I pick at my kids constantly.

Go blow your nose. No, that’s not good enough. Here, let me help.

Your head stinks. Did you use shampoo when you washed your hair? What—? You KNOW soap does not count as shampoo. If you don’t do a better job from now on, I’ll have to wash your hair for you every time you get a bath.

Get your elbows off the table.

Hold your fork right.

Chew with your mouth closed.

Put your knee down at the table. For crying out loud, child, SIT ON YOUR BUTT. Those cheeks are meant to KISS the chair!

Unbutton the top button of that blouse. It makes you look uptight when your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin.

Close your mouth. It makes you look dull when you leave it hanging open like that.

Sit up straight.

Give me your hand. Oooo, yuck! Your nails are gross! Fetch the clippers.

Don’t stretch your shirt out with your knee.

Don’t sing so loud.

Don’t BREATHE so loud.

Don’t rock the chair like that.

DO NOT INTERRUPT ME WHEN I’M READING TO YOU!

Your breath stinks. Did you brush your teeth yet this morning? Really? Well perhaps you better do it again.

And so on.

But the tables are turning. My kids are beginning to pick back.

The other week, I sat beside my eldest daughter during church. She tapped me on the arm and when I looked over at her, she gestured to her chin and made a swiping motion, mouthing something about a hair. I swiped at my face, freeing a hair that was stuck to my lip gloss. We smiled at each other.

But she kept staring at me—I could feel her eyes burning holes into the side of my face—so I glanced down again. This time she pressed her lips together tightly, signaling that I ought to follow suit. Apparently, I was gaping stupidly. We giggled, and I whispered at her to stop staring at me and pay attention to the sermon.

Some people might think this picking back is rude, disrespectful of elders and all that. But not me. I find it oddly comforting. My kids’ ability to observe and point out my flaws (the older two are becoming quite perspicacious) shows that they’re judging me by the measuring stick I have handed them. When I look at it that way, their critiques feel downright complimentary!

(And in case you were wondering: no, she did not wear her homemade wire specs to church.)

This same time, years previous: life, interrupted, potato gnocchi, mocha pudding cake

Miss Beccaboo and I are learning how to knit. My friend Anna Maria is giving us lessons and last nightwe all lined up on her sofa, balls of yarn rolling about at our feet, needles poking and jabbing most dangerously.

If Anna Maria was caught off-guard by my stunningly high levels of ignorance, she did not let on. (AM, First you need to do a slipknot. Me, Come again?) She patiently coached us through the tricky casting on, and then got us started on our rows. In between saving us from our mistakes, coaching her own daughters, and petting the dog, she knitted away while regaling us with tales of how women knitted in the olden days.

They knitted while they walked, she said, demonstrating. They put their balls of yarn in special pouches they wore at their belts, and while they walked—because everyone had to walk everywhere back then—they knitted gorgeous stockings with intricate patterns for the wealthy.

Miss Beccaboo was knitting and chatting with her friends, so I wasn’t sure she heard everything Anna Maria said.

But I was wrong.

This morning, she stuffed her ball of yarn into a shoulder bag and then walked around the house while she knitted, just like the ladies of yesteryear.

She also patiently allowed her little brother to try his hand at knitting.

She is much more confident than I am. When she makes a mistake, she just flips the needles over and works backwards, or something like that. I have no idea if she’s doing it right, but it looks like it’s coming together just fine, so I let her go. Not that I could help her if she needed me to, of course.

I, on the other hand, knit slowly and methodically, constantly terrified that I’m going to drop a stitch. I don’t understand how the threads do the things they’re doing, so I memorize how my hands should move and then hold my breath and hope for the best.

I am pleasantly surprised by how much fun I’m having. Knitting is peaceful and addictive, relaxing, yet productive. And, unlike my other interests (such as writing, cooking, visiting), it allows me to be fully present to the children. I can’t look up and supervise, but I can listen and talk. (Well, mostly just listen, at this stage of the game—I am so uncoordinated.) The kids sense that I’m available and cluster around, watching my needles eat yarn and chattering away about all manner of things.

Inspired by our knitting, the littles got out some sewing boards I forgot I had.

And Yo-Yo went to work on a rubber band ball.

I can’t wait to learn more stitches and techniques, or whatever you call knitting skills. (Sweetsie has already put in orders for a hat and mittens and dress—dream on, baby.) There aren’t that many more days left of winter, so I gotta move fast. (Watch out, Amanda Soule! Here I come!)

This same time, years previous: chai-spiced hot chocolate, I don’t like chocolate biscotti, my me-me list, hauling wood

One of my favorite things to do after the kids are in bed at night is to flop down on the sofa in front of the fire and start reading. An hour spent soaking up words, and I feel luxuriously rich and much invigorated.

I’ve read two great books, as of late. It’s rare that I have a succession of lovely reads (usually there’s a dud, or a dry, heavy tome, thrown in the mix to slow me down), so it’s been quite the treat. (And now I’m [re-]reading a third, my mom’s.)

The first hit read was a book called The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love by Kristin Kimball. The particular copy I read came from Lee, a friend from church. The book is making the rounds—Lee, Marj, me, my husband, Sam, etc). Everyone wants to get their hands on this gem of a book which recounts how city-slicker Kristin met her radical-farmer husband and how they acquired a farm and started their business. It’s a fast read, full of entertaining stories that involve subjects such as blood sausage, used dental floss, and rats (not all in the same tale, though).

Most back-to-the-earth stories that I’ve read (this one, for example) ring hollow, like the authors are living the life just so they have something to write about. Not this one, though. This story is hardcore. There is nothing idealized about their life. Words are not minced. There is blood, poop, and extreme exhaustion, with nary a stab at romanticizing it. (Not like you really could romanticize poop…)

It made me feel downright lazy—’cause I take my dirty life with hefty slice of cheesecake—but it did motivate me to finally make up my seed order.

The second book is the highly-controversial Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua.

Folks, I loved this book! It’s funny, honest, crazy, challenging, and inspiring. I find it fascinating that this book has raised such an extreme level of ire in so many people. (Just read the reviews on Amazon.) Clearly, it strikes a nerve.

This is what the book says on the cover…

(it’s a confessional, people! the woman eats a lot of crow!), but I’ll not say much more. Read it for yourself, okay?

(Oh yeah. The tiger mother book made me feel lazy, too.)

What books are you reading?

This same time, years previous: corn and wild rice soup with smoked sausage