make your bed.

My mom recently shared with me an article from Reader's Digest that was surprisingly convicting.  It comments on one of the day's simplest tasks: making your bed.  Is it really all that important?  I know for me it's definitely a hit or miss chore.  But after reading this, I plan to take that menial task more seriously. 

"At the risk of sounding childish or lazy (maybe both?), I'll just be honest: I hate making my bed.  Rather, I used to hate making my bed.  Why should I bother? I reasoned.  I'm just going to get right back into it later, and no one except my immediate family will see it (and, as it turns out, they are stuck with me and all my covers-tossed-in-disarray).  

But something I read last week in Charles Duhigg's The Power of Habit changed my mind.  According to Duhigg, making your bed every morning is correlated with better productivity and stronger skills at sticking to a budget.  It also boosts happiness.  My interest was piqued.  Happiness?  Yes, I'll take it.  Productivity?  Yep, I'll take that too.  Sticking to a budget?  Sounds good to me. ...

Apparently, making your bed (and other feel-good tasks like exercising and cooking your own food) is a keystone habit: a routine that, if you can identify it, spills over to others.  According to Duhigg, changing or cultivating keystone habits 'helps other habits to flourish by creating new structures, and they establish cultures where change becomes contagious.'  A keystone habit is essentially a catalyst for other good behaviors.

So far I've made my bed for ten days in a row.  And here's what I've noticed: Making my bed inspires me to get my kids to make their beds.  Which inspires me to do the laundry and the dishes and to pick up abandoned stuffed animals, dropped underwear (theirs! not mine), and newspapers-turned-light-sabers as I corral my two toddlers out the door to school.  I look at my watch to see that it is 8 a.m., and the house is an unusual shade of clean before coffee.

...When I leave my bed in a heap, I leave the bedroom feeling defeated by my bed, my alarm clock, and my general sleepy mood.  I'm groggy and reluctant to get the day started.  My internal voice sounds a bit like the strewn covers: 'Noooooo, morning!  Go awaaaaaay!'

But when I look at my freshly made bed, I have to admit it: I smile a little.  I feel just a bit more motivated.  Productive, even.  I leave the room saying, 'Goodbye beautiful little den of tranquility that I have created with my bare hands!'  And I'm ready to tackle the day--crush it, even...."

(Read the rest of the article by Jackie Ashton here.)

So what do we think?  Are we inspired?

xx,

R + baby

P.S. If that didn't inspire you this most certainly will.  

before the snow.

We had our first snow in Michigan this morning.  It's hard to believe that in just a few months I'll be walking through the sister of that snow to bring my little girl home for the first time.  Until then, we're enjoying the last remnants of autumn.

anxiety.

With only 17 weeks left until my due date the reality (and dread, and anxiety, and excitement, and more anxiety) of delivery is beginning to set in.  I know as I grow bigger and the discomforts of pregnancy gradually increase that I'll slowly become more and more mentally prepared for the big day.  But until then, while our daughter is still just a little flutter in my belly I'm really struggling with pre-labor jitters.  

Thankfully I came across two blog posts today that set my spirit at such ease.  Both spoke so clearly of the power and importance of gratefulness when having a baby.  What better way to find joy?  The first was Nancy Wilson writing a simple announcement of the birth of her new grandson.  What really struck me was Rachel's 'birth plan'.

"Yes, it was an unexpected C-section. Hoorah for C-sections! What a merciful God who gave Rachel a chirpy attitude, a flexible birth plan, kind nurses, skillful physicians, and a healthy baby boy who had (at the last minute) wiggled himself into an impossible position. Actually, she told me her birth plan ahead of time. It was this: to be grateful. And she is."   

(read the rest of the post here.) 

As soon as I read this, I went hunting for my friend Jen's birth story.  After a long and difficult labor J gave birth to a handsome, handsome boy.  She is always so genuine in her attitude and I new she'd have some wisdom to share. 

"God provides in every situation and makes His glory shine through in the biggest and smallest ways. I think its easy while pregnant to get caught up in thinking about the delivery and how its going to go, and how you want it to go, but the truth is, no birth plan stands a chance. The important part isn't how you have the baby, it's that you have the baby."  

(read the rest of her story here.) 

So from now on I'm going to stop researching "the perfect birth plan" and start looking at more pictures of babies on Pinterest. Thanks for the encouragement, ladies.  xx, R

Tender

I love cooking lazy.  Having studied briefly at a small culinary school, I appreciate a grand, eight-course, gastronomic affair, but on a cold day like this I leave my Escoffier on the shelf and reach for something simpler. 

My first go-to cookbooks are two gorgeous volumes by British food colonist Nigel Slater: Tender: A cook and his vegetable patch, and Ripe: A cook in the orchard.  Instead of being organized by course, Slater dedicates each chapter to a star vegetable (in Tender) or fruit (in Ripe).  Each section is introduced by no less than a love letter to the produce with tips on selecting and growing and his favorite varieties.  The recipe are beautifully composed (often in prose) and dedicated solely to flavor, not flash. 

A Soup the Color of Marigolds (from Tender)

“It was a simple soup, ten minutes' hands-on work and barely half an hour on the stove. An onion, coarsely chopped, softened in a little olive oil in a deep and heavy pan. An equal amount of carrots and yellow tomatoes (I used 1 pound [450g] of each to make enough for four), chopped and stirred into the soft, translucent onion. About 4 cups (a liter) of water (I could have used stock), and some salt, pepper, and a couple of bay leaves. It simmered for half an hour, then I pureed it to a thick, pulpy broth in the blender. We ended up with four big bowls of coarse-textured soup, as bright and cheerful as a pitcher of June flowers, a few chives stirred in at the table. As we licked our spoons, someone mentioned it would have been good to have it chilled. But by that time it was too late to try.”