LoveLetterDaily

now we are six, and a sabbatical

photo by Terry Cotterall Lagana

After what felt like the longest pregnancy ever (though it was actually three weeks shorter than usual), we welcomed Tula Frederick Rae to our crazy little corner of the world on a late September morning, attended not only by her adoring mama and papa but the warmest, most capable cadre of doctors and nurses for whom one could ever hope. (I know the names of everyone in this photo, and of those who were outside the frame, too. In a cesarean birth -- which is a bit of of lights! camera! action! -- that counts for a lot).

And then we were six.

The photo restrospective of our month in Maine was just one of a great many things in 2011 that got started but not finished. Because when you're pregnant with your fourth and the other three are under the age of 6, the word surrender figures even bigger than the belly.

Way back when, I started writing here with simple documentation in mind; the big, the small, the good, the weird. But I've been distracted lately, and not just for being pregnant.

Even before the birth of our littlest, I was feeling this thing.

A certain impatience.

For the birth, yes, but also to finally begin a long-awaited return to myself. The self who is more than just a tired lump of human who rises exhausted each morning and hits the pillow the same way each evening. More than a wife or a mother or a daughter or a friend. The self who once was the sort to lace up her running shoes and just go, with the wind in her hair and nothing hurting. Or, despite the hurting.

I've made it my mission to find her again, and so, for the foreseeable future, I'll be taking a sabbatical from this space.

Happy New Year. Here's to making it count.

29 days (a retrospective): 7

29 days (a retrospective): 6

29 days (a retrospective): 5

We return to this spot every year. It's not full of tourists -- at least, not any more than the rest of Maine in summertime (and it always seems to me, considerably less so). At first, the draw was the easy hike over mostly flat ground, which was as good for me and my growing belly this year as it has been for the smallest among us every year. But now it's also familiar, from the charming, glade-like stretch of path that seems full of fairy houses to the magnificent water views that pop up around each corner.

Anyway, it seems a part of us now.

Looking back through our photos taken at the same spots over the last several years, I love seeing how our children, particularly their confidence and ability, have evolved and grown. At first content to dip their toes into the water's edge, now they are boldly leaping from boulder to boulder.

Sometimes, especially if you are the smallest, just leaping on land will do.

29 days (a retrospective): 4

There were also fairies, the occasional king and sometimes real-life cousins who liked to swap shirts and shoes.

29 days (a retrospective): 3

Precious time with my littlest, who won't be the baby much longer.

29 days (a retrospective): 2

Way back in the dead of winter, when we were planning our third summer trip Downeast, we knew from experience that the house would be the thing, almost the only thing. We didn't want to go somewhere only to feel like we had to then go somewhere else; we wanted to stay somewhere that was the destination.

And I had my heart set on a farmhouse. Or, if not an actual, current farmhouse, then at least a farmhouse vibe. The spot in which we landed for the first two weeks of our stay had that in spades, from the airy, whitewashed palette to the original wood floors -- slanting and all -- to the ancient cookstove in the kitchen and the mysterious, dilapidated old structure falling down next door.

Coming from a two-bedroom apartment in the city, it was a revelation for the munchkins to be in a house with two stories, one where they (where all of us!) could spread out, with nooks and crannies for play, exploring and quiet time seemingly everywhere.

Of course, the stove, charming though it was, really wasn't fit for all the temperature-sensitive baking I had in mind, and the not-so-tight frame let in considerably more wildlife than I'm used to dealing with. And, I'll be honest: long, deserted country roads sometimes conjure up the dark side of my imagination.

And yet, the ability to do my thing in the kitchen for the better part of the day while the kids banged in and out the screen door was a little bit of heaven. Mostly, I realized, having my surroundings support, rather than go against (as they so frequently seem to ... urban living seems to require more day-to-day creativity than I can muster) my being the kind of mama I'm always striving to be. And witnessing all of us blossom in an environment where we can "free range" so much more than at home; that especially.

I went to college in Maine, then spent another two years there at my first newspaper reporting job, so the way and the landscape of life there isn't foreign to me. But even being someplace familiar, when you yourself are different -- because there's really no comparing an adventure-seeking college kid with a responsibility-minded mama -- everything else is different, too. This can feel fresh as well as daunting, but mostly it's just fun, like discovering a place that is at once old and new. But even if it weren't this way for me, I can tell that for the young ones, it's the start of something exciting and that yes, we will be back, if for no other reason that just to see what happens.

29 days (a retrospective): 1

A handful of, ahem, snails.

Indeed.

But they were the first thing Annabelle found when we arrived at our (first of two) vacation home(s) last month, and they were the last thing she held and said goodbye to when we left.

So how could I not love them?

Or think, at least, that they were cute. Sort of.

first day of summer

Sure, the calendar said it was the first day of summer more than a week ago. But if you've ever been to school, you know summer doesn't really begin until after the last day of classes.

Annabelle had a special request that morning: that we all pick her up together and that I bring her parasol, a long-coveted item that is currently enjoying an extended honeymoon. One ice cream, one playground romp and one long walk home later, summer was on in earnest.

The first and last days of kindergarten are almost equally bittersweet.

table for one

Sigh.

It's easy to forget ... well, just how easy it is cooking for one.

Through no design of my own, I found myself home alone for dinner and facing what I daresay was the barest and most uninspiring of cupboards. But, as in my reporting days, when I cranked into an altered state of inspiration on the shortest of deadlines, culinary dire straits also tend to get me moving. Disgruntled foraging quickly turned into supreme self satisfaction, and while the end result may not be photogenic, it was delicious.

And, so easy. Leftover linguine tossed in a pan with olive oil and butter plus leftover broccolini, capers (where would the world be without these little flavor bursts, and can I grow them on our windowsill?), red pepper flakes and some freshly grated parmesan. Heaven on a plate.

Having a brief respite from the usual dinnertime chaos is not unlike being away from home for a day; only this time, it was a small and unexpected window alone at home, a window that, as it turned out, was long enough for me to find my center again -- and also to begin missing everyone mightily! Going away can be fun -- isn't it almost always? -- but nothing beats coming home.

clearing space

I loved this makeshift closet long before we built it. It was an idea I had for their room almost as soon as there was more than one of them. They needed a place of their own to hang coats and jackets, and I could see it perfectly: a plain wooden dowel strung up by cream-colored satin ribbon. Jason did the hardest part, of course -- punching a hole in each end of the dowel and securing the hooks in the ceiling -- while I got the fun part, which was threading the ribbon and tying the perfect bow. And for a few years running, it's brought me so much satisfaction just looking at it.

And yet, even the best ideas have a way of outgrowing themselves sometimes, don't they? And so it is that we find ourselves now in a bit of a situation.

The littlest Sherman is due in the fall, and if past experience is any indication, eventually she's going to be big enough to leave the mama and papa nest and join her brother and sisters in their bedroom. Four kids, one room.

We know we can't do this forever, of course. But for the time being, I need some serious solutions. A plan to quell the vague panic, you might say, that occurs when I try to imagine how I'll re-arrange things to make everything fit.

Do we get rid of all the little beds and put them in one big bed?

How many shelves and/or drawers does each one need, anyway?

And how, with so much sharing going on, do we give each of them a bit of (wall?) space that's truly their own? And what would be a creative way to do that?

I can't be the only one with such pressing questions, can I?

This, dear reader, is where you come in. Please consider this your official invitation to send thoughts, photos -- anything really -- of your own organizational tidbits. I would so appreciate knowing what's worked for you and what hasn't, and I would love to conclude this little odyssey with a post highlighting all of our ideas in the hope that we might benefit, collectively, from the collective wisdom.

With gratitude and anticipation in advance ...

it was all her idea

summer coming

It's almost here, and I have never been a fan, but with Annabelle out of school for a day and the thermometer reaching close to 100 degrees, it was the only destination that made sense and I had to surrender. Packing up is always a bit of a challenge (both going and coming), but the in-between time -- the just being there -- is pretty grand.

There always seems to be something so unexpectedly grounding about it all. My mundane everyday cares seem to slip away -- no more thinking about anything we need to buy, or do -- and this seems to happen for the kids, too.

There's no talk of who has what or of places they would rather be, just pure, organic joy at being right where they are: by the water's edge, racing the waves, carving troughs and pools and digging for sand crabs. And with the sun on one's toes and the ocean for scenery, even the humblest picnic lunch tastes oh so good.

It's almost enough to make me anticipate the hot months, just a little.

expanding

It's not really my style to post a sonogram picture, but if it were, this is where it would be. Because come fall, we are going to be adding baby number four to the brood.

That last word, brood, is an important one for me. We've always wanted a big family, and while everyone has their own definition of big, small and everything in between (and no doubt many would say we hit "big" when Juliette was born), to me, four is definitely a brood.

So there has been much excitement around these parts as we all prepare to expand just a wee bit more, both inside and out.

But instead, for today, I bring you my favorite outfit on constant replay these days: the roller girl. Born 40 years too late for spandex shorts and knee socks, she rocks it just the same. These shorts are actually her big sister's, but rejected by said older sister, they have found new life and style with the younger one. They are washed almost daily, which is as often as they are loved. The socks I can't explain; I roll them down, she pulls them up, we leave it at that.

keeping faith

I've been a little sad about how infrequently I've been here lately. Between the usual demands of our days with two grown-ups and three little ones to keep track of, plus the added pressures of everyone in the house finding themselves repeatedly under the weather, it's been a heavy and plodding end to the season and I, for one, will not be sad to say goodbye.

Spring is finally coming. The first crocuses, discovered as always by Annabelle, our own flower huntress, prove it.

a winter walk

Down the path and through the tunnel, adventures await.

Four years ago, I walked across this bridge in early labor with our boy, hoping to get things going. It didn't work, but I still feel a pang of nostalgia just being near it, and seeing him play here with his little sister is pretty awesome.

On the way to one of our corner bodegas, we pass this construction wall, on which local artists painted this mural. 

Happy winter wanderings!

breakfast date with my girl

Sitting across from her at breakfast the other morning at a small cafe around the corner from her school, watching how the light caught the contours of her face, in such perfect concentration on the task at hand, I was reminded of several things; how much I love and treasure her dear heart and that, at the end of the day, recording these everyday moments of simple perfection is why I blog in the first place.

New Year's Day

Oh, what a beautiful day for Coney Island: the cold, the wind, the snow, the sand, the salt, the sea, and all of us bundled up for a walk on the beach.

There's a timelessness and a melancholy about this place that seems just right for New Year's Day. To stand at the shore with one's face to the wind, watching the waves roll endlessly in and out.

It's a fine place to take stock of the past, to take courage from everyday victories and to let go what needs to be released. It feels right, too, to dream about the future, to make plans for what lies ahead, unknown though it may be.

Digging boot-shod feet into snowy beach felt good -- leaving our footprints, making our mark -- and the borscht we ate afterward was warm, salty, brothy perfection.

Happy New Year indeed.

a full year

Eating more cake is not really on my list of resolutions -- my actual, pen-and-paper list is more about goals, anyway -- but I saw this sign in town the other day and had to take its picture. To me, it's a happy reminder to live in the present and to experience as much joy as humanly possible.

Looking back at this space from last year, I had to laugh to see that I didn't write a word between October and January. A sure sign of holiday overload if ever there was one. This year, I managed to be here a bit more, for which I am thankful. It's a small thing, but I liken it to the feeling one gets from getting up in the morning to exercise (though I admit that particular feeling is but a dim memory at the moment). When I come here and write something, it both anchors me and sets me free for the rest of the day. The rewards are great, yet it isn't always easy to do in the rough and tumble of daily life with little ones who still need so very much.

To be sure, 2010 has been a year fully lived. Full of joy, and loss, and change, and in the end, of drawing closer as a family to take on the fullness of our plans and challenges in the year ahead.

Wishing for all a year of beauty, growth and peace.

Wednesday night

On a cold, cold night ... a subway ride, a walk about town, a little errand running and window shopping, a slice of pizza and a movie.

And coming home to these:

 

winter's warm embrace

It's a good thing indeed when one's children play contentedly for hours -- hours, I tell you -- in the days following Christmas. And a huge bonus when that play involves beautiful, lovingly crafted things and not one thing that dings, bangs or booms (at least, not of its own accord). We kept it simple this year, and what a blessing.

We ventured out here and there, of course, but mostly the season has been about being right here at home. Christmas morning was all about the kids -- Daddy and I have our own little celebration planned for a couple of weeks from now -- and I daresay neither of us felt we missed a thing. Ditto for all the ambitious gift and decorating projects I dreamed up months ago, most of which fell by the wayside in favor of another bedtime story or just staying up late talking, dreaming up our next project. We simply did what we could and forgot the rest, and it was a-OK.

Also good is when one's husband tastes a new dish and requests that it make the menu weekly from now on. Spaghetti bolognese from The River Cottage Family Cookbook (my gift to, ahem, the family). Much more to come from this lovely tome, to be sure.

Amid it all, the winter solstice, simultaneously the darkest day of the year and the beginning of progressively more and more light. A time of peace and, for me, of inspiration.

As it always does, the coming new year promises a fresh start -- 365 more days in which to grow, change, and explore -- and I'm happily working on what will undoubtedly be the first of many lists in that direction.

Not to mention the season's first real blizzard, which, despite the inconvenience, has been pretty great, rendering more excuses than one could shake a stick at to stay home and tuck into good, warm food, the magic of a few new playthings and the embrace of family -- and of winter! -- and nothing to stop or top it.

A wish, then, for a peaceful, happy slide into 2011.

today

It seemed important today to make baked beans. From scratch, in the slow cooker. Maybe because it's been below freezing for several days running, or maybe not, but whatever the case, I got started on them bright and early and cooked them for twice the time recommended. Because what I wanted, what I desperately needed, was good old fashioned comfort food.

I needed them to taste like they came from a can, yet know that they didn't. Y'know?

My days are so much more productive in every way when I take the time to, well, produce something. Showering is also high on the list, but throwing myself into the act of creating is really key. When I do it, everything in my world shines a little brighter.

As happenstance would have it, the day had other plans and we ended with something else entirely (homemade pizza by Daddy, and it was superfine). However, just knowing these are waiting for me on tomorrow's reheat list will make my dreams sweeter.

Slow Cooker Baked Beans

You will need

1.5 lbs.dry navy beans
handful of raw bacon, chopped
one small onion, chopped
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup ketchup
1/2 cup maple syrup or honey
1-2 Tablespoons mustard

Place 1.5 lbs. dried navy beans in a pan with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil, cover and let soak for 1 hour. Turn slow cooker to high and add beans, 1-2 cups water, 2 teaspoons kosher salt, bacon and onion. Cook for 4-6 hours, stirring occasionally. Turn off heat, add ketchup and mustard and voila!

the tonic, part II, and homebodying

Aaaaaaaaand, we are on our second flu in less than three weeks. Thus, there is much tonic concocting happening around here. Also much unmitigated couch vegetating and casting around of wary, hairy eyeball at anything that requires doing.

And yet, this homeboundness and sluggishness also leads to some terrific creativity. A preview, here, of one of Annabelle's projects -- in this case, a "play" based on The Nutcracker. She is Mary/Clara, and she's cast all of her friends, though none of them knows it yet. She's also cast Harold, but he's not exactly jumping at the prospect. And she's teaching herself to write and spell and it is already so awesome I. Can. Hardly. Stand. It.

the littlest angels

It doesn't get much cuter than a gaggle of little girls dressed up like angels, complete with tinsel wings and halos. Except when they hold hands and whisper and giggle. Or when they try to coax a reluctant cow (in this case, their brother Harold) up front.

Another Christmas pageant completed, and now it really feels like the holidays have begun. I'm not sure who's the most excited, but I sure could look at this picture all day.

Friday adventuring

They call it "going to see the giant whale." I call it going to my favorite musem. Either way: heaven. 

But then, for me it's personal.

When I was little, this was one of the places to which my dad took me over and over. I loved the planetarium (they have a new one now, not that I would mind the old one a bit, and that's the outside of the new one there), the dinosaurs and the place where you could stand on all the scales and see how much you weigh on the different planets. They're all different now, but I love them just the same.

My kids, they love the giant whale. The 94-foot blue whale. The whale that hangs, almost unbelievably suspended, directly overhead in this massive, underwater-tinted hall. Everything is hushed, and muted, and blue. Very, very blue. It's awesome.

I haven't gotten buy-in yet on the hall of meteorites, or the hall of gems and minerals, but anyone who is half the rock hound that I am will understand my unabashed glee at roaming this place. In a future life, maybe, I will get to be the geologist that I almost was.

* Random note: Tomorrow is the Christmas pageant at our church. Annabelle is going to be an angel ("a gold angel"), Harold is a cow in the manger, and Juliette is supposed to be an angel, but it remains to be seen whether she'll actually make it down the aisle. So, my purse is stuffed full -- with snacks and diversions to keep everyone as quiet as possible when they're not up front, and with tissues, which I know I'm going to need.