In the center of our backyard stands an island rock garden that is nearly 50 years old. To hear the neighbors tell it, it was quite the showpiece in its day. It had a chimney, a waterfall, and a pond. (The water was piped directly in then, no pumps to circulate it through). It was filled with fruit trees and lush perennials. It really was something else.

Today, the boulders are still there, covered with myrtle. The ruins of the chimney are in place and there is one lone struggling pear tree that looks terrible, but gives us sweet fruit every summer.

We've lived in this house 10 years and every we make plans to finally tear it out. Every year, our plans get quieter and more vague. This year, we didn't talk about it at all. It looks terrible, it really does. But I've grown fond of it. Now that we have kids, they love to climb the rocks and look for flowers. I imagine them in a year or two creating stories, making a fort out of the old chimney. It's the perfect place to hunt for fairies.

I grew up with 10 acres of forest as my playground. My kids have a nice, large backyard, but it's a city lot. I feel like this is their little piece of wilderness, a quiet place to dream and create while their imaginations still run wild. I hope we don't take it down for a long time.

When I was a kid, I borrowed 50 cents from my grandpa. I wrote him an IOU, promising to pay it back. He told me he'd collect "when pigs fly."

When I was a little older, I went to a kite fair. There was a pig-shaped kite there, flying high, so I sent my grandpa 50 cents, with a note that I'd finally found a flying pig.

He sent my back $5, saying it couldn't possibly be true.

When I found this flying pig a few years ago at a craft fair, I had to have it. We call it "Poppy's Pig." My girls never met their poppy. Sass missed him by three short weeks. In my heart, I think maybe they passed each other on his way out and her way in. But they know how much I love him and they know the story about the flying pig.

Grandpa was a gardener at heart. I think of him when I'm out there digging around, talking to the plants, urging them to grow. I moved Poppy's Pig in the garden today and hoped that as my fledgling garden grows, I'm doing him proud.

The kitchen project that you all have forgotten about because it's been so dang long is finally done. It's been mostly done for weeks, but we (ack!) had to get a new floor. So here are the before before (when we moved in) pics and the before pics (after we had "remodeled") again, as well as a few shots of after.

This is Wiley. He used to be known by several other names, none of them suitable for a family blog. He was terrible to live with, too terrible to even consider giving away. He was surly and impatient and had the bad habit of trapping house guests in bedrooms when we weren't home.

Then, two summers ago, we let him outside.

I'm all for keeping house cats in the house to keep them safe and healthy, but Wiley, he's no house cat. We tried to make him one for seven long years, but all we managed to do was to annoy him.

Now that he can go outside at his leisure (in non-winter months, of course, because he doesn't like the cold), he is the friendliest, most affectionate cat ever. We can't get over it. The neighbors all know him because he greets them at the sidewalk (he used to snarl at them), and he even lets the kids play with him.

It's a marvel, and proof that you really can't change a tiger's stripes...even when he doesn't have any.

Sass got her hair cut today. She's been wanting bangs for months, but I just couldn't do it. I don't know why; I'm not sure if I was afraid it would make her look older or what. Today, we stopped to drop His Grace off for a haircut and I just got out of the car and took her in to. She's quietly thrilled, as is her way.

I took these outside, shortly after she beat me at croquet. Actually, I believed myself to be the winner, but then she changed the rules so that I had to put my ball back behind hers, and then when she took her next turn, she won. She also seemed to be picking the ball up a lot and moving it to where she wanted it to go. She assured me that it was appropriate to do so. I don't know how to play croquet, so what could I say?

This is my mom's Mother's Day present. I decided to go homemade this year, and to include the kids in the process. What we came up with was a flip album made from envelopes, decorated to the hilt with tiny flowers and heart stickers. Each pocket holds a photo of my mom with the girls.

She cried, which wasn't exactly my goal, but I'm pretty sure it meant she liked it.

A lot of women I know have complicated relationships with their moms. I...well...I just don't. My mom's there for me. I try (and often fail) to be there for her. There's love and compassion and generosity, but none of that other stuff. It's hard to put into words how grateful I am for the easy way we fit into each other's lives. As for the girls, I'm not sure whose got who wrapped more tightly around their finger. They love her fiercely, and the feeling is mutual.

I think I can count on one hand the number of times my mom got mad at me. I might need two hands to count the number of times I heard her swear under her breath or slam a cupboard door. I worry sometimes that that's all my kids will remember of their early childhood (because I hope to improve as they get older). I'm moody. I slam things. I swear quietly. Sometimes, (but not most of the time) I just want to be left alone.

Maybe she did too, but if she did, I sure don't remember it. I'm hoping that my girls feel the same way, and that when it's my turn to play Grandma to their little ones, they'll say to me, "How did you do it, Mom? Why don't I remember it being this hard for you?" And I'll smile and tell them that sometimes it was hard, but they won't believe it. All they'll remember, like me, is that they were and are always loved.

All of my writing muscle is currently going toward my work blogs. Even when I'm inspired to write something here, by the time I get here, my eyes are bleary and I can't remember how to spell. So I've decided, for the summer at least, that Her Grace is going photo.

I figure there are two advantages to this. You'll get a little peek into the daily at chez Their Grace and I'll be posting more than once a millenium. I'm not promising daily photos, but hopefully I'll be posting more often.

Still thinking about the password thing, but still also undecided.

So, with no further ado...

I told His Grace that all I wanted for Mother's Day was a place to grow some vegetables. He saw an opportunity to avoid the mall and using the debit card, so he agreed to dig me a garden. He's out there digging this afternoon, and I can't be sure, but I think the mall is looking pretty good to him right now.



Actual conversation:

"Why are you taking my picture?"

"For posterity."

"It's for your blog, isn't it?"

(ignoring question) "I'm taking the girls to the greenhouse to get some veggie plants."

"Don't pressure me."

It's probably all well and good that I didn't mention the 40 pounds of cow manure also on my list.

Thanks for the feedback, everyone. I'm not really writing much right now anyway, so I think I'll mull over the underground issue. It's not a huge deal, just thought it might free me up to post more pictures, etc. If I decide to add a password, I'll definitely give ample warning so that you can request it before hand.

I'm thinking of going password protected. I know that at least half of you come to me through Bloglines though, and I realize that password protecting could make me lose half my readership. That means that the only people reading this blog would be, well, me.

So I'm taking a poll. If I go private, would you still visit? Stop by and say hi? Feed my cat while I go on vacation? Or would putting a password on this blog mean that I'd hear crickets chirping whenever I logged in?

Anne Lamott on the Colbert Show

"That's not a cuddle party, is it?"

This morning, I had a mole on my neck removed. As the dermatologist started working on me, he and his nurse started discussing oil prices.

At first, I thought the discussion was going in a favorable direction. He was going on and on about alternative energy sources and wind farms and what not. I relaxed a little and let him shoot me up with his local anesthetic.

"Of course, it all depends on what the next President does," he went on. "If they'd let us tap the oil reserves in Michigan and Alaska and other wilderness areas, we'd only be paying $1.50 a gallon! There's plenty of oil, we just can't get to it."

I started to speak up, but he interrupted me.

"I just want to be able to use my boat whenever I want to."

I sighed internally. I had hoped that a man of science, a health professional would care about more than how often he got to use his inboard. I tried one more time to join the discussion.

"Why can't we tap into those oil reserves?" asked the nurse.

With a sneer, his voice dripping with contempt, he said:

"Environmentalists."

Then he put his scalpel up to my jugular, and I decided it wasn't a good time to argue.

Drop over to Maggie's and send her some love -- Slugger's adoption has been finalized!

At the movie store this afternoon, Party Girl picked out Mulan, which the girls have never seen.

During the first scene, Sass recognized it was China by the Great Wall. I mentioned that the movie took place in China, not in the United States, where we live.

"We've never been to China," she replied. "I've never been anywhere else but where I live."

She mulled this over for a minute.

"Oh wait! I have been somewhere! I went to Ohio!"

One more summer of vacationing in-state, and then it's time to take these kids on a road trip.

I'm on Facebook and have far too few friends. If you're on, drop me a line and I'll look you up.

Does this make me an official cyber-nerd?

Party Girl's outlook on the world changed the day she turned three. It made her feel like a super hero. Suddenly, the words "I'm a big girl" are part of the daily routine around here and she wears the label with pride.

Last night, my mom sent me an email sharing some things that Party Girl had said while over there today for her "date" with Grandma:

"Remember, Grandma, I'm three years old now. I am a big girl. Big girls
don't have to be careful because they don't get hurt. Only little girls get
hurt. But now I'm a big girl and I won't get hurt anymore."

She's dressing me up with all the necklaces from the treasure box. She
says to me, "Now, you're beautiful, Grandma."
I say, "You're beautiful, Party Girl." She looks at me and simply says, "I know."

Grace, confidence, and an unwavering faith in herself -- she can't wrap it up in bows, but what a perfect birthday gift she's given herself.

I see the morning sun from behind my eyelids. It was friendly and cheery, singing Good morning! Good morning!

I squeezed my eyes tighter and rolled over with a groan.

It was too late. My brain had already noticed the springtime sun before I did and it was busy sending WAKE UP! chemicals throughout my body. It wanted to get up, go outside, and play.

It must have forgotten the 3 AM trip to the ER with a croupy Party Girl.

So I opened my eyes and for a moment did marvel at the beautiful sunshine outside. It's a sight to see after such a long winter. Then the headache hit and I couldn't get my eyes to focus at the same time, so I stumbled out of bed to the shower.

Downstairs, while I heated up hot cocoa for the girls, I looked at the calendar and was relieved to find we didn't have much going on today. I stepped away to make myself some tea and suddenly realized that it wasn't Tuesday, it was Wednesday.

I checked the calendar again and saw it was packed full. School (SCHOOL! We're already 1/2 hour late!). An important conference call for work. Ballet. I ran to shove a bagel into Sass and start getting her dressed. Why hadn't they sent me the phone number for the conference call yet? Maybe I wasn't included in it? Maybe I was getting fired??? What kind of mother forgets to send her child to school?

During all this, the wheels of the machinery in the sane part of my brain were churning away, diligently trying to get a message to the rest of me: His Grace isn't here. On Wednesdays, he's always here in the morning. If it were Wednesday, he wouldn't have offered to take the afternoon off. If it were Wednesday, YESTERDAY WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN MONDAY.

Just like that, and luckily before I could drag Sass out the door to school, the light bulb slowly warmed up and emitted just enough of a glow for me to pay attention. Today is Tuesday after all.

The sun should have a permit before it's allowed to wake a person up like that.

Today, I made another mom feel good about herself.

Today, somewhere, a mom is blogging what she witnessed at Target -- or maybe just sharing it over dinner -- and she is judging me harshly, as women are sometimes apt to do.

My behavior made her feel like a good mom, because what I was doing was not in the realm of good parenting. I had sunk low, which meant she could look down on me.

I tried to stop myself; I tried to step outside of the situation and see it for what it was -- tired children, exhausted mother. But blind rage had locked the door and I was stuck fast in the moment.

I yelled. I threatened. I even put their new shoes and soccer gear back and promised to leave the store without our purchases.

The threat fell like a flat balloon -- ignored. Of course it was. They don't care about soccer gear. They only care that their parents are sane, and clearly, I was not.

I wanted them to see what I needed them to do. I needed them to sit quietly. I needed them to quit arguing. I needed them to quit screaming at each other. I needed them to see that if they could just hold it together, we could be free of the bright, harsh lights of the Target store and back out in the cool evening air. But they couldn't, and that pissed me off.

Young children are not necessarily champions of empathy, and I understand my request was unfair.

When I looked up and caught that other mother's eyes, I was hoping to find something that I could hold on to. I was hoping her eyes would say, "I see you. I understand." Instead, they said something else, something much like the terrible words that were already whispering in my head, cutting at my heart.

In an hour, I'll put them to bed. An hour after that, I'll tiptoe in and curl up next to them and let the sounds and smells of their soft sleeping heal the wounds of the day. I'll resolve to do better, and with that resolution the heaviness will begin to lift, to make room for the possibility of a new day.

She is rosy cheeks and rosebud lips.
She is beautiful dresses and mud pies.
She is fancy skirts and ripped tights.
She is fierce.
She is an open heart, no fences around.
She is stay-in-your-jammies-all-day snuggly.
She is the best hugs.
She is "Will you hold my hand while I fall asleep, Mama?"
She is fast when you want her to be slow.
She is a dawdles when you want her to hurry up.
She is never-take-your-eyes-off-of-her outside the house.
She is don't-take-your-eyes-off-of-her-for-long inside the house.
She is music.
She is laughter and she is joy.
She is beauty.
She is magic.
She is mine.

And now, she is three.

Happy Birthday, Party Girl. The world is a better place because you are in it.

Sass is drawing a calender. At the top are the following letters:

M T W F F S S

I ask her what the second F is for. The answer?

Fursday.

Of course.