December 12, 2011

7 Tips for taking a perfect family Christmas card photo

December 12, 2011/ molly balint

1. Take your photograph when your children are well-fed and rested. (Not right after church when the baby is looong overdue for a nap and everyone's low-blood sugar is resulting in impatience and grumpiness.)

2. Make sure your husband is well-fed. (Because you'll need his help to wrangle babies, arrange children, shoo chickens, and hold ponies. And if he's hungry {see above}, he'll give up on your perfect holiday photo shoot way too quickly.

3. Find a clean, white pony to add something unique and meaningful to your family's photo. (Preferrably not one that was rolling in her muddy field just as you are all walking outside to take pictures.)

4. Make sure your children are well-groomed and bathed. (or else they'll be wearing handknits in all the pictures to cover up)

5. Drain all tubs of standing water. (Because you know the baby will find them. And while you're directing the brushing of the pony and making sure noone gets stomped on by the same nervous pony, the baby will find the water and be up to her elbows in it before you turn back around.)

6. Lock in the chickens. (They distract the photographer.)

7. Remember that one of the things you love most about your family is that it's big, crazy and chaotic. But every once in awhile, you get a glimpse of almost-perfection. And there among the five hundred wacky outtakes, there'll be one that captures just that.

November 08, 2011

A warmer heart

November 08, 2011/ molly balint

I've got a new sidekick when it comes to morning chores.

I can't even utter the word "outside" unless I have her completely bundled. Otherwise, I'll be attempting to dress, shoe and bundle a baby squirming and wailing at the mudroom door, eager to break free from her indoor jail.

Some days, we can't even be bothered with shoes. I'm lucky if I can get a sweater over her head and a hat secured under her chin before she's pushing through the door.

She often brings her morning banana. I try not to think about where and how many times it is dropped. And what bits of dirt and whoknowswhat that cling to it. Or which animals she's offered a lick before taking another tiger-sized bite off the end.

Instead of lugging her on my hip, we've discovered the garden cart makes a pretty convenient way to trek back and forth to the chicken coop.

I put her on the concrete pad in front of the coop while I work.

She sits in the pile of chicken feed like it was a sandbox created just for her. The hens eye her cautiously, pecking around her, as she tries to feed them from her chubby palms. This must be why the hens follow her around so closely. They know she offers food.

I collect eggs, check on the babies, freshen up water, and throw clumps of soft, fresh green grass into their pen.

When we cross back over the little wooden bridge on the way home, she is thrilled by the water running under our feet. I'm amazed at her ability to perch on the very edge of the bridge, crouched down, babbling at the water. I miss that kind of flexibility and balance. She's telling me a lot of things about that little stream. I talk back to her like I understand every word.

Eventually, I convince her there's more to see on the other side of the bridge. But before she hits that slippery, muddy patch, I swoop her up and plop her back in our farmer's stroller.

Her favorite friend blocks our path with a croquet ball in her mouth. A leaf dangles from her lips. She's relentless.

If I'd let her, she'd stay out here all day. The only way I can coax her back inside is to bring the dog and a small furry kitten with me. She finally follows, waving goodbye to the crowd of animals gathered around her, like the queen of the animal kingdom.

I peel off layers, wipe her runny nose and notice her muddy sleeper-feet. And she's gone again. Disappearing into the belly of the house. Following the dog. Calling for her sisters. And I'm left to hang up sweaters, shove hats back in the basket and pry the barn boots from my feet.

The house feels warmer now than it did when we first set out this morning.

So does my heart.

October 27, 2011

things to be bummed about

October 27, 2011/ molly balint

I realize, that's a real uplifting title for a Friday late Thursday night post. But, in the spirit of honesty that I like to maintain on my blog, I have some bummer things to share.

Since last Friday, Mary's most-special cat Mouse has been missing. If you've been around here for awhile, you'll know that Mouse has a special place in Mary's heart, and really, in all our hearts.

Since he was tiny, she has been toting him around until he was so big his long fluffy tail and legs seemed to drag on ground as she carried him around in her arms. When she was little, without FAIL she would wake up every morning, still in pajamas, often in barefeet, and head outside to find him, pick him up and nuzzle him. She'd sit outside talking to him and snuggling him until I forced her to come in to eat breakfast.

As he got older even just a week ago, he'd hop up onto the roof outside her bedroom and meow at the window. She'd let him in and show up downstairs each morning with him already in her arms. He was big and beautiful and he definitely belonged to her.

When Mary was going through all her health scares two years ago, Mouse was the cat who she carried in her arms, on the car drive to get her blood drawn. He was the only reason we could convince her to calm down and get in the car.

Of all our cats--he is special. And circumstances the night before he disappeared (that I don't want to get into on here for fear of my little ones will read them), have me believing he is gone for good.

We're all pretty heartbroken. And as Mary says, "But there'll never be another Mouse."

Nope. Never.

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As always, thanks for reading, friends. Thanks for following along. Sharing in the ups (and unfortunate downs) of our days on Thomas Run.

May the weekend be brighter, warmer, and full of good things.

xo.

Molly

October 26, 2011

Lions and tigers, no bears.

October 26, 2011/ molly balint

Day two of our staycation had us trekking off to the Smithsonian National Zoo in Washington DC. The zoo is wonderful--twisting and turning among tree lined paths that open up into animal homes. And it's free. The parking is not (ouch), but still well worth it, and very budget-friendly.

The girls loved it. Birdy especially. She also loved the fact that we unhinged her from the jail of her stroller and let her walk much of the day. You'd ask to hold her hand and she'd quite frankly, tell you no, and push your hand away. And despite her zig-zagging toddle up the brick sidewalks, she hardly slowed us down.

I think Fall may be my favorite time to go to the zoo. Crowds are down. It's not hot and animals are still out and active.

It was a perfect day two.

Day three, today, invovled reclaiming the house from the first two days of staycation and a massive binge of laundry.

Day four is still open for discussion. Though there's lots of campaigning for a family trip to the bowling alley. Though I can already envision chasing Birdy up the lanes...

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October 19, 2011

Confessions of an irresponsible farmer

October 19, 2011/ molly balint

I have to confess, lately I've handed over the egg-collecting, chicken-feeding duties to my children. While I enjoy a good trek to the coop with my morning cup of coffee, I've been letting the girls handle the chore. I haven't been to the coop for much more than a nightly lock-in, in quite awhile.

Apparently, it's been ooooh, about 21 days.

Precisely the amount of time it takes for something magical to occur in an un-monitored nesting box.

This morning, the children on chicken-duty came blasting back into the house to let me know we had baby chicks.

No, we don't, I told them. Silly girls.

But I followed them out to the coop and before I even got to the door, I could hear that familiar peeping.

And there, perched in her nesting box was one of our Rhode Island Red hens with EIGHT little fluffy chicks tucked under her breast.

This, by far, has been one of the best surprises ever on our little farm.

Being the irresponsible farmer that I am, slinging all chicken duties onto the shoulders of my children, the girls confessed that this hen hasn't been letting them collect the eggs she was sitting on. Usually, the girls let me know someone is broody, so we can force her out of the coop during the day. But this time, the message never made it to me. And look what the lack of responsibility for my flock produced! (I'll have to try approach this more often. I wonder if a similar technique works on the vegetable garden?)

But I couldn't share this story without acknowledging that the chick's arrival today is full of irony.

Just yesterday, there was another rooster attack--this time on Elizabeth. It meant another call to my husband reminding him that something had to be done right away. And so yesterday evening, we all hid in the house, covering our ears while Dan took care of the rooster situation. And sparing details, the task proved to be quite complicated.

But today, those roosters, in a final statement of their immortaltiy and unwillingness to leave this earth, leave us with eight fluffy legacies. And chances are, I'll find myself attempting to befriend a rooster (or two! or more!) all over again.