Creature Bug

Week 215: When a Golf Cart Saves the Day

I'm sitting here, in my grandparents' former house, looking out the window, watch the bats swooping and reeling outside in the night air. I'm feeling a bit reflective tonight, a state I seem to be permanently stuck in every since that For Sale sign went up in our yard. Those bats outside remind me of how much swooping and reeling my own mind has been doing this past week. For every bug a bat catches, I suspect there are thrice that many mental bugs flying around in my thoughts. One the one hand, it's vacation time and I ought to be soaking up all this gorgeous sun. On the other hand, every moment I'm at home I'm filling up boxes and trying to predict whether or not we'll need something over the course of the next year.

It isn't as though we've sold our house; we haven't even had any phone calls of interest. No, our packing isn't of the frantic, completely chaotic state. Our packing is methodical. Planned. Plenty of time to think about each and every object that goes into a box; plenty of time to wonder at which point, after which box, when which particular item is packed away becomes the tipping point. The point when our house will stop feeling like our home and more like a place that we're just living in until we finally have nothing left to keep us there.

Quite honestly, my mind is exhausted by it all. Though I have plenty more to write about this whole adventure of moving, I just can't right now.

The good news is I've had some breaks from our house over the course of this last week. Jason's parents are in Kauai, so Jason is running his dad's coffee shop until they get back. I admit that I'm just the tiniest bit bitter that I'm losing Jason to two weeks of 12-hour work days, when this is the time we should be getting to see him the most. But Jason's dad needs a vacation too, and there's no one else who can help him out except Jason. So, it's just something that has to be done.

Getting back to how this is giving me a break...we have been staying up in Washington at the Family Farm. It's usually not easier to be living away from home with the girls, but in this case--where we have a vacant house to live in without worrying about inconveniencing others--it's been good. I'm not distracted by things to pack away. I'm not worrying about messes the girls make. It took me a good long day to shake off that frantic feeling of "What Do I Need to Do Now?" I got there though, with a great deal of thanks going to the trusty farm golf cart.

Although you might think we'd be better off just walking everywhere instead of being so lazy as to require a golf cart to get around, you'd be grossly misunderstanding the real purpose of the cart: it provides endless amounts of entertainment for just about everyone. Including the dogs, but especially the kids. Certainly, the golf cart is nice in that I don't need to carry any children in my arms. Moreover, it's good for speeding up and down the hills, checking on mole traps, and overall just zipping around and seeing who's doing what.

Every day last week, I rode around on that blessed little cart, and the girls were always thoroughly entertained. We'd get in it in the morning, and over the course of a few hours make several important stops.

 

Almost daily we strip the bushes of ripe raspberries, but then, miracle of miracles, there are more the next day.

 

Only a few days until these delicious little blue babies are ready to eat.

 

Jules is crazy about eating pea pods. We pull up a plant, and she and I snack on the pods all morning long. There is something particularly endearing--and almost miraculous--about little kids eating vegetables, don't you think?

 

Sydney hasn't quite mastered the "spit the pit" trick, but she's working on it. So far her distance record is about 6". By the end of the week, let's hope she gets to at least 12".

 

And here's where we just sit and gaze at the grass that will someday be the spot where our house will go.

Between all the fresh farm produce, we stop at my parents' house to get some of my grandma's chocolate chip cookies, check on the ducks down at the pond, play in the sand, jump on the trampoline, and wander through the woods. Eventually Jules falls asleep on the golf cart, and then Sydney and I head inside to spend a bit of time playing.

Then eventually...it's back on the golf cart for an afternoon spent outdoors, where somehow everything just seems a lot easier. No piles of laundry to worry about. No whining or pulling hair. No stress.

One more week here at the farm before going back home for a longer spell, and then, well...at some point we're back up here. For good. And though I have lots of emotional bugs flying around in my head that will no doubt remain there for many months, one thing is for sure: whether we need cherries or just a distraction from the house, the sweet little golf cart will always swoop us around to where we need to go.

(C) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

A House on the Family Farm

Even though I'll probably share some of the house-building adventures on this page, I wanted to have a separate spot for all the mundane details that I somehow find extra thrilling. So, to that end, I've created a new page to document the process of building our house. (There's also a little button off on the left sidebar that will take you there too.)

The current dilemma? Columns and half-columns. I'd love your input!

PS: I even have an aerial photo of the Family Farm linked on the new page, if you are interested in that sort of thing.

Starting with the dream

Even though I looked at approximately five bazillion house plans on the Internet/in magazines/in books, I never found the perfect one. I think it's probably easier to find a plan when your options are limited. If you're building on a regular city lot, with a street in front and a backyard in back, well, you just look for a plan that you like and there you go.

But when you're building in a field where there are views out every window, when you know that to the south will be where the girls will play, to the east is where the gorgeous sun will be rising, to the north is the fruit orchard, and to the west is where the garden is growing--it's a lot harder coming up with plan.

A lot.

To complicate matters slightly, there is the whole "having a budget" and wanting to minimize our carbon footprint. It's enough to make my head spin.

Ultimately we knew we'd just have to hire someone to draw up plans for us. We interviewed a few different designers and chose the guy who specializes in Bungalow style homes--as opposed to the guy who specialized in Modern but said he could design Craftsman because "it's not that hard." Even though we're leaning more towards the Craftsman style than the Bungalow style, they have enough commonalities that we knew we would be speaking the same language.

We talked with Todd, our designer, and I pulled out The File that holds all the ideas and dreams that I've been storing up for ten years. Ten years of magazine pull sheets, ten years of sketching, ten years of determining what exactly I wanted in a house. Of course, a lot of ideas have been thrown out over the years because what I liked ten years ago isn't necessarily what I like today. And after living in my own house for seven years I have learned what works and what doesn't.

What doesn't work?

• A laundry room in the garage. I hate this about our house, but I have had THREE men visit our house and mention what a great idea it is to have a laundry room in the garage. Yeah, boys, you can do my laundry for me when it's 25 degrees in the garage.
• Hanging cabinets in the kitchen that obstruct our view. We couldn't tear them out though because we wouldn't have any place to store our plates otherwise.
• Carpet in the dining room. We managed it for five and half years and then finally replaced it with wood floors (LOVE THEM).

Other than that, we really like our house. All 1440 square feet of it. I honestly could live here for the rest of my life, but moving to the Family Farm is where we're headed. There are pluses and minuses to moving, but right now I'm focusing on the pluses (because the biggest minus is leaving town, and can't think about that right now). It's exciting, but also nerve wracking, trying to decide what you want a house to have. A house that you will more than likely live in for the rest of your life. We want to make smart decisions that we won't regret as soon as we move into the house. Decisions like:

• Having a kitchen island, with bar stools, where the kids can eat
• Having barn doors separate the office from the dining room (I'll have to scan the picture I have...it's one of the things I'm most looking forward to)
• Having a pantry
• Having a master bedroom on the main floor with an old-fashioned claw foot tub in the master bathroom
• Having lots and lots of built-in bookshelves
• Having an interior wall for the piano
• Not having areas that will be hard to clean

Last week we got some preliminary designs, and we've been poring over them every day. We're still trying to decide which direction the front of the house should face (we're thinking west), and then also decide where to put the garage and driveway. The biggest issue right now is square footage. We love what Todd came up with, but we could never afford it. Without a basement it's almost 3000sf, and we are tentatively planning on putting in a basement even though concrete has skyrocketed in cost. I'd rather not have a house payment that prevents us from ever going on vacation. Or, you know, buying food.

Nevertheless, a dream starts somewhere. Best to start big and then tailor it back from there. When Rachel was over earlier this week, we brainstormed about house possibilities and things that work and don't work (as Sawyer and Sydney played and reminded me that I TOTALLY want a place for kids to play that isn't my living room!). It's good being able to bounce ideas around with someone else, and hear from others about house features they love or wish they could change.

So...in the spirit of gathering wisdom, I'm asking for advice.

Even though I know that people live differently in their homes, I'd love to hear what features you love/hate about your house. Things like: is it really worth it to have two sinks in the master bathroom? Is having a sink in the kitchen island something you wish you had, or couldn't live without? Do you think a mud room needs to be separate from the laundry room? Do you think the laundry room should go upstairs with most of the bedrooms (a big debate in our house right now because our main floor needs square footage trimmed off, but I feel panicked about the very thought of putting the laundry room so far away from the kitchen)? If we end up having three kids, what sized bedroom is optimal for sharing (we had planned on three bedrooms--plus ours--but that will probably have to be trimmed down)?

Here's your chance to impart your housely wisdom on a very receptive person. No idea is a bad one. Except carpet in the bathroom...that's a bad idea. Otherwise, I'm taking it all in.

*****

(c) 2008 Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

Groundbreaking

It's official.

We broke ground on the future site for our new house. Well, sort of.

Tuesday, a guy was out to dig perk holes. You know, because the land was feeling pretty sad in this January weather (thank you, I'll be here all week). We couldn't be there, but my dad made sure to take plenty of pictures of The Event. Any event where there are backhoes involved is An Event, so naturally my dad even got a video of it on his super spiffy little camera that he refuses to give to me even though he gave my youngest brother one (she said bitterly).

True, these aren't holes that are going to be permanent, but they are somehow necessary to building the house. I don't know exactly what perk holes are, but I think it has something to do with whether or not we can put a septic tank in. Or a drain field. Whatever it is, I just want to make sure that I can take a nice hot bath in our new house, and this guy was the man to make sure that'll be possible.

Thank you, Mr. Perk Hole Digger. My future relaxation depends on you.

Here's the land as it faces south, where we will be just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Tyler and Sarah. Sydney can hardly contain herself, knowing that she's going to be living right next door to her bestest friend in the whole wide world.

And here's the land as it faces north. That's my parents' house on the left, otherwise known as the house I lived in my entire unmarried life. What you can't see in this picture is that over by the tallest tree in the picture is my grandma's house, and off the northwest is my aunt and uncle's house, and due west is my cousin's house. Yep, it isn't called the Family Farm for nothing.

Actual construction won't begin until this summer, and the move-in date is still many months beyond that, but every house has to start somewhere.

Ours starts with a perk hole.

Brown Eyes

'Tis the season for gift giving, and Parent Bloggers Network asked, "What makes a gift memorable?" My mind immediately went to a gift I have already written about, but thought it was worth sharing again. I just now read it again and got all weepy over it.

May your Christmas be filled with brown eyes.

*******

I would be hard pressed to remember every Christmas gift I have ever received. Of course, I'll always remember the Christmas I was pregnant and Jason got me diamond earrings. I'll remember the dress I received one year that a relative promptly proclaimed as "hideous." I'll remember the not-an-engagement ring that Jason gave me when we were dating. I'll remember the yellow puffy stuffed animal that still sits on my bed at my parents' house.

And never, for as long as I live, will I forget the year I got blue eyes instead of brown.

That year there were four identical boxes under the tree. This tag had "Stephanie," that one had "Tyler," and those over there had "Andrea" and "Jacob." Love, Mom.

With four kids, lots of grandparents, cousins, pets, aunts, uncles, and a mom and dad, you can imagine that under our Christmas tree were piles of presents. My parents didn't hold back the gifts until Christmas Eve. They were there for us to organize -- that side of the tree was for my presents, that corner for Andrea... -- and gently shake. We'd search the creases and corners of the wrapping paper to see if we could get any hints to the contents of the gift.

The four boxes were a total mystery. What could they be? What would we all be getting? Our imaginations never strayed to thoughts of socks, or pajamas, or shoes. These were real gifts. We knew it.

Christmas morning came, and we four kids tumbled into the living room after an early morning of opening stockings in my room. The 14-foot tree sparkled with tinsel and bubble lights, and there! beneath the tree! the four boxes.

Other gifts may have been opened, carols may have been sung, but the only thing on my mind was the box. Finally, with our own respective boxes in front of us, we simultaneously opened. For some reason I dawdled behind in opening, so I saw what everyone else got. My mom had made us -- hand stitched, hand stuffed, hand painted -- dolls. They looked kind of like Cabbage Patch dolls, except better because, oh! because they looked like each of us. Tyler's with sandy blond yarn hair, and blue eyes. Andrea's with long red hair, and brownish eyes. Jake's with brown hair, and brown eyes. The dolls were us.

I finished opening my present, ready to hug her close to my heart. Imagine my surprise when I saw that my doll wasn't the same. My doll was a real Cabbage Patch doll. One that my mom had stood in line for, paid extra for, bought in the knowledge that I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. My good manners kicked in, and I smiled and thanked my parents. A real Cabbage Patch doll with a shiny vinyl face and birth certificate.

But something wasn't right. I looked at my blond haired doll and noticed, of course, that she had blue eyes. I knew all blond haired dolls had blue eyes. I was old enough to know the doll codes: red hair with green eyes, brown hair with brown eyes, blond hair with blue eyes.

Blue eyes.

The wrong color.

The present opening celebration continued, but my subdued manner finally caught the attention of my mom. Stephanie, what's wrong?

I had always been proud of having blond hair and brown eyes. Dark brown, chocolate, without even a suggestion of blue. Norwegian in every way but the eyes. Those eyes were from my dad, a gift that I wasn't ashamed of. Yet, somehow, looking at this homogenized doll felt like ridicule. Being teased. Made fun of. For being different. Bitter tears of disappointment streaked down my face, even as I thought, "I should be grateful." I realized what my mom had done. She had thought I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. She had thought I would prefer the store bought one, the doll that all my friends had. She had tried to make Christmas special for me by getting me the gift that was at the top of the list. The real, not the fake.

Turns out, real and fake are sometimes in the eye of the beholder. I didn't want blue eyes. I wanted brown eyes. I wanted one that was like me, so that our four dolls could play together and be little replicas of our selves. And of course, it wasn't just about the eyes. It was also about something else -- something I couldn't articulate at that age -- about having something from my mom that I couldn't get from a store. "You didn't make me one," I cried. "You made one for them, and not for me. And her eyes are BLUE." Tears tears and more tears. (Can you believe it, I'm even crying as I type this up.)

I know I surprised my mom. She had guessed incorrectly about the state of my materialistic heart. Maybe it made her smile. Maybe it made her laugh. I hope it made her proud.

The best Christmas present I ever received wasn't the one that I got on Christmas, but the one that my mom gave me a couple weeks later. My very own Stephanie doll. Blond hair. Brown eyes.

The perfect color.

------

Share your story with PBN and be entered to win a gift certificate from Excitations.
Sk*rt this story.

'Tis the season for gift giving, and Parent Bloggers Network asked, "What makes a gift memorable?" My mind immediately went to a gift I have already written about, but thought it was worth sharing again. I just now read it again and got all weepy over it.

May your Christmas be filled with brown eyes.

*******

I would be hard pressed to remember every Christmas gift I have ever received. Of course, I'll always remember the Christmas I was pregnant and Jason got me diamond earrings. I'll remember the dress I received one year that a relative promptly proclaimed as "hideous." I'll remember the not-an-engagement ring that Jason gave me when we were dating. I'll remember the yellow puffy stuffed animal that still sits on my bed at my parents' house.

And never, for as long as I live, will I forget the year I got blue eyes instead of brown.

That year there were four identical boxes under the tree. This tag had "Stephanie," that one had "Tyler," and those over there had "Andrea" and "Jacob." Love, Mom.

With four kids, lots of grandparents, cousins, pets, aunts, uncles, and a mom and dad, you can imagine that under our Christmas tree were piles of presents. My parents didn't hold back the gifts until Christmas Eve. They were there for us to organize -- that side of the tree was for my presents, that corner for Andrea... -- and gently shake. We'd search the creases and corners of the wrapping paper to see if we could get any hints to the contents of the gift.

The four boxes were a total mystery. What could they be? What would we all be getting? Our imaginations never strayed to thoughts of socks, or pajamas, or shoes. These were real gifts. We knew it.

Christmas morning came, and we four kids tumbled into the living room after an early morning of opening stockings in my room. The 14-foot tree sparkled with tinsel and bubble lights, and there! beneath the tree! the four boxes.

Other gifts may have been opened, carols may have been sung, but the only thing on my mind was the box. Finally, with our own respective boxes in front of us, we simultaneously opened. For some reason I dawdled behind in opening, so I saw what everyone else got. My mom had made us -- hand stitched, hand stuffed, hand painted -- dolls. They looked kind of like Cabbage Patch dolls, except better because, oh! because they looked like each of us. Tyler's with sandy blond yarn hair, and blue eyes. Andrea's with long red hair, and brownish eyes. Jake's with brown hair, and brown eyes. The dolls were us.

I finished opening my present, ready to hug her close to my heart. Imagine my surprise when I saw that my doll wasn't the same. My doll was a real Cabbage Patch doll. One that my mom had stood in line for, paid extra for, bought in the knowledge that I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. My good manners kicked in, and I smiled and thanked my parents. A real Cabbage Patch doll with a shiny vinyl face and birth certificate.

But something wasn't right. I looked at my blond haired doll and noticed, of course, that she had blue eyes. I knew all blond haired dolls had blue eyes. I was old enough to know the doll codes: red hair with green eyes, brown hair with brown eyes, blond hair with blue eyes.

Blue eyes.

The wrong color.

The present opening celebration continued, but my subdued manner finally caught the attention of my mom. Stephanie, what's wrong?

I had always been proud of having blond hair and brown eyes. Dark brown, chocolate, without even a suggestion of blue. Norwegian in every way but the eyes. Those eyes were from my dad, a gift that I wasn't ashamed of. Yet, somehow, looking at this homogenized doll felt like ridicule. Being teased. Made fun of. For being different. Bitter tears of disappointment streaked down my face, even as I thought, "I should be grateful." I realized what my mom had done. She had thought I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. She had thought I would prefer the store bought one, the doll that all my friends had. She had tried to make Christmas special for me by getting me the gift that was at the top of the list. The real, not the fake.

Turns out, real and fake are sometimes in the eye of the beholder. I didn't want blue eyes. I wanted brown eyes. I wanted one that was like me, so that our four dolls could play together and be little replicas of our selves. And of course, it wasn't just about the eyes. It was also about something else -- something I couldn't articulate at that age -- about having something from my mom that I couldn't get from a store. "You didn't make me one," I cried. "You made one for them, and not for me. And her eyes are BLUE." Tears tears and more tears. (Can you believe it, I'm even crying as I type this up.)

I know I surprised my mom. She had guessed incorrectly about the state of my materialistic heart. Maybe it made her smile. Maybe it made her laugh. I hope it made her proud.

The best Christmas present I ever received wasn't the one that I got on Christmas, but the one that my mom gave me a couple weeks later. My very own Stephanie doll. Blond hair. Brown eyes.

The perfect color.

------

Share your story with PBN and be entered to win a gift certificate from Excitations.
Sk*rt this story.

Because Summer is a Comin'

My dad is a photographer and poet, and weekly he combines these two gifts in emails that he sends out to his kids. A few times a week he emails out pictures of all the goings on at the Family Farm, and these pictures are always accompanied by whimsical texts that tell us the story of the day. Whether we live next door (like Tyler), in Boise (like Jake), in China (like Andrea), or in Oregon (like me), we know when a day has been spent mowing the grass or finding strange creatures.

Like this one, which my dad called a giant pacific coast salamander:

I'm not much of a strange creature kind of girl, but I do enjoy nice slimy pictures of them every once in awhile. Which is to say, I enjoy the ones my dad sends me. Don't send me any extra ones for fun.

I also usually get pictures of how Sydney spends her day at the farm, just so I can rest assured that she does, in fact, have lots of fun there even though she sometimes doesn't elaborate on what she's done. I ask her, "What did you do at the farm?" "I don't know," she says. "Did you eat dirt?" I ask. "No. Probably. No probably. That's what Clover says," and then she runs off to have pretend conversations with Clover in her room.

 

Give them some Yogos and they'll take over the world.

The best one from this week, however, is one my dad sent of their Memorial Day picnic. Now that the winter floodwaters have receded, the creek island is back in its summer glory, allowing for all 14 family members who are living at the Family Farm to enjoy the first island picnic of the season. 

 

Poster boy for summer? I think so.

Welcome Home

It's been almost a year in the making.

Five months without their own kitchen.

Three months of intense remodeling.

New old wood floors, new windows, new kitchen, new paint, new countertops, new bathrooms, new life in an old house.

New house for a young family. They moved in last weekend. They did it.

My brother's family has finally moved in to the old farmhouse. Sarah has before and after pictures posted, although it only scratches the surface of what the house really looks like.

Would you all go over and give her a big old congratulations? Even if you're not a regular commenter (here or there), she could use a blogging pat on the back for a job well done. I'm so proud of her and my brother for all the work they've done. And I'm so happy they've found their home on the Family Farm.

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble; there's no place like home.

This old house

As some of you already know I have a rather amazing sister-in-law. Many of you got to get acquainted with Sarah since she kept my whole labor-and-delivery news updated while I was in hospital. (I have to confess that I volunteered her for that position without even asking her, but nevertheless wasn't she cool about it?) So, first of all, a big ole thanks from me to her.

Yesterday, I got to take the tour of her house that she and my brother are renovating. (Backstory: the house is just across a field from my parents' house and is part of what we call the Family Farm because it's part of the property where my parents, grandma, aunt and uncle, and cousin's family all live. There's property available for us if we decide to build up there, but we aren't quite ready to trade in our status as Oregonians to become Washingtonians.)  If you are a fan of remodeling shows (ala HGTV) you have to keep up with the farm house's amazing progress. It started out looking something like this, then had a bit of this, and now something like this. Right now, I suppose, it looks perhaps a little less like "amazing" and a little more like "make sure you don't fall through the floor," but every house has to start somewhere. Everyone in the family is so excited to see how the house is going to turn out, and we all know that in the end it will look incredible.

Sarah has such great ideas for her house, and I love to see how she and my brother are really making it their own. Over the past century (or so) many families have lived in the old farm house, although in my 30-year life I have only known a few of them. I remember that I used to have a childhood pal who lived there for a short time. I still have the painted Christmas ornament that she gave me, and hang it every year on our tree even though it's actually quite heavy and maybe just a little bit ugly.

When I was in fourth grade, my aunt and uncle bought the house and lived there for more than 10 years before building a new house across the field. My cousin and I were good buddies (and still are!), and so I have a lot of great memories of hanging out in the farm house. Hanging out in the closets--they had sloping ceilings and tiny floor-level windows--playing games and reading books. Watching Days of our Lives and crying over Jennifer and Jack getting married (the first time). The night that a bat flew down the chimney and my uncle swatted it down, where it landed on my cousin. Having my aunt teach me to sew. Sewing a quilt. Building straw forts in the barn. Saddling up the horse. BBQs on the deck. And, of course, the many nights I walked ran the not-even-quarter mile back to my house in the dark, past the holly trees, terrified that a coyote would rip my legs off. So many fond memories.

And now...Tyler, Sarah and the girls will be creating all new memories in the house. I'm glad the house is staying in the family. I can already imagine summer afternoons sitting on the front porch, eating some delicious treat that Sarah will have whipped up in the kitchen. Those old wood floors that have felt so many people walk on them will feel the footprints of a new generation--bare feet, socky feet, baby feet, and eventually school-shoe clad feet. And someday my girls will tell stories of all the fun they had with their cousins, playing in the big old house on the Family Farm.

Maybe, if they're lucky, they'll even have a few night-time sprints through the dark, past the holly trees, hoping the coyotes don't rip their legs off.

Sarah, I'm so happy for you. Welcome home.

Changing Landscapes

Hard to believe that just a few weeks ago we were enjoying a lovely early autumn evening down by the creek at my parents' house, and now--after a few days of heavy rains--it's all under water.

The flooding is actually normal, so while it's amazing to see the difference it isn't anything to be alarmed about. When I was growing up, we never paid that much attention to the seasonal flooding of the creek. The weather was never nice enough to go down there to play in the winter, so we didn't miss it. It was always curious, however, to go back to the creek late the next spring and see how the landscape had changed. A tree gone here and replaced by a rock. A new little creek here that had changed its course of travel over the months. A whole slew of mulligan golfballs that would be trapped in a mud hole thanks to the golf course upstream.

We never really lamented the change, just accepted it and made the new landscape our own. The only time I remember being particularly sad was the year that the rope-swing tree washed away. The swimming hole had filled up with debris, and so we spent that summer wading in and out of the shallows.

I would write something profound here, about how we can learn from kids who accept change as a part of life, but it isn't exactly a true observation. Just yesterday Sydney had a meltdown when I unwrapped her granola bar and it broke in two pieces. The world ended. "Fix it! Put it together! Fix it!" she wailed as she collapsed on the floor. I left her weeping on the floor, and after several minutes she found me. With two little pieces of granola clutched in her hands, and tears streaming down her red face, she tried again, "Mommy, please fix it." I couldn't fix it. Just like I couldn't get the too-small shoes to fit her feet the week before, or take the orange bowl out of the running dishwasher so she could have applesauce in it.

I suppose it's about perspective on what things you feel like you should have control over, and what things you don't. Last summer when the college student we had had living with us during the school year moved back home, Sydney was mostly unfazed even though she'd seen Rebekah nearly every day for nine months and loved her dearly. She'd pass by Rebekah's room and say casually, "Rebekah's gone," and then go back to playing. Or several weeks ago when we temporarily got rid of all our furniture and she found the living room empty one morning. "The couch is gone," she commented before pulling her blocks out to play.

Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason to what affects us and what doesn't. This last weekend my brother's family moved to the Family Farm. I have been so happy thinking about how wonderful it is to have my family even more consolidated (it makes visiting with everyone that much easier), and can't wait to see what Sarah is going to do with the old farmhouse. And yet, this morning when I was on the phone with my mom, when I said, "I hope that Sydney still feels like the farm is hers even though Clover is living there now," I got all choked up and weepy. I guess even though most of me embraces the new changes, part of me is still a bit selfish in wanting it to stay the same.

I know I'm being extra reflective about change since in six weeks we'll be adding a new person to our family. It'll be good change. But it'll be different. One day we'll be roasting marshmallows by the fire, the next it'll all be underwater. Then eventually the waters will recede and we'll discover a whole new landscape of life filled with different wonders and places to explore. The trick will be to embrace all the newness, and not get drowned in the loss of how things used to be.

Perhaps easier said than done.