The pink pajama-ed “little” ones. Relaxing post-breakfast, before school. Block building morning: three-stories tall. Food-spilling CJ. This was followed by much vacuuming. And then by more spilling. Eldest now back in bed feeling crummy. He took care to destroy his own creation before CJ could wreck it first.
This has been a fine day. Gorgeous sunshine in which to run a morning errand. Finally feeling inspired to cook and bake again, after a long spell of ho-hum-ness. Kevin and the little kids spent almost two hours playing in the leaves out back. But our big boy is sick. He spent the day in bed, which would be evidence enough; but he also has a fever. As he’s staying hydrated and has no cough, I’m not worried. If it should spread, however … well, that would throw a wrench into the wheels of this busy approaching week. Kevin and I have plans to celebrate our tenth anniversary, a few months late, in Toronto on Wednesday–attending the Alice Munro/Diana Athill conversation at the International Festival of Authors!!!!! Can I wait? No, I cannot. We decided against spending the night, despite having elaborate babysitting in place, because I have a midterm and my own reading the following day. Too much. Throw in a little H1N1 and …
The best-laid plans, huh.
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This was a good day, however. Quiet, sleepy, filled with good food. I baked four loaves of whole wheat bread, a batch of oatmeal/chocolate chip cookies, and cooked up a huge pot of chicken stock, made with the frozen lizardy-gizzardy bits from chickens past. I don’t know whether the savoury garlicky broth will cure what ails anyone, but it can’t hurt. Plus, I made so much, I’ve got four containers frozen for later use (likely in the crockpot).
And with today’s kitchen frenzy, I feel a renewed resolve. Nina’s buying club will be going to a monthly schedule after this coming Friday, and our pantries and cupboards and freezers are full of fall and summer bounty, and of the raw materials for baking and cooking magnificent meals from scratch. So, here is my plan: to eat from our stores. If what we’ve stored runs out, hurrah, I’ll take it as a sign of the experiment’s success. And order some more (lentils? bread flour? potatoes? stewed tomatoes?) from Nina. I don’t mean I’ll bake up crackers (my homemade crackers are lousy), but yes, bread, yes, cookies, yes, granola. Yes, chicken stock.
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Okay, the child seen pictured above is clad in a yellow duck towel and stands behind me demanding I pick out her pajamas. Oh, I should say that her headgear belongs to her planned Hallowe’en costume. I’ll leave it to your imagination. You’ll just have to wait and see.
Over and out.
Ah, fluctuation.
This little fellow is sick. No wonder he was so grumpy around suppertime last night (though he was THIS happy earlier in the day, when he insisted I clip this into his hair). We spent large portions of last night nursing, and just holding him in bed. It’s a reminder of those early infant days, when night-time does not equal sleep-time. He’s napping right now and I’m watching the monitor for rustlings. There he is.
Albus is playing with a transformer, pretending to blow things up. The girls are reading quietly (Apple-Apple is trying out Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, one of my all-time favourites).
I want to thank everyone who expressed support and interest in the Nicaragua writing project. I’ve had encouraging comments, public and private, from a variety of friends, family, and even my former editor.
Uh oh, there he is again (baby, that is). Better run.
Back again. Thinking about time management … that could be my biggest stumbling-block in writing anything (she says, typing one-handed, feverish babe on hip).
There are a bunch of good pics on my camera which I haven’t downloaded because they include a couple that aren’t so good–of some baby animals the kids found in the woodpile that looked a whole lot like newborn rats. I’m too squeamish to look at them.
So today’s post will be unillustrated. Next time.
I’m deep in the throes of sleep deprivation, and it feels so prolonged, so never-ending, that I’m feeling semi-defeated by it. Last night, I was cleaning up puke (another story, not so long; it wasn’t mine, it was a child’s), off and on till 1am, every hour or so till the source was declared completely empty, when finally I slept. Then was woken every hour till sometime after 3 when I managed to string two full hours of sleep together, then it was back to the broken stuff–in and out of bed, answering multiple calls. I’m a firm believer that to feel really well-rested, you need three consecutive uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has become so rare as to feel like a meaningless prescriptive. CJ still nurses twice a night, or more, and Fooey is often up once to use the bathroom, and last night … well, when the puking started I really thought I might suffer a nervous breakdown. This is the fourth time since December that someone (usually a solid family majority) has gotten “the barfing thing.” Look, I know that life with six people in one house is complicated. I accept this. Life generally is complicated. Bodies are vulnerable and imperfect. I get all of that. But I feel suddenly sapped of my ability to appreciate the fun. There is fun, right? Everything feels so damn serious. I’d like to appreciate, for example, getting dressed up and dancing. I’d like to rest, to let my mind slow down, to read a book all the way through, to stand still in the sunshine, to sit down.
To go and whine no more.