I generally don’t mind sharing. In fact, I like sharing . . . makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I don’t, however, appreciate the type of sharing that results in the complete decimation of my garden.

Hey, you! Get your head out of my garden bed!

Yes, I’m talking to you missy!

You’ve been after those strawberry plants for weeks. There can’t be any left.

Your manners, by the way, are terrible. Didn’t your mamma teach you to say thank you?

Oh, you’re trading are you?  . . . taking strawberries, leaving piles of fertilizer . . . those rabbit droppings on steroids.

Gee, thanks.

That fence is so getting put up this summer.


See this?

Do you know what this is?

It is pavement . . . and puddles . . . and it is the street in front of my house.


I haven’t seen pavement in front of my house since October.

Moments of break-up have begun mixing with what is left of winter (and winter is most certainly not yet over).

Whoooo – hoooo!

P.S. “Break-up” is a season in Alaska. It comes after winter.

Birthday Moments

I turned 41 recently. Very recently.

No longer can I say “Oh, I’m forty,” and act like it is no big deal because now I am in my forties, tucked in nicely with margins on both sides.

That’s ok. I’ll take turning 41 to not.

And my children brought me gifts . . . which is one of my favorite parts of the whole deal.

My darling daughter made me a necklace. She calls it a “personality necklace.” The project involved ribbon, paper, silk flowers, markers and a glue gun . . . any excuse to use a glue gun . . .

Isn’t it lovely?

I’m “nice.”

Several times during the project she asked me, “What is your personality, Mamma?”

After spending a bit of time trying to figure out exactly what she was looking for I told her I was extroverted. She didn’t like that answer. She kept asking the same question.

Finally she asked, “Is there a shorter word for your personality?”

“Extroverted” didn’t fit on the paper.

So I’m “nice” . . . which isn’t exactly how she describes me when she gets crabby and I make her go to bed early . . . but that is another story.

My sweet son, being the romantic, charming little boy he is, gave me a rose.

Isn’t it beautiful?

Being a romantic, charming, Alaskan boy it is a duct tape rose.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My dear husband made me dinner. It was wonderful.

It was even wonderful when G (who generally behaves exactly as one would expect a healthy six-year-old boy to behave – sometimes beautifully, sometimes not so much) suddenly leapt out of his chair, dashed around the table and smeared mayonaise on his sister’s right eyebrow.


Who does that?

Better yet, who even comes up with the idea to do it?

My son, that’s who, laughing maniacally the entire time.

After successfully completing his lightning fast impromptu finger/face-painting session G promptly dove into the dog crate and smashed himself into a back corner so his father couldn’t reach him. I had to cover my face to suppress outright laughter. G was absolutely delighted with himself. R and Daddy didn’t think it was so funny.

Dinner came complete with dessert and candles.

A “4” candle and a “1”  candle to be exact . . . which is a good thing because 41 candles never would have fit. See?

As my husband was putting the candles on the dessert I asked him if I could be 14 instead of 41.

“Yea,” he said in his usual understated zero-inflection delivery method, “but I would probably get in trouble.”

Happy Birthday to all the other fish out there swimming around in the pond.


P.S.  This morning when putting the dishes away I found a “2” candle in the cupboard. I’m pretty sure my husband wasn’t planning ahead for next year. I’m thinking he wasn’t exactly how sure about my age.


This was written yesterday . . . posted only after sleeping on it . . .

Today is my son’s sixth birthday.

But it wasn’t him I woke up thinking about this morning.

I woke up thinking about the mammas and daddies who have had to say good-bye to a child before they ever got to say hello. People like my friend Shannon’s sister, my daughter’s first grade teacher and my mother’s quilting friend. On my mind most, however, have been my brother J. and his wife A. and their little Olivia.

Olivia was stillborn at 38 weeks last April 5th.

I never got to meet her.

I miss her terribly.

Why today? Why on G’s birthday has Olivia filled my mind so completely?

Maybe because the outcome on Olivia’s birthday was so very different.

Or maybe because when I celebrate the birth of one of my children I celebrate who they were, who they are and who they are becoming; and my heart aches because the opportunity to know Olivia and have her physically in our lives and all that brings with it was taken away from us.

Or maybe because it was just time for another round of tears.

(Long pause. Deep breath.)

A. shared with me once something a friend of hers told her that has been a source of comfort. A. was telling her friend about being sure that one day she would get to know why this happened.

Her friend said, “And when you do, it won’t matter why anymore.”

A.’s friend is right.

It won’t matter why because when that question is answered Olivia and her mamma will be together.

Just as one day Olivia will be with her daddy and grandparents and aunties and uncles and cousins and siblings and everyone else who is loving on her from here.

. . . and so we will have a chance to know her . . . but we have to wait . . . wait with ache in our hearts. 

I believe Olivia knows all of this.

I also believe that Olivia is in the care of someone who loves her more than we can fathom . . . she is in His hands.

G-d bless you Olivia. I look forward to seeing your sweet face . . . which I’m just sure is going to have little freckles on it.

I love you.

Auntie D