It's nine degrees outside in our little corner of Oregon. The chickens don't know what to do with themselves: They rush out of the heated henhouse into the frigid air and hop from foot to foot before hurtling over one another to get back inside. And then they repeat the troop movements minutes later. No one ever said chickens were the brightest of farm animals.
Our outside decorations consist of a few windfallen fir branches draped over the picket fence and tucked randomly into the basket of my vintage bicycle. Honestly, I am a weather wimp or something, because a little frost won't stop me but the sub-20s will.
Inside we've been baking. It's wonderful to warm up the kitchen with the scent of gingerbread. The big girls are studying and reading a lot and Laura... well, Laura's obsessed with her Little People. She knows them all by particular names and chooses her favorites each morning to carry in her pocket.
I've also been in deep, deep denial about Christmas gifts. I have a list. And that's as far as it's gone. Maybe a panic attack over that will help keep me warm?