"You're good at wiping," I say. There at the big black table, Myra and I linger a second before church. She wipes the smooth tabletop one-handed, the ease of a full-grown woman.
"Huh?" she says.
"You can wipe off the table better than some of the big kids," I say.
"Oh, I would just watch the big kids," she says. "When Jane was little but still big, when she was like 9 or 10, I would watch her and think I could do that if I practiced." She nods, gives a half shrug, "'Cause practice makes easy." Her voice turns up like a curlicue at the end of a sentence.
"Yup," I say. Practice makes easy. For good or bad, repetition makes automatic like the flick of her small wrist, automatic.
5923. Pasta spirals, bones for broth. Wool yarn.
5924. The children tidy the house before we get home from a date.
5925. Betsy finds the pantry oatmeal bin and eats directly out of it. "Nummy-nummy-nummy," she says.
5926. A friend marries a man from Norway. Mirth ensues, glorious chaos that ends in the married couple stirring the crowd with a broadway song. And best of all they waited for the wedding night to consummate the marriage. You can always tell; it's a different sort of wedding rejoicing tenfold.
5927. A family with a dozen kids (literally) invites us up for an afternoon. The kids go through the high ropes course they have. Fellowship and the adrenaline of trust on the ropes course, we leave exhausted and happy.
5928. A new book, an autobiography of an MD.
5929. I begin to collect economy priced muslin blankets for the baby.
5930. I knit away on a sweater for him, chartreuse green and chocolate brown.
5931. I start to feel his tiny self move inside me more.
5932. Sunday naps wash over the eight of us. The house warm with sunlight, bellies full, sleep envelopes like perfect love.
5933. We await the coming week with open hands ready for work, honor, and worship, nuggets of gold slipped into our pockets.