"Hey Momma, I made your toast," Jack says. Blinding headache, I walk slowly to the table, sit as if in slow motion.
"Thanks, Jack," I say. I squint at the plate, toast propped on the lip to keep it crisp. I sigh, press fingers to my forehead, swallow a wave of nausea. Next to the plate I spy two fresh picked pea pods.
I look toward the kitchen, Jack smiling back at me, waiting like a cat to see me notice the peas. I smile.
"Thanks," I mouth.
"Yep," he says. "It's your medicine."
And so it is, every meal and in between he brings me peas from his garden. Medicine. I like to bring you things you like, he says.
Forty-eight hours and I begin to feel well again, but even before that, it is well with my soul.
5934. "Mom?" Jack says. "Yeah?" I say. "When I have a day off," he says, "I almost don't want to go anywhere, like not even to frozen yogurt. I just want to be in nature and look at it." Me too.
5935. Craig and the kids take over meals, housekeeping, and diaper changes while I recover from the headache.
5936. I continue to track down food additives I'm allergic to. I feel better and better as I eliminate the culprits.
5937. Joe trounces in from the backyard. "Mom, MOM," he says. "I was watering my garden, and I got ALL wet. I'm not REALLY sure how." Drenched waist to toe, he leaves a trail to the bedroom.
5938. Life slows to a snail's pace, and I notice happy moments line almost every scene like props on a wide stage.
5939. "Mom, I somehow got up to the top of the tree, but then I got down again," Joe says. He's in again from outback.
5940. The kids stake my 120+ tomato plants. I realize we understand "staking the tomatoes" differently and rescue the plants.
5941. New tank tops.
5942. A paper punch to replace the lame 2-hole one we've been using.
5943. A couple new kid's books.
5944. Encouragement finds me like an oasis. Best friends know what will help.
5945. I finally mastermind the waistband and rolled collar on the chartreuse sweater.
5946. Cool evening breeze drifts in the house hot with summer heat.
5947. We still squeeze in homemade pizza night, a new pizza stone to add to the collection.
5948. Craig and the kids clean out the pantry. The stack of things to sell or donate grows larger.
5949. I find time for evening reading, The House With The Seven Gables. Hawthorne's language and imagery capture me.
5950. We sleep with a down comforter at our ankles, just enough to pull up under my chin when the house finally cools.
5951. "Betsy, where is I," Joe rings in sing-song voice. They giggle hide-n-seek.
5952. July, my favorite month of the year, we settle in to let it wash over us. Refreshment. Slow living. It arrives at the usual pace.