Cucumis Reservo Gratia

I've reached my tipping point in this pregnancy. What that means for me is that I've reached the point where I start tipping over. Literally. Two days ago I turned my head and had to steady myself against the wall. I've suddenly started running into doors, and walls. It's not just a matter of mass, there's also density. This morning Peter bumped into the kitchen table, and ricocheted - his head bouncing off my stomach before he got clear. Needless to say I couldn't really prevent this - my arms don't really reach down there anymore. I am thankful that after tomorrow (Deo gratias) I will not be required to climb stairs to get home. Upon being required to climb stairs for any reason I plan to play the quite large pregancy card and request that the doctor's office, post office, bank, or whatever descend, quite literally, to my level. Not sure it'll work - but not for my not trying.
Small graces have been my joy lately - something I've begun to think of as "pickle grace" for the laity or Cucumis Reservo Gratia for those initiated into the mysteries of online translators. There is small grace of conversation with an adult at a playground, a cheerful waitress, the anticipation of being back in the operational zone of my favorite grocery store, future near proximity to the beach, and hairstyle-enhancing humidity (which is the only useful purpose of the humidity surrounding the sub-tropical zone known as "Houston"), the opportunity to grow tropical plants in pots on my apartment patio (okay - one more use of humidity), since the entire area code feels and smells like a greenhouse anyway.
Pickle grace originates with small postulants such as:
I am a sinner and I don't deserve more than four small pickles on my hamburger.
Jesus died for my sins, and clothed me in his righteousness.
Now I can not feel guilty about having six to eight pickles on my hamburger depending on the size of the hamburger (or the health of my cardio-system).
It is for pickles that Christ has set us free.
Those of you who know me really well, are thinking right now: "But Lissa, you don't even like pickles." This is, of course, true (sorry - I've been reading Bill Bryson and picked up his syntax and rhythm a little - and to friends of Doug Garrett - tell him "A Brief History of Nearly Everything" is at Clark Dunlap's house). I don't like pickles. But when God gives us the wherewithal to buy pecks of pickles, as Piper might say: God is most glorified in us when we glorify him for pickles and enjoy him and them forever.
There, I've worked pickles, peck, and Piper into one sentence that wasn't a tongue twister. I can die knowing I've done something of worth. Or failing that, I can look back one day and say
"Dang that move sure made me crazy!"

Poetry in Motion

She did not live in Cornwall, in a white-washed cottage blasted by winds in the wintertime. She did not live in India in sugar-confection-like cottage like something she'd seen in an opera once. She did not even live in blinding bright and thirsty west Texas, where she might have seen the stars at night scattered across the black as though God had carelessly emptied his hole-puncher. She lived in Dallas. And there was nothing poetic about Dallas. Every now and then she and her husband were able to treat themselves to some event downtown and she hired a sitter, and found something to wear, hose with no holes and they would drive south toward the sparkly skyline with the famous glittering globe, with carseats in the back, empty.
It was all very sophisticated and exciting but, not poetic.
No there was nothing poetic about Dallas, unless it was the sort of poetry about ugliness which she didn't like anyway.

But, then again, she was surrounded by childhood and was lucky enough to have a tree outside her balcony, a constantly moving wallpaper inhabited by a squirrel her oldest had named George. Her youngest had learned about robins and their red tummies and would announce any arrivals at the top of his lungs. She was blessed enough to have a communal lawn (frequently a soccer or battle field) directly below and also beyond this the communal playground.

There is, she realized, everything poetic about childhood. Perhaps even thats where all poetry really comes from - from when we experience beauty without hint of anxiety or worry. When it's important to know who has the toughest feet, and the highlight of your sons day is being aloud to climb the chain link fence to get his brother's ball. There is the poetry of the playground surrounded by a black-painted metal fence which the little ones walk along with their feet between the bars, slowly, methodically circumnavigating the area. There is the poetry of the snow-cone vendor who has just opened his tiny shop for the summer. Since he is only a block away the whole family walks there on fine Friday evenings after dinner for exotic flavors. Her oldest son rides his bike. There is the poetry of fresh homemade popsicles melting down their hands and dripping onto their legs leaving purple stripes. Tomorrow, she decided we will have jello poetry, and make all the jiggly jello jokes.


And soon, in the fall there would be more poetry. Late night feeding poetry, the exhausting beauty of a new baby who wanted only her. Who smelled slightly of sour-milk, warm as mashed potatoes, lumpy as brown sugar.
No, Dallas might not be picturesque, but her life certainly was.

Bib Business

Thank you everyone for your advice and encouragement after my last (rather emotional) blog. I really appreciate all three or so of you!

Today my mother came over and together, she and I sewed about a million bibs. I got them started and she did all the pretty finishing. I had the easy part. Okay we didn't really make a million. We made around 3 dozen, I know - splitting hairs there. What with each of us taking a trip to the fabric store (literally across the street!), one toddler, one laughable small dog in heat, and one second grader who got sick and had to come home early from school, it was a fun-filled day. One very bored Iowan who shall be nameless also called us once or twice (each).

My motivation for this business had been waning steadily, I kept thinking: "other people are going to do this better, why would anyone want to buy mine?" But having Mom here really pepped me up. Now I keep thinking...she always has these great ideas right before everyone else, maybe we can hit the wave as it's rising instead of falling. We'll give it a shot anyway.

Peter is learning the power of the Wheedle. He knows that a smile can get him 80% of what he wants, "pleeeeeeeease Mom?" adds on another 5%, and running to hug me right before he asks is a solid 10% odd's increase. We came home from Wally-world with crazy straws, and new markers for him for no good reason at all on Wednesday.

Now because this is my blog, and I am under no oblogation to be interesting, here is our dinner schedule as of late.

Wednesday: Tostadas with refried beans and cheese

Thursday: Little Caesars Pizza

Friday (tomorrow): Beef Fajitas

Saturday: Corrie's gluten-free chicken enchiladas which everyone except Peter absolutely loves.

Sunday: TBA (hopefully something Asian, because I think I'm all Mexicaned out)

Drumroll please......

Here are some pics of the new improved (sniff sniff sniff) Peter!

Elbows and Daisies

I have been really busy lately. Several of my friends are pregnant so I have gotten on the ball and made a couple of gift sets, a couple more to go. Here's what I've got...

A matching quilt, pillow, and picture frame featuring the little engine that could.

It's for a baby whose gender will be unknown until birth. I thought it was good compromise, locomotives for boys, retro female heroine for a girl.

This started with the frame over a year ago - a way to salvage a book whose binding was falling a part. I cut out pictures and glued them to a craft-store cardboard picture frame.

A few months later I found the big fabric panel on the sale table at Hancocks. Cut in pieces it became the pillow (which I think looks BOUTIQUEFULLY AWESOME!), and the blanket. There were more squares of the story on the panel, but I didn't have enough of my red backing to accomodate it. The best part is that I didn't spend any MORE money on the little engine that could project. Even the batting is two large scraps from another baby quilt. I felt really proud to be so frugal.

And a hooded sweater and matching pink elephant for a baby girl that's due any day. In fact I wouldn't be surprised to drop by their house tomorrow and find a tiny new baby! The sweater was supposed to be newborn size, but my crocheting always comes out a little large. As you can see, Pinky enjoys hiding out in the hood. I love how the hood creates a wee bit of sailor collar in the front.

The pictures of Peter show his last curly-haired day.

We went home and I cut his hair.

It was awful. Peter did not want to be still, and I did not want to cut his hair.

Why, then did you cut it dear Liza dear Liza?

To get rid of the knots, and crying in the bathtub, and hotness dear Henry dear Henry.

At least, that all made sense 'til it was done.

Then I started crying. I cried on and off for the next eight hours. It was worst at night, and slightly better in the morning. Thankfully Peter still ACTS the same (don't laugh people, sometimes they DON'T act the same). I think I've gotten used to it after a week, but seeing these pictures still gives me a pang.

But Peter no longer screams in the bathtub while you pull at his tangles with a comb dear Liza dear Liza

Oh stuff it dear Henry dear Henry dear Henry

Peter gets lots of elbows. Sometimes he falls down and gets an elbow on his knee. Sometimes he and James play a little too roughly and he gets an elbow. Sometimes there is an elbow on his head. A few days ago he was really worried because I had an elbow on my head. It was just a little scab from a pimple, but he went on an on.

"Does your elbow hurt you mom?"

"No Pete, I'm okay."

"Your elbow is bleeding Mom?"

"No it's not."

and back to the beginning...

"Your elbow is hurting you Mom?"

Also there are a lot of oopey daisies. Any time Peter drops something it's "Oopey Daisy!"

If I drop something, "Oopey Daisy!"

If anyone drops anything (it's especially funny with Mark), we hear a tiny "oopey daisy!" issuing up from the floor.

I'm really struggling with James right now. He seems to be constantly arguing with me. Arguing is sort of a harsh term for what he does, but that's really what it boils down to. For everything I tell him, he has a reason why he should do it his way - so I explain why THAT reason won't work, then he has another reason, so I explain why THAT one won't work, and he'll have another reason. Usually by that point I explain why THAT one won't work in an angry voice and then raise my voice to get him to obey already.

That's on a good day. On a bad day I just get mad at the beginning and it saves time.

I hate being mad all the time.

James is also supersensitive and will burst into tears anytime I try to change anything. He was ready to fall apart over spelling homework today before he even started. On top of that he's really emotionally manipulative. I tried to patiently explain that with all his "reasoning" every time we asked him to do something, we were tired of listening to them - because it happens everytime! I tried to explain that if he would just go ahead and obey more often, then, when he had something he really really felt was important, then we could listen.

"You're never going to listen to me AGAIN!"

"No, no, it's just used up tonight, it will build back again - like health in a video game..." I wait for a minute for him to calm down.

"Do you understand James?"

"IT'S 'CAUSE I'M A BAD KID!"

That's when I got really angry. I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. Obviously James was tired too, but we have told him again and again not to say that...

I mean what are we supposed to say back?

It immediately puts us in a position of wrongness...

"no no sweetie you're not a bad kid!"

I refuse to answer that sort of statement from him.

So I'm really sort of at a loss here. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells all the time around him (stop laughing Mom, I didn't think this would happen 'til he was a teenager), and I'm exhausted by his argueing.

So this blog isn't a complete downer, let me tell you about right now.

James has dutifully done spelling homework (tears averted), and is practicing the violin. He is a smart kid and he puts up with a lot from Peter.

I'm praying right now that God provides a way for James to have his own room. Sharing a room with a destructive two-year-old contributes a lot to his stress level. He has wonderful educational toys that he can never play with because there's no room for him to spread out with enough time to accomplish anything.

Now James has finished practicing violin, and Peter exclaims "Great Job James!" He's pretty cute even though he IS destructive.

That's all for now.

It sure is good to have our computer back.

Oh and pray for Mark, he has UIL band on Wednesday.

Fancy Skirt goes to a Jazz Concert!

Fancy Skirt (along with her sidekicks: Vampira Pointy-Toes, and DahPlungah Tizzle) went to a Jazz Concert at the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. They noted other members of the Pointy-Toes family. It's a very old family, a member of Hertfordshire branch of Toes. So they felt right at home. Left Knee kept horning in on their fun giving them some trouble but they blew her off and ignored her despite her grumbling.

They were escorted by none other than the elusive and finicky Pin Stripe Suit,(they agree he is toothsome) and Blue Dress Shirt. He is an old friend they have not seen as much of as late and were delighted to greet.

Fancy Skirt recieved a compliment during a visit to the powder room, and was pleased to note that she was neither overdressed, nor underdressed, but like Goldilocks (without the breaking and entering) was "just right." DahPlungah Tizzle (the artist formerly known as My Really Really Low V-neck, but don't we all agree that's no fun at all?) was really the only friend that Fancy Skirt wanted to go with on account of fabric and proportion considerations.

Vampira wants it noted that she didn't stumble or trip ever. Not once. Visions of weak ankles had been keeping her up nights with dreams of broken legs and facial cuts and abrasions. But everything went smoothly despite I. M. Pei's obsession with white marble staircases.

A cameo appearance was made by Blackie the Beaded Clutch. She was not originally slated to be part of the evening. A certain Pearl Clutch from Iowa was on the call list, but couldn't make it out of the Apartment Offices in time. Blackie behaved herself very well, and did not forget herself on table, or under chair.

Everything came to a head for our intrepid girls when they arrived at the green room after the show. Standing around, trying not to embarass themselves with inane small talk, they followed the proverb and keeping silent "appeared wise." They were amply rewarded with a site, nay even a chat and hug from the great Wynton Marsalis himself! Pin Stripe and Blue were beside themselves with awe. They could hardly speak. Fancy Skirt rose to the occasion (but to nothing else) and made small talk mentioning Pin Stripe's profession, and giving the great Marsalis something to chat with them about. (Fancy skirt knows that is a dangling participle, but really dangling is all the fashion this season) Fancy Skirt is sure that Pin Strip will soon give an account of this on his blog here. So if you want to hear a more coherent, but less fashion-conscious account - keep an eye out.


Have a fancy day everyone!
With kisses,
Fancy Skirt

I Finished It!

With great joy I finally finished it! I probably devoted way too much time to it, but time I had, and money I did not.

I did have to buy some fabric, but it was on sale, so I spent $4. I also bought a zipper. AND THAT WAS IT! Everything else I had.

I am not typing very much, since I need to go play with my two year old who has missed me. I look forward to wearing it to the Jazz Concert tomorrow night.

Fancy skirt update

On Saturday I must finish making my fancy skirt, yea even by Friday it must be done.

Because I'm baby sitting on Saturday, and going to the concert Saturday night.

It's coming a long well. First I made myself a basic straight skirt from a pattern I had in my archives. I made it of a thick unbleached cotton, a kind of canvas. I fitted to me as exactly as I could myself (yearning for a dressmaker's model like Barbara), then put in a side seam zipper. I forgot to put in a pocket which I usually do even when there's no pocket in the pattern. I cut out 6.5" strips of unbleached muslin (I had a lot) and what I could find of bleached muslin (not so much) and ironed it into a 3.25" ruffle. I liked the length of the raw edge of the skirt so I lined the ruffles up with it (I will hem it under later and I won't have to worry about perfect evenness because it'll be hiding uder the ruffles) and hand pleated them in a random, organic fashion.

I was striving for an orderly randomness.

I got about halfway up before I ran out white.

A slit in the back gave me a little trouble, as it's "two ruffles tall." I didn't want it to be really noticeable. I ended up starting and stopping the ruffle at the very bottom, and at the top having a ruffle cover up the slit. So I now have a 5" slit that looks like a 2" slit.

Today I will be cutting out more white ruffles (and being very careful with my rotary cutter so as not to need to get more stitches) and ironing and pinning. I will be trying to get as much done today as possible because I also still need to make a waist band. Maybe I can work a cell-phone pocket into that?
Although the rest of the skirt is cotton muslin, and therefore, not shiny - I thought I'd make the waist band out of a bit of off-white satin that I have. I plan to make it at least 3" tall (maybe more) and incorporate two cloth-covered buttons of the muslin. Then, if I ever want to tuck in a shirt to be more fancy the satin will show.

I'm excited because I think I'm creating a skirt I can wear for Easter (to our very undressy church) as well as to an evening at the Meyerson Concert Hall in Dallas. No easy feat, it required several phone calls to my Cedar Rapids style pulse-keeper. She keeps me from getting to historical when I sew.I can easily slip into what was stylish in 1780. But when I show up somewhere with pannieres on I feel stupid. I have the heart of Tasha Tudor but not the stamina. Oh well. My man probably prefers it that way!

In other news, Corrie and I have added more content to our website! You can now read the first chapter of each of our novels. Also Corrie has written a tasty essay on humor! Come see us at: reformedromance.com !

Oh I almost forgot. I've looked all over McCall's, Butterick, Vogue, Burda (I'm heading for Simplicity next) because I want to make a shirt like this. Does anyone have any ideas where I should look? I have fabric that I haven't known what to do with and this would be perfect! The original blouse is from Modcloth.com but it's not in my size.

Things Around Here

Lots of things have been happening around here. James had two birthdays on at Cici's Pizza on the actual day, for which I don't yet have pictures. Then we planned another for Friday, a sleepover. Unfortunately none of the three friends he invited came. James invited a different friend and I think he had a pretty good time. It wasn't all-singing all-dancing or anything but I think it was memorable.

It was supposed to be a robot-themed birthday party. For second graders I think most of the fun of the theme is picking it out and telling your friends "I'm having a robot birthday!" We sent out robot invitations (to the people who didn't come) and I made a robot cake. With, yes, gray icing. Plates and cups were silvery gray too. Then we went down to the city to see the buildings! They wouldn't let go up in Reunion Tower. The observation deck is closed for renovations. We saw a pretty fountain, and the boys ran down a hill. Simple joys.

I have a problem. Mark is taking me to an evening concert at the Meyerson, and I'm excited but I don't have any evening wear that fits me. I'm trying to find something simple to make.

I called Rebecca and she told me to play up my neck and my legs. I love sisters.

I'm leaning toward the skirt (I would make it longer) because I have a great blouse to go with it. The problem is, that I like sweet, romantic, antique, vintage but my figure (or lack of one) makes certain demands too.

Opinions? Anyone? Anyone?

And in other news, I found a new website called modcloth.com. Here are some favorites from there!

Valentines

For Valentines Day James and I cut out pictures and glued them to cardboard hearts.

He made this one for his kindergarten teacher who likes frogs.

I can't remember to whom I gave the one on the top. I know the bottom heart with the hands and the blueberries was for Willow.

These two I made for my sister Becca (top) and our first cousin once removed, Hannah. Hannah's has a princess with a tiny bit of gold doily for a crown.

I forgot to take a picture of my mom's and my friend Holly's.

Happy late Valentine's Day everyone!

Lissa

Payday Thankful

Today was payday in our family. Payday always reminds me of how hard my husband works for us. It reminds me that I am not jobless - on the contrary I have a very important job. It is: doing all the things in the home that need doing! Payday reminds me that one of my jobs is making my husband feel like all his hard work is worth it! Or to put it another way, I'm in charge of rewards!

Somehow it's hard to remember during the lean weeks at the end of the month that our home still needs to be rewarding. I want to go into housework hibernation and sleep 'til the next payday since I don't get to do any rewarding grocery shopping.

I'm so thankful today that we can afford to have TWO chickens boiling away in our stewpot. I'm so thankful that I could afford my favorite (purple) shampoo. I'm so thankful that I could afford to splurge a little and buy some beautiful purple flowers for our home. Of course best of all is that I get to do all this with our two year old!

Instead of a homily at this point. I'll leave you with an illustrated favorite quote from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.