Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one’s youth.

— Psalm 127:4

I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t read. Writing has always been a part of me. After college, I always meant to write a blog. A couple of false starts, nearly ten years, and three kids later, I’m realizing for myself two things. First, there’s no time like the present. And second, a mother needs creative outlets, just for herself. So, that’s what this is. An account of our life as a family, antics, and hobbies. A way to pretend to have adult conversation with someone other than the voice in my head. I’m happy for anyone who’d like to follow along with us, but if nothing else, maybe I’ll remember these days when I’m ninety.

Our mornings these days begin at 6 am, on the heels of sleep in two to three hour stretches. My husband and I have three boys, ages 5, 3, and 8 months. There is little rest for the weary and lots of tears and poop (mostly theirs), but the little moments make it all worth it… I hope.

I grew up on a hobby goat farm in rural North Alabama, surrounded by cotton fields and cow pastures. We always had farm animals. We always had a garden. We hauled hay in the summer and wood in the winter. Summers were running barefoot through the woods, playing in the creek, and sipping sweet tea on porches littered with corn shucks and shelled bean hulls. I married a city boy from old farming roots and a heritage of hobby collecting. Between the two of us, we’ve begun a hobby repertoire of our own. Chain maille making, blacksmithing, baking, entomology, embroidery, cooking, canning, gardening, crafting, and chicken farming, to name a few. And somehow, when we weren’t looking, suddenly we have our own hobby farm. Smaller, surrounded by neighborhood homes instead of pasture, and minutes to city streets, but here, on our one acre homestead, our hobbies make it feel like home.

Between shelling beans and collecting eggs, little boy giggles and muddy puddles, we’re always up to something.