Maternity Photos ~ 35 Weeks

We're 35 weeks now so just patiently waiting on our darling Addison to make her glorious debut into the world :)

iPad cake for Owen

Today I labored a labor of love for my youngest nephew Owen's 8th birthday. The labor? A request for an "iPad cake". Never having seen an iPad, let alone held one, I think I did a pretty decent job. Also considering that it is all buttercream frosting, not a lick of fondant! Hate that stuff! I hope he likes it. I can't wait to see his face on Sunday when I bring it over for his celebration!

Oreo Cheesecake? Say what?! :D

Home made from scratch Oreo Cheesecake Bites topped with chocolate and white chocolate :) Yum! Decided to make them just to keep me occupied for the day. Delicious! And it was perfect planning finding the recipe because it kept me distracted while Josh was battling yet another house fire this week. It's just too dang hot in SC! I plan on sharing them with family and of course, firemen, over the weekend

. First though, Josh and I have our childbirth class on Saturday which will hopefully relax me a little for labor and delivery. I'm all about having the facts before trying something new! ;)

My Little Sunshine

Addison's nose and lips making a funny face to us :-) Can't wait to see her cuteness in person!

Their Whole-Selves

Humans create art in awareness of death,
so she said and so it was. An act of
desperation to remain, be remembered,
exist outside our world, artists all.
We write the brush strokes of our lives,
individual moments, memorable.
A century, decades less perhaps, is given
to each, gifted only , but she continues to quote
Bishop, and Keats, move forward.

She’s wrapped up in the Holocaust,
Jew teeth and fallen historical societies;
while I wait here with contemporary novels,
the FX channel and broken families.
Small and judgmental is my life
to her beliefs, her darkness.
She is a poetry momma pushing for wisdom.
There is no good way to do things sometimes.
Organization waits for poetics, and lesbian
code-writing. I care for death, and
wait for art.

Openness

Always it is there already.
What do I become if I let love in?
Once more I may be whole
if she comes back to me.
I will wait for her.
A drinking straw and Turtle
are what keeps in my pocket
with the key. I locked her in there.
In the closet Emily Dickenson
pauses for attention as ambition and ego fight.
We must. We care for the reader
but speaking is policed. I know what I write.
Embrace motherhood in Brazil
and cry openly with emotion.
What do we keep from ourselves?
– I meant to say that there –
Partners, friends, siblings; instead of we.

Not In Color

Music drifts around, curvy notes left hanging in the air
by the doorway. They cover the faces of imaginary
people who bustle by and whisper hello, goodbye.
Their presence rivals window dressings and losses. Sounds,
very much like slow jazz, played on a piano
as trumpets or sousaphones nudge their way in.
Subjects do not exist and abstraction does not work
here. Here, where the world is made of words,
some in color but most, black and white.
Temperature drops degree by degree but I stand there,
watching the men load the letters into a truck
and while sweating in the gray air.
Then a pack of dogs runs by howling and tracking
language, startling me from my sights. Bark. Run.