Someone really loves my big camera.
Adorable baby shoes…that she’s outgrowing fast.
Oh, the places we find ourselves (in fancy dress, no less!).
Praying and remembering 13 years out.
The replacement phone arrived but as I opted for a less expensive older model, the camera quality is pretty grainy but I’m pleased because I want to relearn how to use our old standard camera again. Please bear with me as I figure out the whole focusing thing. :)
Last week was Haus Meister’s birthday but it came smack in the middle of an intense deadline at work. The kids decorated the kitchen for him that morning and we gave him his birthday presents at random times over the weekend. One of these gifts was my book for the week:
Where Eagles Dare by Alistair McLean. Haus Meister and I enjoy the movie and now the book as well. The screenplay for the movie was also written by the author so it isn’t terribly different–except there seem to be a lot more explosions in the movie. It amused me that my “Austen fan” stitch marker is right there next to the only spy novel I’ve read in a decade.
Coming along with the knitting! We’ve finished the collar and are now moving onto the main sweater!
So, I had a blogpost in my mind and I had pictures for it. Then, the preschooler accidentally tossed my phone into the loo for reasons beyond my comprehension. The benefit for me is that I am learning to use and definitely love our standard camera again. This is what I’ve come up with for today’s post.
Mulled cider candle: the answer to the question, “Can anything good come from Wal-Mart?”
Hot Cinnamon Spice tea… liquid autumn? I put that on my Amazon subscribe and save list. Next month I might just have to get two tins. Haus Meister and I will be done with this one well before October.
Yes, I was in total denial of summer that night. Why do you ask?
My Princess. “Did you get my picture yet, Mom?”
I am still waiting for an excuse to open this. The wrapper is too hilarious, the thought too funny. I would hate to use this prematurely.
My knitting for the past two weeks. Now I’m back to where I was two weeks ago when I had to restart the project. But the cold nights are coming and as you can see I’m getting ready for it.
Actually, after Littlest arrived I went on a parenting binge-read, brushing up on all my special needs mommy reading and reading up on babies who didn’t gain weight right away and would formula use damage her, etc etc etc and officially burned myself out of any serious reading for the nonce.
The flowers that replaced the dead tomato plants on our porch.
I am still in utter denial that it is 84 degrees out there.
When it was first confirmed we are parents of an autistic son, I half thought of buying one of those puzzle piece ribbons for the van. I’m kind of like that; right now our massive beast of a van is the repository for stickers detailing where we’ve driven it (Vail being the most prestigious looking–we don’t mention that it was during the off season). But I let it slide. I appreciate the thought behind the puzzle pieces. I appreciate seeing it on other people’s cars and know that we aren’t walking this road alone.
But there’s another piece of our family puzzle I haven’t mentioned much simply because her story is unfolding at its own pace. We have in our care a special little rosebud whose petals are slow to unfurl. We get glimpses of the beautiful flower she’ll become, but still she needs our help, our hands, our voices, our love, and our patience to support her. You know her by her blog-pseudonym of Sunshine, and a ray of sunshine she truly is to all of us. And as I watch all our darlings grow up around me, I realize that to me, there is no missing puzzle piece. In fact, sometimes, they are each of them a puzzle, and sometimes the typical ones are more of a complex jigsaw to me than the two who are supposed to be more of a challenge. ;) This isn’t knocking the puzzle piece design or anyone else who likes to use it. I just chose not to buy one for my van because there’s a lot on my van already. And as much as I want the general public to give my autistic children a break, I also hope someone tries to do what we do, and look past the evident differences and see the wonderful side of them we are privileged to see.
((Sorry the photos are slightly unfocussed. My iPhone met some water the other day with not-so-good results so *gasp* I’m trying to relearn how to use our actual real camera again!))
August 28th is the 99th birthday of the late Tasha Tudor. This must be nostalgia week for me because I’ve been hashing out memories with people for the last few days. Today I’m remembering the time when I was in the midst of my first readings of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series. I was around 8 or 9, and we were at my grandma’s house. My mom brought me over to the bookshelves–the same ones we used now to make our Tasha Tudor-esque dollhouse for our daughters–and pulled A Time to Keep off the shelf.
“This is a Tasha Tudor book,” Mom said in a hushed and reverent tone, or at least so it seemed to me then. It was before the days of Amazon and eBay, and the local bookstores so rarely carried anything by Tasha when we were by. This meant the book was extra incredibly special, irreplaceable at the time. She opened it and handed it to me and I was instantly transported into Tasha’s world of the 1830s. I was fascinated at the rhythm of her seasons, at the costumes and the corgi dogs. I often returned to the book when at Grandma’s, and now I’m just as much a collector as my Mom (in fact, probably more, for books are my guilty indulgence). Haus Meister even found me the coveted Tudor-illustrated Little Women for Christmas one year. If you think I exaggerate that it’s coveted you didn’t have the ill luck I did over several eBay bids. Still, I must confess, A Time to Keep is my favorite.
So, a happy birthday to dear Ms. Tudor and I’ll drink my nighttime tea in her honor tonight.
Now for the knitting. Armas hasn’t gotten very far, mainly because I misread an instruction and only discovered my error 3″ into the collar. Out it all came and now I’m just trying to catch back up. Getting there, slowly but surely. I do not think it will be a birthday sweater at this rate. ;)
What we see:
What he sees:
Trooper is in training for our area Equestrian Special Olympics. Less than a month to go! We can’t wait!
(for Mom, who showed me this movie when I was little and really made me want a mountain horse. Never mind that there’s no landscape like that anywhere NEAR where I grew up:)
“Daniel” went to his Heavenly home recently.
More than likely he died in the adult mental institution where he’s been for the past two years. Possibly in a “laying room,” the same four walls around him day in, day out. Very little interaction.
It’s not his fault. It’s not really even his country’s fault. They were under the Soviet thumb for so long, and their own recovery has not been the easiest. In fact, they’re being invaded again.
How could they possibly have the medical care for their neediest that, say, we do here in the US?
And we? Why do we stand by and let the little ones languish in institutions if we had the means, ability, and love to help them?
And what do we do in our own country to help our neediest? Our disabled? The ones born “different.”
Do we offer them a smile?
Do we encourage them to be the best they can be?
To terminate their lives while their very hearts are beating? For what? That they will be spared a life that’s different–or that we will be spared having to “deal” with them.
The latter, me thinks.
While we as a culture entertain such thoughts, we enlightened wealthy Westerners, no finger of blame can we point at anyone for Daniel living and dying bedridden, age 7, unable to walk on his own or even raise his head.
For Daniel’s sake. For the sake of all of them.
Give them a chance to really live.
Rest in peace, my Ukrainian sweetheart. I prayed for you every day. I rejoice you are now at peace and rest, whole and well at last.
She’s acted older than her age for so long that I once thought she turned 3 last year…but actually she turns 3 today. :)
It’s a tulle and tutu ballerina birthday, because her favorite things to wear are ballet outfits. I’ll offer her something perfectly charming from her closet and she’ll simply shoot me her mischief look and growl: “No. I wanna be-a-reena!” She can say “ballerina” on its own but tumbles over “be a ballerina,” so she shortens it to “be-a-reena.”
Happy Be-a-reena birthday, sweetheart!