Bigger Picture Moments: Love as a Sound

A blueberry candle sputtered near the sink: pik, pap, pik.  Every time my wet hands traveled over its flame, moisture dripped into the wax or onto the wick.  I placed slippery clean dishes on a towel to dry: clank, clink.

In the oven, red-skinned potatoes and cloves of garlic roasted in a drizzle of olive oil: poppa-hiss.  Steam wafted from beneath the tilted lid of a pan of brown-sugared carrots: shuuuushhhh.

Lauren sat splay-legged on the floor, building a tower of play-doh cans: thunk. thunk.  My phone was at her side.  She'd rather listen to downloaded music than play any game-apps, and she chooses well:

In the night, the stormy night, she'll close her eyes
In the night, the stormy night, away she flies
And dreams of Para-paradise
Para-paradise, Para-paradise....

She sang the words under her breath, high and sweet: para-para-dots, para-para-dots.

Landon was stretched on his tummy on a crazy-colored quilt.  The clanging, hissing, thunking, singing wasn't enough.  He needed to squeal, long and wild: yeeek! hiiiiyeeey!  His left leg bent and kicked, bent and kicked, and so he rocked, squealing while nobody watched.

In deep concentration at the kitchen table, Mia colored a picture, crayons grating against paper: shicka-shicka-shick.  Her mouth twisted with each curve of color -- lips guiding hands.  One foot kicked a rhythm on the wooden chair rung: thwop. thwop. thwop.

Hands drowning in soapy water, listening, I turned to look at my life. 

This could be para-para-paradise
para-para-paradise
para-para-
Paradise...

All of it put together -- the comfort, the growing, the music, the routine --

it sounded like love.

In case you want to hear the song, too:

This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up. Melissa is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others!

Bigger Picture Moment: Holding Hands

"Look at this, Sarah: he keeps pushing his hand into mine.  He's starting to know how to touch things."

Oh, that's adorable!  Hold on, let me grab my camera.

"Did you ever think...what was it?...almost 12 years ago?...when we met, that one day we'd have all these babies?  Or that it would be so LOUD?"

Or that we'd love them so much? *click*  Hold still!  *click*

"Daddy!  I want my hand on your hand, too!"

Alright, climb on up here.  Mama, take him for a minute?

"C'mere, sweet baby.  Now you have to hold very still, okay, Lauren?"  *click*  "Perfect!  Come see!"

Hey, what are you guys doing in here?  Hey, what's that...HEY!  Take my picture, too!  See how long my fingers are?!

"They're long just like mama's, Mia.  So very pretty." *click*

Mama, hold YOUR hand up, too.  And...but who can take a picture?

"Here, Mia: hold it in this hand....good...now get a little closer...like that.  And when you're ready, push this silver button.  Right.  Okay, ready?"

*click*  I did it!  Daddy, I know how to use MAMA'S camera!

"You did great, baby."

Now can we look at all of them again?

"Everyone hop on Daddy's lap."

LauREN! You're on my hair!  Scoot...scoot!

"I AM SCOOTING!"

Now, see?  Here we all are.





This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up.  Hyacynth is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others from friends as we live intentionally through February!

Stewed Potatoes + Enchiladas = Addiction

There are certain scents that have floated into the love-crevices of my brain and made themselves at home.  Things like my husband's armpit, for a perfectly normal example.  Or the place where his neck meets his jaw.  Or where his shoulder meets his neck.  All of those scents are slightly different and hugely wonderful. 

Then there's my mom.  She exudes a cloud of sweetness that is so imperceptibly right -- powdery and subtle -- and which will always smell like comfort. 

And my daughters...oh.  The silken patches beneath their ears.  The quarter-sized circle where Lauren's hairline part meets her forehead.  Mia's heavy hair, swinging as she runs past.

Now there's Landon.  All three months and 11 days of his life have seen me inhaling so vigorously that I fear I may suck a tiny bit of his essence into my soul with each breath.  There will be nothing left of the poor boy by the time he's walking. 

You know, now it occurs to me --

babies are born smelling SO amazing, right?  There's just something about a baby, and I don't mean the scent of the lotion or shampoo or powder they're usually accompanied by.  It's just a baby smell, you know?  But they lose it.  It vanishes by the time they're toddlers. Maybe preschoolers if you're lucky.

And now I know why.  Mothers inhale it.  There's a finite amount of eau de enfant surrounding each new baby. 

(Woe to you if you try to steal my supply...)

Only, with Landon, there are some caveats.  Not to me; I think he smells perfect.  Amazingly, intoxicatingly perfect. 

Mia and Lauren, though?  They sort of disagree. 

Oh, they think he's the sweetest, cutest, darling-est boy in the world, it's true.  But for some reason -- perhaps because we only bathe him when we remember (which is sort of a rare occurrence) -- Mia has designated his particular scent to be that of stewed potatoes.

STEWED POTATOES.

I know.  I mean, what even are stewed potatoes, and how would my daughter know what they smell like?  I'm certain I've never 'stewed' potatoes.  Boiled, fried, baked, roasted...sure.  Still, none of those savory potatoes suggest 'Landon' to me.

Even worse, is the smell of his hands.  Again, not to me.  The fact is, though, that he's only just now starting to un-clench his little fists.  They've gotten...soggy.  Damp.  Three months of damp.  Justin tells me they smell like sour, sweaty toes.

Lauren tells me they smell like enchiladas.

ENCHILADAS.

I'm adrift in a sea of people who don't understand the nuanced perfection of the scent of my baby. 

Still.

I guess he should have regular baths.  No amount of soap can cover eau de enfant completely, after all.  I'll still be able to get my fix.

Bigger Picture Moment: Sticky, but Perfect

The overnight rain had finally dripped and blustered its way into a watery horizon when I woke up yesterday morning.  Sunlight glanced in around the edges of dusty window shades, promising brightness and joy.
Mostly, the sun's predictions were correct; the day was wonderful. The first day of Christmas break, with all of my kids home at the same time, without schedules or commitments or the need to remove our pajamas until lunch time.  In fact, the only reason we ventured out at all was for a fun play date.  Nothing marred the day's happiness.

But the sun's foresight hadn't reached all the way into the evening.

Justin's forced absence for work meetings left me floundering.  It was only for a few hours, but wouldn't you agree that bedtime is the most inopportune time to be tackling children alone?  The baby wouldn't nap for his last burst of sleepiness, instead opting to cry for a few weary hours.  The girls opted to make a pallet on their bedroom floor and celebrate Christmas vacation with a camp-out.  I opted to let them.  Despite strict instructions to not bother me while I put Landon to bed, they wrestled and argued and tattled and fussed while I tried to console the baby in the next room.
And while Landon was crying and not nursing himself to sleep because he's developed a recent aversion to comfort nursing of any sort, I wondered:

What would happen if one day, I could suddenly see all that lay before me of the day's possibilities?  What if I saw all the frustrations mounting into piles of categorized stress?  How would I have the strength to push myself headlong into the maelstrom of swirling wildness that is my family?  Would it be possible to embrace the parts that would send me shivering and fearful into a corner, until I was certain that someone -- anyone -- would arrive to help me get through the rough patches?

What would I do, or change, if I knew beforehand that someone would come thisclose to falling on the baby as he lay on the kitchen rug before dinner?  What would I feel if I was guaranteed an evening of crying and arguing?  How would I cope with the promise of milk spraying into my angry infant's face as he works through whatever nursing issues are plaguing us?

And I don't know the answer.

Or maybe I do:  I wouldn't do anything differently.  (Well, I would probably move the baby out of the middle of the busy kitchen floor.)  Because if I were allowed to see all the wildness that was bounding in my direction, I know what else I'd see. 

In the magic mirror or gazing ball or sepulchral premonition of my warning, there would also have been proof of happiness.  So, not so sepulchral after all.

I would see Mia asking her little sister to tell her a bedtime story.  (Because Lauren's stories are, beyond compare, the most imaginative, nonsensically entertaining things you'll ever hear.)  I would see the lit-up faces of two little girls who'd just been granted permission for a camp-out.  I would see my sweet baby boy almost laughing in the middle of a giant grin.  I would see exhaustion kick in long enough for him to gaze at me with relief as he finally understood that a latch and a suckle were good things to strive for.  I would see a mom inhaling the moments and the expressions and the sights of the family she loves. 

It's all intertwined in an imperfect braid of life.  Strands are tangled and fallen and sometimes too slippery-beautiful for their own good, but the braid -- at the center of its woven heart -- is glorious.  Shining and strong and glorious. 
So no matter what the sun promises or how I interpret the day's forecast, I know this:

It will be beautiful.

And probably a bit sticky.


We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us here today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

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This is How People Go Crazy

Step 1: Agree to take a road-trip on a holiday weekend with a 7-week-old baby boy and his two sick sisters.  Wait patiently on the morning-of to ascertain that the 5-year-old will be able to travel without (a) vomiting or (b) crying.  Hit the road.

Step 2: Be sure to forget 3 out of 4 toothbrushes and mom's deodorant.  Remember the snack bag at the expense of proper hygiene.

Step 3: Plan to stop every 55 minutes for either bathroom breaks, bottom-wiggle breaks, baby-nursing breaks, or wrong-turn breaks.

Step 4: Fail to make time adjustments based on gale-force winds and driving rain on the highway.  (But be thankful for the loudly lashing raindrops which help the baby sleep for the first half of the drive.  They help mask the constant cries from the back seat which holds the world's most lovably impatient sisters.)

Step 5: Let the 5-year-old sleep on the floorboards of the car at a rest stop until her headache goes away.  Be worried that you'll never arrive at your destination.

Step 6: Treat the kids to your evil foe: happy meals with zero nutritional redeeming value, and 100% unknown food(ish) substances because you are SURE the Hello Kitty toys will erase the misery of the road-trip.  Watch as both kids refuse most of the nasty food.  Watch as one kid doesn't even open her Hello Kitty toy.  Watch her cry from a returned headache.

Step 7: Enjoy your visit with family.  Laugh and hug and converse.  Say goodbye too soon.

Step 8: Turn around 27 hours after your journey began, and head home.

Step 9: Wonder what that blinking light on your dashboard is indicative of.  Pull out the Nissan owner's manual.  Stop at a gas station to check the tire pressure -- use your magical pressure-reading skillz because you don't own a pressure gauge.

Step 10: Repeat step 3.

Step 11: Be pleased when the baby finally nurses for a good, looong stretch of time because the car is otherwise empty (and peacefully quiet); the big kids are playing on the grass beside a gas station with your good-sport of a husband.  Leave the gas station after a 30 minute layover.

Step 12: As soon as you hit the highway again, wait for your brain to ooze from your ears when your 3-year-old forces an emergency U-turn to the SAME gas station you just vacated.  Clench your jaw because you know she can't help her body's urges.

Step 13: Wait in a line of grumpy women in a 3-stall restroom wherein 2 stalls are made unusable due to lack of toilet paper and one stall is occupied with a long-suffering (and probably embarrassed, poor thing) mother and her young son. 

Step 14: Take your turn in the stall (finally).

Step 15: Lose the jaw-clenching contest when your 3-year-old declares she doesn't, after all, have to go number two.

Step 16: March back to the vehicle.  Switch drivers.

Step 17: Return to the highway.

Step 18: Remember that it's dinner time.

Step 19: Drive immediately to the nearest mental-health facility and check yourself in.  Call grandma to pick up the kids.  Tell her they're hungry.  And they probably have to go number two.

Step 20: Drool.  Care not.

Bigger Picture Moment: Thankful for The Pause

This is the loveliest time of the whole year.  Maybe even the loveliest day of the whole year. 

The sky is full of wispy white clouds that blend invisibly into the endless blue, and the wind falls down in gusts.  Nothing is standing still; everything shudders and rattles to the thrill of autumn’s rhythm.

On the blacktop road lies every color of leaf.  They are, allegedly, dead.  But to be alive with such color makes up for a shortcoming as insurmountable as death.  Even the brown leaves, dull when still clinging to a branch, are infused with brilliance as they mingle with golden ochre, ginger, and ruby on the ground. 

A burst of air kicks up a cluster of leaves where they rest.  But they don’t simply scatter away with incoherence; they move in tandem.  Maybe one or two started it, and the others in close proximity joined in the swirl.  They become a whirlwind.  A cyclone.  A burnt and crumbling rainbow of color, marking a path of what might be destruction.  Chaos, perhaps. 

But the circularity of their dance seems too inevitable for chaos.  It has to swirl.  It has to gain momentum.  What choice does it have?  The wind is its only master, and nothing can stop the wind once its mind has been made up.

Except a brick wall.  Or a parked car on the roadside.  Or even, innocently, a child’s foot, placed within the circumference of the windy swirl. 

Then suddenly, everything stops.  The cyclone melts away into a carpet of leaves once more.  Gusts may disturb them again, but never will the same group of neighbors make up that exact whirlwind.  It’s disbanded. 

The leaves can rest.

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I'm bounding through the house in past-our-bedtime mode:

Pick out pajamas, gather tomorrow’s clothes, pick up those toys, the baby’s crying, the girls are being too loud in the bath tub, my eyes are burning, what time is it?, find the blankie, grab some towels, he’ll need a diaper, the phone is ringing, I forgot the laundry, Mia’s backpack!, ‘I’ll be right there’, the baby’s still crying, OUCH! (I stubbed my toe), please hurry, let’s go let’s go let’s go.

Then, in the hallway, my husband blocks my path.  He stares down at me without saying a word.  I try to move past him into the bedroom where there are things that need to be done before bedtime can happen, but he stretches one arm out to the wall, and I’m pinned.  I can feel the momentum building inside my chest – I have to move because I’m tired and the baby’s crying and the girls are up too late.  I need to keep going.  It’s a compulsion that I can’t control.  To slow down or (good Lord – don’t even think it -) stop my forward motion is almost painful. 

I sigh and raise my brow with irritation.  “What?”

But I already know what he’ll say, and he knows that I know.  So he says nothing.  Instead, he pulls me to his chest – trapped – and forces me to pause. 

I’m angry.  I hate it when he does this.  It’s a brick wall that I cannot escape.  A foot in my whirlwind, messing up my perfect circle of purpose.

But I turn my head and rest it on his heart.  He drops his face to my hair and I go limp inside, wrapping my restless arms around his waist.  I breathe in the scent of his skin; even under his shirt, even after a long day, even with the smell of soap and chaos still swirling around us, even then – the scent of his skin is enough to make me calm.

My eyes close.

The baby is still crying.  Someone is splashing with too much gusto in the bath tub.  Tomorrow’s clothes are still unchosen.

But I am still.  I have paused.  He has made me pause. 

When we move away from one another, towards our mutual but separate tasks, the carpet of necessary work is still under our feet.  There are still gusts of disturbance and motion, but I know – I promise –

that I will not become a whirlwind again.  Not tonight.  I will rest.  Things will get done. 

They always do.

And this might be the loveliest time of our whole lives.  Maybe even the loveliest day of our whole lives. 

So while our family shudders and rattles to the thrill of this season’s rhythm, I’m thankful for the chance to experience it.

I’m thankful for the pause.

Bigger Picture Moments this month are all about Gratitude. What simple things -- big or small -- are you thankful for? Write about them -- photograph them -- poeticize them -- list them -- and share them with us at Alita's place today. Grab the button and enjoy this time of thanksgiving as we encourage each other to experience life's blessings!

I Don't Really Know What To Say

This is my home -- the streets I drive on every day to go to the places we inhabit.

Both of the churches we belong to and worship in are damaged -- one completely destroyed, the other being flooded with unstoppable rain through a roof that's been torn away. 

My daughters' preschool and the church it belongs to -- there is only open air between crushed walls.  Between walls that saw Mia's preschool graduation last Thursday evening.  Walls that held happy parents and proud children.

Streets full of homes that were landmarks as we made our way through our days -- crumbled.  We don't even know where we are sometimes.

Trees are naked.  Bare bones reaching to a sky that's been filled with lightning for the past 30 hours.

The hospital where my daughters were born into a beautiful, terrifying world -- directly hit...unspeakably harmed.  Irreparably harmed?  It's a beacon over our city, standing defenseless, once hidden by neighborhoods and view-blocking trees, now starkly visible.

My aunt Sherry, my aunt Susie, my cousin Julie, my dear friends Annie and Jason -- have lost their homes and possessions.  The tornado ripped through a heavily populated part of our city, and those four homes were in a place that wasn't completely leveled.  Merely ruined.  There are so many more.  Friends of family, church family, friends I only hear from through Facebook...homeless and scared.

But all of this -- terrifying and devastating enough -- is small when I consider: there are lives lost here, where I've grown up, blocks away from where we sat hiding in our closet during the storm.  While we hid and made shadow shapes on the wall with our flashlight, lives were being ripped apart. 

Our home is unharmed and we are safe.  We emerged to the dinner table before we realized how badly our city was hurt.

People are still being uncovered, but the storms and rain and lightning won't cease.  It seems our hometown will be flooded soon. 

Maybe with tears.



If you'd like to help Joplin recover, my dear friends at Bigger Picture Blogs are organizing a fundraiser.  If you feel so compelled, your help would be greatly appreciated.  And your prayers -- continuing prayers as we dig out of this disaster -- would be greatly coveted. 

Pieces of Our Easter

I wish I had pictures of the sunrise service -- always my favorite few moments of Easter -- but I don't.  

(Just imagine a cloud-covered sky at dawn, over a dark patch of center-city garden.  It's a labyrinth, and this time of year, it's blooming with purple iris: shadows along the path.  There is the occasional car passing by, but for the most part, the small group of gatherers is surrounded with quiet.  Oh, but the birds -- their cacophony rises by the minute, trying to drown out the sun's overshadowing presence.  Thus, the minister, her voice calm and smooth by nature, also competes to be heard.  By the end, with voices raised in celebration, the gatherers are bathed in new light.  Filtered by clouds that will threaten to wash the day away, but can't dampen the spirit of joy.)

What I do have, are photos like these: 

The dim sanctuary, filled with the choir's practicing harmony.



Little girls, coloring Easter pictures in Sunday School.  A new experience for sweet Lauren, fresh as she is from the baby-room!



  


Lauren, alight with the joy of candy sprinkles.  Oh -- and she also intermittently decorated a sugar cookie.

Mia, focused on completing the job with impressive haste; the better to EAT you, my dear cookie!





The day was washed away by rain, but we improvised with wonderful results.  All was well! 

The most exciting part of the egg hunt is sharing your loot with Grandpa.  Sharing scents, that is.  No candy passed hands in the making of this photo.

As if sugar cookies and treat-filled eggs weren't enough, we added a candy-laden pinata to the madness.







And if these girls were any more sweet in their holiday dresses, I would have passed out from over-exposure to preciousness. 

As it was, I merely passed out from exhaustion and the stress of wrangling two over-sugared cuties into bed at an early hour. 

Rain-washed or sugar-loaded or joy-centered, I hope your Easter was lovely, too!

Walking: In Captions

She'll hold his hand without question -- with everyone else, she demands independence.

A hill is not a hill, when the air is warm and breezy and the sun is nearly setting.

Is a stranger's flower any less beautiful because I had to sneak across a yard to photograph it?

Is a stranger's ancient barn any less gorgeous if we've never noticed it before, yet walked this way countless times?

This may be the world's tallest stump...

Better than any stroller, Daddy's shoulders carry the weight of memory and glee. 

One of the good things about walking with a toddler is all the opportunity she provides to stop; look; notice things.  And to prod them with a gnarled stick. 

The way home.  The path of peace.  The trek of spilled-energy.

The last burn-off of the day's hectic pace.  Thank Heaven for spring!

I Didn't Mean to Cry on Valentine's Day

First, it was Smashing Pumpkins. 

They were blaring 1979 in my ears as I drove across town on my menial errands and the music rattled around in my memory.  Nostalgia swelled up inside me, pulling me in strange directions; I thought of my grandma, which is completely odd: never in my life would I have associated her with Smashing Pumpkins.  Not for any reason.  Yet, there she was, hugging me in her warm soft way, wafting her powdery, fabric-softened scent across my cheeks. 

Then, it was the Chinese restaurant.

Not the Chinese restaurant, just a random building on the side of a busy thoroughfare as I passed.  Not the Chinese restaurant my grandma took me to for a special date when I was an awkward pre-teen.  That one was all the way across town and we had both been excited to try it.  It was brand new, sparklingly decorated and hidden away in the corner of a strip-mall.  I discovered a delicious plate of nuclear-yellow rice noodles at that restaurant.  Grandma and I read along the outside edge of the red-and-white paper place mats all about the Chinese Zodiac characters and what they meant for our futures.  I'm sure there was endless happiness involved. 

Next, it was an old lady.

She sang quietly to herself as she perused the canned fruit in the grocery store.  She sang without minding who heard -- maybe without even noticing the song's escape from her mouth.  And I wanted to rush over to her and tell her about my grandma, who sang along with every task.  Laundry, dishes, cooking, gardening, vacuuming, and probably grocery shopping. Songs were in her house and in her heart, and they were beautiful.  So happy and cheerful, even in the gloomiest of circumstances. 

Last, it was 4th Street. 

Long after 1979 had faded away into the recesses of the radio station's signal, I had a task to accomplish on 4th Street.  My hair was tickling my cheeks; windows down on a day so sunny that the snow can't help but meltingly surrender.  At grandma's block, it was all too much.  Valentine's day, the day of love, and all these overwhelming memories sat themselves upon my chest and began heaving.  Rather, I began heaving. 

I don't cry for my grandma these days.  I miss her, but it's a happy missing: a remember-the-way-she missing.  A wish-I-could-tell-her missing.  But today, with the song and the restaurant and the old lady and the road and the sunny day, it all overpowered me.  I cried and cried, just me and my carful of groceries.  Just me and the sunshine and the dripping piles of too-bright snow.

And then, because it felt right, I stopped at the tortilla shop and bought two-dozen fluffy flour tortillas.  Because my grandma knew how to appreciate an authentic tortilla, and if she'd been at home today -- perched on her porch with hot coffee in a pearly-peach coffee cup and saucer -- I'd have taken her some tortillas, too, and we'd have hugged like it was going out of style. 

She probably would have sang to me as I walked across the porch and into her expectant arms: If I knew you were comin' I'd'a baked a cake -- How d'you do? How d'you do? How d'you do?!

A Mid-Winter Evening's Adventure

The girls were beside themselves with bored energy, and it was almost the time of day that would tamp down on any attempts to stretch our limbs in the wilderness.  I was ready to send them outside -- alone -- for a moment's peace, but at my parents' house, there's this to contend with:

The creek.  It's gorgeous throughout the seasons: meandering and graceful, rushing and swollen, clear and cool, or humid and still.  And it's not deep enough to be very dangerous to our little girls -- my brother and I played in it for years before we were even old enough to have memories of such things -- but, still.  It's cold and wet, and those wouldn't have complimented the chilly day very well, had a distracted child toppled into the drink.

So out we ALL went.  For the best, too: being so cooped up together could only successfully last so long with two toddlers and a preschooler before space and air became vital.

The rocks are always the biggest draw at the creek.  Is this an Indian rock, mama?  Did you see how big that one splashed?!  Our luck will never run out, as far as the rocks are concerned.  This gravel bar has millions.  Billions?

The sun set over the western bank (as per its usual, millennial, routine), and in this watery, chilly light, we unraveled our tensions.

We watched our steps, and our backs: flying rocks, when launched by two-year-olds, can be quite cantankerous.

And -- isn't it amazing? -- the creek didn't even know we were there.  The ripples we made and the splashes we scattered (both with meltdowns and skipped rocks)...they were smoothed over instantly, as soon as we let ourselves loose to explore.

Simply amazing.

On Being Cherished

I'm NEVER going to ballet lessons AGAIN!  I HATE BALLET!  Mia screamed and thrashed on the bed as I closed the door on her tantrum.  My hands were shaking with irritation and frustration.  I stomped away, seeking refuge in the company of my toddler, but when I found her in the living room, she was stripping off her freshly-chosen outfit and crying: I'm wearing something DIFFERENT!  I don't LIKE these clothes.  We had to leave soon, and now none of us were dressed.

That was 9AM.  The day progressed.  Lauren almost stopped listening altogether. Mia became a comedienne, trying to make her mama laugh.  Mama, will you talk brightly?

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Dinner preparations were halfway completed.  Vegetables were ready; rice was almost done; sweet potatoes were in their final baking stretch.  All that was left was the fish -- and I hoisted some quick instructions onto Justin's capable hands before dashing out the front door to a chorus of Bye!s and Have Fun, Mama!s.  Key in ignition, volume turned up, I was away. 

At  the gym, I complained to Jill, who, blessedly, knew exactly what to do: laugh.  We walked and ran and talked more than should be allowed when two persons are supposedly giving their all-out effort.  (But it WAS an all out effort -- because running without a chatting partner is impossibly dull for me.)  We panted and laughed about the bewilderment that accompanies raising children.  I mean....it was the kind of day....that made me CUSS...and slam DOORS...and I'm so glad for...the chance to get out...of the house...even if it requires...sweat! 

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Besides the twinkling lights wrapping our porch in a sweet glow, our house was very dark.  I snuck through the door -- were the girls already close to bed?  I didn't want to disturb bedtime... -- into the quiet house.  Gazing across the toy-littered living room, I listened: whispers and giggles were hiding down the hall.  I faked a wondrous line of questioning (the gym having restored my willingness to play along).  Well -- what's going on here?  Where's my family?  Miiiiaaaaa.....Laurrennnn....Daaaddyyyy...where'd everybody go? 

Two girls erupted in squeals and stormed across the carpet while Justin shushed them.  Wait!  Wait!  Let her get into the kitchen first!

A burning Boysenberry Pie candle in a shiny tin propped up a note of paper, and a cloth napkin sported a fork.  Ice water in a glittering glass.  The note: I cherish you, Sarah.  Love, Justin  P.S. Check in the oven.

Before I could get there, I was assailed by Lauren (in a bathing suit and panties).  Mia was close behind, in a sleeveless denim jumper. (It was 25 degrees outside.)  We hugged times three, Justin looking on from the doorway.  In the still-warm oven, my dinner was plated beautifully, presented thoughtfully.  The three of them ran back down the hallway, leaving me alone in a candle-lit dream. 

Daddy!  Let's play the dropping game!  No -- let's slide off your back!  Daddy!  Daaaddddyyyy!

Their voices were muffled and precious.  My dinner was hot.  I was refreshed.

Cherished, too.

The Perks Of Having A Pinky-Wrapped Grandpa

Perhaps one of the best parts about having your Grandpa return from a week-long vacation to the beach is that he'll be so overjoyed to spend every moment with you, he'll be easily convinced to do....

Just about anything...

Your girly little heart desires.

And it just so happens that he makes a fantastic toenail polisher.

Bigger Picture Moment: I'm A Big Girl Now

At this very moment, most of my extended family is at the beach.  Cousins, aunts, uncles, parents -- they all traveled together to Gulf Shores for one giant family vacation, and I'm still here.  Listening to a windy thunderstorm growl around our house in the middle of nowhere.

I'm not mad that we didn't get to go with them.  I know it would have been fun, but being adults as we are (when did that happen?), we had to stay behind for real-life reasons.  I understand.  It's just...

I had been looking forward to watching the girls as they got their first glimpse of the ocean.  As they dug in sand and got knocked down by waves and breathed the salty air.  I knew we might not get to go, but I'd hoped so hard otherwise that I was certain my direct thinking would make it happen.  Plus, I've been enjoying our slight touch of freedom now that both our girls are old enough to travel without much difficulty.  Neither am I pregnant and unwieldy, nor tied down by a newborn's needs.  We are wholly able to go and do as we please right now -- except for that 'real-life' obligation which kept us behind this time.

But that's what I'm clinging to: this time.  We can go on other vacations.  Better, we can do it whenever we choose, within the boundaries of what works with our lives. 

The fact is that while we have adult obligations now, we also have adult choices and capabilities.  We can make our own vacations!  We can go where we want!  We don't have to wait for our extended family to propose something in order to do fun things!  We can make our own, separate family memories, because that's what we are: a complete family.  Not dependent on anyone else's actions or plans to live our lives to the fullest. 

Which we hope to begin doing as soon as we can clear our calendars.

Where's the best place you've been for a family vacation?  Where should we use our newly realized freedom first?  And does anybody else besides us feel like they're too inexperienced to be planning family vacations without the input of their parents?!



We invite you to join us in finding the Bigger Picture amidst the hectic, everyday craziness in your week.  Share your link and spread the love by viewing and commenting on other Bigger Picture Moments at Bigger Picture Blogs.  (The link-up is having technical difficulties -- post your link at Melissa's until the problem is resolved!)  

Friday Flashback: My First Car

It must have been summertime, and I was all of 15 and 5/6 years old. 

I can imagine my skin glowing with the perpetual tan I had in those days, as well as something else: expectation.  The promise of something waiting around the next corner.  The expectation of something good.  It must have radiated from me like confidence or carelessness did from other teens.   

That summer, I'd been car shopping a few times with my dad.  Used car lots on warm mornings, country lots south of town, towered over by oak trees and strewn about with acorns.  Dad haggled and perfected his poker-face while I hopped and begged around cute little cars, giving all his carefully planned bluffs away.  Leaving one of the lots, I just knew I'd get the car I wanted.  It seemed all tied up in a pretty bow, waiting for me to drive it off into the freedom of an unexplored sunset.  Well, once I turned 16, that is.  A few more months...

------------

At home, some days or weeks later, I moped with all the boredom I could muster, knowing something was going on.  Something I wasn't supposed to know about -- so I played along. 

In the way of memories, this one is fuzzy around its edges.  Who called for me to look out the living room window?  Who was standing by my side as I let the hopeful smile break across my face?  Who else was in the room with me as I looked down into our driveway?  I don't know. 

But I know a few things:  I fully expected there to be a cute little car in the driveway, one that would chariot me away into my expectancy.  I also fully expected to have seen it before.  I knew by my dad's face that he was happy.  (There -- he must have been one of the people in the room.  I imagine my mom.  My brother.  Some friends?)  I also expected to be pleased, but in the back of my head I had politeness in mind, too; I would show gratitude and thankfulness, first thing, even if it wasn't exactly what I'd wanted. 

Peeking over the window ledge, I searched the driveway for my chariot.  What I found was something like this:

If you're thinking I'm stretching the truth, you're right.  It didn't look exactly like this.  Mine was yellow.  Ish. 

A 1979 (or thereabouts) Mercury Marquis Brougham.  An Uncle Buck car. 

My smile froze on my face, strained.  Tears suddenly ached in the back of my throat.  For the very first time I could remember, I was speechless.  I'd been prepared to be thankful, effusive, excited, even if some of that had to be presented falsely.  I knew what a gift it was for my parents to have been able to buy me my first car.  I knew I was lucky.

I also knew I was devastated. 

What happened next might have been this:

My tears overflowed at the same time as my laughter -- nervous and jittery.  I waited for someone to bust out laughing with me, teasing me about how gullible I was to have fallen for this joke, but nobody did.  They watched me carefully, smiling and wondering at my laughter.  Was it stunned laughter?  (Yes.)  Joyful laughter?  (No.)  Confused laughter?  (Absolutely.)

Or what happened next might have been this:

I stood silently for minutes upon minutes, trying to keep my face hidden from the onlookers.  I couldn't trust my reaction to be positive, so I just stared out the window.  Without turning my head, I spoke with a hoarse voice: What?  The question conveyed an innocent sense of being in the dark about what I was actually seeing.  What could mean, Whose car is this, mine? or Are you playing a trick on me? or What response is appropriate here? or When will I wake up from this nightmare? 

I don't actually know what happened though.  I think I lost consciousness as I considered my future: pulling up to the high school parking lot as students lined the sidewalk while I tried to park the behemoth; sitting at stoplights, blushing, while classmates in sleek, shiny vehicles laughed at the rumble coming from my beast; wishing I could wreck the car and use the money -- however little -- to buy a very nice bicycle. 

What seemed like hours -- maybe it actually was -- may have been only minutes.  I stared.  I tilted my head to make sense of what I saw.  I had a discussion with my brother's friend (oh -- someone else to witness my personal hell) about how it would all be okay.  My parents left the room while I stared, leaving me alone to process this car that was mine.  My car. 

In the midst of my dumbfounded staring, someone returned to stand beside me.  Mom, dad, or brother, I don't recall.  Nor do I recall the words they used to tell me that this car was not, actually, mine. 

It was a joke.

A mean joke, but a joke nonetheless.

Now, I cried.  Sobbed and shook and sniffled.  Hugged and thanked and begged.  Promised and apologized and hoped.  I would be thankful for any car I was allowed to have...as long as I didn't have to have that one.  That long, low, crumbling, rusting, belching, ugly, old thing. 

It wasn't my car after all.  It was a junker.  Something from which my dad was going to salvage a part. 

Cruel.  Unusual.  Funny in hindsight.  Kind of.  But only if I squint and hold my breath and remember how much I love my parents.

Tell me about your first car...or the thing that was presented as your first car that was not actually your first car but which you remember as your first car.  What did you drive as a tender 16-year-old?

Tuesdays Around The World: Today

Today, we're excited to go play with sweet Evie:

Because she's a bundle of fun...

A barrel of laughs...

And she knows it!


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