And then I played doll house

Even with my own children, the two people in the world I am most predisposed to love, even with them I fall so incredibly short.

If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal....Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. 

Yesterday I startled myself with the sound of my own voice, sharp and exasperated, volume rising with every word. I don't even remember what I was yelling about, only that it was maybe the fifteenth power struggle of the day and I was so over getting lip from my stubborn six year old.

After our collective meltdown, I kept hearing that passage in my head (yeah, that one, the "love chapter", the cliche wedding reading, the one I like to quote to my kids when they aren't being nice to each other). And somewhere in the hours that followed I came to a humbling conclusion.

I don't love my children. Not consistently. Not the way I should. 

Sure, I adore them and enjoy them. I find them delightful at times. I would go to any length to protect them. I'd die for them, if it came to that.

And what's ridiculous is how I say I'd give my life for them, yet I struggled to give my daughter just thirty minutes of my Sunday to play doll house. (Have I mentioned how I hate playing doll house?) I became irritable and resentful when their needs and requests conflicted with my own. And I'd rather not give examples, but suffice it to say: my heart wasn't patient, and my voice wasn't kind.

(By the way you guys, falling flat on your figurative face? So not fun. I don't recommend it.)

I can correct their behavior, even quote verses while I'm doing it, but have not love. Clangity clang clang.  I can feed, clothe, read, drive, teach, listen, speak. But if I do it resentfully, irritably, impatiently, without love at the center. Yep. Clangy McClangerton.

So I asked my little girl to forgive me. I told my son I'd messed up, that I hadn't modeled what love was supposed to look like, that I 'd been selfish and impatient.

They forgave me, like they always do.
I told them I loved them, so, so much.
And then I played doll house.

Just writing today, with Heather. 

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In which I just write (and pack away the thoughts about packing it all up)

The talking has begun again about the moving and the to wherewillitbe. Sometimes I go down the Target aisles thinking about whether to buy a couple of the made-in-China plastic storage tubs. I debate whether to start the packing/organizing/donating now or just put it off until I'm ready to face the basement spiders and the fact that my two year old boy is days away from his eighth birthday. 

I've been meaning to pack the Thomas the Train stuff up for two years. But then the almost-eight year old and his little sister played with it yesterday. And then they made the sad pouty faces when I talked about packing it up. 

"BUT MAAW-UUUM," they pleaded, "We play with those ALL THE TIME!" No, not all the time. Only on the day after I was thinking about packing it all up. The all-the-time-obsession with Thomas was actually when you were three years old, which I sometimes think you still are, until I see you out on the soccer field acting like you actually know the definition of word midfielder.

But I get it, I really do. All it takes is one little conversation about leaving Ohio and I start my own little list of people and places I love too much to leave. The thought of packing it all away and saying goodbye only makes me want to hold on tighter. So I guess it won't hurt to leave the trains out a little  longer.

::

I promised them we'd go to the Great Big Fair, the one for which all the kids in the county get a day off from school to show their animals and do 4-H-ish stuff, whatever that even means.  I promised for two years in a row, "We'll go before we move! Don't worry! We'll go!" This was my last year to make good on the promise, so I did.

They loved it of course. (The fair is definitely not my favorite. But I love them, and so I loved it vicariously.) For the record, I actually did have a pretty good time on the ferris wheel.

Then a couple days later we all ran a race, and the boy won his age group, and I won mine. The best part was when we ran a "cool-down" mile together. Never mind that his race had been over for an hour and he didn't need to cool down. It was the togetherness thing that got me.  Just me and my little boy, jogging along and debriefing about our races. I remember thinking how it won't be long before the roles are reversed, before he'll be the one slowing down for me. I remember thinking that this was a holy (albeit sweaty) moment, if ever there was one.

And then I had a birthday, and the next thing I know I'm wearing high heels and drinking a cucumber margarita on a school night. My husband thinks social media is 100 percent lame, and I want to agree with him. He thinks if you laugh your arse off with your best friend on your 30-somethingth birthday at the mod-Mex place, and no one hears it/ likes it on Facebook, it's still real. I want to agree with him, but then the 12 year old in me (the one who apparently has a host of validation issues) still needs to check in and get a lot of likes in order to be artificially affirmed.

My daughter, the one who literally skipped to the finish line of her one mile race in 13 minutes and change, she clearly doesn't give a crap about winning or validation. She seems only to want to get her way and to boss me and the dog around. Oh, and to wear pink and be fancy. But out of the blue, she told me this afternoon, "I just love you, Mama, even though you aren't very fancy most of the time."

Good enough, smart enough, but not quite fancy enough...

And just like that, I have all the affirmation I need.

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Come what gray

She had us outside twenty minutes early to look for the bus. Yeah, I'd say she's ready.

Kindergarten is only a half day in our district, so there was no time to waste crying in the coffee. Instead, I rejoiced my way to the gym to do one mile repeats (the silence, it was golden). The rejoicing stopped right after I finished the mile warm-up and began running the second mile "on target pace", also known as the "watch out, blissfully-unaware-treadmill-neighbor, because I haven't ruled out puking" pace. Speed workouts are for lunatics. (That would be me.)

Last week at this time, we were still in Maine. It feels worlds away now, already sorted among the stories we'll soon tell about "last summer". The only remnants are the tiny pile of shells in the corner of the car trunk and the staples in my son's head. Yes, folks, the beach is not without its hazards. I told my seven year old there were easier ways to visit Daddy's old hospital, but he insisted on the dramatic way.

He's fine, and we are fine, and everything's fine. Sometimes almost too fine, such that my anxious heart warns me in a low and steady beat: this fragile perfection can only last so long. 

We have only so many moments of silent harmony, of loud joy, of health, of stepping forward without fear,  before it is painted over with the hurdles and the brokenness and the arguing and the disappointment. I know I'm singing an Eeyore and Debbie Downer duet, which is not what you're supposed to sing when you just had a dreamy first day of school send-off with your two perfectly healthy children.
But screw what you're supposed to sing, because life isn't black and white, not enough to say "life is good" or "life is bad".  Life is a mostly a canvas of good-mixed-with-bad gray; and these mythic moments, these milestones, these places of bone-deep contentment, these are the splatters of wild color. These are the hues for which you hold your breath, the colors for which you hold out hope.

But here's the rub. No sooner do the bright swirls appear on the canvas, then I am plotting how to keep them there, how to keep the silt and dust that permeates the air of my regular old life from rendering the colors dull. I know from experience these joyful colors will be dull by dinner time, when everyone is back to complaining about the zucchini.

I don't know what to do, how to live with this constant gray blurring, other than to gaze with gratitude at the colors as they come. And today, there was color. Last week in Maine, there was color. Splattered throughout this summer, there was color. So I pause and enjoy the color, come what gray.

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In which I allow my otherwise ever-grateful self to be a teensy bit sarcastic

I have a great idea! Let's fight over a pencil! Yes, that sounds like exactly what we need, and so very fitting since there aren't already fifty gazillion sharpened and half used pencils spread strategically throughout the house in every last drawer, container and/or crevice.

And oooh, this one just came to me. How 'bout we whine REALLY LOUDLY about how our brother is making too much noise while we're trying to (not) eat our carrots? Or, even better, let the brother pretend not to hear the VERY LOUD WHINING and continue on with whatever he calls that mixture of ewok noises, jibberish and saliva-infested beat boxing.

And also, while we're on a roll, you two should really keep up that thing where you ask me every five minutes what we're going to do today, tomorrow, and for the rest of our entire lives. It's helpful particularly because even though I didn't know five minutes ago, the conditions in my brain change so rapidly that by the time you ask again, I might have a completely different answer and begin reciting a minute-by-minute schedule that covers the activities for all of eternity, to include of course an extensive amount of water parks, highly intensive and messy crafts, and unlimited slurpees.

::

I'm hoping that by allowing Mount Sarcasm to erupt here on the blog, it will be less likely to bubble over during my upcoming trip to the grocery store with the aforementioned children. Fingers crossed.

So, um, how many days until school starts again?

::

You guys know I'm kidding, right? And that I love my children fiercely and relentlessly? This 24/7 thing just does a number on my already questionable sanity, you know? So if you're even tempted right now to be judgy and tisk-tisky, I know exactly how you can jump in and show the righteous love of the Lord to this heathen ingrate mother. Two words. Say 'em with me: Baby. Sitting. 

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Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful {Just Write}

We're wide awake at 3 a.m. The girl keeps kicking me, tossing and turning and asking in a too loud voice whether the "fireworks" are coming closer. The boy keeps burrowing closer, and when I ask him for a bit of room, he blames the dog. He can't move; she's in his way. I'm sandwiched good and tight between these two flannel-clad little heaters, and a king sized bed never felt so small.

For two hours, I'm awake. First she needs a drink. Then he's scared. She can't sleep. He can't pull the covers up because the dog is on them. She doesn't like the thunder. He doesn't like the lightning. And I don't like any of it.

The last straw lands on my side in the form of a little girl's arm. She's reaching over and touching her brother's face. On purpose. "Stop it!!" he yells (right in my ear). "MAAAWM, she's TOUCHING ME!"

Groggily, I lecture myself in a chant. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful. I try to name the good, things like the dry, warm house, the soft bed. The fact that the soft bed is too crowded, is that really a problem? Of course it isn't, and I know that. But I want to sleep in peace, and I want to snap at the children who refuse to accommodate me. But they are my treasures, and this is my privilege. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful....

The alarm interrupts a dream in which we have lost the backpack, the lunches aren't packed, no one has had breakfast, and we're late for school. Also? I'm supposed to be in DC already, and they're waiting for me at the starting line, but I don't even know where my shoes are, and I never picked up my bib.

Morning arrives, mercifully, miraculously. We aren't late for anything, not yet. Only a bit tired. The sun streams so bright that even the mud puddles glisten. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful.

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Delighted

I got a haircut a few days back, and then I ruined that perfectly styled, fresh cut look by putting on a hat and running twelve miles. I had just a few minutes to wash up and change before my next taxi shift began (school, piano, dinner, homework...). It's probably true I looked a mess; but when I leaned over his spelling paper to check his work, did my seven year old really have to tilt his head back and scrunch his eyebrows and say, "Wow, I can tell you're having a baaaad hair day!"?

Speaking of hair, the five year old has decreed that she will "not get another hair cut for the rest of my kid life." I asked her what would happen if it got so long that she stepped on it, and she didn't hesitate: "Well, let's just wait to worry about that when we get there."

In social studies yesterday, the second grade held mock elections. Caed ran for president on a platform of better sports equipment and procuring desks that open from the top. He squeaked into office just two votes ahead of his opponent. He told me all the kids "who didn't want to do anything"  were made congressmen by default. That sounds about right.

That picture above, it is my visual reminder to delight in the grass I'm given (no matter how green).  (Or in the snow and the mud and the wind of Ohio spring). It is my reminder to laugh and giggle instead of yell and nag. It is my reminder that life has the potential to be amazing if only I kick off those too tight heels, throw my arms up, my head back, my whole heart in.

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I love the view from here

Where cousins and scientific curiosity meet.

 

Where you can jump higher than imagined, and still land safely.

 Where you can climb halfway to heaven without leaving your front yard.

Where you can go out on a limb for what feels like forever and still make it back for afternoon snack.

Yes. I love the view from here.

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Sometimes neither of us get our way {Just Write}

I know it was because she was tired, worn out from the 1-2-3 punch of a packed 3-day weekend. And I know it was a power struggle I shouldn't have engaged in. She asked me to bring the baby dolls down for "the big show" and declared that she would get the chairs. I told her no, that whatever she wanted for the show she needed to bring down by herself, and to be prepared to put it all away by herself too.

"But you HAVE TO bring the baby dolls. I am ASKING YOU TO GET THEM RIGHT NOW!  And now the show is going to have to be cancelled because YOU didn't bring the baby dolls!"

"I'm happy to watch the show when you have it set up how you'd like, but I'm not going to help you bring things downstairs."

"No, Mama. LOOK AT MY EYES. You are NOT followin' my in'tructions! And I'm waiting for you to make it right wid me!" She crossed her arms and popped one hip to the side.

I started to laugh. I knew laughing would make things worse, that her frustration would only grow. But I was tired too, tired of the whining and the demands and her insistence on having her way.

And the truth is, I didn't say no to carrying the baby dolls because of some grand wise master parenting plan. I simply didn't feel like going upstairs to bring those blasted baby dolls down to the family room. And I didn't want to help with the stupid show. I didn't even want to watch it. Is it too much to ask to get my own way? Isn't that one of perks of being the parent?

Even after I laughed, she didn't let it go. She asked me over and over to get the baby dolls so she could set up the show. I told her (calmly) over and over that I wouldn't. After what felt like a hundred rounds of this, she stomped her feet and started to cry. I sat down and pulled her onto my lap.

She buried her face in my neck and curled her body close. "Let's just cuddle for a minute," I said, brushing a tear from her cheek, kissing the top of her head.

"Alright," she said. "I think that's a good idea."

Sometimes neither of us get our way. And then sometimes, we both do.

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Then & Now: A Dental Retrospective

 

There was a time, not so long ago, when all he had were two front teeth.

And now, that's all he's missing.

 

(If you'd asked me back then, I'd have said his smile couldn't possibly be cuter. 

But if you asked me now, I'd say anything's possible.)

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To my boy, on the eve of your Irish ancestry presentation (Just Write)

It's 11:11, and I just put the loaves in the oven. He went to bed begging to bring Irish soda bread to school tomorrow, to pass out to his class during his ancestry presentation. I told him no. Too crumbly. Too messy. Too delicate to transport in his backpack. And besides, I didn't have any buttermilk.

But then his teacher emailed back an hour ago, said he was welcome to bring even a crumbly messy treat. And I remembered how to make buttermilk with a bit of lemon juice. And then I thought of his face in the morning when he would discover the loaves, and well, I got straight to work.

Every day he grows further and further into unfamiliar territory, stretching beyond the ages I've imagined him to be, spelling words like "hygiene" and "posture" without help (though I still have to remind him to wash his hair when he showers). Sometimes I don't know what to make of it all, how this little man came to live here, and whatever happened to the baby boy who used to sleep in the crook of my arm.

I hope when he's a teenager, when perhaps he's feeling stifled or misunderstood or anxious or disconnected, I hope he remembers the morning when he was seven and in the second grade, the morning when he woke up to the sight and smell of soda bread, and to the feeling of being loved, always.

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To love them toward the horizon

Every morning they measure taller, yet no amount of height minifies this urge to reach and clutch with both hands, to shout "careful" when they dart ahead even by an inch.

It is impulse, reflex, the tick of a lovesick mother.

But I have been careful my whole life, perhaps too careful, and do I want them to dwell in this chest-tight caution, or do I want them to move beyond me with open lungs and palms? Would I ask them to settle for a safe ceiling when infinite sky waits just outside these walls?

I don't yet know how to let go, how to stop my mouth from saying "slow down, you might fall", how to model something other than playing it safe. I don't yet know how to love them toward the horizon.

But I know I must learn.



Linking up with Emily today for Imperfect Prose.

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A rhythm of unremarkable days (just write)

I live in a rhythm of unremarkable days. We get up (too early). We get dressed. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she fights me about wearing long sleeves. On Wednesdays, it's usually about the tights or leggings. Then we go places. To school, to the grocery store, the gym, the dry cleaners, the dentist.

Sometimes he bounds off the bus, reporting his spelling success as a "dream come true." Sometimes he drags every step up the driveway, head down, because a mean boy smeared cheese on his cheek and sleeve at lunch. (A nightmare for a boy who equates the smell of cheese with the end of the world.) Sometimes we sail through homework, and sometimes he stretches 20 minutes of work into an hour. Sometimes I beam. Sometimes I growl.

It grows dark, even before we sit down for spaghetti and broccoli, and by the time they start rifling through their halloween candy bags, half past six might as well be midnight. We are all tired, but I'm the only one willing to admit it.

She scooches under the covers she will most certainly kick off in a few short hours. We read about the time Pa thought an old stump in the woods was a bear, and how Ma thought a real live bear was just Sukey the cow. Her brother puts down his Boxcar Children book, wanders in to listen. He's not interested in girl stories, and besides, he's read this one before. But still, it's a story about a bear, so he thought he'd check whether his sister was scared.

I turn out her lights, and now it's his turn. We take turns reading, page for page, and he stands straight up on his bed, throws his arms in the air and shouts, "Asaahlan's on the move!" And when Father Christmas gives Peter a sword, he flips ahead. Only one more chapter until Peter's first battle!

We pray. He almost always prays the same thing, a quick thank you for a wonderful day, for a warm house and food to eat. But tonight he says only, "Thank you for my mom. Amen."

I turn out his light, then change into PJs before tackling the dishes. I scrub the saute pan and debate whether to write. I decide I'm too tired, that there's nothing remarkable to write about.

Then I change my mind. I write anyway. I begin to remember, to smile. I add it all up, find myself shocked at the sum. Next thing I know, I'm tapping my foot to the rhythm of these unremarkable days.

Joining Heather today for Just Write.

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Mark my place

He was four when we began reading about Mr. Tumnus, Lucy's first friend in Narnia. We divided the pages of the entire series among 300+ bedtimes. Every now and then, I replaced the 1950s language of Britain with a more contemporary word. Every now and then, I skipped a scary part. I was sure most of it was sailing far over the head of my little boy in the stretchy cotton, cowboy pajamas.


But I was wrong. He was six months shy of five when he wished Aslan would appear again within the pages of the story. "Because," he explained, "Aslan could make it all better--kind of like God..."

We finished the series over two years ago. This morning, he picked up The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and began to read. On the way to school, he leaned forward in his seat. "Hey, Mom. Guess what part I'm in? Lucy's at Mr. Tumnus's house. The other kids haven't come into Narnia yet. And I was just looking ahead--chapter 12 is Peter's first battle. Oh man, I can barely wait till I get to that one!"

So this is what it feels like. To see what two short years can do to a little boy. To grieve ending and celebrate beginning in a single breath, moment, word. This book marks for me the places, then and now. Like a landmark you once saw as a child, now appearing along the highway, looking so much smaller to adult eyes, showing in an instant how far you've come. How much he's grown. How it's only the start.

Shared today with the beautiful community Emily hosts on Thursdays at Imperfect Prose.

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I Almost Forgot

If it's true that I write to remember (and it is), then I should write about the time he ran his second race, achieved a new PR.
About the day she started preschool.

About the party for a boy who can't possibly be seven, but is.

I suppose I should write about all those things, about pink backpacks and black balloons, about the star wars lego guys guarding the light saber cupcakes, about using popcorn the force to synchronize the movement of two spaniel's snouts.

I suppose I should also confess to being a reluctant soccer mom, the kind without a mini-van, but still. I suppose I should share my growing conviction that organized soccer should be in no way encouraged or allowed until such time that the budding player can put on his own blasted shin guards and soccer socks.

I suppose I should tell you that teaching a four and half year old to read is only a good idea if you are heavily medicated.

And I probably should confess that Dani roped me into playing doll house this morning, and the only reason I went along was because of capital G Guilt. I took my phone and coffee and tried to shop for Caed's snow pants and boots while playing the dual roles of the pink pony and the only nice mommy in a kingdom full of very mean dogs. Dani, being too stinkin' smart for my own good, took the phone, saying "Here Mama, I will put it away up here for you so it will be safe while you play with me." Can we add capital B Busted to the list?

And I suppose, if I write to remember, I should tell you that I have abdicated Dani's reading lesson for the day to PBS Kids. But really, can we just forget that one?

I struggle mightily to make the most of these fleeting days, and this without even having a Pinterest account to distract me. Then I beat myself up for struggling. Which is a bit hypocritical, considering how quick I'd be tell you that motherhood shouldn't be about guilt, and life shouldn't be about shoulds, about musts, about reluctant compliance to some ridiculous vision that equates enough with perfection.

So I suppose, if it's true that I write to remember (and I do), I should write about the time I almost forgot that perfection and to-do-lists and glittery art projects and fresh baked bread and straight As and clean toilets and weedless flower beds shall pass away, but the greatest of these is love.

::

Joining Heather today for Just Write.

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The Small Life

I love the small life, the invisible one, where no one glances in my direction, gossips at my expense, "What makes her so special?" or "I wonder what she did to get that job?".

I love that I can wear the same outfit two days straight and no one notices, that a magazine won't ever call me out as a fashion don't (or do).
I love this small life.

I might be a practicing extrovert, but at my core, I remain a devout introvert.

I would rather be known--truly known--by few, than to be known of by many.

I could lose a whole day in nothing but slicing peaches and playing doll house and rinsing dishes and reviewing math facts and brewing coffee and shimmying socks over shin guards. And no one would see except my littles and maybe the overtired husband. And by nearly every definition society offers me, it's a day lost, nothing lasting accomplished, no shining success.

But it feels to me exactly as I'd hoped a day might feel, like I am part of something that matters. 

In this small life, the world around me asks very little. They do not look to me to solve the famine crisis or to broker peace in the middle east. They no longer look to me to meet a deadline or make recommendations to the board or to finish performance reviews. They have never looked at me to direct traffic or prosecute a case or fly a plane or run a code or build a bridge or save a life. As it stands today, the world around me doesn't look to me for anything.


But my son and my daughter, they look to me for everything. And I get to be here to return their gaze and to be their world.

And there isn't anything small about that.

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SAAAH-REEE

"Finish that last bite, Caed. And then I think we should play the original Sorry game," he said, shooting me his all too familiar half-winking-wait-till-you-see-this look.

"How do you play the original Sorry, Daddy? Do we already have that game or do you have to buy it?" Caed asked, his mouth full with the last of the green beans.

"I'll show you. C'mere Dani. You can play first."

Dani padded over to his lap, climbed on without prompting. Daddy's arms clamped instantly round her, and she squealed and squirmed.

"Do you want me to let you go?" he asked.
"No," she giggled.

"I don't get it. Is this the original Sorry? Don't you use a board and pawns and stuff?" Caed questioned, still chewing.

Dani kept giggling, squirming. "Lemme go! Lemme go now!"

"SAAAH-REE!" Daddy replied.

Caed bounded over to the chair. "I wanna play now! I wanna play! My turn, Daddy?"

And so it was that the original game of Sorry came to trump all other games. Now, instead of a bedtime game of UNO or Sorry (the real one) or Zingo or Chutes and Ladders, the request is always, always, always: "Please, please, can we play the original game of Sorry?"

As for Daddy, he might be a little sore and a lot tired of this anything-but-a-board game, but he's not sorry. No, he's not sorry at all.

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Tomorrow comes quickly

"I had the jitters last night before my big first day," he whispers as I tuck him in. "But only the good kind--the excited kind, not the nervous kind."

"I'm so glad you love school, Bud. So, so glad."

I kiss his forehead, rub the top of his freshly buzzed head, pull his beloved green blankie up to his shoulders.

When did he grow from only three weeks old to just three weeks shy of seven? And how did I get here--a mom not of babies or toddlers or preschoolers, but actual schoolers?

I'll tell you how. One night at a time.

One sleepless, restful, too long, too short night at a time. Growth takes them by the hand while they dream, leads my babies from one size to the next, too slow for my eyes to see, too fast for my heart to accept.

"Good night, big guy. Get some rest. Tomorrow comes quickly." 

Much, much too quickly.


::

Linked to The Gypsy Mama for Five Minute Friday. Disclaimer: I took a few minutes more than five to write the above as I hadn't intended to link up today. But then I saw Lisa Jo's prompt was "older" and well, it just fit.

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Disguised as an ordinary day

In minutes, the sun will rise on the first day of second grade. I look out the kitchen window while I pour the coffee, notice the black backdrop still hanging from the sky. The sun must have hit snooze, pulled dark clouds back over her head. She hides while the rain bullies the height out of the grass. My unsuspecting windows stay open, and morning creeps through the screens smelling like wet bark and frizzy bangs.

I wonder where I'll stage the first-day-of-school picture. I wonder where I put the umbrella. I wonder if it will always feel this anti-climatic--like why wouldn't the bus be stopping to pick him up in half an hour--hasn't it always?


I finish packing the lunch. I set a bowl of yogurt in front of him, a spoon to his left.

I find the umbrella, drape his rain coat over his backpack. It stops raining (and only because I finally found the umbrella).

The dogs paw at the screen door, desperate to join this front porch photo shoot. He says things like "I'm only gonna do lip smiles" and "Dontcha think that's enough pictures, mom?"

 And I say things like "show me that smile, mister too cool for school" and "just a few more pictures, just a few more."

 And just like that, there goes another First, slipping by disguised as an ordinary day.

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Happies

The last two weeks have held so many sweet moments, the kind you hope you'll never forget, the kind that wait for no one and aren't terribly keen on posing for the camera.

So this is a list, in no particular order, because it's all I have time for in between the happies.

1. After a week of swimming lessons (and Dani heading toward yet another repeat of the beginner class), Larry joined us at the pool (after having worked 14 hours the night before and having been up for at least 24) and taught his little girl to swim like a fish. A fish with a noodle, that is. But still. She puts her face in the water now and kicks like a champ, thanks to Daddy.

2. Nana and Papa visited this week. The boys (Larry, Caed, Papa) went to the Indians game (the one that had a two-hour rain delay, then lasted 14 innings). And the girls (me, Dani, Nana) went to the Apple store and out to dinner. We sat outside on the deck on a gorgeous night while Dani ate fancy mac-n-cheese and squealed with delight when a "baby birdie" snacked on the noodles that had dropped. Then as we walked through an accessories store on the way back to the car, Dani (after commenting about how she loved all the "neck-uh-laces" and "brace-uh-lets"--she adds her own syllable to both), began to dance like a goofball through the store. She made silly faces in between outbursts of her own laughter. She's our comedian.

3. I took the kids to the science center. They spent over an hour in the kids' area, had a blast, and wonder of wonders, did not bring home any viral souvenirs. This miraculous germ avoidance made me the happiest of all.

4. Caed learned to swim this summer, the ultimate motivation coming from his desire to get in the bigger pool with his cousins and be able to go down to the "super twirly slide". Last week we met the cousins at the pool and Caed went down the slide with his cousins James non-stop for more than an hour. The delight on his face stays with me, even now.

5. We made a pretend volcano, experimenting with baking soda and vinegar on the back porch. The kids were mesmerized. Dani was hesitant at first, wondering if she should change out of flip-flops so the hot lava didn't burn her toes. Caed showed decidedly less caution, imploring me to "just pour in the whole bottle and see how big it gets!"

6. My long-time friend and kindred spirit from college came north for a family visit, and we met for dinner last week. The conversation plunged down to soul-depth before the guacamole arrived. Then within the next ten minutes she had me laughing so hard I almost choked on the coconut-mango rice. She's just that kind of friend. Now if only she didn't live so far away.

7. Speaking of long-time friends, I'm sitting here typing this post at the kitchen table of my dearest friend Becky. The kids and I drove down yesterday for our semi-annual visit. Caed, Max and Dani were too excited to sleep last night, and we figured they'd sleep in this morning. We figured wrong. They're taking the concept of spending "every waking moment" together to a literal extreme. I can't say I blame them. When you're finally reunited with your best-est friends, why waste time sleeping?

8. Oh, I almost forgot! We finally made it to the zoo! The place was packed (what a zoo!), but we still had a chance to feed fish to a seal, feed lettuce to a giraffe, and to wave to the grizzly cups from a very considerable distance. We met up with some new friends, and spent the better part of the day exploring together.

I realize this isn't my typical sort of post--to blurt out bluntly the events of the last few weeks. But I appreciate you indulging me in it, as I simply had to get it down here before the sweet moments disappeared entirely from my memory. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go. A full shipment of happies is due in today, and I need to be there to receive it. Have a great weekend, friends!

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I Don't Have to Dig Anymore

I don't have to dig anymore.

I started the digging here, the panning for gold, when my children were very small. Most days, more often than not, I felt as though I was slogging through sludge.

Through no-nap-nap-times, sludge.
Through mashed squash feedings, slog.
Through inexplicable tantrums (theirs, not mine), slog.
Through diaper changes, sludge (in a far too literal way).

Even trips to the beach or walks in the park felt like more effort than reward. I spent far more time packing to leave the house and de-sanding little bodies than building castles and splashing in waves.

But I knew the time was fleeting, precious. I knew mothers who would trade their right arm and all hope of hot coffee for a chance to be home more with their children. (And I was one of them.) I knew I couldn't waste this gift, that I had to see beyond the daily slogging through sludge.

So at the end of the day, at the end of the slogging, I would dig. I would write until I found a cherished moment, until I could cry or laugh, until I could feel something other than weary.

But in these past few weeks, be it at home or in Maine, during my two-week solo-parenting stint or my three-day family reunion, I haven't slogged, not a single step. Galloped, skipped, sprinted, danced, yes. But no slogging. And no sludge.

I don't have to dig anymore!

The treasure pools at the surface, and I'm up to my neck in it such that I don't even have to bend to pick it up. It spills everywhere, and it feels more natural to say thank you than to complain.

I didn't once have to lecture myself to "be in the moment" when we were in Maine. I just was. Even in the ridiculously long car ride, there were as many sweet moments (Caed reading The Boxcar Children to Dani) as there were awful ones (incessant fighting over the truth of Dani's most inane and irrelevant assertions). This is miraculous. Miraculous, I tell you!

Now, I know this "easy" stage won't last forever. I know hardship isn't forever banned from my life. But for now? I know beauty when I see it. I know blessing when I feel it. And I know treasure when I find it.

And these days, even without the aid of a shovel or a pen, I'm finding it everywhere. I don't have to dig anymore.

::

I met a sweet writer/momma friend for lunch this week, and as we talked about our reasons for writing, as I assured her that it does get easier, it dawned on me that I no longer rely on writing as a way to find and name the good in my life. Because it's suddenly right here, obvious, and I see it without straining.

What stage do you find yourself in? I want to encourage you, if you are in the slog and sludge stage, to keep hunting for reasons to say thanks, and to keep treasuring the moments you can. But I also want to tell you that it really does get easier, that there is treasure ahead, and to keep looking.

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