Sunday morning is quiet and dark. It's the last one of the year and church is taking a day off. There was one major dog-related casualty in the night, the guts of a Buzz Lightyear pillow spilled out over the whole of the office. And the house is empty, minus two.

I think I'm fairly good at goodbyes now, and when they depart two hours before sunrise, I give long hugs and trade I love yous, stand at the door and wave through steamed glass. Then Christmas is over, I get back in bed with the children. We go back to real life and spend the afternoon by the sea. After 9 days with them, I'm full and contented. But a day or two after I miss everyone all over again, all the people who did not come. I long for my sisters, miss the company of my nephews, wish I could send the kids with their aunts and uncles into the snow.

I remember a year ago, all stuffed into Matt's parents' house, weighing suitcases and driving ice-covered Wisconsin backroads. We had left home on our long way back home. We'd already lived two and a half years in the in-between, what was two more weeks, anyway? In the basement, we'd sit on our knees, sifting through our past and future, packing and repacking what would remain. Christmas was sweet, yet heavy. Time was both long and short. We were finally, blessedly moving on.

Today our home awakes. Most of us, anyway. Cocoa sleeps on her couch, exhausted by the early morning shenanigans. The children trade turns eating and playing, Beautiful Day plays on the radio (my favourite thing about Christian radio here is the prevalence of U2 on the playlist, even if the DJ speaks only in Irish this morning). Laundry and hoovering and one last piece of chocolate pie wait for me. We made it together, my grandma and me, here in my kitchen. In my house. In this country we now call home. She left pie and pictures and memories in her wake. A year of settling insanity, a giant cake of beautiful change, topped with the icing of family on Christmas morn.

The house is quiet, dark. Empty but full. I'll take it, 2013. I'll take it.

My "one word" for this year was HOME. And I think we made good on it, making home here. I've not yet got my word for 2014, weighing a couple in my mind and wondering what this next year could hold. Did you have a word for 2013? A resolution, a hope? How did it go?

These are a few (from 2013) :: In the shadows of someone's masterpiece

Oak Park is a dream. When I close my eyes and try to remember when, I realize the colour of the floorboards is gone. I can't find the smell of the bookshop. We moved away from those tree-lined streets 12 years ago and I find myself still wishing we could go back, sit in the park across from Hemingway's old place, my head in your lap and the church bells ringing.

We would ride our bikes on those streets, looking at these old victorian houses, the craftsman porches. You had your favourites and I had mine, and we envisioned this prairie life in the city, where we'd walk our children to school. Sit on the porch swing. Knock down some walls and plant a lilac bush. Open our own bookshop.

There were all these Frank Lloyd Wright places and we could never decide on one. You know, just in case. You liked the one with steep, sharp angles. I like the one with the rounded front door. These were our Sundays, spent in the shadows of someone's masterpiece.

Oh, we had so much time.



I think about it now, and what we thought growing up looked like, what success looked like. I sit here, today, coffee in hand by the kitchen door. I see the carrots popping up and the hydrangea sprouting new leaves and how our children prayed for a tree. Who'd have thought He'd give us so many trees we'd have to cut down a few just to make room? I watch as the yellow sun on our garden turns to grey and the rain comes in. I smile when I hear it on our skylight, I'm so glad I haven't put out the laundry yet.

It's not Oak Park, not the dream of those houses, not the porch swing, no Chicago skyline. There is no mortgage here, no deed. Frank Lloyd Wright never came to Ireland and I don't think Hemingway wrote from behind these windows.

But we have covered walls with paint swatches. You fret over the lino-wood flooring. The tree out front is in bloom. And we sit in the bay window, in our landlord's two leather chairs, king and queen of our own masterpiece.

Not the house, not the city, not the country, nothing but His design. 

I still cry over Oak Park, that we left and can't go back. I know it's all aglow in wistful unreality. I know we're changed and it's changed. I know these 10-plus moves in 10-plus years can really do a girl in. My homesickness is truly all over the map. But when you first brought me home a week after our wedding, with our quilt on the bed and the chest you built and your grandparents' old dresser, I didn't know I'd only ever want to live there. Frozen in time, forever. I didn't know that a dozen years later when I'd close my eyes, I'd still feel those floorboards beneath my feet.

And now that I can't see the colour, can't smell the books, can't remember what road that one house was on, I realize forever has changed. A dozen years from now, when I close my eyes, this is what I'll see: me at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, looking out on our back garden to the trees our children prayed for. 

Not the house, not the city. I will only see the masterpiece.

May 2013

***

These are a few of my favourite posts from this year, things I've written during this epic phase of resettling in Ireland. If you blog, leave me a comment below with a favourite post of yours from this year. Would love to read how you saw yourself and those around you in 2013.

We are gathered under His light :: at home in Ireland

Yesterday we took that wee trip to Lough Key, rain lashing down on us half the time; the other half scattered with sun. We listened to a Harry Potter book on tape, there and back, laughing at Stephen Fry's voice inflections, cheering for Ireland in the Quidditch World Cup.

The wee lad napped twice and the girl bought a pumpkin and the eldest decided hiking was a fun adventure after all. We also had a near-death experience on an old metal elevator, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed for the better part of an hour. We ate greasy food at an Irish fast-food joint and we raided a tidy little organic cafe in search of the loo. We ordered tea for two and mined stories from the kids: if they remembered our last visit, how Asher was only 8 months old, how Matt held the other two in the crook of a tree. Dusk comes fast this time of year and by the time we reached home at 6pm, the pitch blackness was overshadowed by a warm kitchen welcoming us back. Home. Back home.

And now as I write, a child is in the bath and one cleans his room and another one makes art projects she learned from a friend. It rains sideways, again, and the writing nook frames the oranges and reds and greens waving beyond our windows. The afternoon is mostly calm, gearing up for the Halloween rush and I'm just now able to sit back and watch... listen... as our life finds its rhythm.

Several weeks ago we read Jesus Calling to the kids. Life is an adventure with God, she hears Him say, and while anxiety and frustration and impatience lie in wait, we need only look for Him, listen for Him, to know that He is in it and with us all the while. There are no coincidences, only His orchestrations, or - as Andy Crouch calls it - full catastrophes, this beautiful dissonance of human existence.

For the children, and for us, it often goes unsaid and forgotten, misplaced in the chaos, hidden under school lunches and behind toy boxes. But in this month and the days of writing these words of home and life and power showers and tears in the McDonalds drive-thru, I see Him in it.

Familiar mums hold my place. A child curls up against the radiator. Matt off to work, dedicated to restoration. We revisit the places of our past, make memories for the future and open our doors for people to sit and eat and rest awhile. We place a pendant over the kitchen table and gather under it's light for dinner.

Today is the last day of our writing class and a man reads a poem they all know well. At the end of each stanza they recite the lines together, heads nodding in unison, laughing,

A pint of plain is your only man.

Can't you see Him in everything? 

 

Thank you for joining me in these 31 days at home in Ireland. 

Maybe you should come visit... I'll put the kettle on for you. Just in case.
But before I go, tell me: where do you see Him, in anything?

The imaginary life at home in Ireland

When it is midterm break, I write in the mornings. The children have creeped downstairs to watch a documentary on birds of the African air and the coffee is perfection. They feed, clothe and entertain themselves so I can sneak away to my pinterest-inspired nook and write a few words in the autumn sunrise. The burning bush out front is half-bare, undressing slowly each day, leaving its tiny red leaves like a tease from our front door.

Our house is a sanctuary, a tidy one. The only thing out of place is a creamy throw welcoming visitors as they sit on our sofa, which is not broken under the back left corner, nor is it pink velour covered with a fading blue-flowered brocade. It is deep and cushiony and I slipcovered it myself. The house smells of vanilla and cinnamon. The children eat fresh fruit under the pendant lamp. The bathrooms are clean and my bed no longer squeaks.

After a calm morning of writing (me) and reading (them), we walk in the tall shadows, collecting leaves and skipping ahead. No one cries over fear of bike-riding, no one fights over the Harry Potter DS game that has been bought and sold no less than three times between two siblings. No one has to go to the bathroom. No, no, we walk and walk under the always blue sky of Ireland. We find four leaf clovers without looking. And when we return home, we cuddle up under that same ivory throw and instagram our extreme Irish cuteness for far away friends to see. We all fit in the same frame at the same time and our smiles display the contendness we feel on our imaginary couch in our imaginary living room in the big house we own in a breathtakingly perfect country.

"Ow!"

That's me, waking up from the reverie. There has been some sort of lightsaber play up and down the stairs, and cheap plastic has hit delicate fingers and her squeal brings me back to life. This life. The one right here. Our burning bush is as it was above, but there is a bra on the floor by my unused sewing machine-turned-desk and a child standing next to me, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy." I can't understand half the words he says and I worry for his speech development.

My coffee went cold 20 minutes ago and I'm too lazy to get some more (the coffee's cold downstairs, too, a hidden clue of the recent time change). The girl is in her room pouting. Laundry and rubbish await my arrival downstairs. The eldest appears to be missing.

We finished painting our bedroom and bathroom - an 8-month process - before the landlord comes to have a look at our power shower that's been out of service for five days. There is paint on the woodwork, on the floor and the baseboards, and I'm fearful he'll take out his white glove and chastise me. I told Matt last night, "I don't want to lose our deposit!" forgetting once again I want to "live here forever." How quickly we forget and fade back into our old ways of unpacking, living, packing and moving within a year's cycle. How temporary everything feels, as the leaves fall down and I'm so afraid to miss each one's descent, I cry at the thought of it. Autumn will be over so soon and even now darkness envelopes our house by the dinner-bell hour.

It's a mess and I'm still a mess, even though we are finally at home here. It is not perfect, and I'm frustrated more - by the kitchen counter, tapping my foot and making mental lists - than I'm content in the window seat, drinking from this same cup and reading in the sun. I've still not balanced the peace with the crazy. Don't think I ever will.

And yet, the four-year-old has made himself at home in our bed. Curled up in sheets that now match the duvet that now matches the walls, which now match the vision in our head. In the morning autumn light he laughs at me. And if nothing else in the house but the bed is a refuge for a wild child on this week off from school... if nothing else gets made and tidied but those sheets... if the house is a giant nest of chaos, reeds of toys and papers webbing in and through each nook and cranny, it still contains these five souls at its center. 

And we are not going anywhere.



Joining Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write. Join us.

The first time :: at home in Ireland

"Matt and I are so grateful for our new home, though we do give in to occasional bouts of wistfulness thinking about all the times we have moved house, started over... But as we drive through the hills, take our children to the ocean, worship with Irish believers, and meet new friends, we are reminded of God's goodness in inviting us to share this all with Him." | May 2008

In five years, everything can change and look remarkably the same. We moved to Ireland, the first time, on this day. I can hardly remember it, and yet it doesn't seem like it should be this way, like it should feel so long ago.

Ella had just learnt to walk. Jack hadn't even begun primary school. And Asher was just a dream.



We sat around the dining room table remembering, visiting the home of our old neighbours. Hans poured wine and Matt looked up, "Five years ago this week was when we first met." We toasted and laughed, thinking of the babies and the warm spring day we picnicked on a farm. It was a lifetime ago (Asher's lifetime and then some, actually).

I'm pausing, remembering. We have come back different people. 

I'm tempted to grieve it, though I'm not sure what we've lost. Continuity, idealism, adventure? These all went home and came back with us, but still we are different. Ireland is different.

Still beautiful, still green, still filled with songs, still calling our hearts, still making us home. The point is, it's our anniversary, nonetheless. Five years ago was the start and today we celebrate it, here.

Where were you five years ago today? Did you think you'd be here, wherever you are?

[a repost from May]

Of kids' clubs and extracurricular activities

Every other week, we trek to Dun Laoghaire for kids' club. During rush hour. Usually in the rain. At dusk. 

Yes, it can be an ordeal. Kids' club nights mean we're eating dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon and driving 40 minutes with three sometimes cranky kiddos. Homework has got to get done, and everyone must eat and go to the bathroom and take a car activity. And when we get home it's nearly bedtime, and everyone is still wired and ready for second dinner.

But it's worth it.

You see, we don't do a lot of extracurriculars. My kids aren't exactly, um, athletic (picture me whispering athletic, because this is usually how I say it to a new friend when I feel bad my kids aren't more, well, athletic). In truth, Ella is or will be, but her sport of choice will probably end up being track or cross country or wrestling and that's a few years down the road yet. Hopefully. But Jack just isn't interested. And that's OK. As much as I want him to explore new things and occasionally get out of his comfort zone (and his nose out of a book), I'm learning not to force things on him that he is not gifted towards. So finding low-cost, low-risk things they can get involved with after school can be difficult.

And our lifestyle isn't exactly routine day-in and day-out. Matt's work schedule is different every day and the car is not always at my disposal. Committing to a once or twice weekly activity isn't realistic for us now. Just getting homework done is afternoon-long activity in itself!

In lieu of committing to things I'm not sure my children will enjoy or benefit from, we drive 40 minutes to kids' club in rush hour traffic every other week. They play games with and get to know other kids, spend time with our friend who youth pastors there and whom they've known nearly their whole lives, and Asher and I get a change of scenery.

This is just one small thing that works for us, right now. One tiny bit of routine we can all look forward to. One more way we've settled into home here. It probably won't last forever and I'm hoping we can integrate swimming or a library activity from time to time. But you do what you can, right?

One more bonus: on a rare day, we get to see a sight like the one above. Like I said, totally worth it.

The flip side :: At home in Ireland

And then...

And then there are the days you're all alone. The house is devoid of food. You have taken stock and made the list and prepared the children and remembered the shopping bags.

Of course, you forget the list and the children forget you or any word of virtue you've ever spoken. The grocery store is full and they trail behind you leap-frogging and crashing into the cheese aisle. One physically removes himself from the trolley (cart) at the till (register), getting stuck and crying to anyone who will listen. You bag your own bags and give your brood the curtest, loudest (because you just don't care anymore how quiet your American voice is) direction to Go. Now. 

Everyone does the perp walk down to the car, sitting fretfully in a row in the backseat waiting for the promise of crisps. You pop open each bag and steer the car into the McDonalds drive-thru for your own small consolation of diet coke with ice.

And then you cry. Because you just miss your parents and your siblings and your home so much your heart feels forever misplaced.

Yes, sometimes, those days happen, too.

For these #31days I'm writing on what it's like to be at home in Ireland. No matter the continent, I will occasionally find myself in tears after grocery shopping. Ever happen to you?

Quirks I love about Irish homes

:: the "integrated" kitchen in our house in Meath ::

So as I sat down to write yesterday's post, I didn't realise nearly everything "different" about our new home in Ireland involved heating water. It's amazing to me this one small thing affects so much of our every day life. I know it's a perk of the first world and I am always overflowing (get it?) with thankfulness that we have easy access to hot water. Many of my friends living in other parts of the world do not have the same luxury.

Now how about the quirks I love?




The electric shower. Most Irish master bedrooms have an en suite bathroom. Ours is tiny, but now that it's painted dragonfly blue I love it 100 times more than I did last week in its dark butter incarnation. Most Irish homes will have an electric shower outfitted, either in the en suite (like ours) or the "family bath." The electric shower insures maximum, heated water pressure. A must. But in most houses, it's not on all the time. Next to your shower you may find a pullcord dangling from the ceiling. You pull it before starting your shower; then once in the shower, there's a square-shaped attachment on the wall consisting of - you guessed it - more dials. Turn one dial and the shower starts and allows you to control the heat output (ours goes to 11), turn another and the water pressure changes. Bathing is always an adventure here, and though the loud whirring of the electric shower may scare a child or two, I'm not sure I could survive without it!

The electric kettle. Oh how we missed our electric kettle when we were away. This handy thing boils your water in about a minute or less, and in a culture where tea is your constant companion, the value of this cannot be overrated! Every Irish house, apartment, office and shop has an electric kettle and we use ours multiple times a day (for tea, warming mugs, warming baths, diluting stock, etc). Electric kettles can be found in the States, but I've found them to be much more expensive, and the truth is: we just don't drink tea there like we do here. Usually the minute one opens his or her door, you'll hear: "Do you want some tea? I'll put the kettle on." There's no use denying it. You do want tea here.



The integrated kitchen. This is probably the most noticeably different thing about Irish and other European homes (apart from their size). An integrated kitchen is one in which every appliance (apart from the stove/oven/hob) is camouflaged by the same door. In our current kitchen we have beautiful solid pine cabinet doors covering our cupboards, our refrigerator and our dishwasher. Many homes also have the washing machine in the kitchen, and that can be hidden behind the same door. I love how tidy this makes everything look, even though I do miss decorating our fridge with magnets. :)

I could go on about all the little differences between homes here and in the States... closed plan vs. open plan (most rooms are enclosed, to keep in the heat), how your front door opens directly onto your driveway, the semi-detached vs. detached/bungalow vs. terraced homes (ours is semi-detached, kind of like an american duplex), the close proximity to other houses balanced with high fenced-in back yards/gardens...

The truth is, while it may seem foreign at first, once it becomes yours, it becomes home.

So, did I miss anything? Have any questions on how some of this stuff works? Are you convinced of your need for an electric kettle? What is your home like in your part of the world?

Fun quirks about Irish homes

:: Jack in the short-term flat ::

When Matt's parents came to visit us in our old place, they were amazed by many of our Irish conventions. His dad spent an afternoon documenting our bathrooms and cupboards and kitchen layout. Having lived here over a year at the time, it was a bit funny to see our Irish house through new American eyes. We tend to forget how foreign it all seemed at first glance, when today most everything feels familiar, if not normal.

There are a few things, though, that take a bit longer getting used to...

Like the water heater. It's got a rotary dial, with tiny little switches corresponding to times of day. It goes by the 24-hour clock which is it's only little brand of confusing (who needs am/pm??), but there's also no clear indication on which way you push the little dial notches to turn the water heater on. Even when you get that sorted, the thermostat (which is separate, in another room) has to be turned on enough for the heat to kick on through the radiators. THEN you can get hot water... if the heat's not on in the house, it's not on in the water either.

Or the radiators. I actually quite love them. They are attached to the wall and handy for drying clothes on and leaning up against to warm against the cold, damp winter's chill. We have a radiator in every room, and in the upstairs rooms, the "rads" have a handy dial numbered 1-5 in order for you to control how hot you want it. I love this! Unfortunately, our downstairs rads are not so helpful, and whilst you can turn one to the right in one room, another room has you turning it left, and some don't budge at all. So if you don't want heat in the summer, best to leave the aforementioned water heater off at all times, and turn to...

The hot water immersion tank. This is a giant fun thing found in the upstairs hot press (linen closet, which I guess in olden days was where you stored damp linens to dry). Ours has two switches: an on/off switch and a bath/sink switch. In the winter, we don't typically use the immersion tank because we have the water heater on downstairs. But in the summer, if you want a hot bath or hot water for dirty dishes, you gotta flip the switch. I've not really figured out a good system for this, and am almost always giving the children cold baths.

So, apparently all the little things I'm still figuring out have to do with heating water. Tomorrow I'll tackle the things I love, which... actually... also have to do with heating water... like the electric kettle!

To be continued.

The marriage bed

When Matt first brought me home to the brownstone apartment in Oak Park, we laid down in the marriage bed belonging to his grandparents. It was thick and dark, heavy old wood, storing memories like secrets we would never know. I guess you would call it mid-century, all clean lines and right angles and the start of our prairie life together.

Unfortunately, we broke it less than a year in, the victim of a tickle fight. I swear.

Fate and Jesus would have it that my job at the bookshop provided a hefty Christmas bonus. I'd never had one before - a full time job or a Christmas bonus - and suddenly my rash refusal to put off returning to school seemed fortuitous. We apologized to the parents for accidentally destroying their birthright, took that $500 bonus and bought a mattress set and faux-wrought-iron Ikea bed. Happy Y2K.

That bed moved from Chicagoland to Kansas City with us. It's gone from apartment to house to apartment again, up flights and flights of stairs, been crated and shipped overseas, held our babies as I nursed them to sleep. It's been jumped on, fought on, loved on, peed on, stored for several years and put back together again, always worse for the wear. Still beautiful, still ours, but old and rackety as 14 years, ten moves and three children will do to you.



Today the marriage bed is on its last leg. This bed... this bed is so done. Just sitting on it feels like you're breaking its back. The sounds it makes when I roll over at night keep me awake, not to mention the wee lad sharing the other side of our wall. It literally sounds like it's dying, creaking and groaning loudly with every midnight breath. Between the noise and the no sleeping, it's time to go.

I'm not particularly torn up about it, as beds (even beautiful mid-century oak beds; even especially Ikea beds) don't last forever. The mattresses are wearing thin, too, and at this point in life and marriage, it's time to trade up. And while we know it's time - probably way past time if we were to be honest - I'm dreading it. It's not just the money (of which we have none) or the memories (of which we have so much), but it's the time and the effort and the discernment. It's the future we must take into account now, making the wisest, cheapest, best decision for our family. It's the stress of getting it wrong, spending too much, wincing over every knick or scrape or squeak. I'm all a ball of nerves just thinking about it, the anxiety rising with every move in the night.

And, you know, it's our marriage bed. At 35 I love it as much as I did at 21, in all its fake wrought iron and brushed metal finials glory. It makes every house a home, holds every secret.

But, you know, I kinda hate it, too. Secrets will only allow you so much sleep. Secrets, and lumbar support.

***

I have this habit of writing odes to inanimate objects; the marriage bed is just the latest. What do you love/hate in your own home?

I come home

My house is very quiet. With the wee three gone and Matt at work, it's just me and the washing machine. And I love it. I don't want to do anything with this time. I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want to clean, I don't want to read. I don't even want to write.

I just want to sit and listen to it. The quiet.

I'm taking long, deep breaths. My heart rate is resting. I hear the voice(s) in my head. I wait.

At some point the actual writing here will start up again. My fuzzy brain will empty out and new ideas and questions and words will flow again. But for right now, for today or this week or however long it takes, I sit in the silence of the reprieve. I come home.

In Autumn, I'm homesick for everywhere

While August takes its last breath, Autumn has come to Ireland. Those late night sunsets and early morning wake-up calls giving way to dark skies in time for bed. Matt crouches beside an outdoor fire, smelling of Colorado and camp singalongs. We fashion smores here with chocolate digestive biscuits, which is really the better way to do it, anyway. Who hasn't lost a Hershey square or two from lack of melting?

This was meant for Asher's birthday, but company and cool rain postponed the crowning event. He's not keen on cake, but could live off biscuits. And marshmallows on sticks. And cardboard, but that's beside the point. It's still summer holidays, and we - who never plan much more than a week in advance and dread the long days and endless Wii fights - we are eeking out a bit more of this season.

Fall is my very favourite thing, as we Americans calls it. My Irish friends think it's such a strange name, lacking the colour of Autumn, the rhythm of it. Whatever name you choose, wherever we are, my favourite memories are coloured in Autumn. They smell of Autumn. And when he strikes up the chiminea and I open our window, I smell chili cookoffs and football season and first day of class and falling in love. 

I bounce and stir on a hayride, waiting to see if he'll touch my hand.
I trace Chicago leaves as they turn and drape the city streets.
I ride my bike to the bookshop, feeling every ounce of fresh freedom.
I am pregnant and cuddled under a blanket on a balcony, counting kicks.
I see my mother and her umbrella at the meeting of the waters.

In Kansas, come this time, I am always desperate for it: this smell, the crackling, the turn of the weather. But here, it surprises me with its promptness. Autumn arrives on time in Ireland. Early, even. And before I know it, before I prepare myself with pumpkin spiced recipes and early season sweater sales, I am homesick. For everywhere. 

I can't help it, can't shake it, but I wouldn't even want to.

Soon, I'll be homesick for this memory, too.

Writing with Heather of the EO for Just Write.

Binging on living, for today

The house is a mess.

We came home from Germany to three adorably sleeping children and a beautifully orderly home, vacuumed and wiped down to perfection by my mom and sister. Then we promptly trashed it. We stayed up till 1am watching Say Yes to the Dress. We spent all day walking a seaside town and falling over in sand. I relinquished all sense of motherly duty and ran around Dublin with my sister, trying on veils and flipping through wedding books. We have spent these last two weeks living, wildly. Our kitchen counters and sticky floors are less than pleased.

But tomorrow my mother returns home, my sister already there. I'll leave city centre adventures behind and spend the day in the laundry room. We'll run from shop to shop to shop finding uniforms and shoes and stocking up on little boy underwear. I'll have to jump-start the menu planning and act like I care about groceries and budgets and three square meals.

And I know I'll be so homesick for family - this is the flipside of visitors, for they always leave and you will be reminded anew of the sacrifice - that just rolling out of bed will take courage and kleenex.

So for one last day, we won't clean. We'll play fast and loose with the rules. We'll send Granny off with a bang, and maybe some dessert.

Tomorrow the recovery will start, the school prep will begin, maybe the bathroom light will get fixed.

But not today.



Go ahead, let's encourage eachother: what one thing will you put off till tomorrow?

No fear for cold

For someone who says she hates summer, I am certainly head over heels for it today.

For today, all day, it is hot enough to languish in the sun. To wear shorts and hang load after load of laundry. To lay out a blanket and call it a picnic.

Asher comes in, in the early morning, declaring he's a "naked baby" (again; this is fairly common), and we don't mind. Because it's hot. He's three weeks toilet trained, now, so he and his underwear are good friends. The little nautical striped briefs go everywhere. He uses them as a holster. As a tool belt. As a power ranger thingy-whatever-that-is. Legos stick out from the sides and a plastic blue toy he uses as a phone. He is a naked baby, all day, no fear for cold.

Last summer, when the heat was so bad, bearing down on us like hell in humidity, there was no escape. No yard/garden to run willy-nilly in. Nowhere to run but up to the north woods. We were encased, pent up like animals in heat, so exhausted from sun we dare not open a curtain.

But this year, we fling the windows wide, airing out a long winter. We spend all day outside (OK, some of the day outside; there was still Wii-playing and video-watching). We get out the hose and let the kids have a run through it; her clothes dripping wet, she drops them on the spot and up on the line they go. We picnic in the back garden, hot dogs spilling into grass. 

I know too soon this will be over, and last week will return next week, when mist came in through the windows and I sat in this very chair contemplating my collection of scarfs instead of sweating under the sun. Today I guzzle cold water for I know next week I'll be nursing hot tea. Probably. Maybe.

Or it could stay like this forever.

This week, the country feels magical. Everyone is giggly; I can hear it on the road and from the houses. Grown adults eat popsicles in the street. The radio announcers thank their American guests, sure this weather can only come from the New World. We chat over the fence to our neighbours, the woman at the till remarks at the luck.

So sunny, so warm, so much summer for such an island as Ireland.

***

Linking up with Heather of the EO and Just Write.

The shadows of someone's masterpiece

Oak Park is a dream. When I close my eyes and try to remember when, I realize the colour of the floorboards is gone. I can't find the smell of the bookshop. We moved away from those tree-lined streets 12 years ago and I find myself still wishing we could go back, sit in the park across from Hemingway's old place, my head in your lap and the church bells ringing.

We would ride our bikes on those streets, looking at these old victorian houses, the craftsman porches. You had your favourites and I had mine, and we envisioned this prairie life in the city, where we'd walk our children to school. Sit on the porch swing. Knock down some walls and plant a lilac bush. Open our own bookshop.

There were all these Frank Lloyd Wright places and we could never decide on one. You know, just in case. You liked the one with steep, sharp angles. I like the one with the rounded front door. These were our Sundays, spent in the shadows of someone's masterpiece.

Oh, we had so much time.



I think about it now, and what we thought growing up looked like, what success looked like. I sit here, today, coffee in hand by the kitchen door. I see the carrots popping up and the hydrangea sprouting new leaves and how our children prayed for a tree. Who'd have thought He'd give us so many trees we'd have to cut down a few just to make room? I watch as the yellow sun on our garden turns to grey and the rain comes in. I smile when I hear it on our skylight, I'm so glad I haven't put out the laundry yet.

It's not Oak Park, not the dream of those houses, not the porch swing, no Chicago skyline. There is no mortgage here, no deed. Frank Lloyd Wright never came to Ireland and I don't think Hemingway wrote from behind these windows.

But we have covered walls with paint swatches. You fret over the lino-wood flooring. The tree out front is in bloom. And we sit in the bay window, in our landlord's two leather chairs, king and queen of our own masterpiece.

Not the house, not the city, not the country, nothing but His design. 

I still cry over Oak Park, that we left and can't go back. I know it's all aglow in wistful unreality. I know we're changed and it's changed. I know these 10-plus moves in 10-plus years can really do a girl in. My homesickness is truly all over the map. But when you first brought me home a week after our wedding, with our quilt on the bed and the chest you built and your grandparents' old dresser, I didn't know I'd only ever want to live there. Frozen in time, forever. I didn't know that a dozen years later when I'd close my eyes, I'd still feel those floorboards beneath my feet.

And now that I can't see the colour, can't smell the books, can't remember what road that one house was on, I realize forever has changed. A dozen years from now, when I close my eyes, this is what I'll see: me at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, looking out on our back garden to the trees our children prayed for. 

Not the house, not the city. I will only see the masterpiece.

wordless wednesday {garden revolution}

Things that happen when the dad is away

OK, so background: When I was a freshman in college, my mom and sis were away for a week. I was driving back to KC from school late at night when I started having car trouble. Thinking my sad car wouldn't make it to my dad's house, I stopped by my mom's to let the car rest a bit and gather some things.

At 1am, as I reached to open the back door, there was no handle to turn. The door had been kicked open by a size 9 boot, the house was ransacked, and the front door was swinging wide. Still swinging. As in, they just left, these mean robbers who stole our computer and tv and beautiful new CD player/radio my dad had just given me for graduation. Even the couch was upturned, kitchen drawers ripped out, our cat was missing, and the only thing left untouched was the baby grand piano. And that front door was still creaking in the wind.

I'm not sure I'll ever forget it, this one act of violation. A stranger coming into your home and leaving it bare. I was safe, fine, the police came and my dad rescued me.

But the memory stays.

***



Well, here we are again. Back to having Matt gone for a few days and I'm staying up way past my bedtime watching shows online waiting for bad men to come kill me and steal my macbook. I always tell him, "No it's fine, go! Have fun! Do what you do! We'll be grand!" But in the end, I scowl at him from the window as he departs, leave him with short kisses, saying, "No, really, fine. Go. Have fun. Whatever." It's the true mettle of life overseas, how well the wife and mom can do on her own for long stretches of time.

It's ok, really. I'm an adult, you know. I have birthed three children and travelled to Israel by myself at 19 and can drive on the left side of the road in bustling city centre traffic. But leave me alone overnight in a new-to-me house and WIND and creaking and three kiddos and no one to make me coffee in the morning or protect me from killers... I mean, really. It's fine. Go.

Anyway, here are the things that happen when the dad is away:

1. Invite people over for dinner and they bring their own pizza dough! Brilliant idea! Big hit with kids. New friends for life.
2. Tell man who comes to door working for UNICEF, asking for donations, "I'm sorry, I can't make a commitment right now because my husband is out of town." Well done, Karen.
3. Wait all night for nice looking (but probably totally crazy) UNICEF man to come back with his other good for nothing UNICEF friends to steal your babies.
4. Kitchen gets cleaned. Kitchen stays cleaned. I'm not naming names.
5. Kids are in bed by bedtime.
6. Watch three episodes of Doctor Who back-to-back until you pass out on your laptop. This is good for staying awake and becoming paranoid. Also, I may have an addiction.
7. Kids are up way before you are.
8. Pizza for breakfast (pretty sure this happens when the mom is away, too).
9. While you sleep in, the three year old demolishes an entire package of custard cremes, only to wake you up at 8:30 demanding more "snacks."
10. Netflix.

This is only just Day One with the dad away. I'm hoping we may actually venture out of doors, enjoy the sun (?) and build a fort or two. But I'm also counting on delivery from the chipper, diet coke in the fridge and three more seasons of Doctor Who to keep me company until Matt returns home.

At any rate, I'll return the favour next month when I'm away for almost an entire week. To France. For work. Boom.

***

Are you a home alone person, or a stay up all night waiting for robbers and/or killers person?

Low budget writing nook

Since moving, my writing has been a bit... er... irregular. My trusty macbook fizzled nearly as soon as we landed on Irish soil (bad battery, bad charger, dying motherboard, etc.) and our desktop is stationed in our office/library/playroom, so it's been taken over by a 3 year old with an addiction to Netflix.

I had this vision for a place to write in the bay window of our bedroom, away from the bustle of the kitchen and the laundry, looking out on that one tiny mountain in the distance. But, you know, feeding the kids and getting car insurance and other such adult responsibilities take priority, so I sighed a lot. Pinned a lot of things. Made a very hefty to do list for Matt ("you know, whenever you can, no rush...(sigh)"). But tonight, a flurry of activity behind closed doors. And three children pulling me upstairs, "Close your eyes!" And voila, a writing nook.

1. Leftover piece of plywood
2. Old macbook resuscitated by a new cord charger.
3. Cuppa tea in my favourite Pride & Prejudice Penguin Books mug.
4. Cadbury Dairy Milk (mint crisp)
5. Thank you cards to be written
6. Matt's workshop sawhorses
7. Thrifted chair "borrowed" from the kitchen table.
8. Lovely view at dusk
Not pictured: Mood music courtesy of Sufjan, the man and three children who made it possible, and a whole lot of junk on the bed having just been moved from under the window to make space for a nook.

Sometimes, you just make do. Or rather, sometimes others will make something special out of seemingly nothing at all. Just for you.

My one word for this year is HOME, as in, we are making one. Here... again. Not just things, but a people and a place and a life. Do you have a word for this year? Or how are you learning to just make do?

Sentimental birthday typo

We just celebrated Matt's birthday this week, and like all things with Big Plans, the day got little out of whack. I came down with a bad full-body cold and the weather dipped below freezing, so our fun day out with Ash in the city was a no-go.

I decided to redeem the day by special ordering snow (thanks, God) and designing a subway art picture to commemorate the life Matt and I have lived together all these 13+ years. I've seen these everywhere online and thought to my delusional self, "That can't be that hard." And in truth, it wasn't. I just picked an idea - cities we've called home - played around with fonts and layouts, and voila! Homemade pressie for husband of the year.

I mean, really, look at this touching, yet simple, sentimental work of art.  I was seriously so proud of this I posted it on Facebook so people could ooh and aah over my wifely awesomeness. Oh, hey, what's that? A typo?! Yeah, so apparently, not that awesome. I am queen of submitting, publishing, printing, sending of anything and everything right before discovering the typo. This is just the latest in my line of almost perfection.

But Matt, he loves it anyway. He says it's an homage to one of our favourite albums, (Come on Feel the) Illinoise by Sufjan Stevens. And maybe he's right and it's only for us, anyway. And he can't spell, either. Match made in heaven.

Pinning with Karen {an update on my One Word}

It's a lazy day in our home. Matt is away, kids and I are having an Avengers marathon, and the snow that drowned Kansas City has finally made it's way across the ocean. I'm sad to report it's lost a lot of steam and seems to be dropping half-heartedly from the sky like it's given up after such an eventful week. Nonetheless, when a kid shouts, "It's snowing!" even if it's just a microscopic flake or two, we all feel a little festive.

And if you've noticed a round of silence on this here blog, it's because we are still neck-deep in moving, unpacking, cleaning, organizing and personalizing. Most rentals here come mostly furnished, so while we've got a lot of stuff to work with (wardrobes, pots and pans, mattresses), we've also got a lot of stuff to give away, sell, store and clean. Even though it is a rental, we're attempting to turn this bachelor pad of a house into a family home. And since we're on a tight budget, Pinterest and it's plethora of DIY goodies has become my late-night gal-pal.

A few of the gems I've found:

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You know I'm not particularly crafty, and DIY stuff usually makes me break out in hives, but I've got a man who builds and a Pinterest board dedicated just to him:

I'm excited to make this house our home, to fill it with people and food and a cozy place to read. And to paint, too. Imma need to paint some stuff. Stat.

My one word for this year is HOME. It's not just about the house where we sleep, but also it's cultivating the people who inhabit it, especially me and my haughty heart. 

Did you pick a "one word" this year? How's it going?