My kids roll out of bed and go outside. Always. 365 days of the year. Rain, snow, sleet and sun. Hot, warm, cold, freezing, numbing. We're out. Sometimes just for a bit, sometimes for a looooong time. Sometimes in clothing appropriate for the weather, sometimes barefoot and no pants in 40 degree weather. I suppose is started like that when we had our cow. They'd wake and head out to the barn, to find me milking. How I miss those days. The smell of freshly cleaned stall, the vinegar I'd use to disinfect her udder/teats, the hay, grain, bag balm and sweet milk smells. I'd sit on my stool, lean my head into the warmth of the cow's belly and get my rhythmic milking going. Swish swish, ping ping, into the milk bucket. I tried machine milking a number of times and came to conclusion that I'm a hand milker. Nothing like it. Such a great time to think, to plan, to pray, to be still. No longer am I milking, but we still have the habit of throwing outerwear over our sleepwear and heading out. Here we have a frosty morning, pajamas, coats, mittens, hats, a few eggs, and a guinea hen (I NEVER understand how this girl catches guinea hens. Know how fast they are?!). Bonus: I helped Audra make her pants, I made Adrian's pants, I made Anna-Kate's coat and neighbors and friends made the hats and some of the mittens. None of this planned, this is just an instantaneous moment in time. My husband just told me the night before last that although the lifestyle we lead is different from most, he suspected the kids will look back at their childhood fondly. This means a lot coming from my city boy husband, who originally thought my wild and free visions of child raising were...well...interesting. Thankful for this trio, thankful for my husband who supports us living feral.