Tired Kings Swimming in Gold

 

Give me all the daring winds that shake the trees, launching the flight of the maple seeds down, down, down.  Give me all the rolling hues that stretch across the sky, greys and blues--the clouds, light and dark.  Give me all the roaring and the booming and the rustling winds that hold us captive.  Let me stand beneath it all as the whole earth declares his glory. Let the spring rains fall, I won’t mind. In the wildest weather, my soul delights. In the wildest weather, how can we not feel so beautifully alive?

--

The song that reaches in and stirs the deep, fueling the fire that moves my brush.  It sends my fingers dancing upon the keys as if they were a steady rain healing the earth. The earth of my mind. The flow of words colliding on the screen, making a home, finding sense in the stillness of the day’s end. A cool breeze sweeps over the hours well lived and through home well used. 

--

The family gathered over French toast for dinner and the baby sits with one knee raised, her face covered in a purple puree.  She laughs at something, it could be nothing. They laugh. Our eyes meet and we laugh too.  The cycle begins again.  Laughing at the laughter.   At her. At them. At us.

We might as well be kings swimming in gold. 

Tired kings swimming in gold.

Gold disguised as teaching lessons, making lunches, working hard, standing in the wind, and having so much to love.

It was a Monday.

on filling the time capsule

I’ve missed a lot of words in the past few months.  Life has been full, spilling over with all the everyday things of growing a family.  It’s a strange awareness, this juxtaposition of bliss and exhaustion “threat level midnight.” It’s this satisfying feeling of squeezing out every last drop a day can hold, every last lingering bit of energy, thought, and motion that a person can muster.  And then celebrating it all with the act of collapsing into rest (as interrupted as it is), only to wake up and repeat. 
This is my time capsule of these first, fleeting days as a family of five.

---

I’d tell you about seven years of marriage. There was a simple breakfast date of coffee and pastries on the couch, during the hour before the older kids woke up and after the nocturnal one returned to sleep. Steal the moments wherever you find them, I say. We try. But when I think of seven years, I’ll remember the following scene. Baby girl was hardly two weeks old.  Matt had returned to work. My body felt like it had been cut open (it had) with every movement.  Tired was the new black. Three kids depended on me. Basically, it was survival until he would get home and one day, we all climbed into my bed.  The baby slept on my chest.  The older two obsessed with her every breath gathered around me and when he walked in, tears filled my eyes. Unkempt, surrounded by children, I asked for a cold cloth for my neck.  Minutes passed.  I wondered how hard it could be to find a washcloth?   Soon, he stood in the doorway, holding a pair of his underwear, drenched in the coldest water August could muster.  He shrugged in defeat,  It’s all I could find, but they’re clean.  All the towels were dirty.  Laundry never had a chance in our current state of triage.

I looked at him for a good minute and burst into laughter-- the serious,  body-shaking, tears streaming down my face kind.  The baby on my chest didn’t wake.  The kids giggled in confusion.  And in the moments that followed, as he made dinner and started a load of laundry, I thought, this, right here is seven years of marriage, a deep, honest kind of love. Real. Exposed. Desperate. Sacrificial.  A give all you have kind of love, even when it’s only a clean pair of underwear to cool an aching body.

Maybe next year, there will be a slow, romantic dinner, perhaps a getaway? But, this kind of thing, it’s the substance of our days. It’s the bulk of our story.  It’s real life, messy, crazy, and oh so, beautiful.

---

and on the subject of life with three kids, I’d add this.
I’m in the laundry room. My son had grabbed a dinosaur pajama top and was trying to wear it as pants.  It was inside out and in frustration, he kept saying, where did the dinosaurs go?  His sister needed her grey tutu, because you can’t twirl without one, silly. MOM,(in her most serious way of saying mom) where is my tutu? The baby started crying. My husband was cleaning the kitchen, which is one of my love languages.  I’m standing there half dressed in my own pajamas.  A missing tutu. Disappearing dinosaurs. Crying baby.   Everyone needs me. I don’t move.  We catch each other’s eyes and shrug. Let’s run away,  I don’t say it out loud, because it wouldn’t be heard over the noise, but I think our eyes understood.  And then, action.  It’s in the laundry basket.  Those aren’t pants! Pick up baby.

These days are basically an ebb and flow of thinking either what have we done or we’re living the dream.  Sometimes it’s damage control. Sometimes it’s magic.

---

Like this next story. 
on homeschool and fostering an environment of learning.
I walked into the kitchen where he was pointing to a word on the wall, that he recognized from his reading lessons.  I walked into the kitchen and there he was, mama, this is the word IS. 

And when he said, let’s see if there are any other words I know.

And when I peeked in during naptime, to find her tracing the letters on her library books with her fingers.

---

and of course, our sweet baby girl

The way her little smile catches us off guard and freezes everything.  The way she has irreversibly changed four lives in only six weeks.  The way she showed up and made all of this feel so real and complete, like we’re all here, doing this crazy life together.

and now, coffee, rock a baby, and built a promised fort.

the wild collected: a moonlit memory

November 16, 2013

In the stillness of the night, by the soft glow of the night light, I told the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears to two little children.  First, she climbed into the biggest chair and it was so hard.  “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.” said Goldilocks, and she jumped down.  His face was sleepy.  I love the way a person’s face calms in the journey to sleep.  On this particular night, he was motionless under the blankets, head turned to the side, sinking deep into the pillow.  Eyelids falling. Opening. Falling again. Goldilocks climbed into Mama Bear’s chair and it was too soft, like a giant marshmallow pillow. (That’s how everyone tells it right?)   And then a smile so iconic of childhood, where a happy idea sweeps into your thoughts and over your face as you fade into slumber. It was a raison d’etre. A celebration of motherhood, childhood, stories, and dreams. Matter so pure, unfiltered life.

I wonder what a giant marshmallow pillow looks like in his head.  

 

on the bravery within and things never to forget

Between towering vacation homes squished tall and snug, we followed the public boardwalk that stretched long and narrow.  And then before us, the expanse.

I walked behind him, as my boy met the sea, months before his fifth birthday.  His plaid blue hat atop his head. He stopped at the edge where the railing turned to meet the stairs, the stairs covered in sand, and his head turned to the left and to the right and back again.  Quietly, he observed, as is his nature.

And after contentment rushed through my bones, the kind that only comes in this place where my soul is at home, I took his hand and said, “Come on!”

We walked together on the sand. He was cautious and when I tried to walk him to where the water splashed our toes, he shivered and reached out to be held.  The winds were strong, the waves crashed, he was so small before the sea.  I held him close and spoke in his ear, isn’t it beautiful?  It’s my favorite.  This is where God lives.  Or, rather this is where you can always find him, if ever you aren’t sure. Intrigue slipped through his trembling eyes. His sister was scared too, which is uncommon for our Wild Eyes, but she saw her brother afraid and so she would be too.

The tide was low and they played in a small pool far from the waves, where giant rocks, covered in a slippery green grass, created shallow streams and caverns. A safe haven of exploration and wonder.  Every so often, they’d look out towards the greatness before them, not yet ready.  Matt and I jumped in the waves while Gigi and Allan built sand castles and collected shells.  We let the waves thrash us around. It was therapy as life and its adult heaviness melted in the power of the water, in the place where God lives.  We could be seen, but not heard in our bubble-sound-barrier of the wind and waves. We were like children and we were free.  And we flirted in wildly appropriate ways. 

We talked about how we want our children to be brave. They looked so small down the shore, playing in the sand.  We talked about how we want them to live with abandon and delight in the wonder of nature, to be able to feel him so closely in places like this, because we do -- so very much. 

We returned, scooped them up, and carried them the water’s edge.  They clung tightly as ever one could.  And safely in our arms we jumped and laughed until they did too.  We sat down and the water splashed over us.  Their cautious laughter grew into certainty, the shaking stopped, and then they stood on their own.  The salt water spray was still shocking, but no longer terrifying.

I want to remember it forever, the way he was brave first, the way his laughter started and then she followed his lead.  How he was then standing on his own, radiant with courage.  Sometimes, he’d fall and the water would wash over him, sending him running up the shore, but he’d turn right back toward the sea and try again.  She stayed close and gripped Daddy’s hands, but her little body shrieked with joy. 

They didn’t want to stop for lunch. They didn’t want to leave. And the days later, in the tiny kiddie pool at home they showed me how they jumped in the waves, like this, mom, like this.

-----

life is not easy and it was never intended to be, for a life well-lived will always be overflowing with maddening goodness and breath-taking badness, with easy and hard, and with wondrous beauty and ferocious ugly.   and you’ll be tired and weary, you’ll question and fear, you’ll feel confusion and doubt. 

i hope you’ll always know that when the world is dark and you’re absolutely unsure of everything that you’ll find him at the water’s edge.  you’ll see his power in the thundering waves that smash upon the shore.  you’ll feel him in the salty spray that covers you, in the wind that sweeps up your hair and makes it dance.  you’ll marvel in the sunlight and moonlight that sparkles across the water. and that you’ll know in this moment, when you stand before the great big sea, that the creator of the universe is with you.  and find his boundless love pouring out in the roaring and crashing and spraying and sparkling. 

my darlings, if you dare to live, you’ll often be lonely. if you dare to dream, you’ll have to jump into the unknown and sometimes the unknown will be more like a place where you set up camp and stay for a while, rather a brief moment or a quick visit.  you’ll face opposition in a world full of logic and reason and the masses won’t understand.  and you’ll feel small, oh so small, but, my dear ones,  be brave, be free, be strong.  his love is an ocean.

 

 

 

On Wild Eyes and uncharted territory

I feel as if I would be doing a great disservice to my little collection of words here if I neglected to share these tales, because this is the place where my stories live, safely in time, phrases and sentiments, a time capsule of moments adorned with punctuation.  Likewise, in sharing them, I incriminate myself with the levels of  brutal honesty that others might simply ignore and most will surely find amusing.  Of course, I mean my mother.

But a good story is a good story and surely, I must continue typing.

The daughter of this family, affectionately known as Wild Eyes the Brave, has stepped up her game in the name of uncharted territory.  At two and half, she is emotions that spill over and overwhelm without warning, she is a mushy, melt in your arms bundle of love, and she is a wildfire of daring, fierce instigation.

Help. Us. Lord.

The resident twinkle in her eye, it knows absolutely every miniscule way of interfering with her older brother’s world.  Even the slightest sound that will always, always send him over the edge.  There’s this chomping sound a person makes when they pretend to eat something and he just will not accept the fact that she is NOT eating his robot-block-flying-boat-car or his bear or his pillow or his ear.  To date, all of those items are still in tact and uneaten by little sister, part best friend, part public enemy number one.  I will inform you of any changes.

This is the part where my mother’s face is now overflowing with tears of laughter, because the saying the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know, damn clichés.  Meet Queen Instigator, hi.  And my brother’s begin to feel vindication for the endless fights that I would prompt and quickly call for help, because daddy will 9 times out of 10 side with sweet little girl over mean, rough brothers.  You know how that games plays out.

Sister is a force.  

Part of me is amazed at her skills while the rest quivers in terror.  I saw this early on in those wild eyes.  I always knew we were in trouble.

Today, she slowly inched her bottom down the hill and ran down the sidewalk away from us, laughing the whole way.  The resident spark of ornery glowing brightly.  One might argue that they do if for the chase and that is most likely true, but others might also determine that a fearless two year old inches from the road is not really time for psychological games.  I’m on the latter team.  Sister made it five houses down by the time I left my seat, descended two flights of stairs and snatched her up.  She felt it a great injustice that she was thus confined to the porch and she expressed the injustice with all the drama and zeal one little soul could possibly contain.

Also, I regret to admit that she is just days away from realizing that she can climb out of her crib.

Any moment now… the ice is thinning.  These days are fragile, before the great enlightenment.  Fragile days.

I won’t resort to comparison at the end of each sentence, but guess who didn’t have interest in running away or destruction or leaving the safety of his bed….right. 

Surely, it’s been said by all parents of the human kind, and even the snowflake kind, the uncanny differences of children birthed from the same womb.  My evidence here is nothing new, but seriously.

These are fragile days and someone has stepped up her game.

Send reinforcements.

 

Good Morning Sunset

In the mornings, I walk through the house and pull open the blinds, tie back the curtains and let in the light.   I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, in a sweeping motion barely recognized as a motion at all.  We stumble into the rooms without beds and they tell me that they had a good nap.  Yes, good morning mama, I had a good nap.  And it never fails to spread a smile on my face, I don’t even think about correcting them.

Today, he climbed into my lap as I sat in the yellow chair next to the window and he squinted at the sun.  The sun is so bright, good morning sunset.  I corrected him with sunrise, and regretted it immediately.  After all, he’s right isn’t he?  Good morning sunset that makes the snow a glittery blanket of white for now and later will paint the wintry sky before dinner.

And sure there is the rather overwhelming list of needs and requests that these wild things need, a steady downpour of mama, mama, mama, breakfast, so much breakfast, because, of course, they hardly ate their dinner.  So, I fill their bowls and they fill their bellies, sharing half with the floor, while making sure the day starts will plenty of noise.  Perhaps one day she’ll understand that 10 baby dolls can’t fit in the high chair with her and he’ll learn to eat cheerios at a slightly slower… more human speed. (probably not).

Not every part of everything is warm and glorious in life. 

But, the sun is mesmerizing as it rises higher and higher in the sky on this quiet morning at home, after a week of being gone.  A foamy latte is in my resting in my hands.

It’s good to be home. 

Good morning sunset.

on creating a life to be lived, not merely survived

Feeling settled into our new surroundings and giving into the creative flow that will not be ignored.   For everything there is a season and happily ideas are spilling onto blank pages and unsuspecting pieces of furniture.

Yesterday I woke up in my favorite state of mind.  I began a new project, ordered some fabric, baked cookies, did yoga, and sketched.  When I gave in to the first, all the rest came freely.  My children were so pleasant and nice or maybe that was me and my rose colored classes of creativity.  Anyways, I’m convinced that when we do the things we love, it pours out into everything around us, our homes, families, attitudes, and energy. Try doing a bunch of wonderful things and then notice how washing the dishes doesn’t seem so unpleasant.

I’ve been reading Nurture by Nature, a parenting book that I finally can handle, because I’m a personality junkie and even though I hate the idea of being put in a box, I love understanding how we are all created so intentionally.  I especially love when the knowledge sinks in and you transform your life and all its systems to be in sync with who you are.  Living life so it makes sense, optimal living, not just living a life they say you should and as you struggle along wondering why it’s not working.

"Parents who understand this quality of INFJs can help protect them from a demanding and high-speed world. By creating private times and places, parents communicate a respect and understanding of their child and help foster a close relationship that lasts a lifetime."
"INFJs also need privacy to make the many intuitive connections they do and to develop their creative ideas and visions. For them, the creative process is essentially a solitary one."

-Nurture by Nature

This is what we have been doing, without even realizing it.  Because having a million things to do and dozens of places to be doesn’t work for me and it sucks the life out of me.  Interestingly enough, my son shares this personality with his parents and he thrives when he has time and space and quiet too.  Go ahead and fill his day with endless activities and you’ll see a frustrated, exhausted three-year old,  a less than dreamy version of himself.  The same sentence would describe me.

I’m on a mission to create a home full of cozy and comfort, a peaceful environment where we can thrive and learn and enjoy this beautiful, meaningful life.  That means continuously discovering how the four of us function best.  I know every family is different, but I’m convinced we don’t need to succumb to the struggle of just surviving, because there’s more, so much more.  And yes, even a beautiful, meaningful life is full of exhaustion, challenges, and trials, but they don’t get the final word.  And if our lives are indeed our most creative act (to quote Erwin McManus), then I believe we can take whatever we have and turn it into something remarkable.

how walls and windows become a home

The day is so close, we’ve been spending our free time staking claim on our new address.  It’s funny how quickly new walls can feel like home.  And every time we turn off the lights and lock the door, our sigh speaks of the growing tug back inside and the weakened desire which greets us upon returning here. 

This place where our lives have happened for one year and nine months. Big moments where our family grew and the forgotten everyday kind too.  The floors where we built towers and played trains and threw fits.  The windows displaying the ever-changing seasons, luscious green, vibrant fall hues, and long, snow globe days of white.  This year, we’ll greet spring through another set of window panes and experience it in the plot of grass all for us.

As cardboard piles grow, pieces of us detach from here, filling boxes with belongings and memories, who slip in through cracks and occupy the extra spaces. And just as quickly as we prepare to leave these walls, the new ones are eager to be ours.  It happens without awareness, new curtains in the kitchen, your favorite soap sitting above the sink, cozy blankets your child love, a new yellow bookcase meriting a squeal in the store.  The trees already studied in a short amount of time,  how one certain branch bends and shoots across in the most poetic way.  Visions of picnics and coffee mornings and dirty, little, chubby hands discovering the world. A delicious resident breeze who merrily sweeps from front to back, whispering, put your desk here.  All of this is how walls and windows start to become a home.

We carry life with us, the good, the bad, and the ridiculous, whatever we remember.

Old and new. 

Endings and beginnings.

All packed into boxes, loaded then unloaded.

Soon, we’ll walk around these hollow rooms and pay our last respects to this place, whispering thank you and good riddance and remember when.

And turn off the lights.

One last time. 

We’ll close door, resign the keys and in a blink, walls and windows cease being a home.

little one. big prayer.

In the shadows, the rocking back and forth, slow and calming.  She is still and hushed in my arms.  I begin, “Dear Jesus,”

And from across the room, in a bed that makes him look so very small. Under four blankets and one pair of Thomas the train pajamas…

Thank you Potato Head.  Thank you eyes. Thank you other ear in morning(the one we can’t find). Thank you light off. Thank you hat. Thank you nose. Thank you Hudson’s nose back (a game we play). Thank you glove. Thank you play scarf. Thank you new car. Thank you Lightning and Mater. Thank you silly monsters. Thank you TV. Thank you Harper. Thank you Daddy. Thank you Daddy and Mommy. Thank you play house. Thank you make house (a project from today). Thank you house.  Thank you MMs (the candy) Thank you tortilla. Thank you light. Thank you moon. Thank you dark outside.  Thank you good day.  Thank you shoes. Thank you shoes back. Thank you gloves back. Thank you play gloves.  Thank you Uncle Josh. Uncle Josiah. Thank you sandwich and chips.  Thank you milk.  Thank you Harper’s shirt. Thank you Harper’s baby car.  Thank you hippo. Thank you animals. Thank you elephant. Thank you other elephant.  Thank you baby Jesus. Thank you obey mommy. Thank you daddy home to us.

A recap of the day? A stall tactic? Or a whole bunch of thankful pouring out of a three year old?

Either way, my smile hurts my face.

 

Linking up with Just Write. 

She would have painted.

I was talking to my mom one Saturday as she played on the floor with my kids.  I told her of how I had learned so much this past year about making my own needs and interests a priority and how I’m certain that being an artist makes me a better mom.  I asked,

Is there something that you would have done more for yourself when you were raising us?

Her answer took me by surprise.

Painting. I would have painted more.

I remember three paintings that floated around our home, mainly one of the sea, driftwood scattered with gulls on the shore.    It’s a beautiful piece of art, the way she captured depth, dimension, and light. I want to be in that place every day of my life.  Her love of  driftwood was one we all knew, anytime we traveled to the beach, she would search for it, I remember her always trying to find a way to bring home these massively large pieces, we often suggested leaving one of our siblings behind to make space.

I thought about her answer  and  I only remember one time in the eighteen years of my childhood that I saw her sit down in front of a canvas and this latched tin of crinkled oils.  I was a senior in high school and she had set up the supplies for my little brother, she was painting next to him.  I remember a sky washed in the palest pink and the water was the softest blue, it was a foggy.

At first, my stance was disappointment in lost opportunities.  I wanted to feel sad for her, for not making time to paint, in the midst of raising five children and helping run a business.  I wanted to feel disappointment at the years that she missed out on doing one of the things she loved, while she was doing so much for the ones she loved. 

I gazed out upon the world of light and dark, the pure, white snow made radiant by the shadowy brown of the tree, where approximately ten regenerate leaves have not surrendered. Tiny branches shivered in the bitter cold wind.  Surfaces dusted with the latest snowflakes.  And that is what I was watching, when my whole tone changed.

Because on this particular day, the one time I saw my mother sit down to paint, I walked in the room and I looked at the table covered in crinkled tubes of burnt sienna and titanium white and wooden brushes. I looked at her and said, I want to paint. 

And friends, that was the day that I fell in love.

Without this day, would I be an artist now?  It’s impossible to say, but thankfully, this is not a story about missed opportunity, it is not a tragedy. 

And for all the days that she didn’t paint, she can do that now.  And because of the one day that she did, I will too.

 

---

dear readers, tell me one of your stories.

A creative year: 2011

This year we became four, when we met the most exhausting little beauty with wild eyes. After many months (6 or 7), I felt like I had finally grasped being a mother of two. Two children who are so opposite that I can’t even begin to tell you how, except that I haven’t sleep through the night since 2010 and I have never been needed so very much.  Having both of them here is my favorite and my greatest challenge to date.

And somehow in the midst of this, I remained sane because of art and the great life-giving, calming, energizing power of creativity.  I learned to paint before washing the dishes and write before sweeping the floor.  And by doing this, I found enough strength to carry out the long list of responsibilities with my name on it.  I left the house once a week all by myself.  I wrote my thoughts, my prayers, and dreams in the hours after those children were sound asleep.  I took nap time for myself.   I was unbothered by this idea of having to have everything so perfect, and choose simplicity and peace instead.  Strangely, the year of great exhaustion was also my most creative.

Truthfully, the year was long and often lonely, as good friendships here are few, but I can’t help but notice that this season was more about collecting invaluable lessons within myself and practicing gratitude for the magically, common everyday.  It was about taking long breaths and realizing that the often intense demands of motherhood can be done as an act of worship, and thus the hours of each day can be spent in connection with the one who supplies all our needs and is strong when we are not.  It was about finding contentment on the water’s edge, when there were so many questions about being here and what is next.  It was about scribbling down the tender moments of quiet mornings or sweet goodnight hugs and silly antics.

We chased after a dream and felt it was the right to begin and together used our creativity to work turning, wouldn’t it be great into we’re really doing it.

Nothing ever happens how we think it will,  and really, do we still believe that silly old myth, because past the long hours, the nights spent dreaming of sleep, and the restless within,  I can’t consider the past twelve months without a recognizing a sense of great accomplishment. It may look small and humble, but in a way, it’s been pretty huge.

pictures and words

 

I’m kind of all warm and fuzzy inside, because I just finished adding pictures to our 2011 photo book.   It’s pretty amazing, because I’ve never actually finished a photo book. I had all these grand schemes for our wedding album, Hudson’s first year, and so on, but those projects got too in depth and overwhelmed me.  I no longer wanted anything to do with them.

But this time,  I powered through and decided that no words would be allowed, after all don’t pictures already contain thousands?  So, no words and no limited amount of pages.  We’re 80 pages in, folks.  Eighty pages full of tiny moments and big ones too, from this year known as 2011.

The cover alone hold 700 small photos taken on my phone turned in a massive collage. 

And while, I feel rather victorious, I also just relived a year in the life of us. I filled many pages with photos of my newborn baby girl, superfluous amounts to be exact, and nearly as many with my goofy little boy.  I watched the seasons change from winter to spring, and from spring, the sky turned radiantly blue and the water from the lake sparkled in the warm summer air.  The warmth faded into a mosaic of glorious autumn hues and slowly, (thankfully) those colors floated down from the trees leaving bare, spiny trees and a brown earth.  Even today, the rain is erasing any remnants of previous fallen snow, and rain means the temperatures are higher than freezing, glory.  

I clicked and clicked as tiny newborn faces turned into a sitting, crawling, and standing, full of life, wild eyed wonder.  I saw a brother very unsure of this new little creature in his home grow into her favorite playmate and he’s just waiting for the day she will chase him down the hallway as far as she can. I watched a two year old turn three, his imagination soar and his spirit as gentle (and yet, trying) as ever.  I noticed the depth of the reservoirs of a father’s love for his baby girl, with the shiny blue eyes melting him always.  And the way my heart swells when my little boy sinks into my arms. 

As I revisited every walk to the beach, every trip to get ice cream, all the adventures and celebrations, I studied the face of my love, the one who stole my heart.  The guy who I never planned on meeting on that California mountain and now everyday he loves and works so hard for me, for us.  Sometimes, it still catches me off guard, this life, this family we have made, the dreams we are building.  Sometimes, so much so, that I run out of words.

 

Linking up with Heather and all those Just Write folks.

Calm and Bright

Last December was our first winter in this land of wintry oppression, known to the greater United States of America as Minnesota.  At this time last year, we were already six weeks buried under countless feet of snow. I think six weeks is the perfect length for winter, incase anyone wanted to take note of that this time around, ahem.  I was also supremely large with child, only eight weeks to go, eager and anxious.  The day after Christmas our car died and we were carless for two months.  Matt was still working two jobs (still is) and relying on the bus system, which took extra hours away from us and meant he faced frigid and inhumane temperatures. And our new baby cried for the first four months of her life.  It was a long winter, literally and figuratively.

Today, I look outside my window and only a light dusting of the second snowfall remains cast upon the brown earth. On most days, I feel like I’ve got a handle on this whole two kids gig, at least 85% of the day.  We’ve implemented a system that includes me leaving the house one afternoon a week all by myself.  No errands, no demands, just a few hours of remembering what it was like to sit in a coffee shop at leisure.  My husband gets an afternoon too, because he needs that time just as much as I do.  It’s the best thing we ever done.  Every night, I’m free writing (morning pages as known in The Artist’s Way).  It’s a season of abundant creativity and I’m so thankful.  On a regular basis, I have tea with a friend and the most encouraging and inspiring conversations, while our kids play. We started a small business this year, and we just completed our first custom family Christmas card.  We’re getting to be part of helping friends grow their families.  We’re investing in a dream that no longer seems far away, as we hold a large stack of printed cards in our hand. On the back, our own names where you’d usually find another.  We’re seeing provisions come in the most unexpected ways.  Last night, we stood in the kitchen at a very late, sleepy hour and acknowledged this first major milestone with Furthermore Creative.  And today, when I paid the last bills of the month, I didn’t grimace or sigh.  There was enough.  Because, he is enough.

I’m knitting a stocking for my baby girl, it will be her first Christmas and my first knit stocking. Today, during her nap, we strung popcorn on a thread to hang on the tree. Mostly, my helper ate the popcorn and sipped hot cocoa, heavy on the marshmallows. And tonight, the evening is ours. We’ll tuck our babies into bed at a ridiculously early hour (because it’s already dark and we love them and our time alone) and catch up on our favorite Thursday shows, that we always watch on Friday nights, by the light of the fire and this week, the peaceful glow of that silly little tree in the corner.

I think of the words, “All is calm, all is bright.” and I wonder if the calm is more than a description of the manager scene. Is it also an offering of thanksgiving, a story of peace and contentment, an acknowledgement of love and hope? I think, maybe yes.

All is calm. All is bright.

a tasty bit of grace

The day had been a  long one, heavy in the waiting and trusting, noisy in the kid department.  The kind where your energy drains faster because you are holding on to promises with all your might.

Lots of long stares into the cupboards, mostly bare, but not completely.  Lots of turned up ugly faces at the can goods and other random items, I guess to let them know how much you wish they were deep dish meat covered, cheesy pizzas instead.  Living within ones means can be a challenge and a battle of self-control at times. 

Oatmeal for dinner.

And we all sit around the table, reluctantly eating this gourmet meal, husband and I exchanging hopeful glances that could fill novels.  The baby foodie is grabbing at my bowl, as I’m breaking my rule of not holding kids while I eat.  The little boy is snacking on raisins.  Wooden Misters Elemant (Elephant) and Lion King (Lion) are walking across the table towards me.  Clip clop. Clip Clop.

“Hi Mama, Hi.  Hi Lion King. Hi Elemant. Bye.”

They march across the table in the opposite direction.

“Hi Daddy, Hi.  Hi Lion King. Hi Elemant.  Bye.”

A smile wipes across the daddy’s face.  A sparkle glows in the little boys eyes.

They march back across the table.

“Hi Mama, Hi. ”

And before he can get the rest out, my eyes catch the daddy’s and we laugh, the kind of laugh that melts away heaviness. A joyful batch of tears well up in my eyes. The sparkle grows brighter and he laughs too. Baby girl squeals. 

This is the most delicious part of the meal.

“Someday we’ll miss this” he said.  “Miss what?” I ask and he answers,  “being broke.”  (I don’t know if we will, but I wrote it down just in case.)

a non-birthday birthday

Let’s talk about birthday parties for kids. Parties are fun, mostly exhausting, but fun.  For his first birthday, we had four. FOUR parties, and traveled from Tennessee to Alaska to Kansas and back. By the last one, we sat on the couch in a birthday overdose haze and let the grandparents do everything.  We vowed to never have more than one party per birthday ever again.  Sorry to the rest of our children.  But, this year, as we approached #3, I couldn’t think of anything better than a whole weekend together as a family.  Matt works two jobs, so our weekends are only Sundays and that day fills up way too quickly.  So, he took a few days off and we had an amazing four day weekend. FOUR WHOLE DAYS.  It was the best thing ever.

The weather was ideal fall.  Cool in the shade, warm in the sun. We didn’t want to waste such a marvelous thing, especially with all this talk of, I can’t even say it.  I can’t.   Naturally, we went out for donuts and coffee, our favorite bacon maple glazed long john donuts and s’mores donuts and apple fritters.   Then we found the most wonderful park and spent the next few hours playing in the delicious fall sunshine.  We visited the new Whole Foods that is only three miles away, where we fell in love with their burritos.  We may or may not have eaten there twice in two days.  The rest of the day we laid around, played with birthday gifts, watched movies, and skyping with family. 

I love planning parties and creating all the special elements, but hands down, out of all three, this was my favorite.

You know, the very first memory I have is my third birthday. I was wearing a red dress and watching Zorro with my brother.  I wonder if he’ll remember this one?  What is your first memory?

What are your thoughts on kids’ parties?  

skipping rocks

Upon arrival, he took one look around and set to work, all these rocks in dire need of a swim. He watched as daddy scoured the beach for the perfectly smooth rocks that would dance across the lake, and for hours, a rite of passage into boyhood, skipping rocks.  He settled just a few feet from our blanket, showing bits of independence, while knowing we were still so close. 

I’ve seen it before, that look on his face, the engulfing alive that sweeps over him as he takes in the breeze floating off the water, but we saw him connect in a new way.` His soul was well and overflowing.  Being months away from turning three, he couldn’t put it in words, but they often fail to describe how one connects to his maker.  It was as if he just sensed it, the way his eyes searched the shoreline, the way he watched the clouds paint shadows around the bay, ushering in the night.  That childlike wonder. We felt it too, that’s why we crave the water, it’s where we feel the closest to God. But to witness this in our boy, it takes my breath away.

As he “skipped” rocks, fellow beach goers would pause to watch,  smiles would wipe across their faces along with a glimmer in their eyes, full of  memories.  A quick glance down the water’s edge showed a dozen others doing the same.  This repetitious, calming act that seemed to bring out the best in people.  I wonder if they were connecting too.  At one point, I noticed a group of boys, ranging from age two to fifty.  All of them trying to be the best rock skipper in the bunch. Even the youngest, with every throw his whole body moved, he was trying so hard. The older ones appeared to be more relaxed, but if you really watched, the same eager look appeared in all their faces.

Childlike wonder is a treasure never to be lost.

at the water’s edge

We’re better at the water’s edge.

I’ve known this for a long time, but this weekend, I saw it in the most captivating, beautiful way.  I’m still composing words that will do justice to this truth.

For now, this.

fall asleep smiling

Yesterday was the kind of day that you fall asleep smiling.  We slept in, visited a new donut shop and enjoyed maple glazed bacon long johns.  Truthfully, I don’t know how I lived 27 years with bacon-less donuts.  Then we visited the farmer’s market, where we found radiant purple “red” onions and plump, scrumptious tomatoes. On one corner, a man played his accordion, down a little ways, a smooth summery sound came from a saxophone, isn't open air music magical?

It was a perfect 79 degrees, free of humidity, sunny and sweet, ideal for an evening at the beach. 

After basking the sun,  splashing in the water, seeing the rays flicker and dance creating a show of yellow and 100 shades of blue, watching my husband and son happily playing in the sand and my baby cooing and laughing in the breezy fresh air…

Any more goodness might be overkill, but think Sleepless in Seattle, coffee, brie, and apples.

I wish this kind of good day for you.

file under:

 

 

my heart.

P.S. Yes, she totally spit up all over his shirt.

 

  

The lamp and wind conspired for a moment of privacy between the bride and groom.

New art in the living room, details coming soon.

guardian of the plants and eater of the cheerios.

An unpleasant time out at the beach.

the most lovely breeze is keeping up company right now. I  hope she stays for dinner.

right now.

 

This weekend, we saw Midnight in Paris, which swept me up heart and soul in the first five minutes. After we enjoyed cheesecake, strong black coffee, and magazines. Perfect date.  I read more from Anne of Green Gables. I enjoyed pulled pork, cornbread, strawberry rhubarb pie, and sweet tea at a birthday party in the park, pulled pork is my love language. Also, my little lovely turned 6 months old.

Oh, Louis and Ella on Pandora.

Sweet, crazy life.