H-ha-happy (achoo) New Year!

Let's ring in Two Thousand Eleven with our hankies, shall we?

Sal's eating solid foods, having moved directly past puree without passing 'go' nor collecting $200. To tell the truth he lunges at plates of food as though he were born for this eating thing.

We are all working around lingering coughs and colds to try to keep him fed in the manner to which he'd like to become accustomed.

A six-month well-baby appointment looms large this week as he's the only one, well, who's well. So of course it's a perfect time to take him to a waiting room full of more viruses.




Also? We're adopting new animals. JUST LOOK AT THAT CAT! Fifteen pounds of love and affection, right there, thankyouHumaneSociety. He's a little camera shy but is already settling right in chez Suite. Our favorite thing about Chester Cheese is his six-toe-edness. Rumor has it that Ernest Hemingway's cats were also blessed with extra digits. Maybe it'll bring some angst and adventure to my writing.

One can always hope.

I can practically see it now: The Running of the Noses. Toro, El Gato! But instead of dark bars, smoky cafes and exotic locales I'll have the church nursery, the perpetual veterinarian and doctor's office waiting rooms and of course my kitchen, where I'll be rustling up some more food for the babies.

Happy New Year, friends.

They are partying

Did I mention that Madeleine and Sarah are at camp for a week?

I miss them. I am fairly sure they don't miss me, although Madeleine's letters will profess otherwise. She is the mom pleaser in this aspect. Sarah will likely fail to write to me at all. That's how much she'll miss me.

They left on that party bus and a couple of days later I stalked them.

No, really.

My good friend KL and I imposed on our good friend Cara's husband to give us the top-secret directions to the girls' hideout. (Or to print a Google map to the camp.) The errand was ostensibly about delivering care packages ... I had forgotten to mail things ahead of time and would hate for the girls to be mailless. After all, as I mentioned, they miss me so terribly.

Even with the aid of insider information we managed to get lost. That was okay, though, because it was beautiful countryside. We saw actual bison and bison babies. Except I called them "buffalo" and they got offended. Did you know it's so totally not okay to call them buffalo? Yeah. Me neither.

And then we saw swans, a real live pair of swans on a gorgeous pond on what was definitely not on the camp's private road. Oops. Sorry 'bout that, nice ranch dwellers there in the close-to-camp but not-camp bajillion-acre spread.

When I'm stalking my daughters, I'm all stealth like that. Disturbing the livestock and trespassing and all.

So then we finally found the camp (right about where the dozens of big "camp" signs were), drove in on the proper private road, delivered the mail and skulked outta there for ice cream with the little children.

Don't tell my big girls but I miss them.

Tiptoe Through Tulips

For crying out loud.

This morning I tried the 6 a.m. sneak again: slide from under the covers stealthily; slipper step on creaky minefield of 120-year-old floorboards past girls' rooms; perform gymnastic feat of descending staircase without a sound. Allow sigh of relief upon reaching the kitchen. Fill teakettle. Praises be, the auto feature is working on gas burners. Arrange teabag just so.

Get ready to congratulate oneself and read some blogs for an hour before anyone's up wanting soft-boiled eggs. Yuck.

Carry teacup and toast through dining room into closet-called-office.

It's almost time for the big prize: the mommy hour.

Nearly drop cup and plate, stifle scream because... two small girls are sitting on the living room couch with a puzzle and a pile of books, staring silently at my supposedly sneaky self.

How were they sneakier than me?

While I Was Sewing

Cute block, huh?

A few more hints here.

That was the view distracting me at my quilting retreat.

And that was the sassy and sweet welcome home I received!

I had a marvelous weekend of stitchery and fun. I only missed my girls every other minute, but I know they had so much fun. My husband took them to the Grange for a potluck and a showing of Princess Bride. He also took them to a basketball game to even out the foof factor. The girls don't show any ill effects of my absence, so I might have to do it all again soon.

Our hostess at the retreat definitely gets my vote for homesteading woman of the year. Together with her four children and her husband (who has a full-time job outside the home) she quilts, makes yogurt and cheese including cheddar and parmesan, sells dozens of eggs and 80 gallons a month of raw milk, works their garden and woodlot, runs regularly, and in general makes me feel inspired to do more and do better.

She is a lovely woman I am so glad to have met. And, hurray! She lives just three miles from me and yet I'd never met her. I finished my quilt top; it's lovely and I shall update you with photos as I continue work on the pieced fussy-cut borders. I finished a truly beautiful quilt top and I made some new friends. But more importantly I returned home refreshed and ready for the day-to-day of it all.

I think seeing the beauty in that dailiness is the window of opportunity we're all so fervently seeking. For some reason I remember a momentary encounter of eight and a half years ago. I was driving through Kentucky Fried Chicken (such a flattering part of the memory, I know), having snuck out of bedrest with tiny Madeleine in her carseat in my beat-up Volvo station wagon.

My hugely pregnant self was wedged in so my never-long legs could reach the pedals while still allowing the steering wheel clearance to turn. My craving for a biscuit I can still feel intensely. I can even still hear the untintelligible voice from the drive-through speaker on that hot July day. I remember the difficulty I had rolling the window back up with a hand crank only to have to roll it down again when I reached the biscuit delivery moment.

On that day, along with my biscuit I received some advice that I have frankly not thought about between then and now.

"It's none of it work," said the grandmotherly woman who took my dollars and handed me my food. She looked meaningfully at my sleeping toddler (and probably at my pregancy-weary expression) before repeating herself. "It's none of it work."

"You just enjoy these years like they're never coming back. You hear?"