New tops, waiting in their drawers for them to find tomorrow morning.
Snickerdoodle bars
10 years ago
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Now it's nothing but flowers
Last September I bottled kilos and kilos of tomatoes, preparing for winter.
They were all used up by mid-November.
So I saved every store-bought bottle we used from then on, and this spring we planted even more tomatoes.
And then it stayed cold. And rainy.
There were those two weeks in June when it was hot - and we ate home-grown broccoli and zucchini for every meal. (Thank you once again, Cook's companion)
Then the cold and the rain returned, all the way up until the first day of school on August 22.
That was the week we got our first ripe tomatoes. Since then there's been just enough for eating each day, but none spare. And this weekend - another holiday weekend - the weather went back to cold and rainy, so I suspect that's the end of them for this year.
Part of me is relieved to have escaped the bottling - especially since the walnuts started falling last week - but it's a bit sad nonetheless.
At least the flowers didn't disappoint.
Speaking of food: I spent a large part of the rainy holiday weekend transferring bookmarked recipes to Quick (cuppa tea) recipes - feel free to use them too! And let me know if I can make the site more useful (although hopefully the labels already make it easy to find something...?)
They were all used up by mid-November.
So I saved every store-bought bottle we used from then on, and this spring we planted even more tomatoes.
And then it stayed cold. And rainy.
There were those two weeks in June when it was hot - and we ate home-grown broccoli and zucchini for every meal. (Thank you once again, Cook's companion)
Then the cold and the rain returned, all the way up until the first day of school on August 22.
That was the week we got our first ripe tomatoes. Since then there's been just enough for eating each day, but none spare. And this weekend - another holiday weekend - the weather went back to cold and rainy, so I suspect that's the end of them for this year.
Part of me is relieved to have escaped the bottling - especially since the walnuts started falling last week - but it's a bit sad nonetheless.
At least the flowers didn't disappoint.
Speaking of food: I spent a large part of the rainy holiday weekend transferring bookmarked recipes to Quick (cuppa tea) recipes - feel free to use them too! And let me know if I can make the site more useful (although hopefully the labels already make it easy to find something...?)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Break point
The following is inspired by the prompt of: "Write a short story that reveals one of the unspoken struggles of motherhood".
She'd read the books, gone to the classes, but nothing had prepared her for this constant, round-the-clock contact. The 2-hour feedings, every 4 hours. The rocking and pacing. The co-sleeping. The carrying around – for of course, pre-baby, she'd chosen a sling over a pram. Her back's beginning to ache as well.
"It's just that he's with me all the time," she'd said to Andrew one rare night he was home. He'd looked at her oddly. "Well, of course," he'd replied. "He's a baby."
"Yes, I know, but the thing is, usually you get to know people slowly. You meet someone, you figure out you like each other, you start spending more time together. But with a baby, there’s no getting used to this person, he or she is just there."
And you have to be with them, is what she didn't voice. No deciding first whether you even like this person. No way to change your mind about the whole thing.
"All the time," she'd whispered. But Andrew – social, outgoing, no-need-for-alone-time Andrew – hadn't heard. He was making faces at Max, babbling gibberish, totally absorbed in their child.
Before Max was born, it had seemed sensible for Andrew to be starting his MBA now. After all, it wasn't like they'd be doing much with a newborn, especially one born in winter. What better time to be stuck at home studying when they'd be stuck inside anyway?
But she hadn't realised how this would quite literally leave her holding the baby. All day while Andrew was at work, most evenings while he was in classes, and all weekend while he did his assignments. Plus nights too, since she hadn't seen any reason why both of them should be exhausted.
Right now it seems like the most stupid fucking idea they ever had.
She can't know that in a couple of years she'll be hoisting a toddler in one arm, carrying the shopping in the other, muscles strong and willing. That her sense of personal space will have disappeared completely, and she'll be OK with that. More than OK: she'll happily acquiesce to every request for a kiss and a cuddle. She can't know, now, that in 18 years she'll long for the smallest physical contact with her first-born, even a simple tousling of his hair.
It’s 6 pm, Andrew's not home, she's just managed to gulp something down and shit it's time to feed Max again so they can both be in bed by 8 and she can have some chance of 6 hours sleep before the sun and her son force the next day to begin.
She looks at Max, lying in the baby bouncer.
She can't do it. Abruptly, she leaves the kitchen, walks to the living room, turns on the TV. Watches a whole episode of Doctors, a soap she doesn’t even like, but it’s such bliss to just sit there for a whole 30 minutes, alone, doing nothing.
Such bliss to escape.
The guilt hits when the credits roll. Running back to the kitchen, she finds Max exactly as she left him, gazing at the kitchen light.
She wonders what is wrong with her that she resents her own child's need to be held.
I started the above back in March, but didn't finish it in time to submit it to the website that put out the prompt, and then kind of used this as an excuse to not publish it anywhere, which isn't really going beyond my comfort zone, is it? So, here it is.
Her arms hurt, a stiff protesting soreness that mirrors how she feels. She’s tired of holding her baby.
She'd read the books, gone to the classes, but nothing had prepared her for this constant, round-the-clock contact. The 2-hour feedings, every 4 hours. The rocking and pacing. The co-sleeping. The carrying around – for of course, pre-baby, she'd chosen a sling over a pram. Her back's beginning to ache as well.
----------------
"It's just that he's with me all the time," she'd said to Andrew one rare night he was home. He'd looked at her oddly. "Well, of course," he'd replied. "He's a baby."
"Yes, I know, but the thing is, usually you get to know people slowly. You meet someone, you figure out you like each other, you start spending more time together. But with a baby, there’s no getting used to this person, he or she is just there."
And you have to be with them, is what she didn't voice. No deciding first whether you even like this person. No way to change your mind about the whole thing.
"All the time," she'd whispered. But Andrew – social, outgoing, no-need-for-alone-time Andrew – hadn't heard. He was making faces at Max, babbling gibberish, totally absorbed in their child.
----------------
Before Max was born, it had seemed sensible for Andrew to be starting his MBA now. After all, it wasn't like they'd be doing much with a newborn, especially one born in winter. What better time to be stuck at home studying when they'd be stuck inside anyway?
But she hadn't realised how this would quite literally leave her holding the baby. All day while Andrew was at work, most evenings while he was in classes, and all weekend while he did his assignments. Plus nights too, since she hadn't seen any reason why both of them should be exhausted.
Right now it seems like the most stupid fucking idea they ever had.
----------------
She can't know that in a couple of years she'll be hoisting a toddler in one arm, carrying the shopping in the other, muscles strong and willing. That her sense of personal space will have disappeared completely, and she'll be OK with that. More than OK: she'll happily acquiesce to every request for a kiss and a cuddle. She can't know, now, that in 18 years she'll long for the smallest physical contact with her first-born, even a simple tousling of his hair.
All she knows is that her arms hurt from the constant weight of a baby and she’s desperate for some space.
----------------
It’s 6 pm, Andrew's not home, she's just managed to gulp something down and shit it's time to feed Max again so they can both be in bed by 8 and she can have some chance of 6 hours sleep before the sun and her son force the next day to begin.
She looks at Max, lying in the baby bouncer.
She can't do it. Abruptly, she leaves the kitchen, walks to the living room, turns on the TV. Watches a whole episode of Doctors, a soap she doesn’t even like, but it’s such bliss to just sit there for a whole 30 minutes, alone, doing nothing.
Such bliss to escape.
The guilt hits when the credits roll. Running back to the kitchen, she finds Max exactly as she left him, gazing at the kitchen light.
She wonders what is wrong with her that she resents her own child's need to be held.
----------------
You might remember me moaning a while ago that I was not a literary writer, and suggesting to myself that I try. Back then I used a writing prompt, and I've been thinking for a while now that this is a good way to force myself to go beyond daily happenings and my general comfort zone when it comes to writing.
I started the above back in March, but didn't finish it in time to submit it to the website that put out the prompt, and then kind of used this as an excuse to not publish it anywhere, which isn't really going beyond my comfort zone, is it? So, here it is.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Front: late summer version
Are you feeling a little bereft? Like something has been missing these past few months? Because indeed, there is something that has been very much absent lately, something you got a lot of last year... garden photos!
There are still a few holes, but it's getting there! And most definitely being enjoyed:
And so, without further ado, behold:
Well, maybe a little ado first. Perhaps you'd like to refresh your memory of what the front garden looked like back in spring. And for an even starker comparison, late autumn last year. Actually, while you're at it, you may as well take a peek at how it looked originally, just so you have a better feel for how much it's changed.
All done? OK, here is the current view (after a cold summer, which is my explanation for why the foreground (where the tulips were) is not pinker).
There are still a few holes, but it's getting there! And most definitely being enjoyed:
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Late season scorcher
The kids were still swimming at 6.30pm - pretty incredible for mid-ish September!
Friday, September 9, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Fully trained
- I don't want to go.
He clings to your side, refusing to enter the room.
You assure the teacher it will be OK, then forcibly carry him inside.
He doesn't cry, but holds on to you even tighter.
You extricate yourself, go outside, heart just fine. You know this is the right thing, leaving him there in his first music class, barely 4 years old, because you know it'll do him good, your music-loving child. Even though his brother was a whole year older when he started.
You look through the window. He's sitting at the desk, thumb in mouth, refusing to go up to the piano.
You go home.
When you go back 45 minutes later to pick him up, he's clapping along enthusiastically with the other kids. Then he sees you, and breaks out into a delighted grin.
It was fun!
He clings to your side, refusing to enter the room.
You assure the teacher it will be OK, then forcibly carry him inside.
He doesn't cry, but holds on to you even tighter.
You extricate yourself, go outside, heart just fine. You know this is the right thing, leaving him there in his first music class, barely 4 years old, because you know it'll do him good, your music-loving child. Even though his brother was a whole year older when he started.
You look through the window. He's sitting at the desk, thumb in mouth, refusing to go up to the piano.
You go home.
When you go back 45 minutes later to pick him up, he's clapping along enthusiastically with the other kids. Then he sees you, and breaks out into a delighted grin.
It was fun!
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