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.

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.

____________________________________

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

September 27, 2011

farriers & angels

September 27, 2011/ molly balint

When Ariel came under our care one of the first things we had to tackle was dealing with some of her drastic weight loss. We'd come to find out that she had Lymes Disease (ironically, so did Emma. Doubly ironic, they're on the same antibiotic), and another illness called Cushings Syndrome that was pretty rare for a pony of her age.

So every day, along with her grain she gets 40 pills to deal with the Lymes (Aren't you glad you don't take pony-doses of medicine??!) and a liquid medicine by mouth. And I watch in awe as Emma administers it. Slipping an arm over her head, reaching her finger in her mouth to pull out any grass or hay and squeezing in a dose of medicine, that the pony hates. I don't get involved, because if I did, Ariel would know something was up. It's better to keep things calm and relaxed so she doesn't get worked up.

And now the improvements in Ariel are really starting to show up. She's losing her bony look, there's even the bulge of some muscle in her back end, and we can tell--by the new spunky side she's showing--that she's feeling better, too.

Last week, Ariel had her first farrier visit here at our house. Brooke, who, along with her husband, is the farrier at the barn where Emma rides, Ariel's temporary home before she moved here--showed up to take care of Ariel's hooves.

It's a pretty neat process to watch.

And Brooke's encouragement about Ariel's progress and how she just "looked happy and content" is always good to hear.

It's funny, through the big decision of taking Ariel and the learning curve (mostly mine) of having a pony under our care, I have felt more than ever that so many people are on our side. That people are rooting for us, helping us, supporting us.

Last week, I got an email about Ariel's vet bill. The bill was a doozy. A horse-sized bill that makes one sputter and gasp just a bit. But I also knew this was part of the package. In that email I found out an "anonymous angel", who read my blog post about bringing Ariel to our home, had covered almost all of the bill. People are amazing.

God is good.

I just keep thinking for all the years of wishing and wanting and hoping that went on before Ariel was even a possibility, that patience and trust really pay off. When I get anxious about things, or want to force them to happen, my husband often reminds me to take the approach of waiting and knowing that the right doors will open. At the right time. We could have forced this pony thing to happen, or the fencing, years ago.

But we didn't.

And when the right door opened, there we were with open arms, ready to answer.

September 06, 2011

joy in the sorrow

September 06, 2011/ molly balint

Last May, I shared about the passing of my friend and neighbor, Sarah.

But one thing I didn't tell you in that story was my last "conversation" with Sarah before she died.

Just days before, she sent me several messages through twitter (of all places) curious to know if we had any interest in her pony, Ariel.

If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know that my daughter Emma is a horse girl. From her depths, the girl loves horses. Childhood "passions" come and go, but Emma's love of horses has only grown deeper roots in her little heart.

She has been riding and taking lessons since we moved back to Maryland. I watch this video of her, four years ago and I am reminded that she has been waiting for "a pony of her own" for quite a long time.

But a pony is no small commitment. If I had a dollar for every time I answered the question, "When do you think I'll be ready for a pony of my own?", I'd have enough dollars for seven ponies by now. Aside from being old enough for a pony, or having enough know-how, the big, glaring issue was right outside my kitchen window.

A farm with no fencing.

You can ask any of my close friends to know that I've been trying to figure out ways to get this little farm of ours started, to find the money in our squeezed-tight budget for fencing. (It is SO expensive!) Should I do something on kickstarter? Should I get a job? Should I make stuff and sell it on etsy?

Meanwhile, I'm telling my anxious daughter that some day the time will be right. Pray, I say. God knows your heart. And He already knows the perfect pony for you. And He knows when the time will be right.

I often needed to remind myself of the same things.

When Sarah sent me those series of messages, asking if we were interested, something jumped in my heart.

Little did she know, that many of our errands brought us driving right past her house. That Emma would often get quiet in the back seat, hiding her tears--not just for a pony, but for Ariel. "She's the perfect pony for me. I don't think they have anyone riding her right now. Do you think they'd ever sell her?" And I'd give her my same words of wisdom, which by now she could probably recite to me by heart. Pray. Wait. When the time is right....

That morning, when Sarah asked me, I immediately got on the phone with Dan. Teary, nervous. I had no idea that Sarah was just days from the end of her fight, but I knew this was one of those things she needed to settle.

Dan simply said, "Tell her yes. We'll just have to figure the rest out."

We didn't tell Emma anything. The heartbreak if anything fell through would have been horrible.

The man who owns the barn where Emma has been riding for the last several years said to bring Ariel there. She could stay until we were ready. For free. A gift.

But for a handful, Emma spent every morning this summer at the barn--taking care of Ariel, learning from the wonderful people who work and board their horses there, from my stepmother, who has taught her everything she knows.

Eventually, with all this planning and fussing, she began to put the pieces together.

"Is Ariel going to be mine?"

Finally, last week, in the middle of the aftermath of Hurricane Irene, Ariel arrived home.

By perfect timing (and God'd faithfulness to Emma's prayers, I believe) we found the funds for fencing. While we were in Virginia, a team of Amishmen descended on our farm and installed it.

Everything has come together. The timing is finally right.

And there, in the midst of the sorrow of losing Sarah, is the big, bright glow of joy. She's sitting bareback on a pony grazing in my back yard.

September 02, 2011

Goodnight, Irene.

September 02, 2011/ molly balint

Oh my. Hello from the long-awaited land of lights that turn on, toilets that flush, washing machines that hum, water that runs from the tap.

Hurricane Irene hit us at 2am last weekend and by 3am, we had lost our power. By 7am, trees were still falling down, even after holding out so long through the storm.

It was an adventure at first. So fun! So exciting! We're like pioneers!

I had written this fun little post in my head highlighting all the great fun we were having on our adventure:

Haha! The outfits Elizabeth has been putting together when she can't find clothes in her dark bedroom!

Haha! Look at Birdy playing in the puddles!

Haha! She's so dirty! She's having such a good time!

Haha? I don't have a way to wash those clothes!

Haha? I just ruined those cute leggings!

Haha? I don't have a way to give her a bath!

By Tuesday, it was no longer fun.

Tuesday night (I think it was Tuesday. At this point, it all becomes a blur.), we hit a low point. Little Mary was suffering from a migraine. A doozy which was accompanied by throwing up (haha! towels I can't wash!). It was pitch black in the house. Birdy was toddling around, tripping, banging herself about, screaming. Dan went to turn on the generator that had been powering our freezer, in order to at least turn on a light....Nothing. Broken. No generator. All children exhausted, crying. (I know you mamas know what it's like when ALL your children are crying simultaneously.) Mary, still sick. Grumpiness. Yes, there was much grumpiness. And all in pitch blackness.

But you know, I believe, now that I'm on this side of it, I can probably pull a little light from this darkness.

goodnight, Irene

We talked to and helped our neighbor more in the last week, than we have in the last month.

Driving through developments, I saw more children outside playing, than I think I ever have. It was like spotting some rare, endangered species on the side of the road.

I met neighbors up the road, that I've never even seen before. Standing outside, one lady holding her glass of wine, talking to the neighbor in his flourescent yellow tshirt--the mark of a county roads man, talking to the old man, unshaven and a little greasy (aren't we all?) whose suspenders hold up his ratty old khaki pants. And me. All of us laughing about how tough it's been. Talking about what we've done to survive.

And I thought, "We can do this. When we're put to little tests like this, we can all be pretty tough and pretty resourceful." That's not to say I didn't have my moments. That one morning, I decided to just crawl back in bed and hide for a few minutes (or maybe it was an hour).

But we survived. We can be tough. My husband, toughest of all. We can haul water from the stream to the toilets. And take our showers in the freezing cold spring-fed pool at my granparents' farm. And eat a lot of cereal. And figure out a way to make chocolate chip pancakes even though there's no electricity.

We can do it, if we must.

But still.... hello. And still....it's good to be back.

So, so good.