write it down.

I write my original menu plan for the week in a notebook, but I also put it in our google calendar with pop-up reminders and links to the recipes online. This way, I can see and display the menu for the week, but also receive a daily reminder on my phone or email.

Only planning for one meal a day, one week at a time, takes so much pressure off! And I'm not a terrific cook (we all know the man is the culinary gifted one in our family), but I do get a tremendous sense of accomplishment through the planning, the saving, and sometimes the cooking. And we're not running to the shop every other day for something. And the kids are being well-fed from all food groups. And the man, from time to time, gets the night off. No, really, I am consciously trying to up my game in this area, to free him up to do more of what he loves and needs to do.

This may not be rocket science to you, but it most definitely has rocked our world. Knowing that I can do it, empowers me to want to do it. And if I can and want to do it, there's hope for anyone.

If you're a master meal-planner, got any tips for beginners?

With every bowl of cereal

He's counting down the days and I'm trying not to mourn the 8-years-past-baby, now 9-in-three-days boy who sleeps on Clone Wars sheets two doors down the hall. I look at him in wonder, and yet still try to avert my eyes to the obvious fact he is aging, growing, living days faster and faster.



He is proof of clocks and calendars. He is the second-hand of time. His face changes by the minute, his heart is bigger and wider. His legs are fuzzier than they used to be. His mouth quickly turns from smile to smirk to puckered lips. He knows and spells words that used to be gibberish. He reads faster than we can keep up, and we find ourselves debating and discerning, wanting to keep him naive and fresh indefinitely before his brain discovers and his heart struggles with the mysteries of evil, trouble, and heartache.

Every morning he comes to me with hugs, asks for cereal, smiles with sleep still in his eyes, and I miss him so much my insides sigh. For with every moment, every word, every book and every secret he debates to share (for big boys aren't as quick as small boys with the thoughts they quickly and happily give their mother), he is less and less mine. More and more Yours.

And I give him up to You with every bowl of cereal.