Exploring the wonder of bogs and canopies this Mother’s Day. So thankful that we will be able to celebrate Hippie Grandma in person tomorrow night. 

After church, we take off our dresses, and wrestle. Sigh. I claim zero responsibility for this pre-nap ritual. The only time-outs are for navel gazing. Winnie has noticed that mine has popped, and is awaiting the day that her little innie will do the same. 

Just following grad school, Jamie, my gracious Catholic schoolmate, agreed to join me in a pew at my neighborhood St. Bartholomew’s as I sought a more liturgical, sovereign style of worship. Five years later, I stood beside my best friend while we exchanged marriage vows at St. Paul’s, the oldest Episcopal church in Tennessee. A few months ago, Winnie Girl was baptized at Galilee, our home church, with a seashell brimming with water, facing the sea. Yesterday, we knelt before a bishop, and were received as members of the Episcopal church. 

An afternoon on Flanagan’s Farm yielded a basket of berries that smelled like berries. We enjoyed our pick-your-own crop with a slice of pound cake after supper.

The only parenting books I’ve opened have been rooted in Montessori’s philosophy of early childhood development. The idealism they foster is the bane of my first time motherhood experience, but I can’t seem to help myself. What particularly resonates is the idea that parenting is rooted in observation. Similar to the biblical command to be quick to listen, and to nursing/medical education’s admonition to collect the subjective data first (what does the patient say is going on, or what do they look/act like), the idea of taking the time to learn your child’s temperament/proclivities, and encouraging their drive toward doing things for themselves makes sense to me. What I haven’t quite got a finger on is how to accomplish this task without creating eight more clean up jobs before lunchtime. 

In her Easter card, Aunt Lisa included some spending money for an ice cream cone. Seeing as Winnie had never tried such a treat, I thought we ought to do it right. We drove down to Chesapeake, nearly to the North Carolina border, in search of a creamery/petting zoo. Winnie’s response to her strawberry shake among the bleating goats, “mmmm.”

One less thing to worry about. Winnie and I went on an edible weed forage in Pungo yesterday, and learned that there are many leafy yard patches that are just fine for her to nibble on.

All we have to welcome him is a moss colored rug. Winnie is thrilled with an open, sun-bathed track. Little does she know, more is to come. A lot more. The unoccupied space will shrink with each new day of a growing brother. A much awaited little boy.