Fire Burning Eyes

I'm so tired lately. Joe is sleeping better (well not really, but my ear plugs are helping me to sleep a little better). Poor baby just can't seem to figure the whole sleeping thing out to save his life! or mine for that matter! Most days my eyes feel like they are on fire and are begging me to allow them to close. Somehow though, actually I know exactly how....it's completely divine intervention that is buoying me up to carry on. It's a miracle if you ask me.

January so far has been a whirlwind and I'm not sure why. Let's see...the highlight I think was Aaron flew to Disneyland for the day with his company. Yep, Clark Ivory of Ivory Homes flew the entire company to Disneyland just for the day. Lucky ducks! Kids were sad....and so was I; just a tad. Someday. Someday.

Otherwise, this month has been full of ridiculous amounts of pictures of this adorable baby.

And cleaning up his messes. Already, at 7 months. I'm in trouble.

We are surviving the bitter cold we've had this winter, and unbelievable static, and picking our nose...well, at least Abby is.

I cut Nathan's hair and did a HORRIBLE job! So glad he's 5 and doesn't care yet. (this picture does not do it justice).

Witnessed a calf being born on the way to the grocery store. Thought is was so cool. Poor cow was born on a freezing, cold day. Kids didn't think it was nearly as cool as I did.

We were the coolest parents for one day when we set our camping tent up in our living room and watched a movie.

We are seeing the future of a moody teen-age daughter when at 7 years old she's making signs on her door so we won't come in because she was mad about something.

Abigail is the most anxious child to learn to read. Wish her brother shared half her enthusiasm.

We could work on food manners a bit however.

Time is flying by. Can't believe January is half over.

I stole this poem off a blog I like to read. This is what I'm aiming for in this here, 'me home.

Home

BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,

A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam

Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,

An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.

It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,

How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;

It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;

Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then

Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;

And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part

With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh

An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;

An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,

An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;

An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories

O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,

An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;

Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year

Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear

Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run

The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;

Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.