"Is it the girls' night for dishes?" I ask.
Chicken soup for dinner -- the kitchen engulfed in pyrex bowls, onions scraps, stock pots, bell pepper cores, chicken bones, and drips and daubs of stock bubbled and smeared around the stovetop, a ladle sideways on the the stove -- Jack and I comb the landscape with our eyes. The dishwasher, mouth yawned open with clean dishes, we both sigh.
"I'm gonna empty the dishwasher for them," he says.
"That would be nice," I say.
"Even though I know I could get away with not," he adds.
At family breakfast he'd marshaled an enterprise of eggs and sausage, apple slices, toast, oatmeal and toppings, the kitchen fired up to capacity. And then he'd done dishes, stroke by stroke, with Myra and Joe.
Work. He unravels it. He dismantles disorder. He takes it one dirty dish at a time and sets the house with cleanness. But, quiet and striking like deadpan humor, he doesn't seem to wait for applause. Something like honor ensues instead.
"I love that about you, Jack," I say.
He smiles, the clank of silverware gathered in his hands.
6119. Craig and the kids bring back bags of apples from his parent's orchard.
6120. The kids keep leaving special bowls of sliced apple for me.
6121. I dress up for a baby shower of a dear friend. "Mom, did you hotten your hair," Joe asks, fascinated that the flat iron can smooth my hair.
6122. Everyone loves the fresh pot of chicken soup.
6123. Betsy fully embraces the trundle bed: night sleep, naps, everything.
6124. I finish a couple more baby swaddling blankets.
6125. We divide up extra house chores and all organize a part of the house.
6126. The kids make plans to bake apple crisp and make cider vinegar.
6127. We spend three out of four nights listening to an audio book by the fire before bed.
6128. We continue to cultivate the truth that serving is the greatest honor.
6129. We continue to take joy in the quite lull before the baby arrives. Six weeks and counting.