MommyCoddle

When Birdy went missing.

Last week, while I was on the phone with Emily, all the kids were outside playing. Birdy, who jumps at any opportunity to be outside, was standing at my hip crying because she was inside and everyone else was out. When her screaming to go out became too much to talk over, I hung up with Emily long enough to put Birdy in her boots and sent her outside--calling to her sisters to keep any eye on her. 

Emily and I continued to talk and I watched as some of the girls wandered back into the house. Finally, much later, Emma came in. Alone. 

Where's Birdy? I asked.

She's inside with the girls. 

No, she's not. You were watching her outside.

No one told me I was watching her. 

And then, there's that parenting moment where you get the immediate pit in your stomach. Deep, deep down you're pretty sure everything is just fine. But in a flash, you've systematically worked through every possible horrible scenario that could happen to your unattended toddler. And what steps you'll take to deal with the emergency. As well as the fact that you haven't showered and if you're going to need to now make a trip to the emergency room, you're looking pretty scruffy and maybe you'll be able to at least wash your hair in the kitchen sink before you go. 

Please. Tell me I'm not the only one who manages all these thoughts in course of 12 seconds?

But of course,  we found her.

And of course where else would she be but playing in the muddiest corner or our property, where the driveway meets the grass. Where the water gathers after every rain. And mixes with mud and stone and mulch and soil. 

And of course, she was wearing one of my favorite sweaters. And her best pair of jeans.

But who was watching her? Her very best pal.

Of course. 

7 Tips for taking a perfect family Christmas card photo

1. Take your photograph when your children are well-fed and rested. (Not right after church when the baby is looong overdue for a nap and everyone's low-blood sugar is resulting in impatience and grumpiness.)

2. Make sure your husband is well-fed. (Because you'll need his help to wrangle babies, arrange children, shoo chickens, and hold ponies. And if he's hungry {see above}, he'll give up on your perfect holiday photo shoot way too quickly.

3. Find a clean, white pony to add something unique and meaningful to your family's photo. (Preferrably not one that was rolling in her muddy field just as you are all walking outside to take pictures.)

4. Make sure your children are well-groomed and bathed. (or else they'll be wearing handknits in all the pictures to cover up)

5. Drain all tubs of standing water. (Because you know the baby will find them. And while you're directing the brushing of the pony and making sure noone gets stomped on by the same nervous pony, the baby will find the water and be up to her elbows in it before you turn back around.)

6. Lock in the chickens. (They distract the photographer.)

7. Remember that one of the things you love most about your family is that it's big, crazy and chaotic. But every once in awhile, you get a glimpse of almost-perfection. And there among the five hundred wacky outtakes, there'll be one that captures just that. 

 

A warmer heart

I've got a new sidekick when it comes to morning chores. 

I can't even utter the word "outside" unless I have her completely bundled. Otherwise, I'll be attempting to dress, shoe and bundle a baby squirming and wailing at the mudroom door, eager to break free from her indoor jail. 

Some days, we can't even be bothered with shoes. I'm lucky if I can get a sweater over her head and a hat secured under her chin before she's pushing through the door. 

She often brings her morning banana. I try not to think about where and how many times it is dropped. And what bits of dirt and whoknowswhat that cling to it. Or which animals she's offered a lick before taking another tiger-sized bite off the end. 

Instead of lugging her on my hip, we've discovered the garden cart makes a pretty convenient way to trek back and forth to the chicken coop. 

I put her on the concrete pad in front of the coop while I work.

She sits in the pile of chicken feed like it was a sandbox created just for her. The hens eye her cautiously, pecking around her, as she tries to feed them from her chubby palms. This must be why the hens follow her around so closely. They know she offers food.

I collect eggs, check on the babies, freshen up water, and throw clumps of soft, fresh green grass into their pen. 

When we cross back over the little wooden bridge on the way home, she is thrilled by the water running under our feet. I'm amazed at her ability to perch on the very edge of the bridge, crouched down, babbling at the water. I miss that kind of flexibility and balance. She's telling me a lot of things about that little stream. I talk back to her like I understand every word. 

Eventually, I convince her there's more to see on the other side of the bridge. But before she hits that slippery, muddy patch, I swoop her up and plop her back in our farmer's stroller. 

Her favorite friend blocks our path with a croquet ball in her mouth. A leaf dangles from her lips. She's relentless. 

If I'd let her, she'd stay out here all day. The only way I can coax her back inside is to bring the dog and a small furry kitten with me. She finally follows, waving goodbye to the crowd of animals gathered around her, like the queen of the animal kingdom.

I peel off layers, wipe her runny nose and notice her muddy sleeper-feet. And she's gone again. Disappearing into the belly of the house. Following the dog. Calling for her sisters. And I'm left to hang up sweaters, shove hats back in the basket and pry the barn boots from my feet.

The house feels warmer now than it did when we first set out this morning.

So does my heart.

things to be bummed about

I realize, that's a real uplifting title for a Friday late Thursday night post. But, in the spirit of honesty that I like to maintain on my blog, I have some bummer things to share. 

Since last Friday, Mary's most-special cat Mouse has been missing. If you've been around here for awhile, you'll know that Mouse has a special place in Mary's heart, and really, in all our hearts.

Since he was tiny, she has been toting him around until he was so big his long fluffy tail and legs seemed to drag on ground as she carried him around in her arms. When she was little, without FAIL she would wake up every morning, still in pajamas, often in barefeet, and head outside to find him, pick him up and nuzzle him. She'd sit outside talking to him and snuggling him until I forced her to come in to eat breakfast.

As he got older even just a week ago, he'd hop up onto the roof outside her bedroom and meow at the window. She'd let him in and show up downstairs each morning with him already in her arms. He was big and beautiful and he definitely belonged to her. 

When Mary was going through all her health scares two years ago, Mouse was the cat who she carried in her arms, on the car drive to get her blood drawn. He was the only reason we could convince her to calm down and get in the car.

Of all our cats--he is special. And circumstances the night before he disappeared (that I don't want to get into on here for fear of my little ones will read them), have me believing he is gone for good. 

We're all pretty heartbroken. And as Mary says, "But there'll never be another Mouse."

Nope. Never. 

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As always, thanks for reading, friends. Thanks for following along. Sharing in the ups (and unfortunate downs) of our days on Thomas Run. 

May the weekend be brighter, warmer, and full of good things.

xo.

Molly

Lions and tigers, no bears.

Day two of our staycation had us trekking off to the Smithsonian National Zoo in Washington DC. The zoo is wonderful--twisting and turning among tree lined paths that open up into animal homes. And it's free. The parking is not (ouch), but still well worth it, and very budget-friendly. 

The girls loved it. Birdy especially. She also loved the fact that we unhinged her from the jail of her stroller and let her walk much of the day. You'd ask to hold her hand and she'd quite frankly, tell you no, and push your hand away. And despite her zig-zagging toddle up the brick sidewalks, she hardly slowed us down. 

I think Fall may be my favorite time to go to the zoo. Crowds are down. It's not hot and animals are still out and active. 

It was a perfect day two. 

Day three, today, invovled reclaiming the house from the first two days of staycation and a massive binge of laundry. 

Day four is still open for discussion. Though there's lots of campaigning for a family trip to the bowling alley. Though I can already envision chasing Birdy up the lanes...

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Confessions of an irresponsible farmer

I have to confess, lately I've handed over the egg-collecting, chicken-feeding duties to my children. While I enjoy a good trek to the coop with my morning cup of coffee, I've been letting the girls handle the chore. I haven't been to the coop for much more than a nightly lock-in, in quite awhile. 

Apparently, it's been ooooh, about 21 days. 

Precisely the amount of time it takes for something magical to occur in an un-monitored nesting box.

This morning, the children on chicken-duty came blasting back into the house to let me know we had baby chicks. 

No, we don't, I told them. Silly girls. 

But I followed them out to the coop and before I even got to the door, I could hear that familiar peeping.

And there, perched in her nesting box was one of our  Rhode Island Red hens with EIGHT little fluffy chicks tucked under her breast. 

This, by far, has been one of the best surprises ever on our little farm. 

Being the irresponsible farmer that I am, slinging all chicken duties onto the shoulders of my children, the girls confessed that this hen hasn't been letting them collect the eggs she was sitting on. Usually, the girls let me know someone is broody, so we can force her out of the coop during the day. But this time, the message never made it to me. And look what the lack of responsibility for my flock produced! (I'll have to try approach this more often. I wonder if a similar technique works on the vegetable garden?)

But I couldn't share this story without acknowledging that the chick's arrival today is full of irony.

Just yesterday, there was another rooster attack--this time on Elizabeth. It meant another call to my husband reminding him that something had to be done right away. And so yesterday evening, we all hid in the house, covering our ears while Dan took care of the rooster situation. And sparing details, the task proved to be quite complicated.

But today, those roosters, in a final statement of their immortaltiy and unwillingness to leave this earth, leave us with eight fluffy legacies. And chances are, I'll find myself attempting to befriend a rooster (or two! or more!) all over again.

Bird Dog

I wish I had adequate words to describe the relationship between these two. I mean, we knew she was a special dog from the beginning, even before her accident.

It was why we emptied our piggy banks to save her. 

But to watch these two, is to watch something pretty special. 

Wherever Ruby is, you'll find Birdy. If Ruby's sprawled out on the living room floor, you'll find Birdy settled into her chest, nestled in the crook between her paws. Ruby puts up with the riding, and tugging, and hanging on. Lip "inspections" and eye pokes. 

Birdy rolls and flops and plays on her. Ruby sits and, I believe, enjoys it. She mouths her hands gently, licks her right on the kisser. 

I'll gladly put up with the dog hair- plastered footies. I'll pick the hair out of lips and noses. I'll excuse the excessive amount of food that gets shared. I'll even, just this once, dismiss the fact that she nosed her way into the room of a sleeping baby to see if she was awake. 

She wasn't.

Happy Weekend, friends.

I'll be back Monday with something new and fun....

Maybe I should call her Catherine

We have a rooster problem.

It's nothing new around here. I've chronicled our rooster troubles many times. There was Hedgie, the original rooster at Thomas Run, who helped me overcome some childhood fears and bad blood that already existed between me and the rooster-kind. He was my favorite. But we lost him on the night we lost almost everyone. 

Then, there was Roosevelt. It took two posts to write about Roosevelt, who was last seen waddling up the center line of Thomas Run, headed for the hills (or the heavens). 

But now, there's a new problem. This Spring when I purchased half a dozen chicks from the feed mill, that were supposed to all be hens, it turned out that two of those six were not. And so we now have two large Rhode Island Red roosters courting the ladies and fighting for their affections. 

Unfortunately, these roosters are a little too full of themselves. One of them has a strong dislike for one of my favorite hens and has her quarantined to the far side of the farm. If she dares cross the stream with the rest of the hens, he attacks. 

Though that alone is enough for removal from Thomas Run, it is the latest offense that is even more inexcusable. 

The roosters have set their sites on Birdy.

The first time it happened the scene was pretty confusing. There was some commotion. Birdy was on the ground crying. The rooster was near but I didn't put it all together.

The second time, I was standing right there--as he came up behind her, head bowed, feathers splayed, doing his little dance.  He jumped up, pecking her on the back of the head and knocking her onto the ground. I was too far away to do anything but shout. And it didn't deter him.

He must think she's one of his hens.

And yesterday, he did it again. 

The funny thing is, I don't think Birdy has any idea who or what is randomly coming up behind her and knocking her to the ground. She still happily wanders around behind the chickens, hands outstretched, calling them kitty. (We're working on it. Kitty. Chicky. She'll get there eventually.)

It makes time outside a little nerve-wracking. Always on the watch for the courting rooster who has a crush on Birdy.  Maybe I should start referring to her as Catherine around the hens, to keep the confusion to a minimum. 

But, alas, I sent my husband another one of those emails yesterday:

The roosters must go. 

farriers & angels

When Ariel came under our care one of the first things we had to tackle was dealing with some of her drastic weight loss. We'd come to find out that she had Lymes Disease (ironically, so did Emma. Doubly ironic, they're on the same antibiotic), and another illness called Cushings Syndrome that was pretty rare for a pony of her age. 

So every day, along with her grain she gets 40 pills to deal with the Lymes (Aren't you glad you don't take pony-doses of medicine??!) and a liquid medicine by mouth. And I watch in awe as Emma administers it. Slipping an arm over her head, reaching her finger in her mouth to pull out any grass or hay and squeezing in a dose of medicine, that the pony hates. I don't get involved, because if I did, Ariel would know something was up. It's better to keep things calm and relaxed so she doesn't get worked up. 

And now the improvements in Ariel are really starting to show up. She's losing her bony look, there's even the bulge of some muscle in her back end, and we can tell--by the new spunky side she's showing--that she's feeling better, too. 

Last week, Ariel had her first farrier visit here at our house. Brooke, who, along with her husband, is the farrier at the barn where Emma rides, Ariel's temporary home before she moved here--showed up to take care of Ariel's hooves. 

It's a pretty neat process to watch. 

And Brooke's encouragement about Ariel's progress and how she just "looked happy and content" is always good to hear.

It's funny, through the big decision of taking Ariel and the learning curve (mostly mine) of having a pony under our care, I have felt more than ever that so many people are on our side. That people are rooting for us, helping us, supporting us. 

Last week, I got an email about Ariel's vet bill. The bill was a doozy. A horse-sized bill that makes one sputter and gasp just a bit. But I also knew this was part of the package. In that email I found out an "anonymous angel", who read my blog post about bringing Ariel to our home, had covered almost all of the bill. People are amazing.

God is good.

I just keep thinking for all the years of wishing and wanting and hoping that went on before Ariel was even a possibility, that patience and trust really pay off. When I get anxious about things, or want to force them to happen, my husband often reminds me to take the approach of waiting and knowing that the right doors will open. At the right time. We could have forced this pony thing to happen, or the fencing, years ago.

But we didn't.

And when the right door opened, there we were with open arms, ready to answer. 

joy in the sorrow

Last May, I shared about the passing of my friend and neighbor, Sarah. 

But one thing I didn't tell you in that story was my last "conversation" with Sarah before she died. 

Just days before, she sent me several messages through twitter (of all places) curious to know if we had any interest in her pony, Ariel. 

If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know that my daughter Emma is a horse girl. From her depths, the girl loves horses. Childhood "passions" come and go, but Emma's love of horses has only grown deeper roots in her little heart. 

She has been riding and taking lessons since we moved back to Maryland. I watch this video of her, four years ago and I am reminded that she has been waiting for "a pony of her own" for quite a long time. 

But a pony is no small commitment. If I had a dollar for every time I answered the question, "When do you think I'll be ready for a pony of my own?", I'd have enough dollars for seven ponies by now. Aside from being old enough for a pony, or having enough know-how, the big, glaring issue was right outside my kitchen window. 

A farm with no fencing. 

You can ask any of my close friends to know that I've been trying to figure out ways to get this little farm of ours started, to find the money in our squeezed-tight budget for fencing. (It is SO expensive!) Should I do something on kickstarter? Should I get a job? Should I make stuff and sell it on etsy?

Meanwhile, I'm telling my anxious daughter that some day the time will be right. Pray, I say. God knows your heart. And He already knows the perfect pony for you. And He knows when the time will be right. 

I often needed to remind myself of the same things. 

When Sarah sent me those series of messages, asking if we were interested, something jumped in my heart. 

Little did she know, that many of our errands brought us driving right past her house. That Emma would often get quiet in the back seat, hiding her tears--not just for a pony, but for Ariel. "She's the perfect pony for me. I don't think they have anyone riding her right now. Do you think they'd ever sell her?"  And I'd give her my same words of wisdom, which by now she could probably recite to me by heart. Pray. Wait. When the time is right....

That morning, when Sarah asked me, I immediately got on the phone with Dan. Teary, nervous. I had no idea that Sarah was just days from the end of her fight, but I knew this was one of those things she needed to settle. 

Dan simply said, "Tell her yes. We'll just have to figure the rest out."

We didn't tell Emma anything. The heartbreak if anything fell through would have been horrible. 

The man who owns the barn where Emma has been riding for the last several years said to bring Ariel there. She could stay until we were ready. For free. A gift.

But for a handful, Emma spent every morning this summer at the barn--taking care of Ariel, learning from the wonderful people who work and board their horses there, from my stepmother, who has taught her everything she knows. 

Eventually, with all this planning and fussing, she began to put the pieces together. 

"Is Ariel going to be mine?" 

Finally, last week, in the middle of the aftermath of Hurricane Irene, Ariel arrived home. 

By perfect timing (and God'd faithfulness to Emma's prayers, I believe) we found the funds for fencing. While we were in Virginia, a team of Amishmen descended on our farm and installed it.

Everything has come together. The timing is finally right. 

And there, in the midst of the sorrow of losing Sarah, is the big, bright glow of joy. She's sitting bareback on a pony grazing in my back yard. 

 

batten down the hatches

Yesterday, my computer died. I'm crossing fingers that the new battery that will arrive today is the solution. In the meantime, I'm counting it as a gift as I take on the crazy task of dealing with the laundry madness before hurricane Irene comes knocking on our door this weekend. Out here a power outage is most certainly guaranteed. Thank goodness for oil lanterns and a cool spring to keep our animals watered. (even if it is a raging river by the time this is over.) Happy weekend friends. Batten down those hatches. And cross fingers that I'm back here on Monday!

everyone has a story to tell

....about yesterday's earthquake that rattled the Mid-Atlantic. We East Coasters aren't used to such phenomenon. I was on a conference call with my Babycenter pals when the whole house started to shudder. And of course, earthquake wasn't even in my frame of reference, so I immediately thought, "This is it. This old farmhouse has finally had enough. It's falling down.This must be what it's like."

I was relieved all the girls were outside "babysitting" Birdy while I was on the phone. I ran outside, staring up at the house expecting to witness the walls and roof give way. And I thought, "Shoot. I'm still in my grey pajama pants {in my defense I'd been cleaning all morning}. My hair is a mess. I have no make-up on. And the baby is wearing soaking wet clothes from playing in the water tub."

Of course, I was slightly mistaken. My house wasn't falling down, we were just experiencing the tremors of the quake in Virginia. (Which also happens to be almost EXACTLY where we were on vacation. We even stopped for ice cream cones in Mineral.) 

And now that the earthquakes have subsided, we've moved on to the next natural disaster, waiting to see what this hurricane stirs up over the weekend....

But alas, let's discuss something much cuter....meet, Girl.

She was the special project that was included in our farm-sitting duties at my uncle's farm. Rescued when she was just a day or two old, she's been bottle-fed and cared for by their family ever since.

We saw her on her first days home, when she was refusing to take a bottle. Her legs like little twigs. I never imagined them to be so fragile. But now, having mastered the bottle, she's thriving. 

Girl hangs out in the fields around my uncle's farm and comes in around the same time each day when she's feeling hungry. Some days she'd be eagerly waiting on the front porch, another day I only found her by the tiny brown ears sticking up out of the bean field. 

These are the moments when I want to take my childrens' little faces in my hands, look them square in the eyes and say, "Do you realize how special this is? Do you realize how blessed you are, to be doing this?"

If there's one thing I want to instill in them, it's gratitude for these moments they experience almost every day, for the views out our kitchen window, for the open spaces to explore and run. For the closeness they have to the natural world around them. 

farm-sitting

If you stand in our back field and look past the stream, over the corn and bean fields, and to the top of the hill, there sits my uncle's farm. While we were in Virginia two weeks ago, his oldest son, took care of our place--chickens, barn cats, Ruby, the doves and guinea pigs. So when my uncle's family headed on their own vacation last week, we returned the favor. 

Along with the job of farm-sitting for my uncle comes the use of his RTV. It was our means to get back and forth from his place to ours--over the stream crossing, along the woods, up the waterways in the corn fields...(and yes, where I sometimes enjoyed my morning cup of coffee.)

With Mary kneeling in back, Elizabeth in the cab and Birdy tucked in on Emma's lap beside me, it was pure bliss for these girls. By the end of the week, the words "Let's take a ride in the Kubota." sent Birdy squealing and toddling to the porch door and everyone scrambling to find flip-flops and boots. (Why can't my children move so quickly any other time I try to get them all out the door?)

My uncle's chores are a little more involved than ours--pumping water Little House-style and hauling it to the horses, feeding, changing water and collecting eggs for his thirty-some hens, dogs, ponies, a pet turkey named Jimmy (who turns out to be a hen).

And my main helper was worthless--lost in a field of ponies. 

But the other two did their best to help me get the jobs done, while wrangling the baby and rounding up houdini chickens who didn't want to stay in their pens. 

It was nothing but fun. A little sweaty. Still fun.

But there was one special animal that we had to take care of that made the week even more amazing. She'd wander in from the bean fields, or be waiting for us (obviously running late) on the front porch. But she's cute enough to get her own page in the story, so for now, just a wee sneak peek.....

the great escape

Last week, I threw in the towel. The heat was getting the best of me. You'd have to be hiding under a rock (maybe it's cooler under there?) to not know about the crazy heat along the east coast. And with no air-conditioning, except for a puttering little unit in our living room window, I was going a little stir-crazy. Too hot to leave the room. Too hot to leave the house. There might as well have been a blizzard outside. 

So on Tuesday when I called my mom and just the sound of her voice brought me to tears, I decided for the sake of my mental health it was probably time to get out of dodge. 

The next morning we packed up (dripping in sweat) and hit the road to her air-conditioned house a few hours away. 

We hid out through the weekend. Which included a brief excursion to my old 4-H County fair where my neices and nephew were showing their goats, dairy steers and home arts. (My kids were quite impressed when I used my royalty as former fair queen to get us in the door for free.)

Birdy was a big hit with the goats. Just their size. Soft and edible.

We came home last night and had to readjust to life without cool breezes blowing across our faces while we slept. Instead, we were back to large cattle-sized fans buffeting warm, damp, thick air across our tired bodies. 

Today, it's our turn to prep for our county fair. A small scheduling oversight, and it turns out all our fair projects are due tomorrow, not Thursday afternoon. So it is a crafting-crazed madhouse over here. Stitching, sewing and baking in between coats of paint and mod podge.

But I'm convinced the panic keeps our minds off the heat. 

So hello. How are you? Believe it or not, it's good to be home. 

I carried a broom

I woke up in the middle of the night last night to the sound of a fox. Really, it's not that uncommon. We hear them all the time out the front windows of the house, in the fields across the road. But this time, the fox was much, much closer. In fact, I could tell it was in the back of the house and sounded close enough to be in our yard. I listened a little longer to be sure it wasn't just a dream or the breathing of the person in bed beside me.

You'd think I'd be desensitized by now, but I seriously HATE the sound of these foxes. They send chills down my neck and make me want to revert back to my thunder-storm-panicked childhood with hands clamped over my ears and covers pulled up to my eyeballs. But, I must put on a brave front for the little people in my house.

I coo to them, "It's just a sweet little fox. We're safe inside. There's nothing it can do. Just listen to it. Doesn't it sound so neat?" I'm such a faker. If they only knew.

Last night however, its proximity to the house had me a little panicked. I had visions of those little barn kittens scampering around the garden shed. I worried that we hadn't done a good chicken count before locking the doors of the coop for the night.

So I did the only brave thing a farm girl could do. I woke up Dan.

There's a fox!

It's in the yard!

The kittens!

Did we lock in the chickens?

What about Maggie????

Thankfully, Dan loves some good fox drama so half-awake he bumbled downstairs to listen more closely. Finally he opened up the mudroom door and Ruby went tearing off across the yard--whether it was after the fox or she just really had to go the bathroom, I don't know. But the fox either quieted down, or disappeared. Hopefully, the later.

Dan came back upstairs to find me and Mary standing in the hallway waiting for a full report.

Unlike many nights in this house lately, we'd played musical beds at some point in the nighttime hours. We stopped for a moment in the hall, discussed the fox, my concerns over the animals, maybe it was time to get some bullets for his gun, the fact that the little person sleeping in bed with me had slept through her need to go the bathroom, and was sleeping fitfully and kicking, and did I set his alarm for 5:30?

A small family meeting in the hallway. I felt like we needed to smack high fives and do a secret handshake before we returned back to our stations in seperate bedrooms with children needing to be snuggled.

The whole fox thing threw me off and I had a hard time falling back to sleep. My mind recalled stories of my mother's bravery. Of the night when she heard something attacking our guineas and raced down the steps and outside in her nightgown with a broom, a broom, swinging wildly in the dark at whatever was on the attack. She came back in and said something brushed past her legs and was gone.

I like to think that if neccesary, I could step up and have that kind of bravery. But for now, if Dan's available, I'll gladly default to him.

I did eventually fall asleep and my dreams involved a large mother bear and her cub which had gotten into the house. Dan and I were racing around upstairs dropping our children out of the windows to keep them from being gobbled up. A short fall obviously better than a bear attack. Maybe it had something to do with the bedtime story being The Biggest Bear, or the fact that Dan mentioned he left the mudroom door open so Ruby could come and go in the night.

All I know is that in my dream, I was brave. And I carried a broom.

photos? backside view of the house I grew up in. + my brave mother holding baby me.