Dread and the Prozac(tm)

Today I am dreading a few things. It's on my list, right at the top: Things To Dread And Avoid Until It's No Longer Possible.

Oh, yeah, I'm "avoiding" too. These are actions, you know, and take some time to plan out. If you are hoping to embark on my same route, you'll need to have a thorough agenda. Possibly a flow chart, since unpredictability is a big factor.

The picture to the left has nothing to do with my post. I just like to look at cute pictures of my kids, so I thought you might too. Isn't that a cool carving? To do it justice I should have zoomed out, since it's a full-sized horse head peaking around a stall front to sniff a kitty cat. And it's all carved out of one massive piece of wood.

So back to the day's work:

What I'd like to do and what I get to do and what I do leading up to what I get to do, these are all possible topics. This morning I get to do some real estate: email some property photos to Hawaii (I'm willing to hand deliver...), call around about custom signs for a new subdivision, do some market research and call the client with price analyses, get signatures on a listing to renew. Then I get to tidy up my house a little, 'cause my mom is coming over to watch the big girls while I go in to Ryan's office for a meeting. Then I get to get dressed office-appropriate and drive to town for the likely contentious two-hour affair. Thus the dread. Oh, don't forget: nurse, burp, change, play with baby three times each, evenly spaced amongst the other stuff. Deliver at similar intervals to 4-year-old juice, crackers, coloring books and clean clothes.

I notice when I am really, really beyond stressed, I tend to break things up into super small steps. And I'm not sure whether that's healthy or obsessive. I don't really take Prozac (tm), YET, but I joke around about it all the time.

HEY! they ought to dispense anti-anxiety drugs at Dutch Brothers along with the mochas! (note to self: cool marketing idea, just figure out a way to get around the pharmacist/doctor thing.)

I am juggling too much. Did I mention I have a 3-month-old baby and a 4-year-old at home too? That our oldest two are in school until 2:05 each day, so at 1:35, I DROP EVERYTHING as though my home were on fire, and DRIVE LIKE A MADWOMAN back to Lorane so they are not walking to an empty house? I know I've detailed the horses, rabbit, errant Golden retriever, baby chicks, etc.

Did I mention that I've not been away from Laura for more than 20 minutes yet? That's something to be proud of, to be sure, but the juggling is taking its toll. The business is doing great. We have so many new contracts that we're booking them months and months out. But today, I am worried. I am looking with trepidation at each and every step I must make today, unsure whether the ground will hold. I long to simplify my crazy life and just sit on the couch and look at Laura's eyelashes growing.

Best to quit dreading and jump in to doing.

Space Heaters

So we live in a 120-year-old church-turned-farmhouse, which is not super insulated. In some remodeling genius past the woodstove was removed and replaced with electric heat, which makes for a chilly abode in all but summertime (when it's cooler to sleep in the barn). And just when you'd think (it WAS 80 degrees last Saturday) that it is safe to sleep in just one layer of sweatpants, IT SNOWS AGAIN. In April. In Western Oregon.

Yes, dear readers, we woke up to snow all over the ground again this morning. I didn't take any pictures because it's just not fun anymore.

The other thing we woke up to was not a some*thing*, but some *children* in our bed. Now, I'm all about the family bed, but we have four children now. The oldest two are not of insignificant size. Our bed is a King, but Ryan isn't a little man. Laura needs a buffer zone around her tiny self so she isn't near the quilts or pillows, and I have to police that all night. Throw in a couple more who got chilly in their own beds, preschool- or elementary-age, and someone is not sleeping well. Namely me.

Laura

Clinically Speaking

The girls (Gracie too!) started their big horse clinic yesterday. All of KL's kids were there as well, so it was a saddle club extravaganza. Three Sunday afternoons this month, MSG will be working on their riding skills and horse knowledge (that's their teacher leading Sarah on Touche, with KL's Inspector and Nicole and Madeleine following).Here's Grace Hannah. Such a big girl, riding a full-size horse! Check out the boots, too. Tony Llama-o-Rama!
And the unofficial South Lane/North Douglas chapter of The Saddle Club. L-R: Nicole (the girls' BFF), Madeleine and Sarah:

Much more horse fun to come. This coming year, Cole and Maddy will be old enough for Equestrian 4H. Sarah will undoubtedly piggyback on their first year to give herself a "leg up" for the next year.

The pictures are cute, and the kids all had a super great time. But I hafta tell you, I must need some anti-anxiety medication worse than I knew. The idea behind spending the big money for this clinic is that neither KL nor I has to organize, groom horses, make curriculum, be responsible, etc. But... it got started 40 minutes late and ended an hour late (argh), the crafts were not entirely age appropriate and there was next to no academic value. The administrator in me was going bananas. I resolved to say something, then resolved to be polite and let the teacher do her job. I vacillated between my two options and decided to grumble blogwise. I'm sure next week will be more organized and informative. I'm sure my heart palpitations at having to bite my tongue will subside.

I may edit later. The negativity is not good. But the pictures are!

Fun With Numbers

I am at work at Ryan's office this morning, as Carri called in sick. Boo hoo for her and me! I had big plans to work from home, writing all-important marketing materials while uploading more pics of our super fun weekend in the sun. Horseback riding clinic, gardening, laundry galore (this was not part of the fun), Gracie's birthday dinner with Grandma and more. Photos TK.

I am so encouraged by the health of our transplanted seedlings. In my experience, transplanting cosmos and zinnias doesn't work out as well as direct seeding. The girls were excited to start seeds, though, so we went ahead and planted what we had. The lettuces and brocolli are so cute in the salad buckets!

Today it is hailing and raining. Wish the weather would get its act together.

More later from this farmgirl stuck in the office.

Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun

I love how the girls labeled every single one of the cosmos starts. It is 80 degrees and the sun is shining. Just two weeks ago we had snow and frozen ground, but the starts are finally going in the ground today!

Other plantings of note today: Romaine and Butter Crunch lettuce starts in the "salad bucket" planter off the back porch; sugar snap peas and brocolli; the lemon tree; ivy geraniums and hollyhock starts.

Ryan had big plans for putting in our new raised beds today. However, he spent the day digging up dirt and pouring in a new concrete foundation and box thingamajig for the fire department's water shut-off valve. The volunteer fire department is next door, and their water valve is on our property. Last summer they were having water problems and had to replace the valve. At the time, Ryan was less than impressed with their contractor, who failed to compact the earth after installing the new valve. A-hem.

So here's where I have to admit that it's all my fault. I have been asking Ryan for months (ok, a year) if we could pretty please store the canned ham (our super shabby cute 1959 travel trailer) and the horse trailer behind some gigantic native rhododendrons on that side of the property. All I wanted was some space in front of the shop for a hitching post. A couple of times he said he didn't feel comfortable driving over the aforementioned valve box since it had an obvious saggy baggy soil problem. But yesterday I convinced him that it would be fine if he put some boards on top. The canned ham made it over okay, but the Suburban, he had to stop short of attempting that passage.

Hence his afternoon of digging, pouring concrete, constructing a degage valve cover box out of concrete blocks that were behind the shop. Of course during his hard labor two of the fire department board members and the founding father of the fire department were all across the road at the Rebecca Lodge for a 50th anniversary party. They were all dutifully impressed with his engineering expertise and gratifyingly thankful that he was correcting a problem which it turns out they had recognized all along.

Meanwhile the canned ham is stuck in a funky spot at the edge of the property, even more of a sore thumb in our picturesque view than before. As soon as the concrete sets up (R says 14 days or so), he will fill the hole appropriately with gravel, replace the soil, move the trailers, plant some grass seed and never listen to my naggingly "good ideas" again.

M, S & G were at Grampa's farm playing all day, so Laura was my only helper. She is too small for the stroller! We took walks to see the horses and the neighbors. At 7:40 we booked down to the General Store for dinner. Marti and Lorena were still serving a bunch of day trip bikers and cyclists and we managed to keep them open until half hour past closing. Yummy mushroom burgers and fries and town gossip about who might be the new pastor.

From the Depths of Despair

From the depths of despair to the pinnacle of perfection. I need a better alliteration for a fa-bu-licious day.

To update you, I am sorry for the bloghorror of yesterday. I truly felt SO MUCH BETTER after just one paragraph of counting my blessings. So possibly it was cathartic to write it all out, and possibly it was healing to turn away from the negativity to fake contentment. Or some combination of those two things. In any case, I am back to my own self.

The sun is shining on our nonlawn of English daisies, clover and mixed grasses. The paperwhites are opening, the Big Leaf Maples are budding out -- hurray -- and the horses are dozing in the sunshine. This weekend promises 70 degrees and sunny all Saturday and Sunday, and I am so excited and ready for that change of attitude too.

For the news portion of the blog:

This morning Grace and Laura and I ran into town. My sister Maureen is working the phones at the office today (bless her) and so I was able to deal on my new (well, not mine yet, but probably soon) Suburban. It has a DVD, which I swore I'd never do. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men. I first read that phrase in Auld English, and so every time I think it, I think it in that tongue twister way. ... gang aft aglay (go often wrong).

After sitting in the car dealership office (even THAT didn't dampen my new mood) it was back to the office for me, then zoom out to Lorane to show property for an hour, now home for 20 minutes to wait for the girls to walk home from school. Then we hope to head back to Eugene for a family night movie.

I would do anything other than stay home and fold laundry!

Oh! By the way, click here for a cool giveaway at a website near you named Simply A Musing Blog ... looks like a kindred spirit to me.

Not Ready to Make Nice

The other day my 4-year-old, Grace Hannah, spent an entire time-out muttering that she couldn't kick the grumpies. It appears she came by that stance quite honestly. I am, in the words of the immortal Dixie Chicks: not ready to make nice/not ready to back down/still mad as hell/not willing to go 'round and 'round.

Temper, temper.

All afternoon I've been the emotional equivalent of a preschooler. I can't reign it in, can't throw my grumpies in the garbage. Someone is bullying me and I just want to spit. Really, spit. How mature of me. But it's so primal, this ire, and why lie to compound the sin? I want to roll around kicking and screaming about how unfair is the situatuion. I want to make a scene and make a point and make a chocolate cake and eat it all by myself.

My mother-in-law used to listen to my stories of some small injustices the girls had to endure at school. I thought I was mad at that time, my mother tiger coming out with claws and such. My husband and my people KL and Caro have undoubtedly done more than their shares of listening to my slightly obsessive irksome issues with the real estate career resentment/predatory broker paranoia/horse and neighbor crankiness. But none of those have come close to truly hitting where it hurts in my life. When people call me a name or call into question my character, I feel a little rush of justifiable anger. When others bully my children, I know exactly what button is pushed. I have a few skills; I can swim with the sharks for finite periods of time. But this, this new venture, has taken me to a depth where it appears my snorkel gear can't save me.

And how many metaphors can I cram in the clown car anyway?

I am trying to explore this emotion without pointing any fingers or revealing any details that could come back to haunt me with the thought police. Suffice it to say, it's not just my kids being bullied or my commission pilfered. This time I feel the weight of ten families' paychecks and attendant mortgages and gymnastics lessons and grocery bills. I feel the lies we've been fed are poison that spreads by some unseen channels to infect even those who never were suckered by the bald mean untruths.

So sometimes on even the most picturesque, puffball-clouds-in-a-blue-sky-day, it'd be better if I never contemplated this relationship I must continue. It'd be better if I said to myself, self, you're just going to get madder than hell and spiral down from there. It does nothing for logical thought nor productive action. It makes you into an ugly version of yourself. So if you're not ready to "make nice," maybe you should do that other cliche you missed in yesterday's blog: fake it 'til you make it. Self, fake nice when you can't make nice.

********

The baby is asleep in my lap. The neighbors are mowing. C's husband changed the locks (six of them; talk about *nice*) at the office today. Shelly kept the big girls after school today while I was in town -- so they got to chase Shelly's boys around their property all afternoon. The beaver spared her plum and peach trees. My chicks are getting bigger and Two Spot's still gaining weight even though the vet said it might take the weather warming at night before he'd make progress. My list of blessings is long and good to contemplate.

I'm pretty sure they meant...

NaBloPoMo couldn't have meant EVERY day, right? I need to go back and edit the blog where I said it would be a piece of cake. Pride goes before ... what?

Anyway I don't feel like writing a letter today. I'm just not that clever, it seems, to find a way to do that for 30 days in a row. I just want to write in the cracks of time about whatever's on my mind.
What's on my mind today, you ask?

Negotiation. I wish I could say that it's the chicks (getting their feathers!) or the garden (going in this weekend!) or a new frog pond (still in the dreaming/pre-planning phase) or the girls' horseback riding clinic (Sunday!). But alas, it is negotation that occupies my farmgirl brain.

People skills, all the rage in the '90s. Thinking outside of the proverbial box, again, from my early career days -- I'd have to say I am pretty good at that. But my skills and my box are both stretched pretty darn thin these days. Real estate put the first stretch mark in, followed quickly by parenthood, horse people barn drama (you know who you are and what you did), neighboring Bed & Breakfast owners who ought to "move back to the state they came from" (the County planner's words, not mine, I swear).

Lately, it's Ryan's business pushing my overstuffed envelope. Note: I have a whole collection of cliches, and I may pull them all out today. I also have an unlimited supply of em dashes and parentheses, evidently.

Today I have even more negotiating to do. We are trying to trade in our failing Suburban for one with half the miles. I have to shovel it out first though. I write from my desk at the office, the one the crew uses when they come in from the field. I finished my employee relations duties and am now watching Laura sleep in her carseat while Grace plays puzzles on the other computer. Not super farmchicky at all. The big girls are at school.

Yesterday KL and I had an almost kid-free M0mmy Time Out. We did a quick Dutch Brothers run (where else?) and then followed a hot tip to find Fire King and Pyrex at a location I shall not disclose on the wide open Internet. KL found some, hurray, and I found FOUR pairs of Mary Jane shoes. Holy footwear. We planned our trip to The Farmchicks Sale in June. Caro's going too. We are saving our quarters in jars and bowls.

Then we drove like the wind back to the Grove to fetch KL's children from school.

I wish time were unlimited. I wish I could blog all day. But the knee-deep Suburban will not wait. I hope to post some new pics tomorrow of our garden spot, the chicks, the horses, Ryan's new tree, etc.

Good Gravy

Dear Dutch Brothers,
Congratulations on your market dominance of Eugene. Just last year I had to go out of my way to get a grande four-shot mocha. It's great that your business is thriving; I can find you on any number of my errand routes AND on the way to Ryan's office.

However.

I am eating out too much. For example, on Friday night I had prime rib at the General Store. Two days last week I had fast food for lunch. And every day a sinful, who-knows-how-many-calories mocha, which is my new baby (as in: "baby weight"). In the interim I managed to stick to our family's relatively healthy, well-rounded, mostly organic diet.

So, in my considered opinion, if you weren't so consistently yummy and so stinking convenient, my waistline would be approaching non-stretchy-pant territory. Thanks for listening.
-Another Dutch Princess

Dear Me

Oh, Dear ME,
Hold still.

The smallest of personally performed motion might make you throw up at any moment. You are in the vortex, I'm sure, of a storm the likes of which we'll never see again. Or possibly we'll see it every day until the children leave for college. But don't think about that now.

Three days ago our eldest daughter was in hysterics because the dog might die... in the next five years or so. "But that means he'll be gone by the time I'm 14!" she wailed. She has had tears for too many reasons to count in the ensuing days, and you know you are supposed to have some mommy wisdom for these 'tween crises: "Zoe made fun of my jump rope trick." "Mr. Robertson made the timed test harder for our group!" "I have more chores than the others!" Her highs are nearly as stressful as the lows, because her normally adorably gravelly voice goes shrill with excitement while her Mary Lou Rhetton-like body becomes a 60-pound ricochet of joy.

Today the normally sunny seven-year-old has some sort of hypochondriaical tummy ache so severe that she's walking around at a perfect 90-degree waist bend. She can't ride bikes or run down to fairyland or check on the chicks, of course, due to this tummy ache. She probably expects you to do something other than Pepto-Bismol and water and a suggestion to use the bathroom. You cuddled her, you soothed her forehead and suggested she watch a movie and let the other girls stick to the rowdy outdoor play, and all you got for your efforts was a wailing protest that they shouldn't have fun *without* her.

Couldn't you think of a way to make everyone happy? Probably your motion would fix it, but DON'T GIVE IN TO TEMPTATION.

Don't move.

Yesterday the four-year-old changed clothes not fewer than six times, with several layers of clothing each outfit, and threw the discards in Mt. Washmore for your laundry enjoyment. At this moment she is hiding in the corner of the office mumbling "I still feel angry. There's no way to stop the crankies." Over and over again. Her five-year-old playmate refused to share a Barbie something or other and she quite understandably lost her temper. You want her to take the time out somewhere out of earshot, but the chaos out there is too much for her preschool self. She, like the others, changes moods even more often than clothing.

Take a cue from this. Hide out in the office as long as you feel is appropriate. Or legal.

Thankfully the baby is sleeping peacefully. Do not be lulled into believing it's a sign of peace and order to come. Today is bound to be your undoing.

So hold very still.

Sincerely,
Speaking from Experience

Letter for yesterday

Any given date, any year

Dear God,
I'm sorry for stressing. I have heard that worry is a sin. I still worried, panicked and stressed. Of course You came through. The worry didn't make it so.
Love,
me

National Blog Posting Month April #2

Hey, 30 letters in 30 days. A snap. I am writing letters I should've written.

December 20, 2005

Dear Sir:
Please accept this resignation in the sincere manner it is intended. As much as I have enjoyed working as an independent broker at your family-run company the last four years, it is past time for me to go. In my experience, staying longer than I know I should will not serve either of us well. I have learned much from you and I appreciate your willingness to share from decades of experience.

I also recognize that you have made huge efforts to accomodate me and my quirky desire for mentorship. I appreciate the yearly goal-setting lunches. I appreciate even more the times when you were truly too busy for me but took time to hear about my deal anyway. I know once I had your attention it was your full attention, and you attacked the challenges as though they were your own.

You often asked if there was anything you could do to help me be more successful. My answer was consistent: please help me figure out a way to be with my family more. It wasn't fair of me, of course, to bring it up so repeatedly. So I can't blame you for never having an answer to that particular request. Along these lines, I ask your indulgence one last time. I am leaving, and I hope to do so gracefully. I am really leaving, and I need you and your family business to realize that I am at last recognizing that what you have done is put your family first. You did answer the question by example, and so I hope you can respect my decision as a choice you might have made.

Sincerely,
Finally Found Courage

NaBloPoMo

I don't know what this is. I read about "NaBloPoMo" on a good blog KL sent to me (MistyWagner.blogspot.com... Rainy Day in May) and I had some fun guessing what this strange word might stand for. I could ASK, but that would be too direct. So I gather that there is a challenge to write a letter every day this month. And because I firmly believe that the art of letter writing is endangered, I am so excited. I am so *there.*

I think I will try to write a letter each day that I wish I had written during some other time in my life. Who knows if this is in the spirit of the challenge. I just wanna see if I can do it. And maybe if my kids and the dinner bell allow I will try to look up the NaBlo etc. thing later.

December 11, 1998
Dear Madeleine,
Hello.
I said that word over and over again to you during your first moments in the world, your first precious minutes breathing air. You are our first child and we will share a bevy of firsts, so let me be the first to tell you how desperately I love you already. Mommy and Daddy love you, not the least reason being because we waited so long for you. But now that you're here it's all about you. We loved the idea of you and now we're in love with you. Your ten tiny toes and your smooshed nose and your head full of hair and ideas. Thank you for making us parents.
Hello.
Love,
Mommy

This morning is like the first bite out of a chilled apple. The landscape taut and defined, the views each framed by fog like a photographer's custom lens trick. On mornings like this I feel supremely blessed to walk around our farmyard acre, feeding animals and checking on plants.

I even woke up at a farmer's hour this morning. Ryan was up at 5, the baby and I shortly after. Madeleine and Sarah dutifully up at 6:15. Ryan asked Madeleine whether she slept in her clothes, so quickly did she get dressed. That girl was born organized. She always chooses her outfit the night before. Sarah is more of a mini me (read: *not* born organized) and spends her dressing time holding the baby, drinking her cocoa, finishing a puzzle. When it's time to go she will exclaim that she has no socks. Usually that is the least of her problems at that point.

Grace didn't wake up until 7:30, just as the girls were leaving for school. She is engrossed in Clifford, eating her circle toast (English muffin) and drinking her cocoa. Today she is going to "gramma 'nita's" while Laura and I go to work with Ryan.

Things at the office are weird. I don't know if that word is right. Actually, I know that word is wrong, but I can't put my brain on the right one. We are facing our second round of payroll, figuring out the cash flow, trying to stay positive as we wait for the busier season to roll around. The phone has started to ring quite a bit and we implemented a system for the estimates to get back out in a timely manner. Ryan is rolling right along with his city contract and trying to find time to do other billable work and get the office going. We have this last payroll check to pay for the sellers' vacation time, then the first payment on the note. We have to talk to them about employment going forward. The first couple of weeks of the new business Ryan was still at his old job and I wondered often whether I have the stomach for running a company. Well, that's a moot question, really. We just do it, to quote Nike.

So my second cup of coffee is almost gone, I'm still in my PJs/barn clothes (this is when I roll out of bed in my sweats and throw one of Ryan's shirts over the whole outfit, slip on my rubber garden shoes and call it good) and I am supposed to deliver Grace to the neighbor's house in 20 minutes. Better go clean up and put on office attire.

Foiled Again

So I write three posts over the weekend. Saturday I had dropped M&S off at the twins' house, plugged in a movie for Grace and put Laura down for a nap. Ryan was off helping my mom move to Lorane and the house was quiet and clean. Who needs Calgon?

So many of the wild ideas I'd been herding were roped and penned and put away for the night. I made lists of topics. I compared/contrasted blogging and journaling and contemplated the concept of thought police. I detailed my crazy moms' night out of Friday with KL. I even apologized (to whom we don't know, since the only folks who read this are Ryan and KL) for my bad attitude toward the B&B neighbors. After writing that most thoughtful and well-conceived blog, I turned to Grace, who had tiptoed up to my elbow to request peanut butter crackers. She absent-mindedly hit a few random and deadly keys. The screen went blank and the blog was not to be revived. I gave up until Sunday after church, when the big girls were back from their sleepover and entertaining Grace and the baby. Ryan, again, moving my mom. I typed an abbreviated version. The "post" key was missing from my screen. I logged off and logged back on and then wrote "argh" and still, no post key.

This morning all is well computer-wise. Maybe I wasn't supposed to apologize for my previous B&B rants. You think?

Spring Break is over. We had such huge and vicious hailstorms yesterday that all my ranunculus (which Ryan told me not to put out yet) are knocked down. The daffodils survived okay, those that the girls hadn't picked. We don't have as many daffodils as KL's lushly covered acre, but ours are thick and naturalized throughout the secret garden and surrounding the "brick house," which is really an old foundation under a grandfather big-leaf maple that the girls use to play house in. I dug out all the bulbs in the new upper horse paddock because I didn't want them hoof -smashed and then Shelly told me they're poisonous to livestock.

So Ryan went back to work today and the big girls are back to school. I haven't fed the horses yet this morning so I will have to catch up on the blogging later. So glad to be able to post again.

Stop snowing already

Snowing again. It's really coming down, as they say, and it's really annoying. Yesterday we pretended it was warm and went down to the general store for ice cream. KL and the gang joined us from south of here ... you should really check out my friend KL's farm girl blog at katiescalamities.blogspot.com ...

To hedge our bets, we had French Dip sandwiches (hey, Lorena had prime rib left over) and the kids had chicken noodle soup before the ice cream. Yum and yummier. Then we drove the one-tenth-mile to my house and the kids played outside. The boys kept losing their shoes. The girls made an elaborate tent and convinced us that Nicole should stay over. The dog dug in my flowerbeds and now we can't find him (just kidding).

There are no photos of our pocket of springtime, however, because I can't find any of the memory cards from my camera, because, like the genius I am, I put them in a pocket to make prints at Wal-Mart. The good news is that I DID make the prints at Wal-Mart. They were sort of important since the subject matter was Ryan's grandma's surprise fiesta for her 80th birthday.

So this morning it's snowing and Madeleine, Sarah and Nicole are sleeping off the nonsleep-over. Grace is watching Clifford and Laura is napping on the couch, wrapped up in a shirt Ryan pulled out of the dryer with a huge hole in the back. If we cannot stop the dog from loving on the laundry that way he may really go missing. Of course the girls don't think it's funny when I threaten the disappearance of Jake. I must stop. And I will.

On the agenda today: a trip to town to see "Enchanted" at the $1 theater, to take Laura to her two-month well-baby checkup, to talk to the doctor about anxiety, and to most importantly PAY my BOARD OF REALTORS dues. Holy Toledo. I am the problem child of real estate. Of course the market's been booming so ... the reason it's three days before the heavy duty consequences (three months after the initial due date) and I still haven't paid has *nothing* to do with a lack of finances to do so. Nor with an underlying ambivalence about remaining licensed.

oh! and... later that day...

The sun is out! The girls took their bikes up to the schoolyard to re-discover a bird's nest Madeleine left on the ground there on our last sunny day. I braved the bitter cold and fed the horses... rabbit... cats... that's it. Our menagerie is a little down in the numbers this year. We are down from 4.5 horses to 2.5! Hurray! Remaining are my QH mare, coal black and barn-named "Seven," the Arabian gentleman barn-named "Two Spot," and the family's -- read: Sarah's -- Shetland named "Dolly." So Seven, Two and Dolly lived happily ever after. Well, not quite yet. Two lives on-site while Dolly and Seven are grazing short-term rented pasture adjacent to the schoolyard.

tomorrow's all figured out

Madeleine used the Paint program to draw this picture for me. Since I am looking out the window at snow(!) on the neighbor's roof, and furthermore since it's Spring Break and the kids are stuck inside getting over the flu, it's nice to be reminded that Spring will spring, any day now.

I haven't fed the horses yet today. The sun is peeking through the clouds and my third cup of coffee is on the desk. Laura finally went down for her morning nap and the big girls are in various states of relaxing in the den and my office.

Our chicks are due to come in to the feed store in four days. We already hunted Easter Eggs and attended sunrise service at the winery... shouldn't I be out working in the garden by now? The girls have started flats of peas, lettuce, cabbage, broc, etc. The daffodils are all open. We groomed half the fur off the horses. But it's still frozen water troughs each morning and slippery drives to town for Ryan.

I have a new springtime resolution: to blog a little every day instead of volumes every few weeks or months. So I should stop now. We'll see how this goes.

These People

Long, long ago, in a town just 12 miles from here, I was a newbie intern with fresh white clips from the campus paper. The internship offers were many and various, by which I mean two; I chose the smaller weekly paper and infuriated (this is not my ego talking, it really happened that way) the editor at the rejected paper. He told me I'd never work in publishing in that town, which shall remain named Springfield. I am yet to be stung by that. The paper I did choose: Cottage Grove's weekly Sentinel, at that time an award-winning community newspaper. My editor was young and hip, or whatever we should call cool/phat(?)/awesome. She handed out interesting assignments and listened extraordinarily well. The newsroom atmosphere was lively. I learned to shoot pictures as well, since the only photographer was usually busy with local sports. She attended my wedding and gave me an apron.

After graduation and getting married, I moved to eastern Oregon and worked there for a much more serious daily, covering a military air base and police beats. My editor at the "real" job was as different from the first as could be. I understand now, from this hardly unique position of older and wiser, that he was probably burned out and marking time. He and his wife were empty nesters. He spent his days in deep thought or a semi-comatose state, it's hard to tell. I actually came in late one night to rotate my desk out of his line of stare. We all worked in a bullpen newsroom, listening to the scanner for breaking news and entering copy on dinosaur computers with no "Windows" software. Pagination, as it was called, was newborn and screaming. The Internet too was in infancy. We discussed whether there'd ever be a way to make money on it, whether it would live forever in geekdom, whether it was worth it to have an electronic front page.

I know my memories are beginning to sound like the eulogies of publishing past. I have more to write on this subject, but as usual, today takes over with urgency.

We have a brand new baby since my last post (talk about burying the lead)! Laura Abigail was born January 15 and weighed a whopping 7 pounds 12 ounces. Tons of dark brown hair. Ryan's grandma's nose. Really, really beautiful and a good baby to boot. The sleepless nights have been minimal. So has the farmwork. We moved the mares to short-term leased pasture up above the schoolyard. We moved Two Spot home and he has been packing on the (much needed) pounds. We moved Nestor to the Keenes and then sold him and moved him to the Oregon Horse Center, where he's spoiled rotten and has no pasture mates to pick on.

A cougar or fox or racoon got the last of our chickens. It was grisly and gruesome -- they waited until we were gone to the hospital to deliver Laura. Ryan came home to a mess and had to whisk it away so as not to upset the girls more than necessary. He is currently building a chicken tractor (more on this later too?) and we have eight chicks on order through Deiss Feed & Seed.

We have to move this year's garden because (1) we expanded the horse paddocks and (2) one of the huge maples split in two and fell on the old garden spot. We bought lumber to build raised beds and are hoping to do them lasagna style any weekend now. It is Spring Break, but the forecast is a very unseasonable "snow down to 500 feet."

Our neighbors with the overpriced B&B still have their place on the market. They did drop the price $90,000, but still no lookers. The deli is open on Sundays and serving Friday-Saturday night prime rib again! Life in Lorane goes on.