Clover Lane

I LOVE Home For A Bunny.  I also own the newer Golden Book edition and Patrick and I read it often.

I found this picture the other day-I had posted it back in 2008. I remember this night and it seems like yesterday but it was four whole years ago.  It was a rare warm November evening and we all went out and played for one last hoorah before the cold winter air came in for the season.

I don't know if I really knew that time would fly so quickly-Isaac is now in college, Abbey is so much older today than she is in this photo-those years from 12-16 are just huge, and Matt and Andrew just seem so young.  And look at my baby Patrick.  Now he is no longer a baby, and we have little baby Janey who was just a little star in the heavens at the time of this photo.

This always makes me cry-this feeling like time if just flying faster than I can keep up with it.  I feel like I shouldn't feel this way-I have six beautiful happy healthy growing children-children are supposed to grow up to be adults-it's not like I didn't know that.  But it is so bittersweet to me.  And in four years when I look at a photo of all of us from this year, I am sure I will feel the same way.  It tightens my chest up-I want to bawl.  Am I crazy?  Do other mothers feel this way?  I just want the years to go on and on like the way they are forever.  Just our family, here, under my roof.  And in some ways it's worse than ever with my baby Janey.  Will this be the last time I fish tiny socks out of the dryer?  The last time I buy little diapers or Johnsons baby shampoo or little onesies?  I want to hold on to everything forever.  I want the days to go slower, I want the years to go slower, I want to never ever wish one day away, unappreciated, or waste an inkling of time being the mother I want to be to my family.

At Christmastime my mom arrived at our house bearing many gifts, but the one I loved the most was a small bag filled with a few letters.  One was from my Grandma B, (my mom is the oldest of nine) addressed to her and written on December 21. My grandmother made raising nine children look easy.  I remember her as a kind, but no-nonsense sort of grandmother-I am sure she was the same as a mother.  I soaked up every word.

The paragraph I love the best is this one:

The only thing I can tell you is that it is very difficult to raise a large family.  It is so demanding, you are split so many ways.  I used to be very cross at Christmas, I still am, some days you just had no more to give. The mother takes the full blow of everything that happens.  I know you must get very weary because there is always so much to do.  Someday you will receive lovely little specials like I do and it will all be worth it.  I am so proud of all of you and the years were not wasted.  If I can leave you nothing, I just want you all to know your Dad and I loved everyone of you from the first to the last.

Now I know I have just six, compared to her nine, but I tears came to my eyes when I read the first two sentences.  It is so true.  It is difficult to raise a large family and it demands so much of my time and energy and I do feel split so many ways.  When I feel this one here needs extra attention, then this one here is not getting it.  It goes back and forth and round and round, and I try hard to be everything to everyone.  There is so much joy of course and I wouldn't want my life to look one bit different, but when it comes down to it, it's a whole bunch of work-mentally, emotionally and physically and it never ever lets up.


I hold my Grandma B in such high esteem.  I know she didn't whine about the work, or complain about her "lack of 'me' time".  She didn't consider a work-out and a manicure essential and I can't really see her and my Grandpa making "date nights" a priority.  (And they had a beautiful marriage-more than 60 years.)  I think she made do with much less and ended up with much more-more in the sense of what really matters.  And boy is that refreshing to know.  It's just nice to let go of so much of the pressure from the barrage of "must-do's" we mothers receive.  My grandma was a good friend, and a good neighbor, and a good wife and involved in her church and community, but she was home mostly.  Home, working hard, raising and loving children, making lots of sandwiches, and doing lots of laundry.

One of my 'not-favorite' jobs is grocery shopping.  One early Sunday morning (the best time to go to the grocery store in my opinion-no one is there and I can go alone with Jeff at home with the kids) I set the timer on the stove for 60 minutes and told Patrick and Andrew that I bet I could beat it back before it counted down.  I dashed off-I had my list ready and sped up and down the aisles at lightning speed.  They were so excited when they heard the garage door open, knowing it was me, that I heard them cheer from inside the door. 15 minutes to spare!  When I came in I said, "Let's carry these groceries in and put them away and see if we can beat the timer".  We did it!

A couple of years I go I decided that I was going to start a collection of children's picture books.   I also decided that I was going to be really really picky about what goes into this collection.  Mostly vintage, mostly the ones I remember from my childhood.   I started with the intent of buying one book a month, but sometimes that doesn't happen because I forget, or because I find three I really really want and can't resist and buy them all at once.

I thought maybe I'd share them with you once in awhile.  Those really really good ones-which happen to be the old ones-are hidden in the dark recesses of old libraries, or attics or the old toy cupboard, lost forever, discarded for the shiny new (and often much less stellar in my opinion) picture books.  I usually find these old copies on Amazon, and buy them from a bookstore that sells them used.  I love the "Used" books.  They are sometimes old library versions, worn, with buttery pages or a little scribble here and crayon mark there.  That doesn't bother me at all.

Here's one of my favorite purchases I just made recently.  This is a copy of the book of classic tales that my mom used to read us often, by Watty Piper.