The Tredways’ redbud tree is pretty much endlessly photographable—beautiful in every season.

DPP photos from past years: 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010

The snowfall in Lincoln today has been magical.

DPP pics from past years: 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010

Little helpers making gingersnaps.

DPP pics from past years: 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010

DPP pics from past years: 2006 2007 2008* 2009 2010

*The shot for December 1, 2008, remains one of my favorite pics from all of my years of DPP participation—love all those people.

The December Photo Project is easily one of my favorite traditions each year. It’s starting in just three days, and I have been so excited to pull out the camera daily again. (I had been taking a photo a day—not perfectly but quite faithfully—since August 2010, but I recently gave myself a break from the dailies.)

I have been so eager to begin, in fact, that I already have draft entries—complete with links to my photos from past DPPs—for each of the first 25 days of December. It looks like I didn’t have a camera for 2005 (I can’t remember why), but I have participated since 2006. Apparently, I wasn’t as committed the first two or three years, but for the past two years at least I have posted every day, even if some of the shots were, well, lacking.

One thing I love about the DPP is that it is pretty much impossible to plan what shots you will actually come up with. Every year I have dreams of Pinterest-worthy pictures of my kids catching snowflakes on their tongues and pretty, twinkly lights bokeh. But sometimes, you know, you just take a shot of a random toy at 11 pm. That’s okay too. This year feels particularly mysterious: perhaps Baby Girl will stay put as long as she’s supposed to, or perhaps I will post for several days the view from a hospital bed? 

In any case, it’s a fabulous project, a great little time capsule each year. If you haven’t already, sign up here. You know you want to.

As cute as this pic of my little consumers perusing the Target special edition toys sale flyer may be, it pretty much sums up the opposite of what we’re trying to teach our kiddos. Perhaps it’s this year in particular, specifically because we’re anticipating the arrival of our little one (less than six weeks!), that I’m feeling claustrophobic with all the stuff already in our house, but I have been on yet another (or maybe continued) decluttering/simplifying/organizing tear. Call it my version of nesting.

Saturday we conquered the basement. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been that clean (and organized!), well, ever. We took two full van loads of stuff to the People’s City Mission (the Pretty City Mission, as Simon calls it) and filled up our recycling and garbage cans to overflowing. I commented to Jason that it was remarkable how much stuff we had down there—and how good it feels to get it all out—and he replied that it was pretty disgusting actually. I agree. I don’t have before and after pictures; I think it’s something you need to see in person to get the full effect.

I’ve really appreciated Simple Mom‘s series on planning a peaceful Christmas. And I’ve already simplified even more by skipping task 3, order and organize sending Christmas cards. I keep thinking one of these years I’ll feel grown up enough to start sending Christmas cards, but turns out this isn’t that year.

I’m *this close* to feeling done enough for now with the decluttering. With the exception of everything in Jason’s office, I have now gone through everything in the whole house once. I can already tell that things need to be gone through again (and again and again)—I’m looking at you, pantry. Jason told me this morning that I can clean today but that after today he’s putting a moratorium on the cleaning/decluttering. He says he needs me at 100 percent for the holidays. I hope he’s taking into consideration that 100 percent at 34 weeks pregnant is about 40 percent or less. Also, now I need to start baking.

Simon has always had quite a bit of hair. And it’s pretty crazy most of the time. It makes for some of the best bedhead ever, and, well, for better or for worse his hipster hair (bottom left) has kind of become his signature look.

Lately, Simon has mentioned a couple of times that “someday” he will shave his head like Daddy does—“When I get a little older, maybe,” he explains. Last night he was curled up next to Jason on the couch and said, “I will shave my head when I get to be a kuhdult [adult].” Jason said that sounded like a good idea. Then Simon added, “Yeah, when I grow up to be a daddy, maybe we can share the shaver [clippers] between us daddies.”

Jason didn’t have the heart to tell him that when he grows up to be a daddy he’ll live in his own house with his own family. I, of course, am not-so-secretly hoping that he will live close enough to actually making sharing the clippers practical.

I’ve had it in my head for a couple of weeks that I wanted to do a little photo shoot with each of the boys. Somehow, as if I didn’t know any better, I thought that we would, without any fussing or arguments, load up in the van and, at just the right time of day, head out to some idyllic, quintessentially autumn location (probably Pioneers Park). Once there, we would have found the perfect light with plenty of time, and Jason would have played with one of the boys while I captured the carefree shenanigans of the other—tossing leaves up into the air, stacking pine cones, doing somersaults, or looking directly into the camera with an impish grin. Then we’d switch kiddos and I’d catch boy #2 being completely himself as well. The colors would be rich and amazing! There’d be no stray cars or outhouses in the background! The light would take your breath away! The boys would be wearing killer-cute clothes, and their faces would be clean and snot-free!

Ahem. Instead . . .

I decided rather late in the day that the photo shoot should be right! now! I was, of course, neglecting to take into account the fact that the magic hour of light is also the witching hour. So instead of all that stuff I said before, we were looking at a fit that only a three-year-old could throw and that left ME in tears. What was it about? Shoes? Jacket? Candy? I can’t even remember now. As part of the Tantrum Suppression Agreement, we settled for Cooper Park across the street (strike the peaceful lake; strike the tall prairie grasses; strike the woodland paths; cue the playground already fully shaded; cue the grumpy mommy who had something else in mind).

I left the house with the camera and our mostly compliant youngest child, while behind me I could hear Jason and his mom, who is here visiting for the weekend, riding out of the end of the wrath of Simon. I’m not sure what negotiations had to go on, but it wasn’t too long before Simon emerged calmer, almost happy even, and with a dinosaur in tow.

It would be wrong of me to say I learned some profound lesson about gratitude, expectations, spontaneity, or even parenting. At the time, I was able to let go a bit and enjoy the moments of true delight in my adorable kiddos and in my wonderful husband, who never ceases to blow me away with what a great dad he is. Still, if I’m honest, I was still frumping about my expectations being blown, and I went home almost as grouchy and frustrated as when we started.

In the end, I didn’t get all those amazing shots I wanted (and, as I’ve written about before, maybe they weren’t even possible). But, yeah, we had some fun (she admits reluctantly):

And by “Village Pie,” I do not mean Village Inn–esque or anything of the kind. I mean simply that it took a village to make this pie.

Once upon a time, we went to the apple orchard/pumpkin patch with Grandma Morehead and Uncle Hans and Aunt Leslie.

We picked out Simon- and Ian-sized pumpkins (and plenty of apples too). From the beginning, Simon was insistent that we make a pumpkin pie with his find. Did he want to make a jack-o-lantern? Nope, pumpkin pie.

On a Monday two weeks or so later, we roasted the pumpkins.

Except for scooping out the seeds (not my favorite), roasting a pumpkin is surprisingly easy. Simon and Ian were good helpers too. They didn’t like the “yucky strings,” but they did like scraping the insides of the pumpkins once I had most of the grody parts out. I put the roasted pumpkin in Mason jars, where they sat looking beautiful in the refrigerator for another four or five days.

Then on Wednesday Simon insisted it was the day to make the pie. I didn’t have a pie crust (I find the ones in the refrigerator section quite tasty enough and oh-so-convenient), so I thought as long as we’re doing the whole fresh thing, I might as well give making my own crust from scratch a go. I found a recipe that looked pretty straightforward (and, bonus, I had all the ingredients on hand). Simon didn’t want to help this time, but somehow I managed to get the crust made without my little sous chef. The crust then sat in the refrigerator for a couple more days.

On Friday I decided the pumpkin and the crust either needed to be used or frozen, so I asked Jason to roll out the crust. (He is so, so much better at rolling out dough than I am. He learned from his dad, I think. Truth be told, Simon is probably better at rolling out dough than I am. He also paid close attention to Grandpa Morehead. It is a talent I simply do not possess.)

Finally the time had come to make the pie! I found the easiest recipe I could (and made a few modifications to suit my own spice preferences—added cloves, cut back on the nutmeg, e.g.). We (and by “we” I mostly mean Jason) whipped up the filling and popped the crust in the oven to pre-bake just a little).

Meanwhile . . .

Simon must have decided that he wanted a trauma and scar to match Ian’s recent adventures. Just as we were getting Ian’s jammies on, I heard a bump and a scream from Simon’s room. He had been running “weally fast” and tripped somehow and cut his forehead open when he hit it on his space heater. I will say that this was considerably calmer this time than our last trip to the ER. Jason called Rebecca, who came immediately to fetch Ian (bless her! I don’t think she even knew at the time what had happened, just that we were taking Simon to the hospital). Simon was done crying before we even left the house.

We tried to prepare Simon for the fact that he would probably need stitches. He was totally calm on the way to the hospital, dutifully holding a washcloth to his head while he chattered on about how it had all happened. He did say, “Mommy, I don’t like bleeding.” I don’t think anyone does, kid. And his one question when we told him that stitches meant the doctor would sew his forehead up was what a sewing machine for boys looked like. Good question.

He was quite the charmer in the ER, telling everyone who would listen how fast he had been running, that he weighs “firty” pounds, that he’ll be four! on his next birthday, and so on. At one point the nurse told him he was being a very good patient. “Yeah, I suppose I am,” he said. In the end, he didn’t get stitches, just glue (he was disappointed). And by now, you’d hardly know it happened (he has such a crazy amount of hair to cover), but he will have a scar to rival Ian’s.

And back at home (and back to the story of the pie) . . .

Rebecca and Liv came to put the Squisher down to sleep. Jason had turned off the oven but hadn’t thought to take the crust out. Rebecca to the rescue! I am so thankful for friends who took such good care of our kiddo, the pie, and, um, also of our house (I am particularly fond of the “also” link—love the sweet, sly expression).

We ended up baking the rest of the pie after Simon was safely tucked into bed. The end result was really quite good—but probably not quite as good as the saga of getting it made might have warranted.

Sadly, not all the hands involved got to partake of the Village Pie (which has now been polished off), but hopefully Rebecca for one was at least partially mollified by Baked Pumpkin Spice Donut Holes, made from the same pumpkins.

We are having the exterior of our house painted this fall, and I couldn’t be more excited about it. We’re sticking with the same color for various reasons, so perhaps it won’t be as dramatic a change as I’m envisioning, but in any case it certainly does need the freshening up.

Yesterday the painter came to power wash the house. It was thrilling for the boys, and I will say I found it rather relaxing—kind of like living in a carwash. (The report from our furry little neighbor was apparently not so positive, though.)

I was thinking that maybe it wasn’t necessarily so bad, but after the washing took all the “easy” stuff off, I took a look around the house—and yikes! Yes, it’s time.

So now the painter and his crew will be around for the next few weeks or so. Simon is very interested in the ladders stowed back by the garage that we get to “take care of.” And I just have to keep myself from heading out the back door to pick at the paint that’s peeling (everywhere). It’s like a giant scab or like glue on your fingers. So tempting.