"Can you put whip cream on mine?" Joe nudges a steel bowl, almond whip cream stiff and fluffy, the Kitchen Aid still on the counter.
"Hmm," I say. He pushes his pancake a little closer. "Whelp, I can." Long swivel spoon, I circle the bowl, foamy white gathering on the end. "I can put on LOTS," I say, "but just 'cause you asked. Don't YOU do that. Ok?" He nods. He's all nods.
"Ohhhhh, that's LOTS," he says. I plop two blobs, shake the spoon a little and another drip slides off.
"Yup," I say, pancake buried.
"Mmm, good idea," I say, Craig blinking at Myra, shy eight-year-old eyes blinking back. He balances syrup and cream and eats another bite, smile and mooning eyes full like that cream.
"Ok!" Betsy chirps, joy garbled around pancake and a great herculean effort to swa-swallow that bite down. "I can go!" she chimes still swa-swallowing the tail end of that bite.
Craig shakes his head, smiles. Myra grins. And a smile slides across my face. Confidence blooming, twice and thrice, strikes gong reverberation.
Gratitude:
6561. The plant sale opens, a smashing success.
6562. The children walk the neighborhood streets to deliver flyers. Confidence grows. Stress gives birth to ability. They speak for themselves and their business.
6563. Jane gives her first Toastmasters speech. Her confidence grows. The teacher encourages that the inevitable anxiety IS the goal. It's the only way to master public speaking.
6564. We celebrate Myra, sweet, light-hearted, deep-hearted Myra. She is a gift too big to appraise.
6565. I find the truth, that difficult conversations bring life, to be, well, true.
6566. We continue to teach the children that the most mature person in the room will do the most unfair tasks and without recognition.
6567. I lament that the house has not gotten tidier this week, but rejoice at all the yard and plant sale work that is complete. I set my mind to embrace the extra tasks that lace through the next week.
6568. I think with anticipation about the children's next art lesson.
6569. I find a few moments to play piano.
6570. We land Sunday night with a promise to ourselves to get more sleep and find the weaving thread of contentment the hang the next week on.
I love that you found a few moments to play the piano. Dad and I used to love listening to you play.
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