Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we’ve no place to go,
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

This cheerful Christmas burst was instigated when I asked Audrey to go find me a clean table cloth for the kitchen nook. Off she went, the little decorator in her full of glee, and returned with a table cloth that says all over it, “Let it snow!”. And that is what we put on our table this Memorial Day. And the singing began and just couldn’t be put to a stop.

All this singing of Christmas led to a wonderful little conversation at the kitchen nook while Audrey ate her apple pie (leftover filling from last years pickings at the orchard). It was preceded by me making up a song (at Audrey’s request) about Christmas and how it is all about celebrating Jesus’ birthday. The conversation went something like this:

Shanel: “Audrey, Christmas is a big birthday celebration for Jesus, isn’t it?”
Audrey nods her head in agreement.
Shanel: “Audrey, who is Jesus?” (What kind of mother asks these big questions of her four year old? It just kind of came out; I was curious to hear her answer.)
Audrey shrugs her shoulders.
Shanel: “He’s God isn’t he? He came to be with us on the earth as a man.”
More shrungging of shoulders.
And then she starts talking. “Jesus came to wash our sins away.” (She got this after watching a video of her cousin singing in her old lady voice, “O Happy Day”.)
Shanel: “Yes, and our sins are those bad things we do and say sometimes.”
Audrey: “Yes, mommy, like when you talk mean to me sometimes.”

Oh dear.
Yes, daughter, like when I talk mean to you sometimes.
O, happy day, he’s washed my mother sins away, all my impatience, anger, hostility and aggression, and straight up rage at times.
O, happy day.

And as Audrey insists conclucing every dinner prayer, we say, “Thank you, God, for Christmas.”

I love it. Instead of plain ol’ Martens. She is Miss Martens to you, buddy. And to all of you for that matter. Miss Martens. The truth is that is her nickname. I am Mrs. M. Ivan is Mr. M. And she is lil’ Miss M, translated: Miss Martens.

My name is Audrey Anne. Miss Martens.

It was dusk and big flakes were still falling, coating everything in the woods. Right when you enter the woods you encounter a very old pine grove that is stunning. Stunning in the sense that it centers you, stilling the resonating places within that need quieting. These old evergreens have a way of putting me at rest the moment I enter, particularly with the hush of snow that comes over one, that really deep quiet of snow.
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I start walking and within a few paces I hear the hoot of an owl not far off. Amazed, I stop in my snowy tracks. I walk a bit farther and I hear it calling to me again. I stop. What a magical sound that was: the deep quiet of the snow and the hooting owl. Stunning in the sense that I felt so special to be able to catch the brilliance of the woods in that very moment. No one else was there in that moment but me.

I keep walking, hearing the owl calling now and then. From the distant trail, I can see someone coming with a dog that is running. They approach quickly and before I know it there is the most extraordinary thing before me: a man “cross country skiing” with 2 large ropes attached to his dog like reigns pulling him along. What a smart dog owner! They both looked like they were having fun. They went a bit past me and turned around and as the man “cross country skied” past me a second time, he says in a Santa Claus sort of voice, “Beautiful isn’t it…that owl in the woods.” And off he went. I felt stuck in my tracks and mesmerized by the entire experience.

I fear the owl was not so keen on the dog/skiing man contraption and did not call to me from that point on. I only walked for a bit longer and turned around for my little toesy-woesy’s were getting cold. I came home straight away and told Audrey about the owl and she was dazzled.

We have checked out from the library a book many times because I, in particular, really enjoy it. It is called Owl Moon. I believe it is an older book. The story goes something like this: a father takes his small daughter out owling in the woods as if it is a family rite of passage. To go owling involves bravery, patience, and utmost quiet and, I guess, the ability to keep up with your long-legged dad. The woods are captivating, the moon is powerful and bright and in the end they hear an owl and even spot it in the tree. Audrey and I were inspired to do this ourselves. There is another children’s book we adore called “Miss Spider” and there is one short story where she takes one of her little adopted children on a “listening walk”. Owling and listening walks have a pull on little Audrey Anne’s curious and adventurous heart.
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So off we went tonight, owling in Lions Woods. It was dark, there was not much moon, a sliver in fact. The woods were thick with darkness, the snow was packed down under our feet. We had flashlights in our hands but I found that the beam of the light made it more eerie. Quiet and some more quiet. We started in and I bent down to look under the many layers of hoods and hats into my daughter’s eyes to make sure she didn’t have on her wide eyed owl panic look. Nope. She was game for adventure. We walked on and ever so often we would let out a hoot of our own, first me and then Audrey echoing, calling to the owl. Stop, listen, listen more deeply. Nothing. Keep walking. We repeated this for some time until we were deep in the grove of pines and still no owl calling to us. I was the one to turn us ’round and head back. I think Audrey could have kept walking in those woods, searching, waiting, listening. What a remarkable little owl watcher she is.

As we came out of the woods into the parking lot, she says to me, “That was fun!” I smiled.
“Were you scared at all?”, I asked her.
“Nope.”
“I was.”

I did all this while it snowed a couple of inches in my backyard and then I proceeded to go outside with the little snow-women (who looked just like Randy from A Christmas Story).
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Scarlet did not proceed to move one little size 5 foot in any direction; paralyzed by all the white stuff.
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We made snow angels, even Scarlet with such a cute, tiny wingspan. I jumped in more than once and I fear that may be why by lower back is a achin’ me and requiring multiple doses of Ibuprofen. Can you say, “Old Lady!”?
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We went for a little sled ride; me pulling them around the back yard until, unbeknownst to me, they fell off face first into the snow. I have a bad Trudi-habit of laughing hysterically in these situations. But I sure did scoop up the littlest of the two who had the most snow-plowed-face damage and provided some comfort and a windshield wiper blade sort of swipe with my glove.
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Gotcha! The one and only beauty of a photo amidst all the rest.
I love these two snow-women.
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It’s late. I’m tired. I promised myself I would “major” in rest this next season. But I can’t resist posting TWO things:
#1 I harvested all my lettuce this evening. It was time. I love that I can walk in my backyard and pick mixed greens for the evening salad. Audrey and I harvested a whole tub full! We divided into recycled produce bags and jumped on the bike with the Burly attached to go deliver. Judy has lent me this fabulous, cadillac of a bike for the summer while she is traipsing the earth. I am putting it to great use exploring all parts of Waukegan and even making a new friend or two. We had four stops: neighbors, Audrey’s new friends (and mine too) and the Reeds. We delivered fresh greens and as we biked around I put the little bell (my favorite part of the bike) to use by announcing that the Lettuce Express was here. It was delightful. It was dusk and I was so glad to have friends in the neighborhood I could go and visit so casually and bless them with a bag of fresh greens.

#2 I was just doing up the evening dishes and Ivan was making the coffee for tomorrow morning, packing a lunch and all (since he has a NEW job!). He was searching around the house for his ol’ time lunch box. Couldn’t find it, couldn’t find it. This is what happens when you have a three year old in the house who loves to organize, sort and carry items in little containers around the house like she is cross pollinating or something. He eventually finds it in the living room which is scattered with toys, picnics, tea parties and babies sleeping under burp cloths. He senses something in it, sloshing around. He brings it into the kitchen, where I am doing dishes like I said, and opens it. Now, whenever you hear Ivan say, “Oh no!”, you know it’s bad bordering on really bad. In an instant I knew what it was: stale, stagnant and growing a number of bacteria, old urine. I do believe my three year old, beloved, most lovely, creative, stunning and funny little midget of a daughter peed in my husband’s lunch box. Sigh.

In the last month or so, Audrey has finally got the hang of going tinkle and poo poo on the toilet, like a big girl [Can I get an amen, hallelujah, praise the Lord Almighty in heaven!?!] As I look into the tub, with toys floating about, I see little brown flecks on the bottom of the tub. No big deal; maybe just some dirt, debris, something-or-other. Then my eyes scan about and discover something peculiar: there is a pile of poop strategically deposited in the cabin of a little play boat where little pirates normally lay their heads.

I try not to laugh. I try to maintain composure because, after all, it is not ideal for my daughter to be crappin’ in the bathtub, right? But at the same time, isn’t it awfully creative of her to choose this route of pooping? This was a tricky parenting scenario to navigate. In the end I said this to Audrey: “This, my love, is why I keep a blog.” I scooped up the poop, which was conveniently in the dug out part of the boat, and plopped in neatly into the toilet.

And then I said this: “Audrey, you know how we pause your shows on TV. Well, we can “pause” your bath and let you jump out if you have to go poo poo and then put you right back in once you are done. I think she understood that concept.

I keep giggling about it still.
Tonight when she spied me uploading the pictures you are about to see, she confessed that she scooped the poop up with the washcloth. All along I thought she had crouched down over the boat, aiming strategically, which would have been quite funny.

Oh, the joys of raising three year olds.

Enjoy the pics!
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I thought you would enjoy those.

We are sitting on the little couches, evaluating our handiwork and design when all of a sudden, Audrey pushes on my belly, the chubby part above my belly-button, and inquires, “Baby in the belly, mom?”

Oh, dear.
This is not good.
If my daughter thinks I look pregnant, it must be really bad; the chub, that is.
I think I need to do something about all this leftover baby fat, stressed-out and don’t know how to cope sort of fat.