When in Doubt, Just Bake a Cake

I really don't like Brent's latest batch of homebrew. I've tried to like it, really I have, especially since he brewed it with his own hops from the backyard, but it has this certain je ne sais quoi that lingers on my palate (oh alright, I think it tastes musty- there, I said it.) It's unfortunate, too, because we have not one but two kegs of the stuff. Two kegs! Who has two kegs of beer? Who do we think we are? Is this some sort of party house? Are we going to start having shows in our basement? (We do not have a basement, maybe that's for the best...)

I am really feeling happy about the old italicize button tonight.

So I am holding out for apple cider! Oh yes, this year it is all about the apple freaking cider around here. I can't wait! I can't wait! (And I don't even really like juice, which I know is totally weird, but I can get pretty amped up about some homemade apple cider!) (Because clearly I need to get out more...)

(I guess I am also digging the parentheses and the ellipses...)

We picked apples at our friend's grandma's property. And by "we picked apples" I mean that Brent RISKED HIS LIFE climbing a big ass apple tree, giving it the shakedown and then scurrying around to collect the fallen soldiers while I sat around and ate chips and tossed a few apples into a box as we were getting ready to leave. I was in charge of supervising the children and I'm happy to report that no one was lost or injured. See, I did my part.

(Oh my god. Seriously, somebody should do something about that child's hair.)

Sawyer flies on that Radio Flyer bike. He really loves to go for bike rides around the block and screams "BIKE!" repeatedly until someone agrees to take him. Every time we go in or out through the garage he jumps on that thing and peels out down the sidewalk. A habit that is very annoying when you are actually trying to go somewhere at a certain time. And the whole screaming-until-I-get-what-I-want thing is getting totally out of hand with him, too. He's also famous for going completely boneless when you try to pick him up and move him away from breakables or dangerous objects.

(I ragged on Jack a few entries back, so I figured it was Sawyer's turn this week.)

Speaking of Jack, we finally did it! A real haircut! Yes, I know, three and a half years old and he finally gets a real one. What can I say? We are slackers. Brent and I had been bugging him for the past few months about getting at least a trim, but he was adamant about keeping his long hair. Which I would have been fine with except that he just looked so scruffy all of the time and I just knew there was a sharp looking little man hidden under that mop of blond curls. I really wanted the haircut to be his idea or at least for him to be into it and thus we hit the roadblock. He was having a particularly shaggy day on Saturday when I finally got the idea to rephrase the haircut scenario to include the words "just like Dad's". Now believe me, giving Jack and Brent-like haircut freaked me out, but those three little words sealed the deal and I grabbed the clippers before anyone could lose their nerve. And...

Isn't he dapper? But oh my, biggest big boy ever. That makes me kind of sad.

But I do love the new and de-shaggified Jack. He liked it too, at first. He kept running back to the mirror to admire his new look and petting his freshly shorn head like it was a baby duck. When the afternoon fatigue rolled in, however, Jack discovered that his new haircut did not allow him to practice his time honored tradition of twirling his curls around his fingers. This has been a long standing habit for Jack and one that always indicated to us the degrees of his tiredness. One hand twirling meant he was a little bit sleepy but could easily be rallied. But every once in awhile he'd have a particularly taxing day and both hands would be twirling away in that mess of curls. Then you knew that he was going to be a disaster until bedtime. On that afternoon, I watched Jack as he brought his fingers to his hair and saw the painful look of realization on his face: his hair twirling days were gone. His bottom lip began to quiver and I went with the first thing that came to my mind- cake! Yes, I made a "Happy Haircut" cake for Jack. It was pumpkin spice, nothing special (except for the pumpkin, of course!) from the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook that is probably gathering dust on your shelf. I iced it with a maple cream cheese frosting. Mmmm. The cake provided the necessary distraction to get us through the afternoon and we caught Jack twirling Sawyer's hair as Brent read bedtime books that night. I guess little brothers are good for something every once in awhile.

Jack says he is knitting a white had for Dad for Christmas. Sweet. Now I don't have to worry about finding Brent a present.

What's wrong with me? Why do big boy haircuts make me feel so sad? Just the other week I was complaining about how I'm so over Jack and his terrible threes. So how come my eyes started to water when I tossed that pile of golden curls into the garbage can? And why did I get choked up when Jack walked down the hallway this morning and it took me a second to recognize him?

These kids are turning me sappy. I'm going to go eat another piece of "Happy Haircut" cake.

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Egg Beater, Chicken, Front-Back-Side-Pivot!

I butchered another pumpkin this weekend. This one went much more quietly than the last one, who kicked and screamed and took a few years off the lifespan of my blender. I think I am becoming obsessed with pumpkin puree. I want to spread this newfound gospel- to let the people know about the joy that is pulverized pumpkin!

Just what is it about that taste of pumpkin, mixed into something with plenty of butter and sugar and accented with cinnamon? I guess it tastes like fall. And so here is a taste of fall for you: my new favorite cookie recipe which I have blatantly plagiarized adapted from allrecipes.com:

Iced Pumpkin Cookies

2 1/2 cups flour

1 t baking powder

1 t baking soda

2 t cinnamon

1/2 t nutmeg, ground cloves, salt

1/2 cup soft butter

1 generous cup pumpkin puree (!!)

3/4 cup sugar

1 egg

1 t vanilla

Combine dry ingredients (except sugar) and set aside. Beat sugar and everything else together in the mixer then add the dry stuff. Drop tablespoons of dough onto a cookie sheet, flatten slightly, then bake at 375 for 10 minutes or so. If you can manage to wait long enough for the cookies to cool (we never seem to be able to do this), you can drizzle them with a glaze made from 1/2 cup powdered sugar, 1 t melted butter, 1/2 t vanilla, and 1 T milk. Or just eat them plain. Either way you'll love these cookies. So much that you just might make this face...

So it was a weekend of pumpkin slaughter, pizza sauce (Brent has tallied that we now have enough pizza sauce to last us through March 22nd. How did he come up with an exact day? There must be some sort of mathematical calculation for this? He is a talented man, that husband of mine), corn, and laundry. Oh yeah, the laundry. Snoozefest. But! I finally got caught up! As in the sheets and towels are all clean, too. This is momentous for me, okay? Seriously, I really do not understand how people with lots of kids do it. I guess if you have a big family you just designate one of your couches for clean clothes and nobody cares if your socks don't match? I truly do not understand this.

The laundry situation was made even more dire over the weekend by the fact that I ran a 5K on Sunday morning during a torrential downpour while Brent and the kids stood on the sidelines getting soaked through every fiber of their beings. But it was totally worth the extra load of laundry because it was MaryAnne's first race (and my first 5K, too!) and we killed it. I mean we didn't win or anything, but we ran steadily and finished strong. A pretty impressive feat for someone who five weeks ago laughed when I told her she should run it with me. We even shelled out the extra five bucks to do the chip timed run and so we got to wear these EXTRA SPECIAL green bibs and had the nifty chips laced onto our shoes. We looked totally legit, man, like a couple of real runners. Because we are.

I got to run an extra leg of the race because we got stuck in traffic on the way there so I had to jump out of the car on the Ferry Street Bridge and sprint over to Autzen in order to make the starting gun. Which they then delayed by ten minutes so as to allow those who had been stuck in traffic the opportunity to leisurely stroll the the start line. Of course.

But as I was making that mad dash to the start I began to think about how much I sometimes really hate running. I know, right? As I am running to the starting line of a race. But still, sometimes I really want to be lazy and sleep in my cozy bed instead of shlepping my entire family out into the rain so that I can run some arbitrary distance and get all hot and sweaty and red faced. My bed is so warm and cozy, you know, and I do so enjoy a quiet morning at home in my bathrobe with the newspaper and coffee and a little parenting break compliments of PBS Kids.

I guess we all need challenges. We must be driven to seek them out. It's a good thing when we dare to push ourselves to do something new or difficult. Rising to the occasion and meeting those challenges is what makes us feel fulfilled in our lives, I think. My challenges right now are to store enough fruits and vegetables in my freezer to last us all winter (this is ambitious, no?), to take Jack's mood swings in stride, to conquer that half marathon (November 20th!!), to keep my laundry demons at bay, to save some pumpkin cookies for tomorrow, and to remember to breathe and to savor the moments in my busy life that seem to want to slip away.

Back to the race. The turnout was impressive (hence the traffic snarl) and I scanned the crowd for kids from my school. I just figured that with all of this "I Heart Boobies" business running the middle school fashion circuit, I'd see some familiar faces out supporting breast cancer research. Nope. Lazy kids. Posers. I totally called them out on this in class today. I saw it as a "teachable moment".

So I'm wondering from you, blog readers, what are your challenges? How are you pushing yourself? I think it's inspiring to hear what other people accomplish when they channel their energy. Sure, this question isn't as exciting as writing about your most horrific public toddler meltdown, but I think it's an important one.

And to reward you for considering leaving a comment, I'll close by sharing with you an embarrassing story about a challenge that I recently faced, that I have deliberately avoided mentioning on this blog in fear that you would demand proof that this actually happened and that I would then have to dance the Hustle for you. Or that you would look for videos of this on YouTube (please do NOT tell me if you find any, I don't want to know!).

I can't dance. Not at all. It doesn't mean I won't dance, but I know that I look like an overcooked noodle with extra knees and elbows when I'm doing it. Give me a drink or two and put me into a dimly lit room with lots of other people and I'll shake my money maker with the best of 'em, but dancing in a public forum, as in for an audience? Not a chance.

But it was the first week of school and we decided to do a staff talent show and blah blah blah I "took a mental birdwalk" and suddenly we had agreed to dance the Hustle at an assembly! Huh? So everybody met in my classroom so we could practice and it was clear from the get go that I was not going to be able to do this. I started having flashbacks to 7th grade PE and the humiliating realization that I have no physical coordination whatsoever. I got super frustrated and tried to laugh it off, but really I was freaking out about this damn Hustle. Everybody else (with a few notable exceptions- you know who you are) seemed to master the dance after the first practice, but I knew that I was going to need an individualized plan of support. Enter my school BFF Kate, who patiently mentored me through the arduous journey of learning the basic dance steps. Then I went home and practiced with a little help from YouTube (see? it has its place) and finally my friend Melanie helped me put the finishing touches on my Hustle. (It's all about how far apart you spread your feet. Who knew?)

The assembly came and I totally rocked it. Or at least I did not fall down or trip over everyone else. I like to think that I rocked it, so let's just leave it at that, and like I said before, if you find and YouTube video evidence to the contrary you can just keep that to yourself.

So again, I pose the question to you, how do you challenge yourself?

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Perspective

I recently reread Little House in the Big Woods which, you may know, is the first book in the Laura Ingalls Wilder series. Of course I've read all of the Little House books at least once before and I'm pretty sure that I've seen every episode of the TV series at least twice, but once I picked up that tattered copy of Big Woods I just couldn't put it down. I mean, c'mon, the blizzard! Ma accidentally slapping the bear! The fiddle dance party and Grandma outjigging wild Uncle William! The action and adventure just doesn't stop with that Ingalls family.

Have I mentioned before the most amazingly awesome job perk ever? My school has thirty minutes of silent reading three times a week built into our master schedule. The entire school essentially shuts down so everybody can read. Yes, I am getting paid to read Little House books!

Which is why I am refreshed enough to haul the kids out for an afternoon run with the stroller. And some beautiful fall weather. And a praying mantis.

MaryAnne and I are running a 5K on Sunday. It's Race for the Cure- you should join us.

So, back to those Little House books. Man, life was hard back then, what with the panther attacks and the snowstorms and the isolation. That first book takes place before the family came west and had the luxury of shopping at Olsen's Mercantile (Nelly!) and they pretty much lived out in the middle of nowhere and only went into town once a year to trade Pa's furs and buy calico fabrics. I remember when I was a kid and reading these books I felt so sorry for Laura. She's pretty easy to sympathize with because she has that perfect older sister who can do no wrong and Mary has golden hair while Laura's is just "plain brown". Plus she has like a bazillion chores to do and practically no toys at all. Oh, and didn't your heart just break when the apples fell out of her dress in front of the entire school! OMG! Most painful-to-watch episode ever!

But now that I'm rereading the series I think Laura is kind of a brat and really the person to feel sorry for here is Ma. Damn that lady had to work. Churning the butter, darning the socks, cooking in what I can only imagine was a prehistoric kitchen, scrubbing the clothes on a washboard, the list goes on... Three kids and a husband! That's a lot of food and laundry. And then Mary goes blind? WTF? Poor Ma. She never had a book club to go to and sip wine while complaining about her husband. She never got a pedicure. Ma never stormed out of the house for some retail therapy. Ma was a martyr.

But did Ma ever get PMS? Didn't she ever get mad at Pa for playing that stupid fiddle all the time? Didn't Baby Carrie ever throw a temper tantrum? And just how do you live in a "little house" with three girls and a husband who works the fields all day long and only takes a bath on Saturday night? Ma is my new hero.

Perspective.

Ma has given me perspective.

My life is pretty easy.

See? My kids have actual pots and pans to play with. Poor Laura had to dress up a corncob and call it a doll. I guess I can still feel sorry for her, too.

(Jack is refusing a haircut. I just might have to do it while he's sleeping.)

In the spirit of Ma, I sallied forth with my food preservation obsession this weekend and cooked down veggies into broth for the freezer, baked and pureed pumpkin for cookies and pies, and let Brent tackle a mountain of corn. He can help. It's not like he was busy hunting bears or threshing a field or anything.

And then we went to a birthday party at Roaring Rapids Pizza and the kids got all cracked out on birthday cake and rode a carousel. I'll be sure to remind these kids that they live in the lap of luxury when I read the Little House books to them.

Sawyer's carousel face was... well, I'm really not sure what was happening here. Was he laughing? Was he crying? We couldn't really tell. But he seemed to want to ride it over and over again so we'll just assume he was having fun. Hard to say, am I right?

Friday night I got all fancied up with Amberlee (she brought me a dress from Spain!) and we went out for a swanky dinner, just the two of us. I ate pickled watermelon in a salad that literally exploded in my mouth (in a good way) and then we drank countless glasses of wine. Countless, I tell you, although I am pretty sure that I did not need that last one.

But that's okay, I was drinking one for Ma. Cheers.

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Three is a Magic Number

I may never take the kids out in public by myself again.

I was so traumatized this week by The Biggest, Ugliest, Most Horrible Public Meltdown that I have ever witnessed or been a part of. Ever. Seriously, it was so bad. Blood was almost shed- mine, theirs, the stupid people's who kept staring at me while my kids were freaking out. I was ready to kill them, too.

Jack is three and quite frankly, it's not going so well. He's so emotional and opinionated and oppositional. There are days where EVERY LITTLE THING feels like a struggle. I've never wanted to wish any of the time away, but I'll be ready for four come February. Three sucks.

These epic fits have been enough to make me want to just give up on this whole quality parenting thing and drive the kids through McDonald's for dinner, toss some fries on the floor, and park them in front of Sponge Bob Square Pants so I can go smoke a cigarette and drink bourbon in an overstuffed recliner. I mean seriously, I've been using positive reinforcement and ignoring the undesired behaviors for years now, and that sure as hell doesn't seem to be working...

But the worst part about Jack's meltdowns is that during these moments of utter anguish I can actually see myself in him, and it ain't pretty. I remember what it's like to spiral out of control into a fit of such raw emotion that there's no way out except to scream and hot tears burn your cheeks and you just keep on screaming until you can scream no more. Yeah, I was an emotional kid, too, and it was hard. I guess I just want Jack's life to be easier.

(And now I really sympathize with my parents. Um, sorry about that.)

In a weird way, though, it's almost a relief to see that these crazy emotions seem to be in our nature, Jack's and mine. I always thought it was my fault that I was so quick to tears and so if I can blame nature for this, I guess I will.

But he can be awfully sweet, too, during moments of concentration.

And goofy when I ask him to pose with green cauliflower from the farm. Yep, that's right. Green cauliflower. Weird, huh?

We will be okay. This is just a rough patch. I know this. But it's still hard to see your kid, who you have poured your heart and soul into, act like the devil incarnate. Makes me feel like somehow we've done something horribly wrong. Where did we go astray?

And so I seek refuge in the kitchen where even if I can't control Jack's behavior, I can control what he eats. We've been winning the war with Jack over food for awhile now. He tried to get picky on us, but we weren't having it, and now he eats broccoli and asparagus with gusto. Yogurt with blueberries is a treat and salmon is his favorite meal. I'll take my victory where I can at this point.

This weekend we went on a food preservation rampage. I think I was channeling some residual anger from The Meltdown and I inflicted my rage on tomatoes, green beans, broccoli, cauliflower, and corn. The freezer is getting full.

Is there any hope for our garden tomatoes? Between Sawyer's appetite for destruction and this wacky weather, I have my doubts. Hopefully the predicted warm sunshine this week will prove me wrong.

What's the best thing about waking up at 6:30 on a Sunday morning to the sound of dueling screeching kids? You get to see a sunrise like this one. The moon and a rainbow? Looks auspicious to me.

I had to get up early anyway, because my dad and I have decided to run a half marathon in November. Today was our first training run. It was an invigorating way to start the day.

Jack had no meltdowns or time outs today.

Brent caught two Steelhead today. They were delicious.

So things around here aren't so bad after all, I guess.

I found this old note in our junk drawer. I think it provides some insight into the complexities of our household and the dynamics of our marriage. Maybe this is only funny to me.

I especially appreciate how, in my apparent haste, I misspelled vacuum and yet remembered the tilde. Insight indeed.

So why don't you all go ahead and leave a comment telling me about the worst experience you had raising a three-year-old and how it all turned out just fine. Can you do that for me, people of the Internet? 'Cause I could use some reassurance here. And it's still a long way to February.

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Channeling My Inner Martha

My friend Peter once remarked (with a hint of disdain in his voice) that he was surprised that I was so domestic. I guess I had never thought about it like that before, but maybe I do seem like a person who would be less inclined towards the domestic arts. But let me tell you, I do so love a weekend of sewing pants for one of the kids, baking a loaf of whole wheat bread to feed my family for the next week, whipping up a big pot of soup from whatever Brent scored at the farmers’ market, and scheming up my latest Halloween decor theme.

And yet, Martha Stewart I am not. I like to say the f-word. I drink a lot of beer. I am a total feminist. I would still go see a punk show if you invited me to one. I have tattoos.

However, there is something about the house and home. I’m devoted to my family. I like us to eat well and I’m not a big fan of processed foods. I want my kids to have clothes that five other kids at the park aren’t wearing. I’m also kind of a homebody by nature.

So in finding the balance, I’ve discovered that you can have it all. The education/career/independence and the housewife/mom/Martha Stewart all wrapped up into one. It can be done, but it’s exhausting and requires a lot of coffee. (And sometimes a lot of beer.)

I’ve linked you to the recipe for this bread before, but I’m starting to fear that someday my links will all be dead and then I’ll have no way of knowing how to make all of this food because god forbid I would actually take the time to write down a recipe on paper- ha! How archaic.

Oatmeal Sandwich Bread

Into your Kitchen Aid, put

2 ¼ t yeast

3 T molasses

2 cups warm water

Let the yeast bloom for five minutes.

Add in:

2 ½ cups whole wheat flour

2 cups bread flour

1 cup rolled oats

4 T melted butter

2 t salt

Mix until combined. Let rest for 30 minutes. Switch to the bread hook and mix for about 6 minutes. Let rise in oiled bowl for 1 hour, shape, place in buttered loaf pan and let rise again for an hour. Bake at 400 for 40 minutes. DO NOT cut into the loaf until it has cooled. This will be difficult. I have faith in you.

This year I made pizza sauce to freeze. I’d link you to the recipe, but really all I did was boil down a big old bunch of tomatoes (I left the skins on because I am lazy), add a few handfuls of basil, a healthy dollop of tomato paste, tons of oregano, olive oil, salt, pepper, and a few dashes of red pepper. Now, I’ve been long tormented by the issue of tomato paste (don’t I sound like Martha now?) and whether or not to buy it because of the whole BPA in canned foods dilemma. It’s really easy for me to jump onto any sort of food safety bandwagon, watch some documentary, and then become completely hysterical about what we’re feeding the kids and declare that we cannot possibly eat ANYTHING AT ALL ANYMORE because the food industry is so effed up and Monsanto controls everything with their corporate evil empire and WE’RE ALL GOING TO GET CANCER AND DIE, etc.

Where was I? Oh yes, tomato paste. I made my own! It took a long, long time and I followed a recipe until it got to the part about cooking down the paste for hours and hours on end and then I just turned off the oven and called it good. And it was. (I can't find the link right now, but it essentially involved boiling down a bunch of tomatoes, straining them, then cooking them in the oven with low heat for a long, long time.)

In other domestic news, I’ve been sewing for… wait for it… MYSELF! See? I made this skirt! And in the process I remembered why I don’t sew for myself. Kids’ clothes are so much easier. A lot of seam ripping went into the making of this skirt. And you better believe that there was a lot of swearing, too. But here it is- my skirt for me! (Just don’t look too closely at the seams. What the hell was I thinking using a contrast thread? That’s for real seamstresses who actually know what they are doing.) Sure, this skirt’s not going to win any prizes at the county fair, but I think I’ll be able to wear it to work.

(A quick aside: I once entered a pillow that I had sewn in the youth sewing contest at the county fair, I think I was 8 or 9. It was a heart shaped decorative pillow made from- get this- white fabric with red hearts AND it had a ruffle with red ribbon with white hearts AND IT HAD A RED BOW IN THE VERY CENTER! My god, it was the tackiest thing ever and it won first place. A blue ribbon! It was a proud day for my mom.)

Sawyer got a haircut! Yes, I know. It was time.

Jack brought home his First Ever Homework Assignment!! I was so excited! But then I was like really? Homework from preschool during the first week of school? Sheesh. I thought I was an ogre. But then I looked at the assignment and it was so cute with these little drawings to color and interview questions for Jack and a place to glue on a family picture, so I got all carried away thinking about how we could impress his teacher with paint! And glitter! And googly eyes! And then I remembered that it was Jack’s homework, not mine. Oops.

Eschewing child labor laws, we've recruited Jack's help in our home beer production. There are currently two kegs of beer fermenting away in my bedroom closet as we speak, so if my work clothes smell a bit like a brewery, hopefully my colleagues will understand.

Instead of coming up with a clever conclusion to this blog entry, I think I'll go watch Dexter season 4. So suck on that, Martha.

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Doing Things the Hard Way. Alternate Title: What I Did During My Summer Vacation

So I have to write this stupid essay about what I did this summer. By Friday.

(Who would give such a totally lame back to school assignment?)

And it needs to be really good because I'll be sharing it with a group of seventh graders before I make them write their own What I Did This Summer essays.

(I guess I would.)

And then I'll have to read and grade them so they had better be interesting, which means that I'll have to make mine super interesting, you know, to model the interesting writing and all. And funny, too. I'd like to laugh out loud while I'm reading these essays and not because I'm laughing to keep from crying about the spelling/punctuation/grammar.

I probably should be working on that right now instead of putting it off until Thursday night, but instead here I am because apparently I like to do things the hard way.

I figured that out about myself this summer. This was our first summer in real kid mode. We've been in baby or toddler mode for awhile now, but this year was different. We found ourselves starting new traditions, venturing to unknown places, and living a two-kid-family lifestyle. And we also found ourselves doing some things the hard way.

For example, instead of driving to the library one morning, I got adventurous and took the kids on the city bus. It was a true LTD experience (I'll just leave it at that) but the kids loved it. I think we need to take more advantage of the public transportation system to get around town.

We also rode our bikes a ton this summer with the boys cozied up in the bike trailer. (Someday I will upgrade from my 1970's Schwinn Collegiate to a bike with more than three speeds, but I guess that day is not today. On the plus side, pulling that trailer behind my old bike is one hell of a workout!)

I don't think we turned on our dryer a single time this summer. Sawyer does not appreciate having his Very Special Blanky (which he has affectionately named "Mine") washed and hung out to dry.

We started the summer with such high hopes for our garden. Brent put in two more raised beds and planted a ton of goodies. And then this wacky weather came along and threw a wrench into the plans and so we really didn't end up with the bumper crops we had hoped for. But at least Brent's job at the farm means that he brings home boxes of fresh produce twice a week and so our freezer is full of veggies for the winter and we've all gotten our zucchini fix for the summer.


Jack's sunflowers did well. I'm still holding out some hope for the tomatoes...

And of course I've been making my lists, and spending hours in the kitchen with my thoughts as I trim/blanch/freeze until I see veggies when I close my eyes.

Before I had kids I always wondered what kind of mom I would be. And then we had babies and I wondered what kind of family we would have. And now we have kids and I think we're figuring out what kind of family we are. A family that chooses to do things a certain way, even if it takes more time or effort, because we've decided that it's important to live our lives in a way that reflects our tastes and values.

Um, so, yeah. I guess that's what I did this summer.

Or should I just write about letting Jack poop on the side of the road?

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The Organic Cotton Anniversary

Five years ago this guy and I stood up in front of a bunch of people and said we were in it for the long haul. Well, so far so good.

(This is one of the only pictures from our actual anniversary where Brent does not look like he's about to bite me. I'm not sure why he seems to do that in photos of the two of us, but you'll be sure to notice it now that I've mentioned it.)

Five years ago this guy was but a thought, a dream, a hope...


Five years ago I never would have imagined adorning my front yard with a sunbleached plastic slide and a rusty dump truck.


Five years ago I was friends-for-life with her mom. (Some things haven't changed.)


Five years ago I would have thrown away a broken camera.


Five years ago I never could have imagined how funny it would be to see my kid try bubble gum for the first time.

Five years ago I had no idea how much love my heart could hold.


And just how does one spend the fifth anniversary? We rounded up a babysitter (thanks Grandma!) and biked down to dinner at Cornucopia and then it was off to Ninkasi for a beer. Or two. Since I rarely venture out after dark (how lame am I? Oh wait, I have two kids!) I found that my bike light was missing, so clever, resourceful Brent suggested that we wear headlamps. Oh we were a sight.

And to commemorate the occasion? T-shirts from the brewery. Matching ones- oh yeah! Five years ago I would have never seen that one coming...

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