to & from & me & you (toby)

In the midst of some pretty terrible tragedies, when suffering and fear took hold of the global stage once again, you arrived.

I am thrown for a second time by the magnitude of it all, this love made tangible. Is there anything more powerful than this?

Tobias Harold Joseph Kiger, born Sunday, November 15, at 2:40 AM

You kept us on our toes for over a week, but when it was finally time, you came fast and furious. Zero to 60 (or six to 10, if we're talking centimeters) in under two hours. Fifteen minutes of pushing, followed by what the midwife called a "textbook rotation," and then, somewhere in the space of my relief and disbelief: You. Tiny and perfect and dark haired and wailing. We'd waited 41 solid weeks, and yet it still felt so sudden. You cried and cried and kept right on crying. I guess you got it out of your system right then, though, because you've hardly made a peep since.

I'll admit, I was scared this time around. And it hurt. It hurt so much more than with Caleb, probably due to the quick progression. (As our midwife also said, "Faster doesn't necessarily mean easier.") I kept looking for an out, trying to find the off switch. It took everything I had to dig deep and keep faith during the brief moments of in-between. Yet somehow, we made it. You're here, I survived; there was no out to take. And despite what I may have claimed at the time, I'd do it again. Of course I would, and hopefully, eventually, I will. The ability to share my body with another human being, to be "home" for new life, is an honor and a gift.

I know so many people are walking around battered and weary right now. It feels counterintuitive and, frankly, a little bit subversive to look at the hurting world and choose to participate in this act of creation. To joyfully welcome new life in the face of pain and suffering. To choose hope and unabashed, full-throttle love. The newborn bubble offers one powerful forcefield. I look at you sleeping peacefully in my arms as your big brother gives you gentle, giddy kisses, and I think: This is it. This is all there is. At the same time, I am as aware as ever of our immense privilege.

We've been waiting for you, sweet Toby. May you always know how very loved and chosen you are. Or maybe it's you who chose us. Either way, I'm so very glad you're here, and so completely grateful.

There is nothing better than this.

apple picking

We spent Saturday afternoon at the orchard, enjoying the beautiful weather and picking a full peck of Gala apples. I was a little worried we'd have to get baking or give a bunch away, but Caleb has been chowing down on them like nobody's business. Although there is definitely still a warm apple crisp in our future, and I plan to grate a few into our oatmeal now that cool mornings have arrived. We went to the same place as last year--I guess that makes the family tradition official now? Crazy to look back and see what a difference a year makes! It was definitely nicer going early in the season this time around, and with a healthy, well-rested kid. Plus, he's just so much fun these days (I mean it! So far, the almost-twos? No so terrible :) ).

I'm having a little trouble sizing photos for the blog at the moment (all these fancy software updates on my new computer are throwing me!), so what you see above is it for now. Hopefully I'll get the kinks worked out soon and have a manageable system once again! I've been missing this space more than I realized.

january bits + pieces

It's been sort of slow going around here. I feel like I have SO MUCH to write about, but I can't quite wrap my brain around all-the-everything yet. Eventually. 

In the meantime, a glimpse of the everyday this & that of our 2015 so far....

We rang in the new year in our PJs...

...while eating pizza. It was the best! Definitely the start of a new tradition.

Cabey learned to drive! ;) 

Cars are definitely high on his list of favorite things.

He also carts his "duggahs" (doggies) everywhere these days and loves to love on them.

Andy: "When does he start his boy band career?"

I celebrated the return of Downton Abbey with some bubbly (but haven't had a drink since--and I feel so much better! Not exactly super well-rested, mind, as I still have to work on getting to bed at a decent time. But better.).

 

Caleb is suddenly OBSESSED with cleaning supplies.

I think they even surpass his love of cars and dogs these days.

I mean, really.

But I guess he comes by it honestly :)

(I think I'm like one of those cool moms or something?!?!) (Or something.)

Ball pit heaven at the local community center.

Hot tea & a hot bath is good for the soul.

Guard cats.

Saying our bedtime prayers. Rosaries are delicious.

"You are covered in stars."

Late night meditation on Our Lady of Guadelupe, Patroness of the Unborn. 

Excited to begin a small group series for young moms on the Ten Virtues of Mary at a local parish, inspired in part by these gals.

So there you have it. I'm getting my balance back, and it is oh-so-good.

big & little valentine's day tees

I'd love to get my guys these cheerful t-shirts for my for Valentine's Day. They're festive without being over-the-top.

For Andy: Friday Night Lights quote shirt by Will Bryant [Honestly, I'm inclined to get this for myself too! It's also available as an art print.]

For Caleb: Peek Kids Heart Breaker Jersey

ordinary abundance

"There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less."

G.K. Chesterton

. . .

I've been sitting on a version of this post for almost a week now, waiting for the words to come more easily and eloquently. Maybe I'm still feeling the holiday fog, but I'm tired of waiting. This is so close to my heart right now, and I just need to get something down and out into the world, however imperfectly expressed.

. . .

I love Christmas. I really do. I used to take more joy in the preparation than the actual celebration, but slowing things down this year and honoring Advent as a time of reflection and simplicity helped make both more manageable and merry. Which isn't to say there isn't plenty of room for improvement, but we're taking it one year at a time.

All that said, I find myself so hungry for Ordinary Time. Maybe it's that I'm getting older, or perhaps it's just this season of life, but I long for routine, simplicity, and everyday grace. For the unexpected beauty of "normal," the bounty beneath the surface, just waiting to be noticed. In this way, Advent and Christmas mirror the cycle of our entire lives. 

Our tree was beautiful this year (it still is, actually, as we're keeping it up until Epiphany). We never got around to hanging more than a handful of ornaments, mostly those that belong to Caleb or have been gifts to Andy and me during our marriage. Still, I love having those little lights on in the evenings, and I love watching Caleb wave hello to the tree when he wakes up in the morning. It was wonderful to see gifts wrapped and ready piled underneath, too, tokens of love given and received. I generally enjoy buying presents. We don't go overboard, but we do try to carefully consider each person on our list. I offer up prayers and goodwill as I wrap everything, hoping to somehow imbue the items with the spirit of care in which they were chosen.

But -- in the midst of wrapping gifts and baking counters full of cookies (I managed four kinds this year, phew!), the thing that really grabbed me was the fruit basket sitting on our counter, in the same spot it lives most days. Suddenly it was so inexplicably beautiful.

Call it satori, call it the "wow" prayer, but whatever name you give the moment, it was as though someone pressed the pause button on the world for a second. 

Recently I started watching the BBC drama Cranford (I promise this is connected), and in the second episode there's a scene where the main characters are given oranges to enjoy. For reasons of dignity and decorum, they go to their bedrooms to eat their fruit alone. The idea that oranges could be such a treat, so exotic, and pleasurable to the point of inappropriateness really stuck with me. And I think that's part of what got me when I saw our fruit basket, full of bananas and limes and clementines and even a pomegranate. The basket itself is something Andy and I brought back from Oman. What a miracle it would seem to the people of Cranford to see such treasures sitting in our kitchen! Yet we very nearly expect that we'll have access to these things at will. They blend into the background. But to really see them, even if briefly? Wow. 

The same thing happened last night when I caught a glimpse of my hands in a sink full of dishes, scrubbing the pans from dinner. And I saw them. The whimsy of the soap bubbles, the dim light just so, and two capable hands -- hands that help me care for a family. Wow. I felt my throat catch at the wonder of my regular life. I get to be a wife! I get to be a mom. It is so beautiful. I'm learning how to nourish my family both physically and spiritually, and while the journey has no endpoint, I can't believe how far I've come in the past year. In a way, I'm even more grateful that I was finally able to be present to this abundance, to recognize the profound blessing that is my ordinary life.

I've gotten pretty good at saying "HELP!" and "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" this past year. Or at least, I tend to call out those prayers often. But I've often stopped short of "Wow." So that's what I'm aiming for in 2015: Eyes to see the abundance that surrounds me, and a soul moved to tears by the wonder of it all. x

my heart is full

As we got in the car after buying a Christmas tree this morning, on our way to a train-themed diner for lunch, Andy sighed and said, "I love having a family."

Me too. So, so much.

worth it

Image

It's back.

I have avoided those words for so long, resisted what they mean, especially knowing my most-read entry on the blog this year was on finally finding joy.

But so it is: My depression came back.

This time is different, though. Because this time I asked for help.

On Sunday evening, I asked Andy to please "treat me like a sick person," as though I had the flu or a broken leg.

And he got it. He plugged in my laptop next to the bed with Netflix ready to go. He ordered my favorite comfort foods and made sure I ate something. He filled my water bottle and did my laundry and put Caleb to bed. I felt loved and taken care of, and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, he did it because he believed I was worth the time and energy and effort.

So the next day, I decided I might try believing it, too, and I called a counselor. I also made myself a decent meal, and I turned off my computer and crawled into bed at midnight instead of 1AM, which is a baby step but still progress.

This morning my neck hurts a little bit less (it always stiffens up in times like this), and Caleb put himself to sleep in his crib for a nap, and I'm listening to podcasts and tackling some more cleaning projects. I'm so familiar with the downward spiral, and crawling back out is so freaking difficult. But I'm doing it anyway.

Because there is hope. I'm choosing to surrender to life as it comes instead of giving in to the (sometimes overwhelming) temptation of death. I would unceasingly defend the life of a child, of all children, because I believe each and every one has a right to be here and a purpose to serve. I can accept this as true of most anyone....except myself.

I'd still say I'm less lonely at home than I was when I was working, and I never miss the small talk or pressure to smile. But there is a heaviness, a different "aloneness" that has always been so. A sense of never quite fitting in, of being too sensitive and smart-but-not-that-smart.

It can be so hard to navigate this world.

But here I am. Still typing, still breathing. Still "in the world," and still learning. It hurts, but I'm doing it anyway. Which is about as big a victory as there is, I'd say.

Onward.

Practicing what we most need to learn never quite looks like we think it will, does it?

first: advent

I have always, always loved Christmas... until last year. Last year was the first time I experienced Christmas as a mom (and a very new mom at that), and frankly? It just sucked. And not because our families weren't wonderful (they spoiled us, as usual) or there was some big loss to deal with (Lord knows we've had our fair share), but because of me and my own mental darkness. 

I was so stressed out. About EVERYTHING. 

I was amped up and adamant that we make the first Christmas with our son AMAZING and WONDERFUL and PERFECT and FULL OF TRADITIONS AND FAMILY FUN! All while still adjusting to life with a pretty tiny baby, in a very small apartment, during one of the coldest winters Chicago has ever seen.

I didn't even get our Christmas cards mailed out, which were also supposed to serve as Caleb's birth announcements, and I cried while wrapping gifts.

As you might imagine, I was determined to do it differently going forward (both Christmas and the whole "having a newborn" thing). This year we decided to really focus on observing Advent, and it is FANTASTIC. I only wish I'd understood the significance of this month of planning and preparation sooner. Catholic or not, it feels so good to stop the chaos in favor of time to reflect, breathe, and contemplate what will truly make our holiday merry and memorable. We've been "going dark" in the evenings in favor of candlelight, and while we plan to get our tree this weekend, it will remain undecorated until the week before Christmas. We're making room, both physically and spiritually, and my introverted soul is so grateful. 

I've been praying and thinking a lot about the next steps for my own life, something I shared a bit of here. In all my recent pondering, I keep getting one message over and over again: "You are in a season of discernment." A season of discernment--how lovely is that? What a relief to be able to view this chapter of my life as a time of hope, necessary for what's next, instead of one big ol' PAUSE on "real life." One day I may be called again to bold action, big ideas, and major change. But for now? The craziest, most important thing I can do is watch, listen, and wait... Kinda like what we're supposed to be doing during Advent. We wait in joyful hope for the celebration to end all celebrations.

So that's what I'm doing. Finding the joy, holding onto hope, even as I sometimes weep at the darkness. Somehow I've only just come to see that it isn't mine to shoulder alone. Talk about a revelation! You can let go of the heavy and welcome the light instead. Incredible. I think sometimes we need to set the heavy stuff down, but other times we simply share the load. Suddenly our individual portion doesn't seem quite so burdensome, and we understand we're part of a larger network of overcoming, and it's the sort of bring-you-to-tears miracle that makes your whole being radiate. It doesn't mean the hard parts or sadness disappear, but they lose some of their power: We belong to each other. Love wins.

Images via: 1 | 2 | 3

(i hope i'm) not done

Image here

Yesterday there was a post on Cup Of Jo about knowing when you're "done" having children. Here's the thing: I don't think it's up to me. Not even a little. What life has taught me over and over again is that the universe unfolds as it should, and you just never know.

I have never been on birth control. Ever. And in our three-and-a-half years of marriage (and decade-long relationship) we have one child to show for it. So far. Hopefully, there will be more, whether through birth, adoption, foster care, or a combination.

If there is one Catholic teaching that resonates deeply and absolutely with my heart and soul right now, it is that on family planning. Life is intricately linked to the act that creates life, and this makes sex sacred. Why is it we allow our culture to rob us of this gift, to tell us that sex is mere pleasure, and that this pleasure is our right? Life is a right in my mind, and sex is what brings forth that life. This doesn't mean sex can't also be enjoyable; but recreation is not the sole purpose or end-goal. Besides bringing forth new life, sex has a lot more to do with intimacy and connection than pure, gluttonous pleasure...

. . .

As I was busy drafting this post, our gorgeous child woke up from his nap, and since Andy took the day off today, the three of us hung out together before I left to run a few errands. This was followed by a work project, which was followed by dinner, then a bath and bedtime for Cabey, and now, finally, here I am. I spent the last two hours down the rabbit hole reading other blogs, eventually landing on this post that speaks so strongly to where I'm at right now. 

I think it's OK to say things that have already been said when you yourself are realizing them for the first time. The act of writing is more about processing and understanding, not about saying things perfectly or "better." But in this case, I'll let Blythe tell you what's on my mind. (Not so much the conversion part. I'm not completely there yet. More the sex part. Good, important stuff.)

(Also, she was clearly nervous as she wrote and posted her piece, and I have to say, I kinda can't believe I'm making all this known about myself. Please be kind, even if only in your own head! x)

on the eve of your first birthday

Caleb Gordon Steven Kiger, less than a day old.

My Sweet Pumpkin Baby,

Where did the time go? Tomorrow you will be one. One whole year grown. Meanwhile I've grown another decade in that same slice of time.

Your first months here feel like a dream I can't quite remember. The days and weeks and moments blur together, and you as a tiny, stationary baby has become so... intangible. Even harder to recall is the person I was, or thought I was. 

Your birth was the meeting of a miracle. Everything went so blessedly according to plan. Perhaps it was easier for this to happen when the plan was simply: Have a baby. Without drugs, preferably in the water. Be open to changes as the situation warrants. 

That was it, and that's what happened. How lucky we were that no changes were necessary, and to have such capable people around us. This, I now know, is rare. 

I was on top of the world after you were born, Caleb. I felt like I could've climbed Everest. (Not right at that moment, of course, as in reality I could hardly walk; but more as a general concept: It just seemed so incredibly possible.)

Someday I'll write for you the story of the day you were born. I read so many of these kinds of stories before my labor and delivery, and it helped to reinforce what I already knew: That women's bodies were made for this, and that babies are born all sorts of places in all sorts of ways. I knew it would be OK. The Biggest Deal of All--your birth--was, in fact, no big deal.

I wasn't afraid, Caleb. I kept waiting to be scared, but it never happened. I actually looked forward to giving birth. Finally going to the hospital, after a month of false starts, was my "on the airplane" moment. Someday you'll travel on a plane, and you may come to know, as I have, the relief that sets in when you're finally nestled in your seat about to take off. No more planning or packing to be done, no more worrying about whether you'll make your flight on time, or how long the security lines are going to be. It's just you and an hour or two or ten to enjoy the journey. 

I knew labor would probably feel like that for me, too. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but breathe, be, and hopefully enjoy the experience.

And I enjoyed it so, so much, dear one. The pain was excruciating towards the end, but I kept hearing my yoga teacher's voice in my head: "Feel the pain, say OK, then push anyway." The pushing was the hardest part, a burning sprint to the finish at the end of an all day marathon. I thought it would go faster than it did, but in the end it didn't matter. Suddenly you were on my chest, every glorious ounce of you. With a blink and a wail, your daddy and I turned the page of our life story to begin a chapter of profound change. We were parents. Just like that.

Cabey Baby, you can't understand this now, but your dad and I are returning to our Catholic faith after years (and for him, a lifetime) away. We want to be able to give this foundation to you. And oh, sweet boy--how you love church. You love the people and the statues and the singing. You always try to talk to the crucifix, and you love conversing with the painting of the Holy Family that hangs on the north wall of the transept. One day, though, you'll learn what has caused so many to abandon ship: The Church isn't perfect, and sometimes it can hurt people. 

I hope you stay anyway. 

Because nothing run by humans will ever be perfect. This doesn't make it worthless. 

To be human is to make mistakes, and to be alive is to experience suffering. Sometimes the pain is so great that we think we'll die from the weight of it. But miraculously, we keep going, one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time; and eventually we notice moments of grace and joy and peace and beauty in our midst. People hurt one another, and yet even those that hurt you remain worthy of love. Those that cause the most pain are usually hurting even more deeply themselves.

This, Cabey--this is what the life of Jesus Christ represents. The grace in the suffering, the freedom in the sacrifice. I hate that you are going to live through pain and darkness and hardship. But know this: You will always, always, always be worthy of the light on the other side, and I will love you no matter what. There is nothing you can say or do or be that will ever diminish my love for you. You are my son, but more importantly you are a child of God. Any fear or pain this world conjures up has already been conquered, and in that there is such hope.

You are still so much "closer to the source" than the adults that love you, and I pray you're able to stay that way. To stay vulnerable in the face of heartbreak, and brave in the face of defeat. You are so much more than the sum of your earthly parts. You are perfectly imperfect, made in and of Love--and baby? I'm just so glad you're here. You and Jesus, Caleb--both pieces I never knew were missing, until you helped bring me to one another. Your birth was a kind of birthday for me, too, in more ways than one.

So happy, happy, happy first birthday, my darling boy. And because I can't say it enough: I love you.

Always,

Your mama

at the orchard

A few weekends ago we spent Sunday afternoon at the apple orchard. I love that Andy has regular weekends now. (Before going full time in his current position last July, he pretty much worked nonstop. Days off were sometimes months apart and often midweek. It sucked, frankly. It's great to have space to just live, breathe, and be as a family. Sacred, really. Anyway.)

Caleb was getting over a cold (not to mention Molarmageddon just two days prior), so he looks a little rough around the edges in most of the photos. Still, the day yielded some great memories, in addition to the apples, pumpkins, and cider doughnuts we brought home. It was the first apple picking experience for both Caleb and Andy, which made it that much more special. A new family tradition, to be sure.

plenty of practice

Holy. Molars.

Who, me?

Pretty sure that's the reason Caleb screamed his head off for two hours this afternoon, while I fumbled around trying to find something, anything (TYLENOL! TEETHING BEADS! ICE CHIPS! MY FINGER WRAPPED IN THIS BLANKET!), that might comfort or calm him.

Also, every single diaper today was a poop explosion, leaving him with a very sore, very chapped bum. Cue howls of pain with every wipe. (Of which there were many. See: "poop explosion".)

Also, he figured out how to take his own pants off. He did it in his crib this morning, then again while he was playing a little bit later (and by "playing" I mean methodically throwing our shoes off the shoe rack, followed by an attempt to empty the garbage piece by piece). Hence, he is currently sleeping pants-less. (Yes, sleeping. FINALLY. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. And I mean that in earnest, as I prayed dramatically for intercession during Molarmageddon. I'm not sure she heard me over the screaming, though.)

Also, he held my hands and walked across the entire dining room after lunch. Major developmental milestone for the month: Check! So of course there's got to be some crazy mental processing going on in his little baby brain, along with the torturous physical pain happening elsewhere in his little baby body.

I've been so lovey dovey lately with this "motherhood as a vocation" thing (which I still absolutely mean) and talk of The Little Way (which I still absolutely admire and subscribe to) that it was about time the universe threw me a good curveball. Isn't there a saying about teaching what you most need to learn? Today has given me plenty of opportunities to put my words into action. Our neighbors probably think I'm forcing Caleb's hands on the stove or something. Nope, just poop! And teeth. And learning to walk. (It's hard work being a baby. And the mom of a baby. We both might've been crying at one point. It happens.)

I'm not sure if practice makes perfect, but you know what? I'm actually finding myself pretty dang grateful for it, and that's something.

(Although, full disclosure, if a band of gypsies happens to come by looking for an almost-toddler, I'm pretty sure I know where they can find one. At least on loan. And only if they wake him up ;))

OK, fine, never mind. We'll keep you. Ohhh, Cabey Baby! I do love you so.

thoughts on a sunday

Image here

In the same way that I didn't want anyone to know I was an American when I first moved to Germany (where "F*CK THE U$A" was regularly spray painted on the side of Tuebingen's German-American Institute), I'm not particularly forward with my faith. But in the back of my head I keep hearing one of my former Sunday school students singing, "Be strong and courageous, do not be terrified!" Today I decided to listen.

. . .

Andy and I both believe in the idea of "many paths, one mountain." At our prep class before Caleb's Baptism, we were asked to write a letter to our son explaining why baptizing him was important to us. We wrote that we believe Catholicism is our family's path, and that in sharing this faith journey we hope to provide him with a strong foundation and an entry point into the conversation surrounding life's bigger questions. It isn't the only answer or way; but it's ours.

Since Caleb's birth, I've found myself thinking about and processing the church in a different, deeper way. The profound sense of fulfillment and joy I've found in being a mother cannot be overstated, nor is it ultimately reduced in the tougher moments or occasional monotony of the day-to-day. A few weeks ago, I was overcome with the sense that the love I have for my son is the closest I'll ever come to understanding God's love for us. In my journal I wrote: 

I love my son to the depths of my soul and every corner of the universe. More than that, actually. In this way, Caleb is a tangible representation of God's love--brought about through the love Andy and I have for each other. I'm finally beginning to understand the "sacred covenant" of marriage. Though I think there are other ways God's love takes form on earth, this was perhaps how I needed to experience it to start a journey closer to God and involve Him in my life.

A week or so later, I was on the phone with my mom, telling her how hard I was finding it to expose the light and love I was finding for fear of judgement. I didn't want to present myself as suddenly holding "The God Box," complete with biblical owner's manual and all the answers you could want or need. I didn't want anyone to misconstrue what I was finding true in my own life as a blanket statement on what would be The Truth for every life.

And she came up with the best metaphor (she's good at that). She told me to think of a diamond. Each facet is capable of reflecting light, but they're still different facets. They also don't encompass all the light (or exist as the light!). In allowing myself to reflect the light I've found, I'm not stealing anyone else's access or telling them it's the only available facet. And sometimes, I may find myself in the shadows, as we all do.

I'm still "living the questions," still "listening for bells and looking for light." The answers often unfold gradually, almost imperceptibly, and they may look different over time. And that's OK. In Christ I am finding both roots and wings. So, one step, one inch, one millimeter at a time: Onward.

Image found on Pinterest, via

less lonely

“Awake, my dear. Be kind to your sleeping heart. Take it out into the vast fields of Light, and let it breathe.” Hafiz

. . .

People warn that the life of a stay-at-home-mama can get pretty lonely. They say it can be hard to spend your days without adult contact. This is probably true for many people. But as it turns out, I am actually finding myself less lonely these days. I love being home, thinking my thoughts, finding a balance between following the baby's lead and doing my thing. This doesn't mean I don't need regular breaks, or that I don't get overwhelmed, or that the work is easy. Not even close. It's just that there's no pressure to pretend-smile any more, no dreaded small talk to make: I don't have to fake extraversion to make other people happy. I've stopped putting on the masks I'd started to confuse for my face. 

The truth? I feel like I was made to be a mother, and to be home. Accepting that as the call on my feminist, millennial heart hasn't been easy. More than once in the past few months I've been asked if I'm "just" a mom. But setting aside my fears about what the greater public thinks in favor of actually listening has proven beyond worth it. Turns out, I no longer care so much what anyone else has to say, because this is working for us. I'm learning to surrender, and in the process, finding such deep-seated joy that now there's no turning back.

Photo credit: Joshua Swanner Photography, April 2014

grateful/lately

We had an overcast morning yesterday following some intense storms during the night. Every now and then I love a grey day--there's no pressure to go outside or do much of anything. Caleb took an early nap, and I watched a show in bed while I drank my morning coffee. I can't remember the last time I stopped and just sat like that. It felt good.

Eventually the sun did come out. We ran a few errands, and Caleb played in his travel crib outside while I mowed the lawn. He went down for the night around 6:30 (!). Andy got home shortly after, so I was able to go to yoga. It was my first time back since probably May. The class was a tough one, absolutely sweltering, but it felt amazing. I didn't take any breaks, and afterwards I ponied up the cash for a month of unlimited classes. Guess I'm tired of waiting for the "right" or "perfect" conditions. I'll be going back tonight. First, though, Caleb and I are off to meet Andy at his boss's house for a pool day. No complaints here. Really, truly. I'm glad I listened to my heart and left my job. Being home is so good, for all of us. 

My in-progress office. A clean slate.

New sneaks! So incredibly comfortable.

Fruits of the Summer salad. Perfection.

And my son, cuddler of cardboard babies and self-feeding machine. 

Caleb, you are the best blessing I have ever known.

feed thyself (thy family, too)

Since moving we've been doing a lot more cooking at home, and it's such a relaxing way to unwind in the evenings. Our kitchen is easily my favorite room in the house--bright and light, with plenty of room for everyone.

When I lived in Germany, we ate all three meals together as a family every day. Breakfast was simple, usually some sort of spread/bread combo and coffee. Lunch was the big meal of the day and almost always hot. Around 4pm we'd have an espresso break, sometimes with a small piece of chocolate or a cookie. In the evenings we'd have our abendsbrot (bread with cheese or a savory spread) accompanied by soup or salad. (When there was a good mystery show on we'd eat dinner in front of the TV, which is about the only similarity to my American upbringing.) If we'd gone out for kaffee und kuchen (coffee and cake) earlier in the afternoon we'd skip dinner altogether. I loved the simplicity, routine, and ritual of it all. I'd like to raise Caleb with a version of this German approach to mealtimes.

Today was a success, and the more I meal plan, food shop, and recipe hunt, the easier it all becomes. I also enjoy it so much. I find having a routine to be really freeing, actually.

This morning Caleb enjoyed a banana while I drank a smoothie based on one served at our local juice bar. Their version uses dates, coconut, and vanilla almond milk with lots of ice. I subbed coconut almond milk for the vanilla, skipped the ice, kept the dates, and added banana, frozen spinach, and flax meal. It was SO GOOD! Extremely filling and energizing.

For lunch, I made a cauliflower soup adapted from a slew of recipes I cobbled together. I started with a mirepoix, added an entire head of cauliflower (cut into florets), and used vegetable stock for the liquid (hence the orange-y color). Before serving I stirred in a spoonful of Greek yogurt for a little creaminess, then topped it off with crumbled goat cheese and chives. Satisfying without being overly hearty. Caleb gobbled it up, too. On the side I had a pretzel roll with avocado and havarti.

Once dinner rolled around I wasn't that hungry. A small serving of hot salt-and-vinegar potatoes was plenty (and delicious!). I followed the recipe in the link but subbed tricolor potatoes, since I already had them on hand. And once again, Caleb was a major fan :) We all especially loved the purple potatoes.

I've got a few more recipes already chosen for the week centered on ingredients we already have. I'd also like to try something unlike anything I've done before (not hard, as what you see here is pretty much my first real and consistent foray into cooking). Garlic scape tempura, anyone?