pretty, happy, funny, real

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the indefatigable Father Augustine Hilander, OP

with a portion of American Heritage Girls Troop AK1130,

who were recognized for their compassionate service efforts 
with the 2014 St. Francis of Assisi Award in the Youth category.

 

  

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Driving, chatting, parking, shuffling, waiting, returning, helping, hoping, winning. Today was sublime. This too shall pass, to be sure --- and I can't tell the difference between joy and giddiness when these many forms of toil bloom so fruitfully. I love motherhood. I didn't know it would be like this. (that sentiment goes for the difficult, solitary and complicated times too! Nobody told me a single box of Rice Krispies cereal paired with that boy in the photo above could desecrate a living room and four flights of stairs in less than five minutes and without a peep. But it can/does/will, and moms soldier on, because mostly laundry. I'm thankful for the friends and mentors who shepherd us according to their talents. And so grateful for my husband. This blog post now ends before I descend into idiotic poetry or word scrambles. I love you, Anthony.)

Like Mother, Like Daughter hosts Pretty, Happy, Funny, Real here.

pretty, happy, funny, real

Capturing contentment in everyday life ~ please visit the best of the best over here.

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Dorothy Maria has a fancy smile --- now with teeth!

 

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Homeschooling in January. It's an act of the will.

 

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We want our winter back! I'm personally offended by watching the grass thaw,

exposing the April 'ick' before I'm prepared to deal with it, and the general vibe that it's bike riding time instead of hunker-down time ~ happy to see the temperatures dropping again so we can continue embedding in our arctic layers.

 

 

 

 

 

P to the H to the F to the R

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Halloween is better in barely-sweater weather! We trick-or-treated with ease this year, following at least six or seven seasons of brutality. I'm not exaggerating --- our Alaskan bones are solid and our blood runs thick when necessary, but what a joy not to muster all that. Our mental scrapbooks are filled with literal blizzards, three layers of snow gear over top of costumes, wailing toddlers, breaking into relay sprints to shuttle the wounded back to safety, heroic Godfathers, worried Grandmas, stocking footed crazy kids on a mission, and finally the coziness of a waiting fireplace. Our crew met up with dear friends who have a well-plotted course and a festive neighborhood. Their house is like a beacon of stability and holiday rhythm to our family --- greeting us this time with a truly pretty display (partially pictured below) that made me sigh with gratitude. The spirit of November.

 

 

 

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Happy Papi

 

 

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We recently found a camera's memory card that had a bunch of photos taken by our then-seven-year-old daughter; mostly Still Life compositions of her own feet, Barbie dolls, and obscure corners of familiar places. Among the series were a few that made me squeal. That's my handsome, funny, beloved baby brother in a pile of some of our kids. Yesterday was his birthday --- and since I've removed my humble omniscience from Facebook (a continual source of agitation, fixation and frustration for me, not to mention the data-mining creepiness) I was relegated to using the phone to send our best wishes. He didn't answer. And then his voicemail wasn't working, so I squinted into the sun with confusion for a while, and called our Daddy instead. It's odd to be on the one hand a real objector to these modern whizzing dynamos, and on the other hand almost dragged under their tow without thinking. It's a little like the time the automatic door at Fred Meyer hesitated for a nanosecond (I need ciabatta rolls and have no yeast! I need them now! Rachael Ray told me to put this mashup on ciabatta!) and in that stilted flash, I pictured my entire family starving to death because of my domestic mismanagement and the glowing, unreachable grocery wares being locked away from me. The door opened when I jumped in front of the sensor, and the Messy Giuseppes were salvaged. I just don't think I'd have lasted long in the Pioneer days. This much I know: my destruction along the trail or in the covered wagon would be that much sweeter if I could be assured of the taunting and companionship of my brother.

We love Uncle Troy.

 

 

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If God grants me forty more years on Earth, it feels like someday I'll treasure blurry, bouncing photos of our parenthood over any of the poised ones.

"Remember, Lord, the shortness of my life and how frail you have made the sons of men. What man can live and never see death? Who can save himself from the grasp of the grave?"

 

There are so many happy blogs featured at Like Mother, Like Daughter!

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These are my favorite homeschooling moments, second only
to enthusiasm about math. Quiet creativity! The flannel board and felt stories are a special memory of my own childhood. The attraction seems to be timeless, since our girls sometimes spend hours organizing the shapes and entertaining themselves.

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My brother visited last week on his way home from Bering Sea crabbing,
and guess whose nieces were treated to a shopping spree? Out. of. control.
As only a 28-year old bachelor uncle can be...
I knew better than to assist -- hey, he even wrangled the two-year old through the aisles! They're working on thank-you cards, still swooning
over his fun and generosity.

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And how is this funny, you ask? Wait for it ...

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Happy Thursday!

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