fourteen months and poems to treasure

She's asleep now of course.  I so want to kiss those jellied cheeks.  I've been giving her plain bread for the longest time, and then it dawned on me that she might like something on her bread. Duh.  Now she eats more wholesome whole grains.  

She is fourteen months today.

She climbed the safety gate and fell off the top of it.

There is no relaxing.....ever.

A new forehead bruise appears every week.

Our main rooms are mostly devoid of decor.  Everything within her reach is gone, except for books.

I can't keep up with the re-shelving of books.  I now gather those she has dispersed and put them in a laundry basket--to deal with in my spare time. 

Now the basket is overflowing with books, and we saw her climb the "mountain" today.

She dumps tubs and baskets and uses them as stools.

If the boys or Daddy forget to close the bathroom door, she notices it first thing and runs in there, hoping to find the toilet open, or toilet paper within her reach.  I can't buy any toilet safety gadgets right now, so I lecture the boys in desperation.  Since she climbs the gate now, it's more imperative that they remember.

When she's in my arms and we're walking down the hall, she stretches out her hands, reaching for wall pictures.

I love every inch of her.  Every pore.  I don't even want her to grow up.  She's my biggest blessing--an unexpected, delightful gift from God.

But she's. driving. me. CRAZY!

Now she's pulling it.  Next she'll turn it on its side and use it to stand on.  All wobbly and proud atop it, she displays no fear.

Our side yard.  No foot steps yet.  Fresh snow reminds me of new beginnings.  We ate our breakfast in wonder, looking out this window.  What you can't see is the way the early sun shown on this blanket, making it glisten.  Breathtaking.

Guess what my boys said when they saw these beans?  "She bought us craft supplies!"  Uh, no.  The only dried beans I usually buy are navy beans and legumes.  Peter was excited about the prospect of new recipes! That boy is destined to be a chef.  Cooking and baking are cures for any behavior problem he throws our way.  Just keep that boy busy!  Give him something to chop, something to mix, something to add spices to....whatever.  He lives for it!  

Over the weekend I ran across a post on Apples of Gold about a delightful poetry book, The Path to Home, by Edgar Guest (how do you underline in new blogger editor?).  It happens to be out of print, but the poems can be found on this website.  Tear jerker mom poems, to be sure.  Get the kleenex.  Thank you to Holly, for posting about this gem of a book!

Below you'll find one that fits my post today.


THE TOY-STREWN HOME--Edgar Guest
Give me the house where the toys are strewn,
Where the dolls are asleep in the chairs,
Where the building blocks and the toy balloon
And the soldiers guard the stairs.
Let me step in a house where the tiny cart
With the horses rules the floor,
And rest comes into my weary heart,
For I am at home once more.
Give me the house with the toys about,
With the battered old train of cars,
The box of paints and the books left out,
And the ship with her broken spars.
Let me step in a house at the close of day
That is littered with children’s toys,
And dwell once more in the haunts of play,
With the echoes of by-gone noise.
Give me the house where the toys are seen,
The house where the children romp,
And I’ll happier be than man has been
‘Neath the gilded dome of pomp.
Let me see the litter of bright-eyed play
Strewn over the parlor floor,
And the joys I knew in a far-off day
Will gladden my heart once more.
Whoever has lived in a toy-strewn home.
Though feeble he be and gray,
Will yearn, no matter how far he roam,
For the glorious disarray
Of the little home with its littered floor
That was his in the by-gone days ;
And his heart will throb as it throbbed before,
When he rests where a baby plays.