it shouldn't take more than a couple of years to make, right?

I want this dress. Badly.

Of course, I couldn't wear it to just any old place.

It would have to be a elegant afternoon tea, or a stroll through a beautiful, old fashioned city, (like parts of Louisville, KY.) Or a picnic under a shady tree, (preferably a picnic sans rain,) where we sipped lemonade and read Tennyson out loud.




and yes, something would have to be different about the bodice. but still.

a bit about my babies.

This afternoon, we had a family with young kids over to visit, [and their four year old girl told me the sweet tea I made tasted like lipstick... yep, that's my secret - I add lipstick to sweet tea,] and in the course of the afternoon, I heard their baby boy crying upstairs.

I ran upstairs to get him, and as I entered the dark room where he'd been napping, the cries strangely didn't stop. When I lifted him in my arms and held him close, he still sobbed and blubbered on my shoulder. "This is strange," I thought. "He's still crying!" and then, "Why is this strange?"

And that's when I realized: I've become spoiled to orphans.

I'm used to babies who know what it's like to lie in their beds unattended and unheeded for loooong stretches of time... who know what it feels like to not get their diapers changed as soon as they wake up... they're so grateful that someone with gentle hands is picking them up that they become little cooing, babbling, grinning packages of happiness as soon as I lay hands on them. (with a few exceptions, of course.)

Those babies didn't know I wasn't their mama.


But this little sucker - he knew. He knew his mama was in the house, and he knew that I sure as heck wasn't her.


And as I carried him downstairs to his own mother, (and as he stopped crying - apparently he recognized that I had a bit of The Mother Touch,) I was overwhelmed with gratitude that this baby wasn't like the ones I spent three months loving on. He is loved. He is mothered.

And then. Then, I began missing my sweet Ethiopia babies.






I'll miss them forever, I suppose. Remember their soft hands, their needy cries, their incredibly happy smiles.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

An afternoon thunderstorm, spent in Good Company

Today, Mamaw and I went to visit one of her childhood friends, (who just happens to have one of the weirdest names ever - Vermel. Please don't be jealous of that name.)

We sat on Vermel's porch in rocking chairs, watching rain pour down in silvery, refreshing sheets, listening to a lone bird singing away in a nearby apple tree, while Mamaw and Vermel bemoaned the fact that their tomatoes aren't doing well, discussed each others families at great length, and took a few jaunts down memory lane when the opportunity presented itself.

They sat holding hands, talking about their aches and pains, their gratitude to God that He's allowed them to stay healthy enough to live in their own homes, various and sundry recipes that have failed or succeeded beautifully lately, and I was overwhelmed by peaceful happiness... watching these two ladies, who've lived such full, energetic, busy lives, and aren't content to sit back and do nothing now that they're old - they still bake and visit and grow tomatoes - but in a calmer, more relaxed way. (and if they get too un-relaxed, they get lectured by their grandchildren who want them to be here as long as possible.)



And I sat there thinking, "Yes, I want to grow old like this."

Why, yes. I am.

As soon as i staggered off the plane in Amsterdam, backpack, violin case, and my pillow-that-i-couldn't-imagine-spending-three-months-without in tow, I made my way to the closest information desk and had the following enlightening conversation:

Me: "Excuse me, could you kindly tell me where the Starbucks is?" (Amsterdam airport is large, and my need was great.)

Lady at desk: "Around that corner, to the left, and all the way down."

Me: "Thank you. And can you also tell me where McDonald's is?"

Lady at desk: ::pause:: "You're American, aren't you?"