Juicy Grins and Drippy Chins

I shared a couple of these photos yesterday, but they weren't enough to satisfy me (or you -- I knew you needed more!)

These girls?  UGH.  They slay me.

The watermelon plus the smiles plus the messy cheeks...

they beg to be smooched. 

 And I am a happy, sticky obliger.  Watermelons are the sweetest thing.

Next to daughters, that is.  And when you put the two together? 

I'm adrift in a sea of sweetness.

Some Quickety Quick Takes for July

1.  A new blog friend, Julie, recently got some terrible news about her daughter, Taylor.  At her 18-month check-up, the doctor found a mass in her abdomen which turned out to be an inoperable spinal tumor.  There's a facebook page set up for her --  Praying for Taylor -- and if you've got a minute to add your prayers and thoughts (or donations), I know they'd appreciate it. 

On top of Taylor's new medical concerns and treatments, Julie delivered a sweet baby boy by (horrific) emergency c-section last week, the day before Taylor's first chemo treatment.  The baby is still in the NICU, waiting to be held for the first time.  I just can't imagine shouldering this kind of burden, and I want to shower Julie with love right now.  Let's pray, shall we?



2.  Right now, our house is clean, organized, and calm.  Except for the clean part.  And the calm.  But organized!  We've GOT THAT!  Because things are going in boxes with labels.  The house closing is in two weeks (ack!), and I figure that I've got to get started little by little or I'll be frantic trying to get us out of here in time.  Which makes me think Oh, gosh -- we won't be living HERE anymore.  Which makes me start to cry.  Packing is doing weird things to my emotions. 

Also, I know nothing about packing for a move.  Like, I'm sure there are some things I should keep unpacked until the very end, but I can't seem to think what those things would be...any tips?


3.  One thing we definitely aren't packing yet?  Landon's frying pan.

It's mandatory in his daily play schedule, even more so than the Barbie cars.



4.  And we won't pack the camera.  Because then, what would Landon race towards at baby-warp-speed?  I really think he'd offer me his binkie in return for sole custody of the camera lens.

5.  Dripping watermelon on the front porch steps.  This is where it's at for a long summer day.

6.  The cat thinks so, too.  (And I think this photo might be on my list of ALL TIME favorites. Right?)

7.  Yesterday, Yahoo ran a story about a British man who, irritated with his girlfriend's attraction to Fifty Shades of Grey, assaulted her with a bottle of 'A1' Steak Sauce.  While the story was odd and comical (probably not for the sauced girlfriend), it was the comments at the bottom of the page that had me rolling.  Here are a few of my favorites:

There's really nothing like a pun to make me happy.



More Quick Takes are hosted by Jen at Conversion Diary -- check 'em out!

Dichotomy {A Bigger Picture Moment}

There is something about being alone, without children and noise and clamor.  Something about silence.  Something about muffled needs and deep breaths.  There's something about relief and relaxation and unbundling that comes with being alone. 

The way a thought is allowed to begin -- a flake of dust settles onto a shelf --

and grow -- a hand sweeps over the dust, scattering it --

and move forward into something else entirely -- a puff of twinkling motes swirling in the light --

without ever once being interrupted.

There is just something about being alone.

Walking up the front steps, I hug it tight to my skin before releasing it into the sunset.  I open the door and let myself in where the children are racing and yelling and being gloriously noisy.

It's mama! 

Oh, MAMA!!  Mama's home!!

The arms surround my legs and waist pulling me down, erasing the last, clinging breaths of solitude. 

Each voice is telling a story about games or songs or snacks or all of them at the same time.  If a speck of thought-dust were to fall in the vicinity of my soul at this very moment, it would be buffeted about without ever reaching the ground.  There is no silence.  There is no stillness. 

But there are kisses.  There is joy.  There is a flailing, smiling baby, reaching for my arms.  There is a husband who has already cleared the dinner dishes.  There is bedtime.  There is craziness from all sides and it feels like slow heat, seeping into my skin.

There is something about being surrounded.




Every Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimpse of the Bigger Picture through a simple moment.  Join the Bigger Picture Community today at Melissa's place. Reflect upon something simple — or simply magical — that’s resonated with you this week, then share it with us!

Tuesdays Around the World: Sugared

This one is berries and cream, honeyed and smooth.  She is sticky with sun-melted sugar.  A dip in the water rinses syrupy waves from her creamy skin.  She hides behind shoulders and takes her time, and then, she overflows your senses with the gentlest of timidities: a hug.  And she wouldn't dream of splashing you.

But you'll end up wishing she had.

Because you'd give anything to soak up a leftover drop of her sugared heart.



Linking up with Communal Global today -- you should, too!

Broken Teacups, Not Broken Children

I raised the tiny teacup to admire the sunlight flowing through the translucent white china.  Delicate blue flowers danced around the rim and down the s-curved handle.  This cup was part of a set I had owned as a girl.  Now it was my children’s turn to play. 

My four-year-old fed her baby doll a sip of tea while her six-year-old sister poured air-filled cream and sugar into a cup.  The scene was just as I had always dreamed it: perfect and calm and glowing around the edges. 

The first time a teacup clattered into a saucer, I gently reminded the girls about being careful with these treasures.  They nodded, eyes solemn and true; of course they would be careful. 

My old tea set provided the opportunity I’d been waiting for to complete some chores, so I put the time to good use.  I changed the baby’s diaper, switched a load of laundry, and made the bed.  In short, I made myself scarce. 

The girls chattered in the kitchen, happy with their successful tea party right up until there was a crash and a shatter.  You knew there would be a crash and a shatter, right?  Isn’t there always a crash and a shatter where handed-down tea sets are concerned? 

From the back of the house, I closed my eyes and willed it untrue, but my four-year-old broke the spell before it could take hold, racing down the hallway to speak her mind.

“Mama, I wasn’t the one who did that.  I was just watching and she dropped it and it broke ALL OVER THE FLOOR.”  Her hands were on her hips, daring me to oppose her innocence.  I shook my head, feeling frustration bubble up from my chest to choke at my throat. 

I was immediately angry.  My six-year-old must have been excessively careless and wild for such a thing to have happened, I was sure.  And though I hadn’t decided on a disciplinary strategy yet, she would certainly have consequences for her carelessness. 

In the kitchen, my oldest daughter looked up at me with tears trembling on her lower eyelids as she tried to gather tiny, porcelain pieces.  “It just slipped, mom.  I was being careful and I wanted to bring you a cup of tea and it slipped but I’ll try to fix it and I’m sorry!”  As her testament grew so did her emotion.  By the end of the speech she was crying outright. 

I surveyed the damage.  One shattered, irreparable tea cup; one messy, shard-covered floor; one broken-hearted, distraught little girl. 

On the tip of my tongue were the admonitions I’d carried with me into the kitchen.  Statements about her being old enough to know better, smart enough to think better, and careful enough to do better.  They died on my lips. 

In that moment, I knew that she was already suffering the consequences of carelessness.  She was already sad about the broken cup, worried about my feelings, and probably angry at herself for dropping the cup.  The last thing she needed was for fear of punishment to be added to the list. 

I stooped down and began sweeping the broken glass into a pile.  She helped me throw away the pieces. It was apparent that the natural consequences were enough and that she would never forget mom’s broken teacup. 

All that was left was for me to swallow my frustration and learn a lesson of my own: never turn your back on a tea party.

[Originally published in The Joplin Globe.]

Going Under {A Bigger Picture Moment}

There are children flopping around on my bed.  A foot kicks into my thigh, and I grunt, irritated but too sleepy to produce a reprimand.  I simply shift further from the tangle of legs and arms that won't be still.  My slice of mattress is dwindling.  Worse, the floppy, tangled children aren't joyful on this early morning.  They are fighty.  Shouty.  Make-mama-screamy.  I contemplate lifting my head from the pillow to address a rude voice, but deem it unworthy.  I will get nowhere -- there is nowhere to go, unless it's to fall off the edge.  Didn't I say the same thing yesterday?  Last month?  Last year?  I am drowning under the day, and it's only just begun. 

The baby monitor crackles to life; the baby is babbling and scooting.  Awake. 

I open my eyes and try to breathe, but the air isn't air at all.  It is dark water, and I'm going under.

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

A recurring dream floats around in my subconscious, waiting for uncertainty in my daily life before striking at night.  It's a lurker.  It never quite dissipates. 

There is a fast-flowing creek.  The water is clear and cold, running over slippy rocks and tangled roots before pooling under an outcropping of trees.  There, the rush and flow stills.  This place is dark and murky, clouded with just-disturbed mud.  Despite the nearness of clear water, I always, always choose the muddy pool.  I wade in slowly, digging my toes into the earth, seeking....the right place.  Or the right moment.

I lean forward and ease my chest down into the water -- so cold -- gasping for one last breath of air before going under, eyes open.  I search the darkness, watching the way an arm of sunlight allows its bones to be broken by the rippling surface.  Down here, I float and twist, looking for something that's hiding just beyond my memory. 

It's taking too long, though ,and my lungs are seizing up; I need oxygen.  I turn back to the surface but even before I do, I already know: the surface is gone.  There is only water -- miles and miles of water -- and the pool isn't in a shallow creek, it's at the cold bottom of a lake.  Reckless now, I use precious energy to find a source of air.  I scream and thrash.  Finally, my lungs are empty.  Imploding.  Shadows creep in around the edges of my vision and my fingers go numb. 

There is only one option left, and I'm too tired to resist it.  Stilling my arms and legs, I inhale.  One tiny sip of water after another, I breathe in, waiting for it to sear and burn. 

But it's the strangest thing: the water is breathable.  I frown and try for more, feeling desperately hopeful.  Gulps won't work -- I'll drown if I try anything more than a small sip, but those are precious and I don't mind.  The water is still over my head, the sunlight is still jagged and blue, the pressure is still crushing, and whatever I'm searching for is still nowhere to be seen. 

But I am alive.  I can breathe.  I can do this.

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

I roll towards the children and see: hair that is the same color as my own, eyes that frown in a mirror of my own.  They have nowhere to go but here, and the thought tugs at my blood: of course they don't.  They are part of me.  They belong right here. 

I take a sip of the day -- something tiny and vital -- and find that I can breathe without drowning.  I sit up and kiss each girl on the forehead (sip) before getting out of bed (sip) and speaking about kindness and expectations (sip).  I open the baby's door and he squeals in delight (sip).  The girls rush in behind me to smother him with kisses (sip) before tumble-weeding out to the kitchen. 

I open the shades (sip).  The sun shines in (sip). 

I can do this. 





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 at Jade's place today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they find the fullness in the simple. 

With a Pause and a Stutter

She runs across the yard to me, arms waving and eyes wide: there’s a story about to unfold.  At four-years-old, there’s always a story about to unfold from her lips.  Each day is thrillingly filled with enough information and experience to keep her mind spinning out of control.  And her mouth follows suit. 

“Mama!  I…um…I just was over by the…um…the forest, and…and…and,” she swallows, glancing back towards the fence.  “And under the…the…that log, well I was there because I followed…that…um…a butterfly…but it’s gone now and…”  She rolls her hands in circles, as if trying to roll the story into coherence. 

I have a feeling I know exactly what she’s trying to say; I can see a turtle’s shell nestled beside a fallen branch.  I raise my eyebrows and feel quite ready to offer her experience up in my own words.  “You followed a butterfly to that log and found a turtle hiding beside it?”  It’s on the tip of my tongue.  My throat aches with the unsaid sentence.  But I squelch the urge, holding my patience in check while she continues to falter and ramble towards her roundabout point. 

It’s often like this in our household: a child tells a story to an exhausted adult who simply wants to hear the punch line.  We’d push the fast-forward button if we could, just to save all the stuttery half-words and false starts.  But for the storytelling or the wondering or the dreaming child, there seems only to be slow-motion, as my daughter is now demonstrating. 

She halts and collects her thoughts, which are spilling willy-nilly from her brain.  As I struggle to keep from leading her to the conclusion, I picture those thoughts as headless chickens, flopping and tripping in unchoreographed pandemonium.  And as much as it pains me, I don’t rush her into order.  Those headless chickens are accomplishing much with their disorder, it turns out.

Stumbling over a straightforward story isn’t a sign of trouble, but a sign that a child’s brain is clicking away at great speed, just as it’s meant to be doing.  When kids have trouble spitting out their words, it isn’t because they’re not intelligent enough to speak clearly.   It usually isn’t even that they’re not paying attention.

In fact, the way they seem to flounder in their focus is all wrapped up in their brain development.  Their thoughts are running on a speedier plane than their mouths.  Their minds know what’s happening, but their language is slower to develop, so what emerges instead of measured sentences can sometimes be a jumble of starts and stops. 

Thoughtful and clever preschoolers need time for their mouths to draw alongside their brains, and the process of weeding out what needs to be said helps train them for just that eventuality. 

By the time my daughter is in elementary school, I expect that hearing a story about a discovered turtle will take just as long to tell, but be filled with descriptors and emotions instead of faltering hesitations.  We’ll be wishing for silent breaks then, I’m sure, as nonstop chatter will surely fill every empty moment. 

Until then, we wait.  Wait for verbosity to catch up to brainpower.  For mouths to catch up to language.  For headless chickens to line up in logical order. 

And for four-year-olds to finish their stories. 

I settle down comfortably, enjoying the play of emotion across my daughter’s face as she recounts her surprise.  A turtle discovery has never been so captivating. 

[Originally published at The Joplin Globe]