Wednesday, May 25, 2011


I love the feel of an empty house - just me and the burbling fishtank. I can putter around aimlessly, letting mudane tasks lead me from room to room.

This past weekend my husband took the girls camping, leaving me by myself.

Saturday stretched out before me like a blank slate. The tidbits of time that I long for. Nay, that I ache for. The welcome respite from the relentless treadmill of 24/7 mom duty.

The timeline of the day isn't pre-planned or dictated by two pre-schoolers demanding my time, attention and patience.

Some might say 'just like before children'. No. Not at all the same. The spirits of two spunky four year olds resound in my mind. Their residual energy floats around each room, reminding me of their absence, and anticipated return. I step over their toys and clothes, like moments in time, discarded at each whim.

In the morning, upon first light, I instinctively listened for their chirping twin babble. I imagined noises of them playing in the hallway outside my bedroom, or bathing their dolls in their bathroom sink, only to wake and realize the house was gloriously silent.

As I lounge on the couch, I relish in the quiet - but it's not the same as when the girls are sleeping, or engaged quietly in an activity, because of the absence of the constant threat of interruption. I never know when I might be commandeered against my will to referee a fight, kiss a boo-boo or find a lost teddy bear. I'm always "on-call" in a sense.

But as any mom will admit, it didn't take long to feel that longing... their Elmo-esque voices, their wide-eyed wonder, their sweet innocence, and their utter pleasure in the simple things in life.

And, as good as it felt to be alone for two days, it felt far better to hug them when they returned home.

Saturday, May 14, 2011


If its possible to love a person you've never met, I love Rachel Turiel of 6512 and growing.

I love the pictures and antics of her children. I love that her and her husband live off the land in Durango, Colorado, and get road kill permits. That her children don't shy away from utilizing every ounce of an elk hunted by their mountain man father, Dan.

Rachel is a home maker of the most vocerifious kind, making salsa and soups and mayonnaise and yogurt. She defines the word mother, unabashedly admitting her fears and vulnerabilities, while creating the ideal backdrop of childhood for her two muses - that of intense love, acceptance, and education of the world around them. I love her writing, and that her words transport me to another place. Her thoughts resonate with me long after the words on the screen have disappeared back into the black hole of the internet.

Her posts pull me in like a warm body in a cold bed. The combination of words that appear before me on the screen are my vision of perfect writing - images and feelings recreated through words, with such perfect description and metaphors that I try not to devour a whole post in one sitting.

Maybe its my imagined similarity to my own childhood - a simpler time with parents unencumbered by the stresses of our time.

Or maybe it's the dichotomy to my own life. She contemplates homeschooling; I shudder at the thought. She manages to accomplish projects that I only dream about.

I love that she isn't tied down to the silly stream of conciousness that the rest of us "city-folk" endure.

Most of all, I love her openness. I love that she shares with her readers, with such emotion and clarity, the commonalities that bind us all together - the fear, vulnerability and thrill that is parenting and life. Her son, Col, came into the world a 25 week, 1 pound 12 ounce preemie, which is how I found her - her story of the 101 roller coaster days spent in the NICU with him made my tears flow and my heart ache for her. He is the most beautiful kind of miracle - the little boy that beat the odds to become a vibrant, lushly intelligent boy.

And then there is Rose. She appears to bring the industrious household into balance with her simple girlishness, who supervises gardening in her nightgown, wears tutus while helping her mother in the kitchen, and layers on mismatching clothes with the flair that only a 4 year old can pull off.

Each post is a feast for the eyes, with clear, candid snapshots of her family living life.

Go visit. You'll see what I mean. 
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