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Also known as IGNORING COMMON SENSE.

My childhood summers were all about gardening. My parents planted more than an acre full of vegetables, and I can’t begin to tell you how many summer nights I spent with my mom and dad dealing with the resulting produce. I’ll never forget the time they planted, oh, about 75 percent of the garden with limas, which meant my nights watching Dukes of Hazzard and Fame were interrupted by having to shell bushels upon bushels of limas. They’d literally cover the floor of our den with newspaper and I’d sit shelling the limas amid piles of the beans.

I don’t eat limas anymore. Or barely so, anyway.

Fast forward to today. I’m itching to plant stuff. I want to be outside and in the sunshine. Who doesn’t, really? But the common rule of gardening is to, of course, wait until all chance of frost has left, which around here isn’t until around Mother’s Day. And, it’s not Mother’s Day, now, is it?

But I’ve been playing around with what we’re going to plant in the two raised beds we’ve built in our backyard. We don’t have an acre here to plant, and I don’t have the time to tend it, even if we did. So I’m trying square-foot gardening this year, and I’ve spent lots of time constructing garden plans on Gardener’s Supply garden planning site.

I printed out plans and bought seeds and set about planting what has to be the most obsessive compulsive garden plots ever planted by anyone in the Newsome clan.

I measured out the squares, strung string across the bed to make sure I knew where the squares were, and set about planting. (Here are just a few of the strings…) Pat played with Iver as I dug miniature rows with a stick and carefully, carefully placed the seeds in and patted down the dirt. Good god, I said. My dad would be laughing his head off at me right about now. He used a tractor. I used a STICK. I felt truly ridiculous.

A few days later, up popped the arugula, the lettuce and cucumbers, the peas and beans, the beets and chard.  All in I decided I would wait on the corn (we’ll see how well Silver Queen does in such a small space) and watermelon. Then I planted the corn on Sunday.

I have no patience, obviously.

I was a first child, so, unlike you second and third children out there, I’ve got a billion photos of me as a baby. (Sorry!)

My mom even put together two baby books for me. This one is aptly named:

This one is more to the point (at least to the point of me as a baby):

I learned from the All About Me book that first impressions last (though that isn’t my mom’s handwriting! Who said that??).

I also learned, amid the awesome illustrations, that Iver and I are on nearly the same growth trajectory so far. And I learned that my first ride in the car was to the flea market in Courtney, N.C. That says so much about my childhood.

But the book and scrapbook have seen better days. The covers are dingy with dirt, even though they were kept in their original boxes. The tape my parents used to keep the photos in the scrapbook has long lost its adhesive, sending the photos tumbling out and scattered. The tape also made the photos brown in places.

I really want to preserve these. Does anyone know how I can repair them and clean them up? (And, for the future, does anyone have recommendations on how to make the albums and scrapbooks I’m making for Iver last past her 30th birthday?)

I’m steadfastly ignoring the cabin fever that’s creeping, crawling just barely under my skin. Instead, I’ll focus on the absolutely beautiful quiet the past two days have given us. It snowed all day yesterday. Big, plopping, wet snowflakes fell and buried everything. I haven’t seen so much snow since 1993, when I got stuck with friends during spring break as we drove from Asheville to New York City. It took us two days to get to there — buoyed by the non-stop techno music the guys driving loved and a quick stop-over in DC. When the two dropped my friend and me off at Juilliard, it took me days to get those stinkin’ beats out of my head. Seeing Gregory Hines in Jelly’s Last Jam helped, though.

Blizzard ‘09. Proof.

Anyway, this snow is not as exciting, I suppose. No techno marathons. No ballerinas in the cafeteria with too-tight buns and only apples on their plates. No walking the streets of New York after cups of tea in cafes. Except now there’s a little girl sitting in my arms listening to me ramble on about these past adventures as we look out the window. She’s all who cares?? Uh, so true. It’s kinda irrelevant considering everything ahead, so, yes, this snow quiet is more intense, more exciting than anything I could have imagined, really.

This morning, our street.

So, to celebrate — I’m still doing the advent celebration, though amended way, way, way down — I spent the day holding Iver and listening to the radio as we sat under the Christmas tree lights. It was so simple. Precious, even, I’m not afraid to admit, because I felt peaceful in a way I haven’t in a while, partly due to sleep deprivation and partly due to finally relaxing that she’s here and OK. I can take a deep breath. Many deep ones. It’s been a sweet, sweet winter so far.