Friday

Before breakfast, I set the cheepers free, clean their coop, fill their food and water containers. I feed Isie boy twice (he keeps pestering for something better than cat food), water the pots outside and wash the car (which has picked up resin from the willow and looks terribly dirty, to say nothing of the swarms of yellow jackets it attracts). I sort and chop tomatoes for the freezer and pick fresh flowers for the farmhouse. And then there is the usual morning stuff: put away dishes, tidy the living room, sweep up the mudroom. I consider doing spot weeding outside, but run out of time.



You mean there's another way out of this coop? But I'm scared to jump! (I pick her up and help her down.)




(meanwhile, the big girls want their reward for leaving the little girls alone)





(out back: late summer greens and yellows)





(the barn, from out back, where the goldenrod grow like crazy)





(Scotch navigates the flowers)





(in late summer/early fall, you really love the nasturtium)



Breakfast on Fridays has to be prompt, because Ed has his meetings and I need to be at the grocery store (shopping for the week) early if I'm to make it before noon to Snowdrop's home. (Friday is my shortest day with her -- just from noon 'til five.)


And then at breakfast, before we get to that peaceful part where we listen to the noises of birds and cheepers and evaluate the chance of rain for the next day or two, I tell Ed that it feels to me like the work-play balance at the farmette needs a tweak. Since he has stepped up to transition his company to the next stage of leadership (meaning ever since he has had to go to the "office" multiple times a week), he has slumped into recovery mode when he is at the farmette. Understandable. But the farmette actually requires quite a bit of maintenance work and it is at its best when we both roll up our sleeves and get to it. (To say nothing of projects, such as the porch door, a broken bike, a weedy raspberry patch, unclipped grape vines that languish as the summer draws to a close.)





Our challenge isn't that I work harder than Ed (though this week, that thought has crossed my mind). It's that I tolerate unfinished business and an unkempt look far less well and so I am forever compelled to get to it, even as he is happy to let things go, in favor of, say, reading a good book, or learning something new about machines, or even just reading endless articles on the Internet. (He has always been a crazy reader of everything and anything and the advent of the Internet simply means that he no longer has to rely on ancient periodicals and cereal boxes to tide him over when his stash of more appropriate material is low.)

Isie boy joins us for this meal (he is permitted access to the porch, so long as one of us is there to let him in and out) and we do spend a few minutes sitting back and enjoying this beautiful summer-like morning. I don't really expect that we will ever perfectly balance our work and play routines. And in reality, the pressure to get things done will diminish as we slide into the winter season. It's as if nature is telling us -- I got a plan for the likes of you (Ed and I are so very different in so many ways!): I'm going to let you both off the hook and give you time to meditate or chase mice or read cereal boxes inside, as I freeze the world outside and give everyone a pause.







At the young family's home, Snowdrop continues her run of good days.






I feed her spinach and pumpkin. You're thinking -- bleh! She's thinking -- what does the label say?






She chews on Wisconsin...






She chews on pretty much everything (upper teeth, coming in!). And then she hears a familiar voice. Ah, mommy's home!






We go out for a late walk, the three of us.






And after, I let Snowdrop do a delicious jumping session (oh, does she love this!) in the jumparoo...






...before handing her over to her mommy.






Bye, sweet little girl. See you Sunday! 

Thursday

I'm in my best on-time-departure behavior: I get up earlier than I need to so that there will be no chance that I should be late or even tightly on schedule, causing unnecessary worry for the young parents. It's an early morning for all of us.

Of course, I'm used to it. Not so much keeping time, but being up with the sun. I do my rounds: admiring the golden colors of autumn...



(one day lily still continues to bloom)


... feeding Isie boy, letting the cheepers out, cleaning their coop, refreshing their food and water, watching the younger girls, to make sure they're enthusiastic about life...






... then and only then returning to the farmhouse...





... where I remind Ed that I need to be out and on my way earlier on Thursdays and so if he is to eat breakfast with me, it has to be now. (If he looks grumpy in the photo below, let me assure you, he's not. Just a saint for coming down, half asleep, not really sure of his bearings, not wanting to disappoint me either.)






Snowdrop wakes up just as I arrive at her house. A bit early for her, but I know she hears the rush outside her room. That's okay -- we have an enchanting, longer morning of play.

The sun comes into her living room differently at this earlier hour and she is taken in by the patterns it makes on the furniture.






Still not fully dry after her bath, she is, nevertheless, ready to plunge into more active play.






Later in the morning, my daughter texts me asking what we've been up to and I tell her, truthfully, everything!

In that early time frame, Snowdrop jumps, crawls, bounces, stands, reads, chews, pounces, crawls some more, listens, bangs, explores nearly everything in her path. Me, I hover and guide and quickly grab to avoid impending crashes and run-ins with furniture, cats, and pretty much everything else that somehow manages to get in the way of her explorations.




(standing on her own; I hover)


There is in there a quiet reading moment (this book, about a hen of all things, is her favorite today)...





... but for the most part, her energy level is too high to allow her to sit still for long.

It is tempting of course, to photograph her constantly, all day long, especially on these days when I am with her all day long. But I refrain from doing that. Ocean, as you well know, isn't a baby blog: it does not chart all her ups and downs, but instead, gives a handful of snapshots documenting, more than anything, how I see her and how she and I navigate our days together.

Still, when the sunlight catches her hair, so that it really does look more strawberry than light brown, I reach for the camera.






When she flashes me a gentle, dimpled smile, I reach for the camera.






And of course, when we go out for a walk and she gives me that look, I reach for the camera.






I ride Rosie the moped home, thinking how beautiful the days are now. Next to us, the farmers are picking flowers for the markets. As always, they offer me some, but I settle for just a photo...






In the evening, I'm with Snowdrop again, this time at the farmhouse. Not for long, but long enough so that when she climbs all over Ed, I reach for the camera.







The day ends late for me. I'm tired, but in a good away. I know Snowdrop was a happy girl today. That really can make a grandma's heart swell.

her first day of their school

Her mother has thought ahead to the first day of school outfit. For herself and for her daughter. Of course, Snowdrop is not going to school this semester (unless you count music classes and those don't begin until next week and anyway, she is a repeat attendee there). And still, it is an important day.

I start my semester-long schedule of Snowdrop care and as I glance at my notes as to where I am to be and at what time, I see I have a relaxed beginning.

Well, relaxed to a degree. I am up early to take care of the cheepers -- giving myself an opportunity to admire the mists that settle over the dips in the fields to our north and to our east.









(a little less shy and with very hearty appetites)


And then we have breakfast on the porch. Work -- it's lurking there, demanding our attention...






All week long we are to have very warm weather -- it's a beautiful way to begin the month of September. Lingering on the porch, looking out at the various ways the morning light dances across my gardens -- all this is rather magical to me and when Ed gets up from the table too quickly, I ask him to linger. He does. And it's grand.






After, I visit with the cheepers, clip a few spent flowers, admire others...






And I'm off to the Snowdrop home, where the young family is, of course, in a hurry to get the first day of school/work off to a good start. 

Here you go, grandma! Here's your Snowdrop!





Be good, and show grandma how you play the guitar!

Well now, a new skill set! Show me, little one...






Oh, the girl is full of energy! And laughter.






Let her loose and she is everywhere, picking and choosing toys to examine, chew, bang.






And why stay with crawling when you can walk on all fours?






Standing is pretty cool too!





Of course, she wears down. I put her down for her morning nap just before noon. Who knew that this would be the time that the practice tornado sirens go off (once a month)? Snowdrop is very distressed. The nap is rudely interrupted.

Never mind. A little more play, a lot of good spoonfuls of apples and broccoli (plus her usual bottled grub) and it's time for a long walk, with the hope that she rests up for me then.






And for some reason, after a few steps, she turns from somewhat tuned out to totally giddy with  delight!






We walk a long way -- to Vilas Park and back. My granddaughter and me. Like a million granddaughters and grandsons out there, cared for by their nannas and grandpaps while their parents work.






(Here, the grandma brought her kitchen work with her -- plucking buds from plants she'd picked. The boy kept calling to us  -- baby baby! but Snowdrop was quite asleep.  I know she would have loved his childlike enthusiasm.)






(This grandma bravely lets her charge go in the lake... Would I let Snowdrop get wet? Yes!)






Back at her home, the day moves forward. Snowdrop is trusting, watching so that I don't go too far...

And then it's evening and her parents return and I go back to the cheepers and Isie boy and, after his bike ride -- a tired Ed.

And tomorrow, I am lucky enough to cycle through it all again.

farmhouse Tuesday

I had a choice today:  use the few free morning hours on drafting a sketch of an Ocean post, or polishing some changed paragraphs in my Great Writing Project.

I chose the latter.

Over the years, working on writing projects never took priority. I already indulge my writing fancy here, on Ocean. Unlike people who really are brilliant at this craft, I do not live to produce the next series of sentences or pages. I did think that retirement would bring more opportunities to write, but when Snowdrop was born, I was thrilled to shift my attention to her care (as determined by her young parents). It's not that I no longer had a desire to write, it's just that she trumped it all. I believed then and I believe now that the time I spend with her is far more important than the time I spend on improving sentences in my Great Writing Project.

But this morning, before Snowdrop was scheduled to come to the farmhouse (if it's Tuesday...) I had a bit of time and I decided to move ahead with the editing of my manuscript and as a result, I left Ocean writing til the evening.

Well that's never a good idea! By the time we finish our dinner (home made pizza tonight!) and I clear the dishes and we munch on a bunch of chocolate squares and I pour myself a second glass of wine, I am as near to being asleep without actually being asleep as you can get. And so you get no text from this day. Just photos. Which, in the case of this Tuesday, moves the Ocean story along just fine!




















































Only this last photo requires an explanation. We are about to set out on a walk: my daughter, Snowdrop and I. Only, my daughter gets a bit teary eyed. Tomorrow, her work obligations take away most of the flexibility that she has managed to retain in the past months. The semester begins and her attention has to shift toward the classroom.  And so she looks on at Snowdrop and goes through that hard reckoning that most every parent confronts: how is it that I can leave you now, when you are so darn engaging and grand and just about all that I ever wanted in life?

Me, I'm old enough to have lived through numerous such "letting go" moments with my children and yet I am touched at the poignancy of them all now, as I watch her embark on her own path of balances and accommodations.

That's all. The night has set in. Rest: it's time to rest.