Soul Song Sunday: These Waters

Part of my goal for 2016: Shine, Soul Song Sunday posts will feature some expression of my spiritual thoughts or feelings of late. Poetry, prose, image, quote, or song, these posts will be my imperfect hallelujah, and open prayer.

Tonight I am sharing a poem which was inspired by a few words spoken in church last week, words which caught my ear and grew to something within me. Here is that something.


These Waters

These waters are washing our

homes into the fields and the

fields, the red rocks, the heathered hills

into our homes.

These waters are rising above our

fault-lines and sight-lines and

love-blinds. Our eyes are

turning starward, Godward,

holy silent cries.

Give me stilts to stand on.

Give me cupped hands to bail.

Light the striatious places with un-fleeting light.

Let my child and my neighbor be among the

survivors when

These waters are receding, riven clans and

fractured nations deep in mending pull. And

aired, dried we lie down in the Sun.

Love,

The Blessed Hope of Domesticity...and Benedict Cumberbatch

I have lately been moved by a good deal of poetry. It could be that I'm reading more than my usual ration, what with the whole "English major" and all, but I'd like to think the particular poems which have been thrust via syllabi into my hands are meant, kismetly (no, I did not adverb that word, Kristen Stewart did.), for me. Matthew Arnold (kind of a prick, in my humble opinion, but I like some of his postulations) predicted in his "The Study of Poetry" in 1869 that

More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to 

interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without poetry, our science will 

appear incomplete; and most of what now passes with us for religion and philosophy

will be replaced by poetry.

I don't know about replacement, strictly speaking, but I think Mr. Arnold is right in his forecast of humankind's increasing reach for truth and meaning and the increasing succor found in the carefully chosen, evocative words of poesy. There is something intuitively soul-searching about poets, something naked and raw and universally familiar about their successful work; something Alice Notley would affectionately call disobedience--the refusal to meet expectations or follow forms, but a commitment to portray truths only the artist knows. The beauty in this disobedience, I find, is that it turns out the readers (at least some of them) know these same truths as well, and the poem then becomes "obedient," if you will, to the common threads of human experience.

I love every moment I get to spend expanding my learning and every thought I am blessed to explore, but this is all so very much to think about, and there is within me so very very much to write. Some nights, after my little ones are in bed, and my head is swimming with the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Bishop and Allen Ginsberg, and I'm trying to finish listening to the audio recording of Heart of Darkness without retching, solidify a thesis for my "Darkling Thrush"/ "Carrion Comfort" essay, and decide if my MFA emphasis should be poetry or fiction (yep--that decision is already stressing me), I find I am in need of some simple ground to stand on. I think of that thrush, Hardy's thrush--my favorite bird amongst the many poetically present in the works of those fun-loving Romantic and Victorian Brits--and the "blessed hope" trembling through "his happy good-night air." A hope whereof the poem's speaker claims to be "unaware," but, I think, if he were really as unaware and as despairing as he would like to be, he wouldn't hear it at all. And my "blessed hope," my simple ground to stand on, if that makes any sense at all, becomes domesticity. I clear my head and regain my focus by doing something, anything, of the homemaking variety for the benefit of my family.

This is my truth: one of the comments I most often receive on my writing is that it has a certain domestic feel. Often, that's unintentional. It's just there because it's me on the page and that's who I am. If I feel like my children are washed and nurtured, food is prepared, clothes are clean and mended, activities are planned and packed for, I can put my mind to the task of learning and analyzing, absorbing and creating with clarity and care. So yes, folding laundry helps me see the themes of feminism in Tennyson. Filling the freezer with homemade burritos and the pantry with trail-mix snack bags gets me thinking on experimental syntax. And sometimes, not thinking about anything literary at all but instead watching Sherlock (*sigh* Benedict Cumberbatch) while putting away the dishes or sorting the coat closet gives my brain just enough of a breather to help me make decent comments in class discussions the next day. (Okay, lie. Sherlock actually can't  be watched without literary thoughts crossing the brain. The revival of a classic! The modern take! The narrative! The allusions!)

A list, if anyone's interested, of the recently read poems that speak to me:

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
Carrion Comfort by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Sections 50, 54, and 55 of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam
Lines 470-481 of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh
Ode to A Nightingale by John Keats (Cumberbatch bonus!)
Her Kind by Anne Sexton

Others, I confess, have been my own, and I'm not *quite* ready to share. The small happiness I have in feasting on them is, for now, just mine.

What is your truth? Where do you see it in art? In life?

xo

An American Childhood

I am frustrated recently, but particularly today, with myself, with this culture of busyness and over-achieving expectations that is the way of the modern American family and with my submission to it, against my better judgement and wishes. Does anyone else feel, I wonder, that our protestations are worthless? Because, in the end, what is our choice?

I spent an hour last night googling "time management skills for kids," "too much homework for elementary schoolers" and "teaching kids to be self-directed." I hated that hour. But night after night, weekend after weekend, I find myself nagging my fourth grader to catch up with all the schoolwork she's not getting done in class and in homework time. My stomach turns as I, standing beneath the embroidered Play is the Work of Children wall hanging in my living room, cut her play time short or make her free reading time dependent upon schoolwork accomplishments. And when she brings home high test scores but low overall grades because her work is not done, I don't know what to think or do or say.  I hear myself, as if it not myself, rushing her and her brother to school each morning, quick breakfast in hand, saying "if you don't learn to hurry you won't make it in this world." 

What the hell?

I have become, in my singledom, that parent I always judged so harshly. That parent who uses the school system for childcare because I HAVE to go to work and to school. That parent who doesn't serve on the PTO or volunteer in the classroom or get involved in anyway because there is literally NO TIME. I am the mother who hates the system of busy work and pointless desk assignments and government testing, but does nothing about it because she can't even figure out what to do about paying the bills. I conform and I push my children to conform, all the while telling them it's wrong, wrong, wrong. 

What do I do?

My children's extracurricular activities are minimal and, I feel, really more valuable to their development than many aspects of school. My time, on the rare occasions when we are home together, I focus on them, leaving my own studying for midnight or between classes or when they are at dad's. We don't watch tv, or play video games, or waste time in any other way. I try hard, so hard, to allow them time to eat well, to wonder and talk and discover. But it's not enough. I feel I am building broken children, only slightly more whole than their broken parents by virtue of their natural strengths. 

Reason would tell me I have two choices:

Opt out. Out of society, out of school. Go off the grid or out of the country and let my children grow up in wild wanderlust, isolated from deadlines, grade books, and competitions of social expectations. If I were independently wealthy I might give this some serious thought. 

Or

Get married again, and share the burden of providing and the responsibility of parenting with someone else, hopefully creating in that convergence some time not spent rushing and pushing and nagging to do, go, be. But at what cost to me, and the emerging sense of self-worth I have grappled to cultivate in the last six months? At what cost to my independence and goals and plans? At what risk to my heart?

I cannot afford option A and I fear option B. 

I suppose there is option C: Find the balance. Guard my words. Teach them what's important and when it's okay to fail. Make sure, somehow, that they are learning, not just memorizing, and that their opening souls are being nourished even more than their minds. And fumble through these years of hurting and healing without looking back in longing for the life that was better in some ways, but never quite right. What we have is now, my three babies and me. An American childhood, in a middling sense, with moments of both the best and worst. 

Butterfly Blessings

During my freshman and sophomore years of college, I was obsessed with butterflies. So much so that when I married at ripe old age of twenty, butterflies were a part of my wedding decorations. And then I let them, out of self-neglect and like so many other aspects of who I am, fade from my life for a very long time.

The day my husband left me three months ago has become, in my mind, the beginning of a journey to rediscover me, and become who I am without him. And, inspired by the somewhat clichéd and overused saying, "Just when the caterpillar thought her world had ended, she became a butterfly," the butterfly has become my totem animal once more. My Instagram photos have been tagged with #becomingabutterfly, I've been given butterfly gifts, and my bestie has nurtured and tended the metaphor with metamorphosis-encouraging words of wisdom and images of beauty. One day, when I was feeling particularly imprisoned in my chrysalis, she helped me to remember another, lesser tattooed quote I love which, at one point, had inspired one of my first blogs: "One can never consent to creep when one feels the impulse to soar. " Helen Keller. I have felt that impulse growing stronger, and my butterfly wings matching that growth day by day. 

But more than my own metamorphosis, I have felt, through the past months, an abundance of blessings, answers to prayer at the hands of family and friends, and love beyond measure from countless people around me. I have learned to accept help, and to allow others to be blessed by giving that help they sincerely want to give. It has come in the form of plain old cash, of time and kind words, of letters and cards, of meals, of childcare, and, most recently, a home. Even as my children and I prepared to leave our house and move into a tiny, two bedroom apartment-all we could afford- our Father in Heaven blessed us through the service and sacrifice if His servants once again. A couple from our church who own rental houses offered us a house. A house I love already. A house I know they could rent to someone else for twice what they are charging me. But I, humbly and gratefully, have accepted this help, this blessing, and pledged to live up to it. 

And so this week, Thanksgiving, with the strength and help of my Mom, and fiercely loyal love from my Dad, my children and I left Moon Cottage, a house we waited so long to have for Orchard Corner, a house we never expected, which has already lifted our hearts and shoulders and brought us love and light. I am thankful beyond words for this blessing on my butterfly journey. I feel I have emerged from my chrysalis, and found a home. 

The Space Between

When I last wrote here, I clung to the edges of a life I'd woven, sometimes blindly, which was unraveling even as I continued to bind the strands, trying so hard to make them stay. In the space between then and now, I have seen and felt my marriage falter, without knowing why, then, upon learning why, offered forgiveness, offered my whole heart, my whole being, tried desperately to change and control that which was out of my hands and still, in the end, watched my husband of thirteen years walk away. I have lain in darkness and sorrow and wondered if I should just stay there. But I couldn't stay. Someone called my name: Amber June. Mamma. Daughter. Sister. Friend. And in the darkness I turned toward that someone, those many someones, and saw myself in their light. 

I'm different now. Stronger. Scarred. Smarter. Winged. I carry three little hearts on my heart, and I am finding hope and joy in the journey of rediscovering me. 

There are many practical differences in our daily lives now; quiet nights when the kids are with their Dad. Four at the table. We will leave our beloved Moon Cottage at the end of this month and move into an apartment. Come January, I will do what I've never done with my babies, and leave Jasper in someone else's care while I finish the education I cut short to move for my husband's career. 

I am anxious. But I see so much good in the future for my little ones and me, in spite of and because of this pain. The space between now and then is indefinite. But I am determined there will not be so much space between my shared words, my sacred thoughts, and this place where I scream them quietly from my own little mountain, again. 

What They've Taught Me

I wrote this post months ago and never posted it...not sure why. But here it is. 


 A Not-Nearly-All-Inclusive List of The Number One Thing I've Learned From Each of These Important People in My Life

(how's that for a subtitle?)

   First, my mom. Mammas should always be first. I have very few singualr light-bulb-moment- type memories of my childhood with my mother. What I do have is more of a general feeling of her presence in nearly all my memories. Which, I think, indicates where I learned to be a present parent in my children's lives as much as possible. She was in mine. As to what she taught me, there are many things...how to bake without making a mess in the kitchen...how to fold hospital corners on flat sheets...and to always say 'I Love You' before hanging up the phone (with someone you love, that is). But I think if I had to choose one, I would say, above all,  that my mother taught me I can do anything. If I am still and close my eyes, I can still hear her saying the words. "You can be anything you want to be and do anything you want to do." Never, in all of my growing-up years, did I come to her with some scheme or dream to have her put it down. She never told me something was out of my reach or too hard, no matter how illogical or far-fetched or naive my ideas may have been.

Life Lesson from Mom: I Can Do Anything.

  Then there's my dad. I inherited from my father my love of reading, writing, poetry, vocabulary, classic British literature, and, I dare say, sarcastic wit. In contrast to my mother, whose inadvertent teachings pervade nearly all my memories, when I think of what my father taught me, three very direct, specific things come to mind. The first two have proven useful, if not always 100% accurate pieces of advise: Never vote for anyone with poor taste in neckties, and, When all else fails, try Masterpiece Theater. But it is the third life lesson that I remember most clearly and that has meant the most to me throughout the years: Find out what you believe in, and stand by it. Even if you stand alone. I don't know if my dad remembers the day he said this to me, but I've never forgotten it. He and I sat on the astro-turf covered kitchen porch of our small country house, watching the sunset and talking about things which, I'm sure, were mostly beyond me. At least, I don't remember anymore of the conversation than that. But I've done my best to put that teaching into practice. Ironically, many of the things that I've found I believe in have turned out to be things with which my father would disagree. So, in that sense, I do stand alone. But there it is. We teach our children principles, but we cannot dictate how those principles are applied.

Life Lesson from Dad: Find Out What You Believe In, and Stand By It.

  Now Brian. My husband and best friend of thirteen (at the time I write this) years. I don't even have to pause to think about what he has taught me, because I know it and I am grateful for it everyday. Brian has taught me that Life Can be Fun, Even When It's Not. Shall I expound? Brian has taught me that it's okay to find something to laugh about even when the rent is past due and the fridge is empty and the car needs new tires for winter. It's alright to smile to yourself and sing your favorite song even if the weather is yucky and you were late to work. And it's more than okay, it's absolutely necessary, to be happy even when you have failed. Or lost something or someone you loved.

Life Lesson from Brian: Life Can Be Fun, Even When it's Not.

Laurelei is my first baby. I could say she taught me to be a mother, but that wouldn't be exactly true. The skills of Mammahood are learned through being mothered and grandmothered, through observing other Mammas and applying what's learned. And saying Laurelei taught me that would be not only be a role reversal, but it would also be to place her value in the circumstance of her position, rather than the divine nature of her person, her individuality and soul. My beautiful Laurelei has taught me to Make My Actions Consistent With My Words. I have never met anyone truer to her proclaimed standards, more pure and Christlike and loving and fair in heart than my Laurelei. And when I, in my justifications and laziness, become a hypocrite, she tells me so. I see in her the blessed life of one who walks the walk of unconditional love and sometimes, I just want to be that girl.

Life Lesson from Laurelei: Make Your Actions Consistent With Your Words

Riley. He's sitting here, near me, strumming his out-of-tune guitar. How can I narrow it down to one lesson from you, my tender-hearted, wild and crazy, singing-silly-sweet boy? But there it is, as you, without a single guitar lesson behind you, plunk one chord, adjust the knob, and plunk it again and again before making up a tune. My Riley has taught me to Have Patience and Persevere. And I don't mean that in the way most Mammas would say their six-year old sons have taught them patience. I mean that Riley is one of the most patient, just-keep-trying people I have ever met. He'll spend hours figuring something out, and, most of the time, come away successful and happy and proud. Couldn't we all stand to be a little more like that? I know I could.

Life Lesson from Riley: Have Patience and Persevere

My baby boy Jasper is not old enough, as I write this, to have anything I say mean much to him. I hope to be  around when he is. But I will tell everyone who might read these words that Jasper has taught me to Linger in the Quiet Moments of a hug, a snuggling nap, a silly nose-to-nose laugh, a kiss. I think even more, because of the changes that have come about in my life, than my other babies did. Memories are made in those moments. And memories, I believe, are one of the few things we can take with us from this world.

Life Lesson from Jasper: Linger in the Quiet Moments

There are others...my sisters, my closest friends. Too many to list. But never could I express enough love for all of them, never except in living, as best I can, the lessons they've taught me. And hoping we get to learn many more together.

xo

The Nothing I Did Today

I've always been a list-maker, garnering untold satisfaction from the dozens of little check-marks on my to-do rosters daily. Granted, my lists often include items like "eat," "shower," "get out of bed," but still...a tangible marked-up account of how I have spent my time is the end product. And these lists become like journals to me. I can look back in my scores of saved notebooks at the dates and the items on the list that day and clearly remember, based on the to-do's, what was happening in my family, with my friends, in my creative brain at the time.

The last few months...okay, year (pregnancy + 5 1/2 month old baby), my lists have been considerably shorter than usual. And wrapping my head around that, accepting that, has honestly been very hard. I have had to re- learn how to place value on resting, sitting, snuggling, singing songs and laughing...moments of quiet Mammahood surrender which, obviously, I knew how to value when L & R were babes, but that seems so long ago! They're so...active and...independent now. But what I have learned and come to accept, is that these days of no (or very few--I still eat and get out of bed) check marks are beyond important to my infant son, and my older children as well. Even when I feel like I'm "getting nothing done" (I haven't blogged! I haven't written or read or sewn or drawn! The laundry is piling up and shouldn't I be making my bread from scratch everyday?),  it's not nothing to Jasper. It's everything to him.

Slowly, very slowly, I'm figuring out a balance. I'm placing less importance on excessive social interaction (something I never even realized I had been giving extra to) and spotless housekeeping, and more importance on family interaction, creative "me" time, and moments--whenever we can find them--with my husband, who is, after all, the other half of my soul. I've set some writing goals, and hope to be posting here a little more to share them, and I've remembered how to linger in the face-to-face moments with my little ones, even when I've checked very little off my list.

For now, at the end of each day, my home and family are (mostly) clean and (generally) safe. My husband and children, I hope, are emotionally, physically, and spiritually well-fed. That is not nothing, I lay in bed assuring myself each night. Quite often, that is enough to change the world.

xo

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part II

Picking up what I began so many weeks ago, writing what I want my children to know about their own births and the birth journey; what I don't want to forget...

Two years after the birth of Laurelei, I was pregnant with my second child and determined to educate myself and remain in control of our birth this time around. For the first time, I ignored the majority of moms' go-to pregnancy book (you know, that one about expectations) and turned instead to Childbirth Without Fear by Grantley Dick Read.

It was during this pregnancy that I truly began to understand that the advancements of modern-day medicine and science are both a blessing and a curse. We have access to solutions and cures for so many diseases and conditions that, in the past, have been fatal. But because of this power over nature, we often undervalue our bodies' own healing abilities and strengths. Concerning childbirth, we (and by 'we' I am mainly referring to modern Americans) use the lifesaving methods which should be reserved for the few to unnecessarily complicate the process for the many. Like giving the treatment for leprosy to everyone with a little dry skin. And we do it, as Grantley Dick Read could see even so many decades ago, and one of my personal heroes, Ina May Gaskin has taught since the 1970's*, because of the pervasive culture of fear. Women are taught to fear childbirth, to fear pain, even to fear the natural instincts which tell us to stand, to push, to place our newborn babes immediately on our breasts.

With my Riley growing inside me, I believe I truly overcame those fears.

At the time, Brian was working 60 hours a week at an intense job. December came, with Riley due December 19th, and Brian was told by his boss that if I hadn't given birth by December 15th, he could have time off for the birth OR Christmas, but not both. Everyone to whom I related this antidote said the same thing: get induced. But artificial inducement, usually done through use of the drug Pitocin, was absolutely a no-way for me. So I listened to my body, my baby, and, yes, my doctor, who all told me my baby boy was doing well, growing strong. I went for walks, took warm baths, and waited patiently for him to move lower, into a birth position. Then, on December 11th, when I felt with all my Mammahood instinct that he was ready, I rearranged our bedroom furniture. By myself. And my labor began that night.

Laurelei was with Brian and I in the hospital while I labored with Riley, and when he was born. She slept for most of it, and I won't pretend that we intentionally chose a family birth, but we had only lived in the town we were in for a few months and just didn't feel we knew anyone well enough to drop off our two-year old daughter in the middle of the night. I'm glad now that it happened that way. I wouldn't take it back. I worked through the contractions with Brian's arms around me, standing, kneeling, balancing on a ball, all while our sleeping daughter reminded me of the joy to come. The doctors and nurses, thankfully, for the most part, left us alone. No one told me how to labor, no one made me have an IV. No one looked askance at me when I said calling the anesthesiologist would not be necessary and no, thank you, I would only be on the bed when I wanted to be. And when I felt that unmistakable presence of my baby entering the birth canal, the reawakening of memories flooded my mind, bringing me even more to the moment, to the oneness of mother and child. With Brian's hands on my back, once again I pushed when my baby asked me to. The doctor barely made it into the room before my 9 lb., 5 oz. beautiful baby boy entered this mortal sphere. With him cradled on my chest, my husband's kisses fresh on his head and mine, Laurelei's first words for Riley were: "Oh Mamma, he's pretty."  

And those words, coupled with the love jam-packed into our little family of four and the soul-moving comfort of a newborn babe in my arms got me through the next few weeks, when that pesky, and sometimes scary, health problem I mentioned began to rear its head. But there were years to be lived and a third babe to be had before answers would become clear.

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part III coming soon.

xo

*so need to see this movie

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part I

And now let's pretend it's December (when I actually began composing this post). Let's say I'm 36 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my head is wrapped around Mammahood and little else. My favorite moment of the day comes late each evening when I lean back on my bed, prop up my feet and lay my hands on my swollen belly to feel my son move. Often, the hands of big sister, big brother, or Daddy join mine, and we revel in the miracle of the tiny life coming to us.

And of course I have the time and energy to blog about it, because, what nine-months preggo woman doesn't? ;-)

The last week of November was difficult. Our birth plans had to change and questions have been raised about my health...more on that some other day...but, because of these trials, I have felt so urgently the need to put into words, here, the story of my birth experiences, and how strongly I believe that the journey of labor and delivery can carry a mother to a place of sacred awareness, empowerment, and bliss that cannot be reached in this life in any other way. The reasons I choose natural childbirth are portrayed and promoted in life-changing books like Childbirth Without Fear and bold documentaries like The Business of Being Born (my favorite!). I passionately recommend both those sources to women everywhere, but my stories can only be told by me.

Almost nine years ago Baby #1, my sweet Laurelei, was on the way. I was so young! I have always known I wanted to be a mother, and I have always known I wanted to bring my children into the world through natural childbirth, the way my mother brought me. Actually, until I was a junior in high school, and went to see a friend in the hospital who was having a baby, I didn't know much about any other way. I remember my older sister telling me I should leave the room because they were going to do something called an 'epidural' and she knows I don't like needles. I left obediently, wondering what on earth needles had to do with giving birth.

A little older and slightly wiser in the ways of the world by the time I became pregnant with my first, I ignorantly thought I knew all there was to know about labor and delivery and my options and rights. There were no birth centers near where we lived, but the hospital was small and personal and, as informed as I thought I was, a home birth really hadn't even crossed my mind. I said 'no' to the epidural, the pitocin, the being induced, and I presented my D.O. with the birth plan Brian and I had worked through together (a quiz torn from the pages of a parenting magazine, the boxes checked with our answers). He nodded and said he understood. And I think he did. But still, on the night my sweet girl was born, things were done to me as a mother and to her as she entered this world that we would have said no to had we known--really known--as much as we thought we knew. It was a hospital, after all. And a hospital has policies that most moms never bother to learn and most docs never bother to disclose because the expectation is blind faith in the 'experts,' and little to no faith in our bodies; in what we, as women, were designed to do.

I have a huge problem with that expectation.

When the night came, I had back labor. I stood and walked the polished, white, hospital floors, leaning on Brian through contractions and letting gravity help us along and the pain was manageable. I could see the purpose in it and Brian could talk me through the worst moments...until I dilated to 5 or 6 centimeters and was told that, according to procedure, it was time for me to lie down.

What?

But we didn't know enough to say 'what?' I thought, she must be coming soon. It must be time. I obediently laid on the bed...and felt the full pain of back labor which, up to that point, my standing position had eased me through. I'm sure I screamed. The nurses began hooking me up to machines. External monitors. Heart monitors. An I.V., and, worst of all, an Internal Fetal Monitor screwed into the top of my helpless daughter's head. I remember thinking, and I remember Brian asking, why? But then my focus returned to the contractions that had suddenly intensified tenfold and Brian's focus returned to me. With all the wires and cords holding me to the bed, and the full weight of baby and womb on my back, there was nothing I could do now to handle the pain. I wanted to stand up again. Someone told me no. I fought through several contractions that way before a nurse suggested a "milligram or so of Stadol. Just to take the edge off." Brian and I didn't know what that was and neither of our heads were really with the nurse anyway. But with the hospital -regulation IV that I never wanted already in place, it was easy to inject the medicine for "the good of the baby" without really waiting for us to say yes.

We had lost control of a situation that was ours--not the nurses' or the doctors' or the hospital's. Ours. And even though I could still feel the labor, I still knew where I was and I could try to find the purpose in the pain,  I felt a little bit lost.

Under the influence of the Stadol, the semi-helpful effects of which didn't last that long, I hallucinated. Between contractions I fell into a half-sleep that terrified me without giving me any real rest. Then, at about 8 or 9 centimeters, the drug began to wear off and they wanted to give me more. This time, I found my voice and said no. They still wouldn't let me off the bed, but I insisted on being propped up. I knew she was coming. I knew that the moment I had waited and prepared for was about to happen and I didn't wait to be told to push. My body and my baby together knew what to do and the doctor barely caught her in time.
There is no physical feeling that can compare to the sensation of a baby leaving the birth canal, and there is no emotional or spiritual experience to be had by man nor beast to envy the infinite wonder and joy of having  completed the journey of labor and birth. At the moment she was placed in my arms, Laurelei, Brian, and I were the only beings on earth.

I kissed the wound on her head and cried, happy tears for the child fresh from eternity in my arms; tears of grief for my ignorance and pain. And I knew, as she nuzzled her tiny mouth to my breast, I would never, ever, lose control of my sacred Mammahood rights again.

Coming Soon: Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part II.

xo

To School

  
     To school. For us, this time of year is not back to school time, because our children have never attended school a day in their lives. We have homeschooled for...well, eight years, since the day our oldest was born. We didn't think of ourselves as being homeschoolers at that point, but we always considered our parenting style to be present and attentive...never pacifying our children but identifying their needs and interests and helping them to learn from the world around them at every moment of every day. And that became our homeschool philosophy: Life is learning, learning is life. It was, and still is, our family's way. We didn't really call it homeschooling until about three years ago, but our children flourished. Learning to read naturally and at their own pace; discovering math in every room of our house, in every store, in every daily task. They found science in the backyard, the kitchen, the forest, and the night sky. And it is our hope and aim as parents to make sure they continue on this path of wonder and discovery. This fall, however, it will be, for the first time, To School.
   After much thought and prayer, days and weeks and months of quietly observing our children and trying to objectively determine what is best, at this point in their lives, for them, Brian and I have decided not to homeschool this year, but to send Laurelei and Riley to the public school most of their friends attend. Laurelei will be entering the third grade, and Riley-going only on a trial basis- will be a kindergartner.
   My feelings are mixed. I am comforted knowing that we can, at any point, change our minds. And knowing the confident individuals we've raised our children to be. I am comforted knowing that public school and homeschool are only two of the many educational options we see in our family's future; that life will always be learning and learning, life. Travel, private schools, cultural immersion...these are all on the wish list. But for this year, my wish--my prayer is this: that Laurelei and Riley learn a little more about who they are, and that they can do it under the guidance of exceptional teachers. Teachers who know the difference between thinking and following instructions, important, logical rules and unnecessary ones, creativity and cut-and-paste.
       My thoughts have turned lately--and I feel the need to put them into words--to the teachers who most shaped and influenced me in my formal education years. Three stand out; one more than all the rest. I'm sure there were others who tried, who meant well...but these three reached me, changed me in some way.
     In junior high, there was Ms. Johnston, life science. I like science, but it wasn't her class that I remember...it was her classroom. A place that, on lunch breaks and in free periods and after school became a safe haven for the under-confident, identity-seeking misfits like me. And it was that way because she was that way: a safe haven. She was one of the most sincere, accepting people I have ever known. I confided in her and she, always to an appropriate level, confided in me. Ms. Johnston taught me to look for friendship and goodness in unexpected places; to disbelieve stereotypes, and to believe a little more in me.
     In high school, I took an advanced literature and composition class because, in a sea of mediocre educators and even more mediocre curricular choices, it was one of the very few things that interested me. I'd been given the English-nerd label early in life, but I had never, before that class, before Mrs. Black, considered myself a writer. In my mind, an understanding of grammar, an aptitude for clarity, and an ear for the rhythms and complexities of language were just...what everyone should have if they bothered to try. Mrs. Black was strict. She had high expectations. She was stoic and distant and our student-teacher relationship remained impersonal. But she always, always called on me (me!) to read my work out loud. If the assignment was a short story, she'd push me to develop it more on my own time. If my work was weak or sloppy, she'd demand a rewrite because she knew I had more in me and she wouldn't let me settle for second-best. From Mrs. Black I learned that I am a writer. And, no, that's not something everyone has in them. A few people yes, but through Mrs. Black I discovered it's something that's mine.
      The third teacher, also from the high school years, is a name and a face and a person and a friend I will never forget.
     I don't remember being quite so angst-y about it, but my dad tells me I came home from my first day of school as a sophomore despondent and distraught because the art class I'd registered for was full and I'd been stuck in Drama 1 instead. I lamented my fate in tears and begged him to use his influence (he was also a teacher, well-known and liked in the district) to get me what I wanted. I thought--and here's an example of the strong negative influence a poor teacher can have--I thought that I hated drama. I had hated it in junior high. (So it must be the subject, right? Couldn't possibly have been the embittered, unenthusiastic instructor...) Dad, probably inwardly laughing at my first-world teenage problems, encouraged me to give the class two weeks. If I still hated it then, he'd see what he could do.
      That's how I met Kay. Mr. Jenkins, officially, but mostly he was Kay. Tall and thin as a bean pole, quiet when he wanted to be and boisterously loud among people he liked, his passion for story is what, I think, drew me in. I had that too. Was that drama? Theater? I didn't know. And he didn't know how prepared I was--in my timid, still under-confident way--to hate him and everything he taught. But I couldn't. He was just so animated...so excited, sometimes boyishly excited about sharing what he knew. More than that, and despite his frequent dramatic mutterings about juvenile delinquents, I think Kay saw beyond the system labels kids sometimes can't shake. I think he saw his students as human beings who could, if they chose, become someone better. Someone no one had pegged them to be. Kay taught by demonstrating, raising curiosity and inspiring. The stark opposite of so many teachers whose classes I slept through daily, he was accessible and funny, knowledgeable and real. Plays transformed from scripted words to enactments of humanity, with history and humor and sadness and deep, ardent love. And the best part was that I--that everyone--could be someone else.
     I never took a single art class in high school.
     In Kay's classroom, and in my subsequent active participation in all things drama (yes, Dad, you were right), I learned to shed the label "shy." Kay was my favorite teacher, my after-school coach and mentor, my  example. I learned to be a leader, to make decisions, and to be accountable for the choices I made--disappointment was an expression I learned to recognize in his eyes. But more often, I saw in them a light that burned through me: a fiery, father-like pride. Kay was the only adult, outside of my parents, I ever felt comfortable enough to argue with. He laughed with me, but never at me. He taught me in his imperfect way to use power tools, build sets, and handle deadlines and stress. And I learned in his stage makeup class the techniques I still use to apply my makeup today (sorry Mom).
     At my high school graduation ceremony, Kay stood on stage reading the names as the graduates walked. I'd like to think, and maybe it's true, that his voice broke a little, and that big Adam's apple had to swallow hard when he came to mine. For my part, I know I smiled back at him through my tears and said my silent, grateful goodbyes to the teacher who had taught me, more than anything, to be me.  
     These are the people on my mind as I prepare to send my children, for the first time, to be under someone else's influence, taught someone else's thoughts and answers and views on life. I think about these three teachers who cared so I won't worry so much about the ones who really don't. And while they came into my life later in my school years, I can't help hoping a Ms. Johnston, or a Mrs. Black, or, especially, a Mr. Jenkins will, at some point, come into my children's lives. Sooner would be better, but it's never too late.
     What teachers shaped your life? Do you remember them still? Share in the comments.

xo

 

p.s. The quote graphic at the top of this post is a free printable. Just right click and it's yours. A little school inspiration to you from me.

One Pink, Two Blue

     For a time that seemed so long to me we thought we'd never have another child. I remember buying my kids something one day, a couple of years ago- I think it was a lemonade at an outdoor market- and pulling two straws from the jar. One pink, one blue. My hand froze in midair as I realized those straws symbolized my Mammahood. One pink, my Laurelei; one blue, my Riley boy. And there was nothing wrong about that. There were, actually, so many things right. His made-up songs and jokes, her mind-blowing vocabulary and wise-beyond-her-years ways. And the bond of friendship between them that, even now, I know will last their whole lives. But still, we took our lemonades and went home and I stood in the closet in front of a box of baby clothes and cried.

     It wasn't the thought of not having a third baby that broke me, it was the not knowing, and mostly, the not knowing why.

     We kept trying. Eventually, I told myself and everyone around me I would be okay either way. And then, eventually, I accepted that it was not going to happen after all. We had a yard sale and got rid of the strollers, the bassinet, the bike trailer, the hiking back pack...and two weeks later I woke up one morning and puked.

     My first thought was that I'd eaten something bad. But in the shower, my breasts leaked. And ached. Still, I didn't want to think I might be pregnant...I'd been wrong so very many times before. I waited. I looked at the calendar and thought maybe...I'll give it X amount of days before taking a test. I didn't make it that long. When you want something so much, even when you thought you'd stopped wanting, and you've waited so long, the unconfirmed possibility is worse than the heartache that might come.

     This is not an announcement. If you know me, if you've ever read this blog before, you know the end to this story. Two lines on the pee stick; a miracle of modem science. But today, the day this little one has not stopped leaping in my womb for even one minute, my Mammahood color pallete was finally redefined. One pink, two blue. The growing person Laurelei and Riley have been affectionately calling Little Sprout is now our son. Jasper.

I love you, Jasper, my second, happy blue. And I can't wait to hold you in my joyfully overflowing arms.

The Summer Before

     For our family, this is the summer before everything changes.

     In the spring, I had a plan. I wanted the summer for my own--time to finish the final draft of my novel, long, lovely days spent stitching fall wardrobes for my little ones, afternoon naps with my growing baby belly. The children would play in the backyard, wild and free. No plans. Just play for them and my own time for me before...And then I remembered. Fall will come, and something will happen in our homeschooling family that has never happened: Laurelei and Riley will go to public school. And this Mamma bird will have no children in her nest or under her wing for a good chunk of each day. And then, more changes: the baby we've hoped and prayed would come for the last three and a half years will arrive. These are good changes for us. They are right for our family at this time. But when I really stopped to think about how precious these summer days with my little ones are, my plans went out the window. 

    
    That novel? It's been in the works for four years. It can hang on until fall. The stitching? We'll do it together. Naps? Those stay, but in mountain meadows on blankets with storybooks scattered around us and a little one on each shoulder, whispering to the baby (whom they call Little Sprout). We've been riding bikes and exploring forests, packing picnics and cooking over campfires, snatching up cabin weekends and diving into everything in Missoula's summer scene. 

      We've been doing, doing, doing...living, living, loving... and making memories that, sometime, I will start to write about more often again. 

    I sleep a little more these days, and clean house a little less. And I'm trying to spend as few hours of my precious summer as possible on the computer, but I still have stories to tell. They'll come. And so will fall. But for now, I'm cherishing every moment of us as we've always been; Mamma and little ones, Daddy when he gets home, loving nothing in this world so much as being together.

xo

Play in the First Degree

Dear Blogland Mammas and Papas,
     I stumbled upon this article from Harvard.edu a few days ago through Pinterest (yes, I am back in full-on Pinning mode with the new ToS) and I haven't been able to get it out of my mind.

Einstein May Never Have Used Flashcards, but He Probably Built Forts

     Though it was first published several years ago, the writer's message is just as pertinent, if not more so, today. To summarize, the article is discussing the excessive, competitive nature of early childhood education today and the lack of time (and space) kids are allowed for free, imaginative, exploration play. Combined with the pre-defined, brain-numbing, electronic, plastic crap (sorry, strong feelings here) toys that fill the closets and toy chests of the modern American child, this pseudo-education of memorize, calculate and regurgitate is dulling children's senses to the wonder and beauty of life, of nature, and of their own potential. Focusing specifically on the deficit of natural, outdoor play space and time, the author (Lory Hough) quotes Elizabeth Goodenough (love that name), creator of the PBS documentary series Where Do the Children Play? and author of the book Secret Spaces of Childhood as saying,

“It shows the atrophy of adults who don’t know how to enjoy time or the outdoors, especially with children,” says Goodenough. “What started as a survival skill — building shelters and going out into the world — doesn’t exist anymore. Everything we do now is many times removed from the natural world. That’s why some kids say they’d rather be indoors where the [power] outlets are.”

    

    I can't tell you how spot-on I think her word choice is there. Atrophy. A muscle that used to work, but through disuse and neglect has become weak and is now dead. (That book, by the way, is so on my must-read list.)

    Now, before this post starts sounding too much like a ranting newspaper editorial, let me get back to being me here for a moment and tell you, Mammas and Papas (no, not the band-- YOU), how...hopeful this made me feel. 

     Did she just say hopeful? 

     Yup. Hopeful. And grateful and yes, I will tell you why. Because if it's being written about, it's being talked about. And if it's being talked about, it's being thought about, and if enough talking and writing and thinking goes on and spreads and grows, that's what makes a change. I am not naive enough to dream that every parent in America is reading articles like this (and I know that there are so many other sources for similar ideas out there) and saying, "Huh. I think I'll change the way I'm raising my children," but some are. And those parents who already held these beliefs and standards (and there are so many!) for their children are feeling encouraged by the knowledge that there are other parents out there like them, and there is something we, as a parent community can do to change the culture of apathy and atrophy that has become the norm. 

     Now on to the grateful part. Reading this article ignited in me a bright resurgence of appreciation for the childhood (imperfect though it may have been) I had and the parent it has helped me to be. I am grateful I had parents who gave a big, fat, flat-out NO to the option of a cable t.v. subscription until I was nearly 12 years old, and an even bigger, fatter flat-out NO to any kind of video or computer game system in our home. Ever. I think I played Tetris on our super-modern MS DOS computer maybe...5? 6 times?...throughout the entire course of my childhood. Not only did they say no to the same things that Brian and I now, for the most part, say no to as parents, but they said yes to things that were and still are sooooo much more important than Super Mario (my generation) or Angry Birds (hello, here and now). 

     Like forts. Under-the-kitchen-table forts, closet forts, cardboard-barrels-and-boxes-in-the-backyard forts...if my sisters and I could imagine it, we were, generally, allowed to build it. This is something I try so hard to remember when my little ones come to me with construction plans. It's not about the mess, or the small space we live in, or the chairs that won't be available at dinner time because they are being used as cave walls and castle gates and pirate ships. It's about nurturing that vision of-- whatever it is-- they see so clearly and so vividly in their passionate minds, and allowing them to make choices and take actions that will result in not only a physical manifestation of their own imaginings, but an experience in trial and error and, ultimately, problem-solving success.  

      My parents said yes to being outside. In fact they often said Go.Outside.Now. :-) And while we knew our physical boundaries (the stop sign in one direction down the road...the rope swing over the ditch bank in the other), we were blessed to live in an open, rural neighborhood with space to run free and acres upon acres of land that became whatever my sisters and I imagined it to be. Climbing trees and finding secret spaces under pine boughs, swinging on weeping willow vines and sucking nectar from honey-suckle blossoms in whomever's yard we might be in were things never forbidden to us. Not by our parents, not by our grandparents who were our neighbors, and not by our other neighbors, many of whom were elderly couples who, I believe, understood the value and beauty of a neighborhood where children could play freely and without fear. Brian and I don't, right now, live in a neighborhood where that is possible. But, to count our blessings, we do have a big yard. We do have access to forests and meadows and gullies nearby. And while we can't send our kids out beyond our yard with a "come home for dinner when it gets dark," as my parents so often did, we can take them out to the woods and rivers and trails and trees ourselves, and ensure the non-atrophy of their earth connection as well as ours.

     We can say yes, as my parents did, to sidewalk chalk and mud. To eating and reading and, when the weather is warm enough, even sleeping outside. We can choose parks that are more than "austere concrete and plastic gyms" (Goodenough) and we can support the preservation of open, undeveloped space in our community. Someday, Brian and I can choose to buy a home in a neighborhood  where our children can be children, in the truest, wildest sense; where they can learn to be who they are. And we can, now and always, remember to uphold unstructured playtime as their greatest means of education and self-discovery, and hope, always hope, that more and more parents will do the same.

xo

     

Beauty All Around (My 100th Post!)

     When I started this blog in June of 2011, my life was, for many reasons, in a state of transition and unrest. I was writing my thoughts almost constantly, allowing the flow of words to anchor me as I figured things out. As I figured me out.

This is a page from one of the many notebooks/journals I filled that year.

      I have blogged before and was drawn to starting a blog again, but, knowing the commitment of time and energy that keeping a good blog requires, I had to ask myself if it was worth it, and why? The answers I came up with reminded me that I really did have much more figured out than I thought.

     I blog because I find the blog to be a medium, and the blogosphere to be a place, wherein words and images are essential to one another. Yes, an image may speak for itself and words may paint a picture, but, when balanced, whether serendipitously or purposefully, to complement one another, their combined power is unlike any human-made influence I have known. And I cannot separate my inclination to express myself both verbally and visually. I never could.

     I blog because I, like any mere mortal (okay maybe a little more than most), need validation. Immediate feedback and gratification. And admittedly, I blog (at least a little) to self-promote. To build a platform for my writing, to sell my stuff. To let the things I love to make and do do a little making and doing for me.

    I blog because I have finally figured out that I am happiest when I am creating--whether that's creating in a literal sense with pen and paper and paint and camera, etc., or creating beauty and joy in my family and in the world through kindness and service and love. Expressing my joy and gratitude through beauty is my gift.

     I blog because, even in the lowest, darkest times of everyone's life there still is, always, in some small way, beauty all around. And I want to share the beauty in my everyday and to inspire others to see the beauty in their lives as well.

     Thank you gentle readers, for reading and commenting. If I have given at least one of you a little hope, a little inspiration, a little smile or laugh, then I am happy with the written musings of my handmade, vintage, pretty life. My life of beauty all around. Won't you stay for the next 100 posts?

xo

p.s. For those of you who don't follow either me (@amberjunek) or @portabellopixie on Instagram: the couch in that last photo has quite the story. Stay tuned...

Operation Quit Pinterest : Abort! Abort!

     Gentle readers, you know I love me some Pinterest. And, web-savvy intellectuals you all are, you probably are also aware of the recent controversy-bordering-on-public-uproar regarding Pinterest's terms of service. If you're not, you can either click these links for three well-written, thought-provoking articles on the topic from Huff Post, Scientific American, and photographer Kirsten Kowalski, OR (and this is obviously the better choice) you can continue reading here and find out how the whole 'To Pin or Not To Pin' movement has affected ME.

 
    Confessedly, I have been hooked on Pinterest from my first login, and I never thought much about the how or why of its existence. It seemed so obvious. Pinterest is pretty. Even if people Pin ugly things, somehow Pinterest remains pretty. And functional and distinctive and clean...all the aesthetic adjectives I love. I signed up, clicked that 'I agree' box on the terms of service without bothering to read them because, seriously, who does? and stayed up way too late Pinning all the pretty things.
   
     I soon recognized the importance of Pinning from the original source (also from the permalink of a blog post rather than the home page of the blog) and tried to always do so. Otherwise, how can anyone find the original designer/creator of an image? (For example, it just took me over half an hour of research to discover the origins of the 'Pin All the Things' comic above--the very funny blog Hyperbole and a Half--and still  I could not post the comic from its original source because no one pinned it from its permalink source code. So annoying!) I never Pinned too many of my own creations or images, as per the (late) Pinterest Rules of Etiquette, and I never said anything mean about anyone else's Pins. In other words, I was a good little Pinner. And Pinterest was good to me. It entertained, it drove traffic here, to my little corner of the blogosphere, it replaced all my cookbooks, and it made me feel all hip and trendy and in the know all at the same time.
   
     But when I woke up one morning last week, Brian was deeply engrossed in an article he told me I wasn't going to like. I had to read it of course; I can't ignore opportunities to turn my nose up in disgust. But he was right. I didn't like it.
   
     The article was another blog post from Scientific American. And it laid out in front of my face all the ugly details of the Pinterest terms of service that I (and so many others) had not bothered to read. Like the sentence that said Pinterest owned exclusive rights to copy, reproduce and sell anything I Pinned, without permission, royalties, or even credit given to the original creator/artist, even if I was Pinning a work that wasn't mine and, therefore, I had no right to relinquish the copyright in the first place. That was the ugliest sentence of all. Copyright is a touchy issue with me and I am a fierce protector of intellectual property rights. If I make it, I think of it, sew it, draw it, design it, write it, photograph it, sing it, film it, etc., then I want the credit. And I want the cash. How could I go on using Pinterest, knowingly giving away other artists' work when I don't even burn CDs or DVDs because that is so obviously wrong?  How many artists had I compromised by Pinning their images, thinking I was helping to promote their art? I had to ask the question Kalliope Monoyios was asking: Did Pinterest exist simply as a means to dupe the public into amassing a giant library of images for the use and monetary gain of a powerful corporation? I made up my mind to quit Pinterest, and blog about it, thereby inspiring 2.5 other people to also quit.
   
     You astute readers may have noticed, however, that this post is titled Operation Quit Pinterest: Abort! Abort! Because a few mornings later I woke up to this lovely email in my inbox:

     I allowed myself a little pajama-clad dance of joy before stopping to wonder...is this enough? Do I know enough about what this email is really saying to trust in Pinterest once again? What are the real intentions behind the legal turns of phrase? By accepting this email at face value am I, essentially, just checking that 'I agree' box without understanding what I am agreeing to one more time?

     

     And that's where I am now. I have, hesitantly and carefully Pinned a very few things in the last couple of days, but I can't seem to muster the same Pin All the Things enthusiasm I used to own with geeky pride. Not yet, anyway. I have some more research (including pondering Glendon Mellow's followup article for Scientific American), and some tedious reading of terms of service to do. I guess Operation Quit Pinterest is not so much aborted as it is put on standby...I'll let you know, blogland. I'll let all 2.5 of you know.

What are your thoughts on the Pinning or lack thereof?

xo

 

Hunger Games: Deep Thoughts and...Craft Time!

    I am conflicted, gentle readers.

See how conflicted I look?

    On the one hand, I consider myself to be an intelligent enough person and a serious enough reader to understand that the Hunger Games' post-modern dystopian world of Panem is, one might argue, a theoretical foreshadowing of the progress of America, with our obsessive, thoughtless consumption and our willingness to be entertained by  human failure and pain (hello, reality TV).  I fully realize that the surface story by which  we are all captivated--Katniss's story, and Peeta's and Haymitch's and Cinna's and Gale's--is a mere veil over an allegory of the soullessness of greed, ambition, and selfish, ignorant living. But on the other hand...I am SO GEEKING-OUT EXCITED about going to see the Hunger Games movie TONIGHT and showing you my craftalicious handmade Mockingjay T-shirt tutorial that I AM ABOUT TO PEE MY PANTS. (See actual emotion below.)

     (Q:How Capitol is that?)(A: Not as Capitol as the fact that I really want this nail polish.)

   
     I am officially letting myself off the guilt-hook for today. HUNGER GAMES DAY! It is, after all, just about a book series that is brilliantly written and addictive and thought-provoking, right? (Right? She repeats timidly.)
      Okay. Hunger Games T-shirts! I have seen many, many Hunger Games T-shirt tutorials online in the past few days (why do these books appeal so much to crafty types?) but I'm throwing in my own two cents anyhow. And I think my shirt turned out satisfactorily different than the rest. Once again, I am a little last minute on the event/holiday crafty bandwagon, but I have, finally jumped on board. My fellow last-minute crafters/ lit nerds with DIY skills: This one's for you.

You will need:

A plain black (or whatever color you want) T-shirt

A towel that can get paint on it

Straight pins

Scissors

Mod Podge (optional)

Waxed freezer paper (optional)

An exacto knife

Metallic spray paint in the shade of your choice

A print-out of this image:

And about an hour (with dry time)

We'll start with the optional part. I wanted my stencil to be a little more durable, usable more than once, so I mod-podged my print out of the Mockingjay image to a piece of waxed freezer paper, applying the mod podge over the top to seal it as well. This is totally not necessary, but I knew I would be doing multiple t-shirts and I thought this might help the stencil hold up longer (and, as is often the case, I was right). ;-)

Then I cut all the white away from my stencil print out, using scissors for the large areas and an exacto knife for the  finer details.

I bet you can see where the rest of this is going (you smart cookies, you) but I will lay it out anyway.

Lay out the shirt someplace where you can paint (well-ventilated, people) and use the towel, folded, to create a flat pad in between the layers of the shirt. This is not only to prevent any paint from bleeding through (not likely, but just in case), but also to provide a cushion to push your pins into.

Use your straight pins to secure the more delicate parts of the Mockingjay stencil.

Spray! Lightly and from at least 10 inches away.

Give your shirt 15-20 minutes to dry before you remove the stencil, and another 40-45 minutes before you wear it. If you have time to wash it before wearing, then you won't go to the movies smelling like spray paint. Which is always nice. And, yes! These are totally washable. Just use the delicate cycle and dry on low heat or air dry. And then look fabulous! (See actual fabulousness below.)

I made this one with the dolman sleeves for me...

...and this classic long-sleeve scoop neck for my bestie (who is almost as much of a last-minute crafter geek as I am).

Now go to it!

Happy Hunger Games Day!

xo  

   

p.s. Thanks to my awesome SiL, Heidi for being my green-sleeved spray paint model, and to my super-duper photographer daughter who took the pics of me in the shirts. Yup. Seriously. And she's 7.