Monday, January 21, 2013


Tim claims that before I arrived he remembers it snowing maybe twice in 20 years. Since my descent upon fair Reading we've had snow about...4 times in the last 7 winters. Coincidence? You be the judge.

This chilly January Friday produced a beautiful snow! 

Our back garden. 
(No, not a backyard. That wouldn't do, now would it.) 

Tim, Hannah and Kathryn made a very tall snowman. We finally got to use the snowman making kit The Robinsons gave us for Christmas a few years back. Ta da!

Tim, Lizzie, Rob, Hannah and Kathryn went on a wintry walk on Sunday.

And this fine little fellow did his best to get to the last apple on the tree.

I'm sorta getting this picture thing. Super.

Proof that World War II is alive and well in England: any time of day or night there's a documentary or show about some aspect of WWII. Any time of day. Every day. Honest.

(Oh Looky! My first photo! Yippee!)

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Somewhere along the way I forgot that this is a Great Big Adventure.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Two In One Day. Scary.

So now I find myself sitting in front of the computer having just re-read a bunch of the old blog posts and I feel suddenly reconnected with blogging. I'm not questioning it anymore. It just is going to happen.

I'm SO glad I blogged so much during the first few years and just wish I'd have done more. There are so many things I'd have forgotten if I hadn't. I have loved remembering the early few years and it's done me good to see how things have changed. I regret worrying about revealing too much but what am I worried about? There'll only be about three people reading this, including my husband Tim...

So there will be blogging again in the Land of the Zippergut!

So let it be written, so let it be done.

And, if I can figure out how, there will be pictures. Oh yes. There will be pictures.

I suddenly feel like belting out a scary loud laugh, but will refrain.


So I find myself sitting in front of the computer wearing the same shirt I've worn for three days straight having just finished watching the latest episode of "Switched At Birth" because I couldn't find any other show to watch that looked even remotely as interesting (and...yikes!) and I'm feeling vaguely vague. This is the big news for today: I have become complacent. I think. Actually I just looked up the definition to be sure and now I'm not. Somehow I never realized that the word has a component of self satisfaction to it and that's definitely not how I feel.

Funny how you can think you know exactly what a word means and then, when you bother to look it up officially you find out you didn't. Just like those words that I never heard spoken but had read a million times and thought I knew how to pronounce until I actually verbalized them and was swiftly corrected (or laughed at, depending on the word). Like segue or prowess or Nathaniel. (I thought it was Naythanal, emphasis on the Nay. Who knew?) Or like vague.

But I digress.

It's not complacency I feel. It's sort of just vagueness. Like the defining lines drawn around me and my life are somehow blurry. And faded. Haphazardly sort of rubbed at with an eraser.

I struggle with blogging. I struggle with it because it's so easy to step into Queen Zippergut and tell all about myself, but I'm not just me alone anymore. My life is part of a bigger whole. It's one thing to gut myself in front of anyone reading what I write, but another thing entirely to gut my family.

Sounds sorta violent.

There's catharsis to writing that I don't find in anything else, and I need catharsis. Writing informs me of what I'm thinking and feeling, like it isn't real unless it's written. I have to hash it out and write it and rewrite it until I can make sense of it. And I haven't done it in years. Because I can't do it without including other people, and they just may not want to have me open them up to the world at large. I haven't asked them. And it's too hard to try to keep it all anonymous with weird nicknames and stuff. It's hard enough to keep their real names straight. So to write or not to write?? To zippergut or not to zippergut??

Why is it not enough to write in a blasted journal? I'll tell you why. Because writing in my journal for me becomes maudlin rubbish. I'm not that great a writer in my journal. I don't try so hard to express myself accurately and thoughtfully in a journal. So I haven't written at all. Even in journals. And I've missed writing down a lot of things that have happened and are currently happening. Or might be happening if I knew what was in my mind at this moment. Because I'm not sure since I haven't been writing it down. Got me?

And thus, vague. Which isn't pronounced vagyew, in case you were wondering. (You're welcome.)

Actually, right now I'm supposed to be doing the laundry and a dozen other housekeeping types of things that I've become so completely bored or overwhelmed with that I stash them in the back of my memory like yesterday's headlines. I blame Kathy Kolbe and her damned accurate Conation for letting me know that I'm like 90% Quick Start  and thus, pretty much incapable of doing things more than maybe three times without the compulsion to figure out some other more novel way of doing it before I go stark raving.

We had a lovely grandmotherly woman come to our house to clean twice a week while I was growing up. Her name was Sister Rose. Her name was actually Ruth Rose, but being a member of our church congregation, we children called her Sister Rose. Anyway, Sister Rose didn't mince words. Like the time she told me I should stop picking my nose at night and use a Kleenex. I thought the woman was a mystic. How in the world did she know I was secretly cleaning my nasal passages and wiping the debris on my bed sheet because I didn't want to leave the comfort of my own bed to walk to the bathroom to do the job properly? (It wasn't until I was much older that I saw the evidence of a similar habit on one of my sibling's sheets. I realized then Sister Rose wasn't a mystic.)

But I digress.

What I'm trying to say here is that Sister Rose didn't mince words. And these are some words of wisdom she laid on me when I was about 11. She said, and I quote (one doesn't soon forget these kinds of things), "Kari (she said), you'd better marry a rich man because you don't like to clean." She also said, "Cleaning house is like being on a merry-go-round. It's the same things over and over." I would add, Sister Rose, that it's not fun like a merry-go-round. But that part she didn't share.

So this is the deal. I'm at home, ostensibly (which I've just discovered does NOT start with "au") for the children, and I have plenty of time to clean and do other things. But I feel vague. I'm very happy to be with who I'm with and living where I'm living but I'm not happy being who I'm being. But not exactly unhappy either. Just vague. Very vague.