Grumpy

"Hey, why are you being so grumpy?" brow furrowed I raise an eyebrow at Lucy. Slouched at the end of the couch, she huffs and sighs, knees gathered up at her chin.

"I'm not," she says.

"Yeah, you are," I say.

"I don't know," she says.

The other kids milling into the sunroom, they find seats while Lucy stews.

"Well, think about it," I say.

"It just seems like the other kids are telling me what to do and bossing me around," she says. She makes her face placid but narrows her eyes and enfolds irritation at the edges of her mouth.

"No," I say. "That's not it. You've been grumpy about too many different things lately. It's something else. What is it?

"I don't know," she says casting proof across the couch at me.

"Well, think about it. Usually when someone is bothered by a whole bunch of different things, it's actually something else that's causing it all. I'm going to ask you again in a little bit so I want you to be thinking about it, okay?"

"Okay," she shrugs.

We circle in prayer, the usual landing of the day. Kids gather to hug me. They drape and snuggle and wrap their arms around me in an applause of affections.

"Can you wait for just a minute?" I whisper to Lu.

"Okay," she nods.

The children mill out as they came in more like the wind whisping across the yard than a troop of boots.

"Sooo," I say to Lu. "Did you think about it?"

"There's nothing, Mom." she says.

"I know we love each other ALL the time," I say, she looking at me out the the tops of her eyes, "but I was wondering if maybe you haven't been FEELING how much I love you lately." She stares. Blinks. "I was wondering if you just want to sit and snuggle for a while."

In answer she sits next to me, next-next to me, as close and she can sit. My arm slung around her shoulder I pat her knee. The cuddly child, I haven't snuggled her in a very long time. Before long, chatter is running like a drippy faucet.

Though I'm never one to go easy when discipline calls, tonight the answer was this.

Gratitude:

5865. My cousin and her five kids come to visit. Pizza and a break from school, it's a party. They can't stay long, and I feel like we could talk forever. Such a treat.

5866. A grain mill! Lori passes an flour mill onto us.

5867. We buy a few buckets of wheat berries from a friend and start a bread making adventure.

5868. I begin brewing sourdough starter on our countertop.

5869. Cerissa and I compare food prep notes.

5870. We almost finish planting the garden. I notice the kids out planning and cultivating their plots with more dedication than I can show my own.

5871. I finally get everything planted in the main garden except a few rows of herbs left for tomorrow.

5872. I finally settle on which independent evaluation to use to close out our school year. We re-assign chores and begin planning for summer.

5873. The next season gradually moves closer. A sense of peace gathers and settles around us.

Oil

"I'm going to be changing the oil in the suburban," Craig says.

Old canvas coat and knee torn jeans, he gathers oil filter, catch bin, and blue shop-grade paper towels. Joe watches, mimicking Craig's long strides, his deliberate voice, his pleasant and expectant eyebrows, tallying them up as if numerals on an old adding machine, as if perfect execution could spit out an exact replica.

"Ok, I'll be out front if you need me," Craig says. Joe gallops over, bear hugs Craig's leg.

"Will it take long to put the frankincense in the car?" he says.

Frankincense. Having children is like this. We do the daily chores and to the children it's frankincense.

Craig laughs and howls, giggles and shakes his head, a squeaky child-like sound escaping between guffaws, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, the other children gathering to see what's the matter. Joe grins, as if now that everything were totaled, he'd hit the final button and instead of a replica of Daddy, he's filled the entire room with pennies and quarters.

Changing the oil, this is an event that must never be missed.

Gratitude:

5815. Resurrection Day the high holy day of the whole year. We quiet our hearts in deep, deep gratitude of Christ's sacrifice for us.

5816. Organic lotion bars. I try my hand at making these. They turn out perfect. I sell a couple and then perfect the recipe.

5817. New plastic lids for fermenting tea and vegetables.

5818. Iron on pellon.

5819. I start a new project converting a baby wrap into a mei tai carrier. I love a good challenge.

5820. Jack completes the wrestling season and final tournament with flying colors, 11-1. Still not 100% after being sick, he wins all but one match. I, of course, am exhausted just watching. Best of all: his character continues to grow.

5820. Motor oil.

5821. Frankincense oil.

5822. We attend church together as a family, all eight of us. Worship unfolds, dimensional in a way indescribable. While we have our own morning devotions, something special happens when we seek the Lord together.

5823. So we set our hearts in this new season to seek the Lord daily, moment by moment, to His glory. Amen.

Bedtime

Photo credit: Urban Rose

"I've been really liking First and Second Peter," Jane says. She flops an argyle rice bag into the microwave and closes the door.

"Really?" I say. "About the persecuted church?" Opposite my girl, I lean an elbow on the counter, a plate of peach pie balanced in my hand. I cut the triangle tip off the pie and eat it.

"Yeah," she says. She turns the microwave dial to three minutes, presses start. "I mean, I like listening to Revelation too. I'm just not sure I want to hear about bowls of wrath being poured out and then wake up sweating," she says.

I laugh. She grins. "When you're listening tonight, pick your favorite part, and then tell me about it in the morning," I say.

"Okay," she drawls. "I will." She blinks in time with a slow nod. I eat another mouthful of pie, peach almond filling warm and effusive. Bedtime, it's a three-step watlz with Jane and me.

I ask her in the morning, "So what was your favorite part?"

"Hmm, I can't remember," she says. "I knew before I fell asleep, but now I forgot."

"Oh. Well, listen again tonight," I say.

Then it's bedtime again and the liturgy of jammies and toothpaste. I change the baby. Jane pokes her head in.

"I remember my favorite part," she says, First and Second Peter ambling in the background.

"Oh, what is it?"

"Ahhm, hmmm, I just forgot. Wait," she stares up and to the right, "hmm." I watch her, undivided attention bunching up like a scarf encircling us. "Oh yeah," she says. "It's the part where it says if you are praying, you never have to be afraid."

"Oh," I say. "I like that. I don't remember that part." We nod. An umbilical cord of connection pulses for a moment. "That's really good," I say.

And with that a whole universe folds up like a paper crane between us. Bedtime ensues. Children tumble into bed.

Later, in mind's eye, that paper crane, I pull it out to trace again the folds of love.

If you are praying, you never have to be afraid.





Gratitude:

5603. Spices, the gift of spices. We restock the shelves of flavor.

5604. Jane finishes her stay as kitchen manager. Craig and I agree: we will miss all the pie.

5605. We experience again the special love of family and friends bringing us food and caring for our children.

5606. Betsy eats and sleeps like a champ.

5607. Craig and Jane brine and cook a 25 lb. turkey for the postpartum recovery.

5608. Joey samples my most expensive make-up with an electric toothbrush and a bottle of lotion. It's a total loss. Craig buys me new mascara so I don't have to go out.

5609. He runs all manner of errands, even those with the most exacting detail. Sometimes he comes home with chocolate.

5610. Mom makes our weekly talk date happen nary missing a beat.

5611. We pass the 15 year anniversary of our wedding engagement. Now more than ever, I'm convinced Craig can handle anything with strength and ease. We all lean into him.

Photo credit: Urban Rose

Blue

"How did you know that time when Kody broke the egg? What was it? What did it look like?" Jane asks. I smile at her there in over-sized t-shirt and pj shorts parked at the end of my bed.

"I don't know," I say. "It's not really something I can describe." I stare out the doorway, a laundry basket in my peripheral, Kody's face fixed in mind's eye. "I just look at them," I say "and listen to the Holy Spirit." She furrows her brow.

"I wish I knew what it was," she says, "so I could just change that and then that would change my attitude." She wrinkles her forehead. Her current miff at Myra pendulums in the air between us.

"No," I say, "you have to change your attitude, and that changes everything else. Otherwise you're just faking," I tilt my head, squint, "and the minute you quit thinking about it, you'll just do the same bad attitude again because actually, deep down, you think you have a right to be mad at Myra."

"Oh." She sighs. "How is it that you can read my mind like that?"

"Well,"  I grin, "I was a kid once too." I tilt my head the other way like a rocking horse of affection.

"Huh," she nods.

"I used think my mom could read my mind too," I say. "And ya know what she'd say when I asked her?"

"What?"

"Bethany, I was a kid once too," I say.

"Huh."

I pat her shoulder. "Ya just know," I say. "Go finish up."

She trundles off, shakes an invisible coat down her silhouette. Taller, happier, she steps into the circle of Myra. A silent blink, and she pivots a new horizon around them. Clear sky. Blue meets blue.

Gratitude:

5469. Myra has a bad dream, inconsolable. "Honey, you can sleep with Lucy if you want," I say. "Here Myra," Lu croons, "you can sleep here where there is more light." She pats the bed next to her.

5470. Lucy carries a red Bible around with her. "When I grow up," she says, "I want to be in a Bible study like you."

5471. "I think this is a kid Bible," she tells me. "It sort of sounds like it when it talks about in here like God loves us and you don't have to be afraid."

5472. The neighborhood coalesces into bike rides and fort building. Picnic blankets and afternoon coffee, sprightly chitchat, the adults recline on Cerissa's front lawn.

5473. We get a set of Britannica's Great Works of the Western World.

5474. Independence Day. We once again pause to remember the blood and sacrifice made on our behalf.

5475. Donuts and World Cup, the day begins perfectly.

5476. Craig's side of the family throws an old fashioned pig roast. The children gallop in picnic games, orange soda.

5477. Our Bible Study meets for a night of fireworks and backyard carnival treats, friendship sprawled across picnic blankets. Joey cheers, exuberance embodied, then falls asleep in my lap.

5478. Dan and Cerissa join us for a post holiday BBQ. We linger, visit through theology, sports, literature, and antics. We eat watermelon and brownies, burgers flame-broiled to perfection, salad and chips. Our families bloom hand in hand.

5479. My blood clot shrinks, a little.

5480. Joe continues to mostly poop and pee in the toilet.

5481. July rolls in, a thick blanket of peace. We slave through morning chores, make long hours of afternoon reading, and fly in for dinner fresh from the sprinkler. Rest ensues.

Petunia

"Mom, 'Tunia's laying an EGG." Red hair a firestorm, Myra trounces through the back door. Dolly under one arm, she clatters navy wellies over the hardwood.

"Her chicken's in the nesting box," Jane says, self-appointed diplomat two steps behind.

"Yeah, 'Tunia's in the NESTING BOX," Myra blusters.

Paraded through the kitchen and now humped up on the back of the black couch, she presses her cheek to the window, leans her chin out, eyes glued to the coop.

Joey clangors around the couch arm. He makes eyes at Myra, grunts his approval, then whops the couch with a rogue Tinkertoy.

"Joe-Joe," Myra chimes.

With agility that defies the navy wellies, she hops off the couch, snaggles Joey's hands and sashays over the old wool rug. Tinkertoy lost in the burst, Joey stomps his feet, howls disapproval.

I prop a foot on the hearth, loosen a gray running shoe, ease free, shed my sock inside out, drape it over the shoe. It's the running liturgy. Myra promenades Joey into a bear hug. Jane retrieves the orange Tinkertoy, wheedles it into his hand. I wrestle a white running jersey over elbows and hair-sticks, then reassemble it to normal shape.

"Joey likes Rhode Islands," Myra assesses. "Joey just LIKES Rhode Islands," she says.

"Oh," I say trying to remember if the Rhode Islands were the red chicken or the goldens. I flop the limp running jersey over my shoulder.

"I like BLACK chickens," Myra continues, "'cause I can pick them up."

I hook my fingers through the mouth of each shoe, iPod and cotton running gloves forgotten on the hearth. I start for the bedroom.

"I pick them up, and they just WIGGLE their toes," Myra narrates. "And they just FLY out of my arms." She flies her arms open. "Some time we have to cut off their wings so they can't fly any more." She nods in a chairman sort of way, chest full with wing-clipping knowledge.

I dispatch my running shoes in the closet, sprawl the jersey over the end of our bed. I shuffle the covers straight, puff the pillows, shamble them into place.

"In the morning if him's done laying an egg," Myra says, "I can get it 'cause him's a nice guy. My 'Tunia's a NICE guy." She gives a spontaneous hop to punctuate the niceness. I toss the last pillow in place, pat the red fringe.

I pull shearling slippers up to my shins, ensconce my toes in soft warmth. Perpetual almanac at my elbow, I catch her willowly hand. It folds up like a paper crane in my palm, those slight fingers lined up edge to edge.

She grins. I smile, the narrative broken. Her blue eyes huge and merry, I swing her into my arms, tiny pleat of a girl. And with soft deftness, she folds into me, all the diagonals align, perfect origami against my chest.

Gratitude:

4973. "Don't give me the STINK-eye," Myra warns Joe.

4974. Veteran's Day. Sacrifice on my behalf -- I feel the weight of this gift.

4975. Family pictures! Rose Emily posts our family pictures.

4976. "That white shirt," Jane says as I swoon over the photos, "is terribly uncomfortable. I have no intention of ever wearing it again. The sleeves pinch your arms in half, and I had to keep pulling it down. As soon as I got home I changed." Then we laugh and smile over the love in each picture.

4977. We finally meet together for Tuesday at Mom's after a whole month absent. Libby nourishes us with white bean chicken chili. We rejoice in our the bond.

4978. "Can I draw you a picture?" Lucy asks. "It's gonna be a really pretty one. I'm gonna try to make it look like something you really like."

4979. Dad and Mom come for dinner. Pizza, kale salad, Dutch butter cookies, Mom fresh home from Kenya, the rest of us fresh in from the daily grind, we feel it again, that bond, the deep roots of family.

4980. "Mom, Mom," Myra shouts, Joey fresh out of the bath and tottering through the living room. "Joey gots him's TAIL on," she says.

4981. Joey wakes up in the night, cries, then mumbles Jesus Loves Me to fall back asleep.

4982. Spearmint rosemary bar soap.

4983. Green dye.

4984. Pine scented icicles.

4985. A whole fresh book of Christmas piano music.

4986. Coffee, almond croissant, the talking, the hours, the special bond of love -- Mom and I catch up after her trip.

4987. Our dear Miss Lynne invites us to dine with her and her family. Sparkly beads, a stone falcon, books, and stories, and guitars, pizza and salad, lavender cake -- the framework of friendship is visible for a night.

4988. Quilting fabric, more fabric. Marion-berry honey. Primrose soap.

4989. We have dinner on the farm. Spaghetti. Can you believe some of our kids didn't know what it was?

4990. Jane finishes Miss Frisby And The Rats of NIHM. In search of a new book, I read aloud the first bit of the original Wizard of Oz. "So what do you think?" I ask. "Sounds like a really good one," Jack says, "It's usually a really good one if the starting is sort of boring."

4991. Boring. Yes, the best things often have unimpressive beginnings. I take this to heart. Boring, the gentle lull of ordinary. I embrace my ordinary life. It encircles me with love.

Adverbs

"Adverbs tell," I say in sing-song voice, "how, when, where, how often, to what extent." I move my finger down a list, bullets next to each point.

The children encircle the farm table. Myra nods. Lucy leans in close. Her hair wisps the edge of the book.

"How, when, where, how often, to what extent." I repeat it three times. We lilt the rhythm.

I tracy my finger down the script. Myra burps Trella, her deaf dolly, over one shoulder. Jack rocks his chair. Jane traces her bottom lip.

"How, when, where, how often, to what extent," I say again, sculpting their memories once more before we move on.

"That sounds about like what I want to know about discipline," Jane blurts.

I look up, her face ivory, cheeks round apples, realization draped across the temples.

How, when, where, how often, to what extent.

"That is true," I stammer, a grin threaded over my lips. We sail into laughter. How, when, where, how often, to what extent. Discipline. Titter, hee-hee-haw.

"Can you write that on a paper for me?" she asks sea-sawed up on an elbow.

"Sure."

She fishes a pink sticky notes off the bookshelf. Adverbs tell, I print across the top.

"If someone's having trouble discipling," she chats, "this is what your kids want to know."

I form the list, hand her the note.

"Hm. I'm gonna go put this in my box," she says, "because it's totally true." Black turtle neck, blue jeans, she hops from her chair, each step a roll off the ball of her foot, her curls trill around her elbows.

Jack guffaws, then drums out, "How-of-ten, to-what-ex-tent," leaned belly-up on the table, ankles hooked over the chair-back.

"I'm gonna go upstairs," Myra announces, "'cause I have to pee."

"Ok," I say.

Jane passes her in the hall, trots to the high-back chair. "There's no way a kid can have a good mind without thinking that," she patters under her breath.

I continue on. We diagram a sentence, and another, a whole arching oak of sentences. We sling adverb on like leaves on a tree. And all the while I hold that circlet of discipline in my palm, wonder what to do with it.

How, when, where, how often, to what extent.

I trace it, turn it over, smooth it between my fingertips, invisible, warm.

How, when, where, how often, to what extent.

Discipline. Yes, discipline is action. They're mapping the action, a regular topographical map of action, every stroke measured, memorized, profiled, tucked away for later.

I feel their eyes on me.

I stand a little taller, step a little closer, and gaze into their eyes, deep wells of curiosity. I plan to make the terrain memorable.





Gratitude:

4860. Chicken soup from scratch.

4861. Black rice.

4862. Tuesday at Mom's, tomato bisque.

4863. Pizza, kale salad, five conversations interlaced at once, gusts of laughter, chocolate coconut bonbons, family around the table.

4864. "Mom, I like moldy grapes," Myra says. "How do you know?" I say. "'Cause I like moldy bread," she says. "Oh," I say.

4865. "Life is glimpse of a dream, isn't it, Momma?" Jack says. "Why do you say that?" I say. "'Cause Heaven is our house, right?" he says.

4866. Joe sprays himself with the water dispenser. "Oh, WOW," he says.

4867. He finally realizes that when in trouble, just say, "Ok," for best results.

4868. "Um, no, you are not supposed to be on the chicken coop, girls," I call out the window on the first sunny day all week. "Do not fall getting down."

4869. Emma goes on a gramma-date.

4870. "Sometime I'm even gonna do sketches for FUN," Lucy comments on her art class homework.

4871. "Before he got his temper I gave him a hug," Jane rescues Joe from a tantrum.

4872. "Um, he's not very faithful to his bed," Jane evaluates Joey's transition to the big-boy bed.

4873. "Mom, Dad says I look like an angel," Lucy blusters into the bathroom. "You do," I say. "Dad says we look both like angels," Myra trots in behind her. "You do," I say. "We aren't actually angels, but we look like angels," Lucy clarifies.

4874. I finally have a honey bulb for the honeypot and a soap grate for the soap holder.

4875. "You're such an outlandish creature," Jane taunts Jack in a game of handball.

4876. We all go to the latest gallery opening and stay until it closes. Worth Fighting For -- the title of the new show. It's so true, you never feel more alive than when you are doing something brave. Courage and camaraderie swell.

4877. "Jesus, thank-you that I was able to do Bobbley study," Myra prays. "Thank-you that I knowed what to say."

4878. "Lucy, what are you eating?" Craig queries while I'm on my morning run. "Sugar. We all are," she says. "Ah. You are going to have to tell Momma about that when she gets home," he says. "Oh," she says.

4879. Jane resumes her volunteer schedule and joins Craig at work.

4880. Buttered popcorn, real butter.

4881. Sunday. We slide into Sunday like home plate and prepare for another week.