We marched there and back to their bursts of unsteady pitch. Faces peered from windows.

Millie finally gives the harmonica rhythm a rest.

I'm pretty sure that they didn't overlook even one puddle.

One last snapshot of a hungry baby, to round out the batch.

Give the Dog a Bone.

It's late, and Blogger is cranky.

He just ate all of the snapshots I posted.

I'll come back tomorrow.

A Baleful Stare.

Our refrigerator reproaches me with its stark shine. I've taken our collage down--comics, pictures, and John's doodles all-- and now it looks so respectable that I just set up an emergency email address to prepare for our new refrigerator. In the past, anyone who sent us a picture via real mail, email, or personal delivery was rewarded by having said picture taped on our refrigerator (excepting Johnny Cash and the one of Pope John Paul sitting with the Orthodox Patriarch; we took those from magazines).

To ensure that our refrigerator always looks messy and unpresentable, this practice will continue in our new home. If you'd like your snapshot on our refrigerator, send it to us! We prefer real photos as they are more durable than ones printed cheaply off of our computer, but, in case email is the only option, mail one to the newly fashioned fridgefame@gmail.com, deliver a photo in person, or send it to us via real mail once I give out the new address. You are welcome to send a photo even if we've never met in real life.

**UPDATE**
Due to John being an email snob, incredulous that I created a hotmail account in place of a gmail one, I have now created a second email address for electonically sent photos. Instead of the hotmail account that I posted earlier, please use this new and improved gmail account. (I love my email snob.)

p.s. If you've had your picture on our refrigerator in the past, feel welcome to provide a more current picture to replace it.

Our Endless, Numbered Days.

Friday afternoon, the park. Snapshots proof below.

John and I (mostly John) spent Saturday sorting and packing up a few more boxes. The day was fitful and stormy, but the clouds rolled back in the afternoon, so the girls and I went for a puddle walk. The darkness swept in again before we reached home, and the splash under our feet was matched by the splash of raindrops on our heads.

Our rear lower neighbors seem to be angry, unhappy people. Like a summer storm arriving without warning, they shouted and cursed at John on Friday while the girls and I sat upstairs, thankful for the sound-dulling barrier of wood and glass. Yesterday, resting content in the company of John and our three, I thought of them and of the Maker's hands forming their tiny baby within her. I am grateful that God gave John and I believing mothers, and I pray that He grants me the courage to live and love my children rightly and the mysterious grace to teach them what I, in weakness, am yet learning.

A joy that swallows whole, an overwhelming task, mothering is both of these and more, and living without the girls seems pale and unthinkable.

Friday, we went to the park.

zoom

Millie kept shouting, "PICKLES! I have pickles for sale! Do you want to buy any pickles, children?" She has great hope and even greater stamina, and the lack of customers didn't dampen her salesmanship fervor.

The other child ignored her, so Annika was her only customer, AND she paid with invisible money. What a rip-off.