Happy Memorial Day and a List

I've missed you, little blog! Sorry I haven't posted much lately. I really don't have a reason. Life, I guess. And a certain little two year-old human.

In celebration of this lovely three-day weekend, here is a list of everything that makes me happy right now:

1. The cool breeze blowing on my face. I'm in Arizona, and it's not hot outside! Granted, I am sitting in the shade.

2. So You Think You Can Dance is back!

3. Booked a hotel right on the beach for our trip to San Diego.

4. Last night Brown Eyed Boy said, "I love you, Mama." Not that clearly of course, but he said it, and it made my heart dance.

5. Ever since getting on with the fire department, Mr. Brown Eyes has been obssessed with his muscles. And ways to make them bigger. Yesterday he made a forty pound hammer in the likeness of Thor's Mjolnir. And he named it "Meow Meow."

6. And yes, you'd better believe he was out there in the yard, wielding "Meow Meow." Or, rather, hitting it against a large tire.

7. The next thing I know, he's going to grow his hair long and start sporting a cloak and armor.

8. Not that that would be all bad.

9. Brown Eyed Boy loves watching baseball. I have visions of him making the big leagues and buying his father and I a multi-million dollar house. But I guess we should start with Little League and work our way up from there.

10. This picture of Brown Eyed Boy made it onto the jumbotron at Wednesday's Diamondback's game.

It made me ridiculously happy.

Happy weekend!
The Brown Eyed Girl

Writing Prompt

It's been awhile since I've done a writing prompt! Here is one from ldspublisher. 

I open the door slowly, letting the rusty hinges creak and moan. I already know what I'll see on the other side: a group of kids, two or three or more, maybe as young as five or as old as seventeen, but most likely somewhere in between, all staring at me with a mixture of horror and fascination on their little upturned faces.

Sure enough, when I peer around the door, four sets of wide eyes stare back at me. This group is young, six or seven, little girls wearing ribbons in their hair, their pink bikes stashed at the far end of my front walk.

"Whaddya want?" I grumble.

At the sound of my voice, they flinch like they want to run away. But the girl closest to the door, the tallest girl with gleaming blond hair, steps forward and asks, "Is it true? Are you a witch?"

I sneer the way I've practiced in the mirror, lean in closer and ask, "Do I look like a witch?"

I know what her answer will be. A face deeply wrinkled from eighty-four years of life, purple bags under my eyes, stringy gray hair, and two warts (though not at the end of my nose, mind you), I can see why the rumor started among the young kids in this town when I moved into this old house with nothing more than my cats and my loneliness. But after a while I started getting tired of trying to prove the rumors false.

When she doesn't reply, I continue, "If I am a witch, my house will be full of black cats and goblins and poisoned apples. I'll have a pot of frog's legs and crow's eyes boiling on the stove. And with one word I will turn you girls into stone and add you to my collection of stone children in my garden."

She sticks her chin out. "I don't believe you."

"You don't, do you?" I cackle. I've been practicing my cackle for months. I don't think a real witch could cackle better than I do. The girls huddle together. And then, as if on cue, my fat black cat Cuddles waddles out onto the porch.

That does it. Three girls run screaming down the sidewalk, tripping over themselves to get onto their bikes. But the fourth girl doesn't leave my porch. As her friends disappear, not even bothering to call out for her, she looks at me with eyes the color of clover and says, "I don't think you're a witch."

I straighten as best as my eighty-four year-old body can and meet her eyes with my own defiant stare. "Oh? And why is that?"

Cuddles is twining himself around her legs, purring loudly. "Because my mom said so. She said you're just a lonely old woman. She said it's cruel for the kids to pick on you like they do. Just because someone isn't pretty, doesn't mean they're a bad person."

Her honesty is refreshing. Instead of being offended, I laugh. It feels good. I can't remember the last time I did it. "What's your name?" I ask her.

"Abigail," she replies, patting Cuddles' head.

"Well, Abigail, you're absolutely right. I'm not a witch. But don't tell your friends, all right? It might ruin my reputation. And the last thing I want is little kids to keep coming over here asking me to bake cookies for them."

Her face brightens. "You bake cookies?"

"Absolutely. The best in the world. Frog leg and crow's eye free. Maybe tomorrow I'll bake a fresh batch."

She smiles, and a secret something passes between us, the invisible ties of friendship. "I won't tell a soul," she promises. "Is it all right if I come back tomorrow?"

I haven't practiced smiling the way I practiced cackling, so I just say, "Absolutely."

Two Years

Happy 2nd birthday to my darling little boy.

Besides the cake balls melting, he and his cousin had an awesome birthday party.

 

Although I'll probably still be referring to him as a baby when he's twenty years-old, it occurred to me that, now that he's two, "Baby Brown Eyes" probably isn't the most appropriate name anymore. Besides, I'm hoping in the not-too-distant-future to add another baby to the Brown Eyed Family. So, from now on, Baby Brown Eyes will be known as Brown Eyed Boy.  

Brown Eyed Boy spent his birthday with Mr. Brown Eyes, camping and getting dirty and doing boy things. The day before, while Mr. Brown Eyes was at work, the two of us celebrated with birthday frozen yogurt filled with two of Brown Eyed Boy's favorite things: sprinkles and M & Ms.

We had lots of fun eating it together.

Now the mother of a two year-old,
The Brown Eyed Girl

The Tractor

Mr. Brown Eyes has a new toy to play with this week.

I don't think either of my boys are going to want much to do with me with this thing around.

Soon-to-be-a-tractor-widow,

The Brown-Eyed Girl

An update:

Like father, like son.

A Reason to Celebrate

I've grown up learning about the resurrection, believing what I was taught about living again after we die, about our spirits being reunited with our bodies. But I never felt the reality of it until my grandma died.

Her decline was sudden. One day she was admitted to the hospital for what just seemed like a simple infection. The next day the doctors were telling us she was dying and my family was hurrying to her bedside to say our last goodbyes. My sister and a couple of my nieces and I went to see her that afternoon.

At first I thought we were in the wrong room. Yellow-skinned and unconscious on that hospital bed, hooked up to all kinds of beeping and whirring machines, her purple lips caving into her toothless mouth, my grandma looked nothing like herself. It was unnatural, uncomfortable, and I wanted to run away.

Yet as we stayed, the doctor telling us Grandma could hear us if we talked to her, I felt something else. I realized that Grandma was right there on the edge of life, that, though her body was there, her spirit was somewhere else, probably with Grandpa, who died thirty years before. Soon Grandma would no longer be old and frail and lonely. If everything I had been taught was true, she would be restored to all those she had loved and lost, she would be restored to her body, young and strong and never again to be separated.

Right then and there my heart burned with a conviction that the resurrection was real. And in that moment that dreary hospital room became a sacred, hallowed place.

Yesterday, in celebration of Easter, Baby Brown Eyes and I made resurrection rolls. As I tore one open and explained to Baby that it was empty just like Jesus' tomb on the third day, I was reminded of my own testimony of the resurrection, of that afternoon in Grandma's hospital room.

The gospel is full of wonderful, glorious truths. The resurrection, with its hopeful promise of life after this one and reunion with those we love, is one of the most beautiful of those truths. Because of our Savior, Jesus Christ, we will all live again.

That is a reason to celebrate.

Love,
The Brown-Eyed Girl

Jellybeans

1. We finally planted our garden this week. A few hours later I peeked out the window, as if I really expected to see our seeds sprouting already. I have the patience of a two year-old.

2. Let's hope I am actually able to grow some eggplants this year, instead of weeds.

3. Mr. Brown Eyes and I demolished a bag of Starburst jellybeans in one sitting last night.

4. Have I mentioned that I love jellybeans? Not the generic, tasteless kind, but the newer, more exotic creations like Starburst, Sweetart, and Bumpy Nerds. Easter needs to be over soon so the temptation of jellybeans can be removed far from me.

5. Baby Brown Eyes shared our jellybeans last night. Unbeknownst to me, he was shoving them one after another into his mouth without swallowing them. I discovered this when he spit a drooly, half-chewed, rainbow-colored wad into my hands.

6. That should have turned me off to jellybeans. But it didn't.

7. Jelly bean. That's such a gross word.

8. The word "jellybean" should turn me off to jellybeans. But it doesn't.

9. We are going to three Easter eggs hunts this Saturday. I think Baby Brown Eyes will have a blast. It the first year he'll actually be old enough to hunt for eggs instead of just toddling around aimlessly, looking adorable.

10. I am going to eat all his jellybeans.

Happy Easter!
The Brown-Eyed Girl

Just Can't Get Enough

I just love being a mother lately. So much I can't even express it. Baby Brown Eyes just gets more fun and adorable every day. He melts my heart and fills my life with so much joy.

I love hearing his little voice try out new words. He repeats almost everything I say. Including "What the heck!" when I am raging at the TV. Good thing I didn't use a more colorful phrase. Other favorites include: spider, shark, bubbles, star, okay, milk, machines (when he wants to watch his favorite show, "Mighty Machines"), no way, and Hayden (his cousin).

He loves to just run, circling the house over and over again, his little feet pitter-pattering on the tile, collapsing on the carpet in a fit of giggles. The other day we went outside to play and he dashed away toward the horses while I walked down to the mailbox. I grabbed the mail, then looked up to see my little boy running for me across the yard, pumping his little legs as fast as they could go, his blond hair blowing, his grinning face tilted skyward. I will never forget that sight. It's what I live for as a mother.

A couple weeks ago I took him to work with me for a few hours. He entertained himself really well, pulling apart my folders, eating jellybeans, coloring, and looking at pictures of trains on my computer. He also found a couple hard hats and insisted that we both wear one.

I wish I could take him to work with me everyday. But then, I don't think I'd get much work done.

I just can't get enough of him.

Yours Truly,
The Brown-Eyed Girl