Hydrangeas

I think this lovely flower needs a prettier name. "Hydrangea" sounds like a part in an engine. How about something like "Flowering Audreyanna"? Mmm, that's better. (Of course, the Latin name would be Luteus diasprum olfactorius, as in Smelly yellow diaper, as in I'd better go now...)$10,000 to the lucky person who can use their investigative powers to guess where I got this little bouquet sitting on my kitchen table, to be awarded in increments of 10c monthly. If I remember.

Girls

How I love my two girlies. A little something about each of them:

While driving through our neighborhood one day Clara Megsie-pooh spotted a little boy riding his bike. "What! What's he doing riding a two-wheeler? He's younger than I am!" she said indignantly. We came home from our errands and I went upstairs to take care of Audrey. Jake, who was up chatting with me, happened to look out the window and exclaimed, "No way! Mom! Look at Clara!" There was the Megster zipping up and down the street with no training wheels. I ran out to watch her and she sped by with the biggest grin you've ever seen. Upon coming home she had immediately gone to Michael's tool box and found herself an allen wrench that fit the bolt, took off those training wheels, and hopped on her bike for her first ride on a true two-wheeler--all while I was changing a diaper!

She drives me nuts sometimes, but oh how I admire this little girl!

The other day I was doing my chores when I suddenly heard Audrey upstairs screaming bloody murder. I ran up the stairs thinking someone had knocked her off the bed or dropped something large onto her. As I entered the room a quick look confirmed she was on the bed and no one else was in there. What could be causing this screaming of pain? I ran to her and the laughed out loud. She had the meanest death grip on her own cheek, and the more she screamed the harder she squeezed. I pried off her little hand and she immediately stopped crying and smiled at me, showing her sweet dimple in the middle of a very red cheek.

Chicken Update

The process:Figuring out how to make a floor and frame. (For all you folks who actually know how to do this stuff, please don't cringe too much. This is what's known as an internet/library crash course in building!)
I got lots of comments from concerned neighbors on whether or not I should be building things at 9+ months pregnant. What do they expect me to do, sit around?
Ready for walls, roof and nesting boxes.
Adam took a moment from mission preparations to come visit and help with any projects around the house. Yes, I had projects for him! The roof was one thing I didn't think I could do safely, so the Boose obliged.

Nearly finished. Michael was in charge of the pen. Big job, and he tackled it with all the precision of an endodontist!

Isaac showing us how the nesting boxes work. He especially loved those.Fairly completed chicken coop. Just had to do the trim and paint. Some day I'll get to that. But for now it works. We know this because...

... we got our first egg! Our little chickies, Henwyn, Torchik (layer of prized egg, in Clara's arms), Cinnamon, Buckbeak (in Isaac's) and Snowball (in Jake's) seem quite happy with the loving abuse they receive.

Eden

I'm pretty sure we live in the distant west wing of the Garden of Eden. I love living in Oregon and I'm more than happy to deal with the rain when this is the reward. Below is some of the bounty we've harvested over this last week, all straight from their plants (minus the canary melon. We bought that from the farmers market).

We went cherry picking yesterday. There were two huge ladders which Michael and I used. The kids just climbed the trees and were usually higher than us. After warning Jacob to be careful he said, "Ha! Me be careful? Remember when we went picking when you were pregnant with James and the lady said that she didn't want you on a ladder because you were pregnant so instead you just climbed the trees with us to get the cherries?" Yep. I remember. That was fun!

As we shucked corn at the local farmers market this last week Clara came across one with a caterpillar knawing it's way through. The lady next to us cringed at it, but my kids acted like it was Christmas! Everyone abandoned their cobs to have a look at Clara's new pet, then vigorously resumed their shucking in the hopes that theirs would turn up a caterpillar too. She kept that caterpillar three days waiting for it to turn into a butterfly until Jacob, in a fit of meanness, fed it to Torchik the chicken.

I love good ripe fresh strawberries. They're my second favorite fruit next to wild Oregon blackberries.

I've decided that personalities can be categorized either by the color code, or by how one approaches blueberry picking. For instance, we went picking last week (wish it could have been in your field, Miriam!) and it was interesting for me to see how each of my children went about the task. Jacob picked with supreme focus until he decided that we had plenty of berries, then he took James by the hand and they went from row to row sampling the berries to see which was the very best variety. I had told the kids (after the woman in charge told them to eat as many as they wanted) that they could eat one for every 10 they picked, and that they couldn't eat any out of their bowls, it must be from the bush. Isaac counted every berry he picked until he hit 1000. Then he camped himself under the most loaded bush he could find and leisurely ate 100 blueberries. Clara filled her bowl then hid under a bush and ate the entire contents. Then she'd reappear and fill the bowl, then disappear and eat, and so on. William picked four berries (because "he's four") then spent the rest of his time making spider traps. James just smiled and made friends with everybody there. I had about seven adoption offers by the time we were done. Audrey slept in the shade of a large bush, and I thought to myself that if ever something happened to my dear husband, I would make a living picking blueberries and cherries. (For some reason Michael doesn't think that would cut it.)

Google Images

Carrie once recommended Googling yourself to see what comes up. Apparently Anna Allen is a meteorologist, a general practitioner in Georgia, and there are about a zillion Facebook accounts under that name (all Danish ones for Anna Mikkelsen). Michael Allen is an endodontist, a golfer, a company... Our names are not distinctive enough to be terribly interesting like your's, Carrie. BUT, have you ever Googled your name in images?

Michael J. Allen Or Michael J. Allen Fox, which ever...


Or Michael J. Allen Not-Fox.

Michael Allen, jack of all trades.














Does M. A. have a last name I don't know about? Suspicious.

This is when Michael Allen broke a finger in church rugby...

This is the Michael J. Allen I married. Besides that I won't divulge any secrets.

Poor poor Michael J. Allen. Beloved Son, Brother and, might I add, Husband and Father.


Anna K. (Mikkelsen) Allen
Anna Mikkelsen, cute and perky at her Wilsonville Elementary girl's bathroom sink.

Anna Mikkelsen, the rebel short-hair days, edited. You're welcome.

This reminds me of the fact that when Michael starts affectionately calling me "his little German frau," it's time to shave. Therefore, this picture shall be entitled "Anna Allen, little German frau creepily morphing into Rabbit."

Anna Allen, first African American bus driver from Tacoma, WA. Thank you very much.

I'd like to know who exactly is getting the prize here. The dogs or midget Anna Mikkelsen?

 

Anna Allen. The later years.

"When Macbeth asks a physician:

'Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the hea'rt?

The physician replies laconically:

Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.

Every day, several patients ask me Macbeth's question with regard to themselves--in less elevated language, to be sure--and they expect a postive answer: but four centuries before neurochemistry was even thought of, and before any of the touted advances in neurosciences that allegedly gave us a new and better understanding of ourselves, Shakespeare knew something that we are increasingly loath to acknowlege. There is no technical fix for the problems of humanity."

--Dr. Dalrymple (stolen from my dad's blog)

I find that a good remedy to inward ailing is to go out and do yard work. Or better yet, do someone else's.

Our Littlest Angel

For those of you who keep asking about Audrey's newborn photoshoot, I know this post is a month late. You could say I've been preoccupied! But, at long last, here are the products of that sweet experience. A dear friend who, conveniently, happens to be a fantastic photographer, offered to take Audrey's newborn pictures for us. She met us at the hospital just hours after the blessed event and took these precious photos. As I upload them, I just can't believe how much this little lady has already changed and grown. You may not even recognize her! I know I don't!


Enjoy!

Things to Remember

These are a few things I ought to remember when I'm feeling tired:

1. It's fun to have late-night girl parties. I really ought to live it up and bring food for myself too!

2. Grocery shopping with a grumpy pirate with a back pack is so much more effective. Customer service is remarkably prompt, especially when screaming is involved. 3. I still have half an apple tree.

4. Crawdads are a great birthday present for Isaac to give Jacob (even if they did spill river water everywhere, and they stink).

I'm sure I'll think of some more when I'm not so tired...

Tragedy

Do I have a post entitled "Tragey" yet? If I do, it wasn't as bad as this.

We came home from a wonderful holiday weekend to a terrible thing. I hopped out of the car to help unload. I happened to look over at my precious apple tree and saw the carnage that lay beneath it and burst into tears. We have lost about half of our glorious tree and I literally feel sick whenever I see or think about it.

The really nasty part is that I might have prevented it. We had someone come give us an estimate to get it pruned (maintenance that has not been done to the old girl for probably a decade). The guy said it was too late this year and that I ought to prop up two limbs that were a concern until it could be attended to this winter. I told him I would and I went on my merry way. Chicken coop, giving birth, BYU class, sleep deprivation, sick kids... Excuses, excuses. I completely forgot. We left this weekend with apples ripening and a wonky sprinkler head that I hadn't gotten to spraying too high into the tree. Apparently it was too much for the old girl. I feel awful, like I'd been told to help my ailing Great Aunt Ruth whose leg needed a brace. I didn't do it because I was too busy, and now it has been amputated. Poor Ruthie.

I overheard a neighbor comment on it and Jacob say, "Yeah, my mom was pretty upset about it. She started crying. I mean, we couldn't really see too many tears, but when she's sad the tip of her nose turns BRIGHT red, and my dad kept hugging her and telling her to let it out until she started to laugh." The kids have been having a heyday making forts and swords until we can round up a chain saw and haul Ruthie's leg away.

Roseburg RS Enrichment Interest Group

Music

Guaranteed to get your toe a'tapping. If you have a moment or two click to hear Danzon No. 2, by Arturo Marquez. My favorite part begins with the short piano solo in the middle and the following couple of minutes. You'll know when you get there. The next musical post is going to be me playing the solos in this piece on tin whistle and piano, oh I do love it so! The story behind the orchestra performing, the Simon Bolivar Youth Orchestra , is an inspirational one. Check it out.

Harriet Potter

Harriet Potter. That's what my kids have been calling me today because of my stupid glasses.

Also, we've had a breakthrough! Today at lunch William was saying the prayer. He said "I'm thankful for Jimmy" four times! Let me back up. This William has never quite forgiven his little brother for being born. He has never acknowledged him in a prayer until today! Most prayers go something like this:

Will begins prayer with a list of 'please help's.

I prompt him with a whispered: "And I thank thee for..."

Will, sassy look at me: "Okay, Mom!" [Then proceeds with] "Thank you for Dad, and Jacob, and Isaac, and Seamus, and Mom, and..."

Me, whispering: "Don't forget James."

Will, annoyed: "Don't interrupt, Mom! And Clara."

Me: "Don't forget James."

Will, fully irritated now: "But I'm not thankful for Jimmy, so I'm not gonna say it!"

It's about this time he gets sent away for being mean to his little brother...again.

It was starting to be a problem, so I instituted a new plan. Will gets to help James with everything. Everything. When shoes need to be put on, Will helps James find them. When we sit at the table Will is put next to James. If James is crying, Will comes with me to comfort him, etc. I was trying to apply the principle that service produces love. It was a stretch, I know, and I was wondering if it was the right approach, but today at lunch that question was answered. As usual he went around the table thanking the Lord for everybody, but this time he included his little brother. I cheered right in the middle of the prayer, "Yay, you did it! You said thank you for James!" He thought it was fun, so he did it again, and then we all cheered. So he did it again, and everybody laughed. So did it again, and I told him to knock it off and keep going with his prayer. After all, how could you not be thankful for little Jimmy? He's as sweet as they come!

Okay, back to studying. That's what I'm supposed to have been doing this whole time. Can you tell I'm ultra-bored? Three posts in one day? Sheesh!!

It's Official!

Michael's new associate is officially here and running. Last night we had the official open house at M's office welcoming Dr. Townsend and his family. Michael has officially scheduled himself a four-day weekend twice monthly-ish, and I am officially allowing myself to hope that all the strain and stress, the heartache and headache of the last decade will finally yield the dividends that we were betting on. At the risk of sounding exclusive or overly personal, very few can really understand the hardships of this little trail we've explored. I have been asked many times if I would do it again. I generally just laugh and minimize it--the asker wouldn't understand the answer anyway, so why open the heart to a wall? It would just sound like whining, and I don't whine. But, I don't know. Would you try bungee jumping again after having the bungee break on you the first time? You survived, didn't you? Ask me later when my growing pains don't smart so much. I have no idea how Michael would respond to that question. All I know is he smiled when he mentioned that he was going to have his receptionist block out next Friday for no reason other than spending a longer weekend with his family, and that I've been fielding fewer and fewer questions from the kids about what day dad's going to be home. I think it's safe to say things are going to be okay. It's official.