Lately I've wished that I kept a baby book for Wren from the moment she breathed her first. The younger, postpartum version of myself intended to journal in great detail instead of relegating lists of 'firsts' to a traditional baby book. But, not surprisingly, I have not.The list of 'firsts' grows even faster than she does. She is three weeks shy of 2 years old and she exhibits big and passionate opinions (read: throwing fits), more obvious physical strengths, and brand new awkwardly strung-together complete sentences.
Perhaps most disconcerting is that I am beginning to hear myself in the things that she says. Obviously some are tender and heart-warming as when she sat her pink rabbit on the toilet seat this morning: "You did great! I love you so much, bud." But some are a bit less flattering as when the summer heat gets to be a bit much: "It's so hot. Let's lay down on the couch and take a break."
|A massive squash plant bursts forth from the compost pile|
And now I will share something just because it's lovely. And though my heart and home are in the humid, deeply green northeast, I love this just the same:
This morning a splendid dawn passed over our house on its way to Kansas. This morning Kansas rolled out of its sleep into a sunlight grandly announced, proclaimed throughout heaven, one more of the very finite number of days that this old prairie has been called Kansas, or Iowa. But it has all been one day, that first day. Light is constant, we just turn over in it. So every day is in fact the selfsame evening and morning. -Marilynne Robinson
ps. The shop is rife with new designs and items! Hens, 18-wheelers, bucks, matching onesie sets, bikes, guitars, ties and ants, always with the ants! And very soon, sewn greeting cards! It would seem I'm out of my sewing rut for the time being.