see you next month, lover.

That's what my husband and I always say to one another when one of our date-weekend's is coming to a close. "See you next month!" It's a humorous spin on the truth: that for being married and living together constantly, we rarely see each other. It's looking as if he'll be shooting loads of weddings this year, so there's a lot of preparation and meetings that go into that. I'll be attempting to start school, so long as my health stays on the up. And Hayden will be starting first grade later this year, while we try to maneuver his bossy-pants attitude.

This weekend we chose to do some flea-marketing and thrifting, something we both adore and can get lost in for hours on end. It's a sickness. I've got to show you all this place, but alas, I didn't bring my camera. I always do this. I don't bring it on the principal that I'd like to be unencumbered, but then always regret it, passing by a million and one perfect candid moments and beautiful stills. Next time for sure.

I passed by dozens of antique, hand-stitched quilts, piles of old, rusty tools, and very old, well-loved dolls. I was searching for a teapot. And wouldn't you know it--I found one!

This thing is enormous. I swear it weights at least five pounds. But she's so cute, I just had to have her. I also found some note-worthy rings (shinies, oh shinies!), some really nice glass bottles, for all the herb oils and vinegar's I'm planning to craft this summer, and a few peasant-style shirts I couldn't pass up. To bad I couldn't afford the suite of 1700 Victorian sitting room furniture, all black wood and black velvet cushions. I hadn't brought almost a thousand dollars with me...

I'm off to the store; will be getting ingredients for chicken soup. I think I'll start a loaf of wheat bread rising before I head out. Today will be lots of tea, homemade bread with butter, video games with the boy, maybe a  few chores, a little yoga, a little bible-reading. Have a good Sunday all.

stitches and words.

First there was this:

Then yesterday there was this:

I do so love when the inspiration just flows freely. You sit there and sit there and it's just this big white wall in your head, and then suddenly--whoosh!--in come the idea's!

Today's temperature is supposed to reach around sixty (!), so I fully intend spending most of this day outdoors, setting up a spot for myself on an old quilt, surrounding myself with my papers and threads and glues, a few good books, my sketchbook, and maybe a fruit smoothie. Happy Thursday folks!

Hayden turned six over the weekend. We threw a big party with a giant cake and homemade ice cream and green crepe paper strung up all over. Our house was bursting at the seams with family. Good times. Great times actually.

My husband and I were discussing how, in those first three (yes, three) sleepless years of Hayden's early life, we fantasized of making it to this time, this age, where he would still need us, but also be more independent. Oh, and sleep through the night. We looked forward to that too.

And here we are. I know every mother says this, but I can't believe that we're here. We made it. We have a beautiful, little happy family....such a challenging ride, but so worth it.

**Hop on over to my friend Willow's new website www.theivyplumcollection.com if you have a moment. She asked me to write a bit for it, and it really is the loveliest community of inspiring and creative women. Check it out!

every two minutes.

In the United States, someone will be sexually assaulted every two minutes.

60% of sexual assaults are not reported to the police.

15% of sexual assault victims are under the age of twelve.



While I drank my coffee this morning, someone was being raped. While I brushed my teeth, someone was being raped. While I applied my eyeliner, someone was being raped. Waiting to pick up my son from school: that amounted to five people being raped.

(By the way, I do like Valentine's Day. But I am choosing to get involved and bring awareness to an issue that very few seem to want to discuss. My friend Jennifer has inspired me to get moving.)

This is an issue that is close to me, though not in an expected way. My husband was molested and raped by his half-brother from the ages of six to twelve. I have seen first-hand the devastating effects of such abuse, and how it can literally destroy a person.

Please get involved. Go to www.vday.org, and donate to this cause if you can. And if you've experienced violence against you, please speak. Tell your story. Silence gets us nowhere.

cuppa-cakes.

Today we made Valentine's Day cupcakes, using this recipe, by Nigella Lawson. This is the recipe I go back to over and over again, especially when making cupcakes with the boy. They're moist, buttery, vanilla-infused confections that can be decorated in any way, for any holiday. The most important detail is to cut off any rounded tops you might get, so that the icing has a nice, flat surface to spread out on.

An added bonus of making cupcakes two days prior to Valentine's Day, is that I get to make something chocolate-laden on the actual day of. Got to have something to wet your appetite, right?

Now go kiss someone you love!

run lola run.

I first started running in 7th grade. I was sort-of-chubby and had rather large breasts, so it probably wasn't the easiest choice of physical activity to participate in. I was carrying a lot of weight.

In 8th grade I joined the track team. I ran for a year, won nothing, and quit.

The summer before my freshman year of high school, my appendix burst and abcessed into my colon. I almost died/was supposed to be dead. I definitely did not run for a long time after that.

I began to dance when I was almost fifteen. I came to it late, trained ridiculously hard, and became damn good. I really was.

At almost sixteen, I became ill again. In and out of hospitals for months and months. I was diagnosed with possible Crohn's disease, which has since been discredited. So it's one big mystery, even now. Again, I wasn't running. Or dancing. Or really doing anything other than surviving.

I took myself off medication that I was convinced was making me sicker. I slowly became better.

Fast-forward to eighteen. I'm still dancing, working, considering moving to Seattle to pursue dance education. Then I get sick--yes, again--and on top of that, started having more frequents bouts of immobilizing neck pain, mostly aggravated by my dancing.

sigh.


So.

Now, here I am. Recently diagnosed with severe anemia (so severe that the doctor's actually could not understand how I even managed to get out of bed), still having a horrendous time with my neck, and still occasionally sick with the mysterious stomach difficulties. Oh, and my uterus hates me, but that's another story.

I began running again last year, on a whim. I had managed to keep in reasonable shape, through barre work, walking, and eating healthily. But because of my neck I couldn't (and still can't) full-OUT dance, like, REALLY dance. Where you sweat and sweat and sweat and toss your head around and lift your leg over your head and fall to the floor. Yeah, I can't really do that anymore. But I needed something. Not only more effective cardio, but some way that I could physically express my joy with like I did through my dancing.

How the hell do you express joy while running?


I know. It sounds strange. And it definitely wasn't joyous for those first few months. I mean...wow. I was out. of. shape. Terribly. But I stuck with it. Even if it was only twice a week, I stuck with it.

And cried while my calves cramped every night. Ugh. I hated running.

But here I am now. And now means: On the weekend, either Saturday or Sunday, I bundle up and go out in the afternoon for my run. I either go all over my (very hilly) town, or I go a few blocks over to the mile-long rail-trail, where these pictures were taken.

And you know what? I love it. I absolutely love it. My legs are strong, from my thighs to my ankles and feet. My lungs are warriors, no longer huffing and puffing, but breathing steadily. My heart pounds, thanking me. This feeling of strength is new to me. Strength. I am not used to being strong. I'm used to being the weak one, the sick one, the one that always needs help. Some of that is still true, at least some of the time.

But.

I can run. I can't dance, and yes, that makes me sad. Actually, it's devastating. But I can run. And I can run well. How awesome. Me, who otherwise seems to just flounder physically.

I am a runner.

those backward P's.

Is there anything better than a small boy ever-so-carefully scribbling away at his father's birthday card?

No, I really don't think there is.

One of the things I so looked forward to with having a child was thinking ahead to a time where we would create birthday cards and stories and pictures together. A child's writing is pure magic, in my opinion. All the little squiggly letters, backwards and inside-out.

I mean, c'mon. Look at that. Adorable. Even if you don't have children, even if you never want them, a handwritten "happy birthday" from a child is, I think, on the life list of best things ever, along with dark chocolate, amazing coffee, and handmade art.

The birthday was a success by the way. Just a small dinner at my mother's house, finished off with homemade whoopie pies in lieu of cake. I had two. I really didn't need that last one. At all. They sort of...stick with you, if you catch my drift.

The boy's birthday is in about two and a half weeks. He would like a Star Wars themed festival, replete with a Darth Vader cake and "music with dancing". I am tempted to break out the hula-hoop's. I only want one thing, and that is to not pull my neck out again or break my foot or crash my car, so that I can actually plan a fun gathering. Everyone please pray to your respective deities that this will work out.