With Easter, a wedding and summer heat coming, my son was in need of a bit of a haircut. My husband, stylist that he is, pulled out the clippers. Yes, he does hair just about as well as he does lawns.
See,a few minutes after he started clipping, the clippers died. The battery takes several hours to charge so he was stuck with the cut overnight. And the next day, a few minutes after he started clipping, the clippers died yet again. So we were sort of stuck. Sometime tomorrow, he shall don a hat to accompany me on a search for a nicer pair of clippers, thus serving as a reminder that in attempts at frugality, there are considerations beyond just the dollar signs.
The poor little guy failed to see any humor in it at first, and Saturday was a rough day full of teasing from siblings and my little Bear overreacting to the provocation. I asked if I could take a picture, just for him for later, and got quite a bearish growl in return.
So I decided to leave that. Even as a so-called “mommy blogger,” I have some respect for my children’ boundaries.
But then today, out of the blue, he said with a slight grin,
“Mom, I guess you can take a picture. But just to send it to grandma. I’d better not see it on your blog.”
“OK, sweetheart,” I answered, trying not to laugh.
And then, after I took the pictures, he said somewhat shyly,
“Oh, alright. You can put it on your blog, too. But you better only say nice things.”
Apparently, his sense of humor takes about two days of humility to begin to come out. That and the ability to be featured on my blog. That, dear readers, is the highlight of my children’s week: when they see a story about them published here to my blog. And with this, he knew he had a free ticket into the spotlight.



Penny Raine recently posted a nice entry on
Just after Thanksgiving, my dad hurt his back. Small piece of advice: Never get injured over the holidays when your regular doctor just left the practice. To make a long story short, he ended up losing feeling in his leg and by the time someone finally saw him, the doctor was upset he hadn’t been immediately admitted to the emergency room. As he went into surgery, he was given a twenty percent chance of spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair and a strong likelihood of never completely recovering the use of his leg.





Welcome to Roscommon Acres, my little home in the country. I write here about life more abundantly, from the joy of a baby’s smile to the almost unbearable grief of losing a son. I am seeking beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, a garment of praise instead of the spirit of despair (Isaiah 61:3).


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