Myra's Birthday

"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.

"I'm gonna take my girl on a date today," Craig says.

"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.

Birthday

"My birthday is in one week," Myra says. The two of us lilt through the kitchen groggy with sleep but breakfast at hand. "I was like, it's in seven days, wait, that's ONE week," she says.

"Yep," I say. "You're at seven and then suddenly down to ONE."

"Yeah," she nods. I gather the third cup and the eighth cup measures, head to the oatmeal cupboard, then circle back to pluck an oatmeal bowl from a waining stack.

"Is there anything special you want or are interested in?" I say.

"Hmmm," she looks to the left. Her eyes roam the ceiling. "Ummm," she says. "There is actually one thing."

"What?"

"I was wondering if you could read us one of those Bibles with the pictures in it," she says.

"Oh," I say, "Yes, yes, I will."

The ribbon leash of a birthday gift flutters away, and I'm left with a red-headed wisp.

"You can read a story and then we can worship together," she says. Not cute or self-aggrandizing, it's like she's forgotten herself encircled in the satin liturgy of morning devotions gone by.

Gratitude:

6546. Joe, Betsy, and I spend a morning lingering with friends. We iron Monday morning smooth with fellowship, deep, deep friendship.

6547. Oxtails. Cooking with friends. A dear friend teaches me to cook oxtail. It's like a bell that cannot be unrung. The children rave it's their favorite soup.

6548. A neighbor surprises us with a plate of gingersnaps.

6549. Craig continues to slave away on the kitchen remodel.

6550. A new pair of pants in linen.

6551. "I remember when Jack and Lucy and I used to work out," Myra says. "Yeah? What'd you do?" I say. "Oh, just sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and walk around the yard with bricks in our backpacks."

6552. "Daddy can have five cookies if he wants 'cause he's a grown-up," Betsy says.

6553. Jane gets a chance to babysit.

6554. The children excavate all manner of landscaping debris from the backyard to have a dinner picnic with my parents.

6555. The plants in the greenhouse grow larger and lusher, a real garden paradise.

6556. We while away an afternoon down on the farm.

6557. Jack and his buddy pour over a cooking subscription. He comes home and promptly bakes a loaf of artisan bread.

6558. "I cut you choose," he says of the slices of fresh bread. When I linger long finishing chores he whisks by me, "I took a bite our of this one, so the other piece is bigger now," he says, impish grin splaying his face.

6559. The week rounds out with an afternoon of rest. We drink in its deep waters. As evening turns to night, I remember my Saturday's prayer was for a sabbath.

6560. We set our hearts to be glad at the work of the week.

Betsy

"Mom," Betsy says.

She nudges a metal stool next to mine and climbs up. I sip coffee. She pushes a saucer to the side. Crumbs capsize the edge. I purse my lips, smile subterraneous.

"Hi, Mom," she says.

"Hi." We share elbow room. I read my Bible. She nibbles crumbs.

Then she's down, and I'm turning through my Bible.

"Mom," she says again, ascending the metal stool.

"Hmm," I say, trying to finish one more sentence. She's up, a gold package in hand, much tape used in wrapping.

"Mom, can you write on this?" she says.

"What do you want me to write?" I peel my eyes away.

"For BETSY," she says.

"Oh," I say. We stare at the package, bigger than an egg, smaller than a teapot. "Hmm," I say.

"It's mine," she says.

"Oh," I say. Conversations spelling out her soon birthday play fast forward through my mind. "Ohhhh," I say. "Hmm, I see."

Felicity blooms across her face. And I scrawl BETSY across the top of the gold package.

Gratitude:

6467. Fresh measuring cups.

6468. Spices and fancy Hawaiian salt.

6469. A visiting baby wrap made of silk and sparkles.

6470. Betsy sidles up to me at breakfast, pets my well worn sweater and fondles one of the many "pills" on it. "I like the bugs on this," she says.

6470. Craig organizes our closet and room.

6471. A teapot big enough to boil water for many.

6472. Puritan prayers, a book of them. I read them like manna from heaven. No words can describe their nourishment.

6473. The children continue to learn and grow together.

6474. We continue to organize our home.

6475. Sunday finds me stilled with peace.

Lucy

"I don't really mind that it's 7:32," Lucy says. The night before her birthday, we sit in the fading light, pajamas on, teeth brushed, the feeling of almost-nine-years-old there thick between each molecule of air.

"Hmm," I say.

"It does mean that I CAN get up at 5:32, if I want to," she says.

"Hmm," I say.

Every year we wake the birthday child with singing. Happy Birthday to you... Except. Lucy gets up at 5:32, well, when she heads to bed at 7:32 she does.

"I have a lot of books on my bed," she says, "I might just get up and read until 6:30, or whenever..." She trails off, a half shrug, soft affection toward the one of us that isn't a morning person.

"Hmm," I say. "Sounds good."

But the good, the best part, is how she snuggles under my arm, leans into my torso, and closes her eyes. An exchange of warmth, a stilling of the whole room, it's better than a birthday. The mingling of our two worlds settles until we're breathing the same cadence. She does this, brings stillness to all she touches, a gentle lulling of peace.





Gratitude:

6261. Spices, a fresh restocking of kitchen spices.

6262. A huge stock pot full of soup.

6263. Time at the park with a friend and our children.

6264. The kids continue to prepare for next Saturday's plant sale.

6265.  Lucy turns nine.

6266. The children all turn another week older. We bear with each other's flaws, ask forgiveness when we mess us, and carry on as ones who carry each other's burdens.

Jack

"If you want," Jack says, "you can hold this and look at it." He plunks a black pocket knife on the couch arm. Folded up like origami but, long, heavy and smooth, I pick it up with fingertips.

"Thanks," I say. He grins, arms crossed over his bear chest, hands in his armpits. He unholsters his hands and shows me a small knob on the blade. Just the right stroke on the knob, and you can pop the knife open with one finger.

"Wow," I say, secret knowledge swelling between us. I fold the knife down to its smallest footprint and tuck it's stone-weight in my palm.

The evening whirlwind at hand the children rampage the rodeo loop from old wooden chest at my feet 'round the kitchen, down the hallway, through the labyrinth of jammies, toothbrushes, and clothing that's hopefully tossed in drawers. We set a ten minute timer for all elbows, knees, and shoulder to heap in neat mounds for evening prayer.

"Here," I say as Jack reappears, "I better entrust this back to you." His pocket knife warm and weighty still in my hand, I offer it out into the space between us. "Thank-you," I say.

"Sure," he says, a calloused hand already encircling the knife shell. "Now, you know how to open it with one hand," he says. He winks at me. I smile. Something of immense value exchanges there. And something very other stands before me, masculine. I stare, the difference so pleasant.





Gratitude:

6003. Jack turns 10.

6004. We find a CAR to fit our growing family. Craig begins to mastermind the car retrieval: El Paso, Texas.

6005. Craig comes into a steal on hardwood flooring remnants and writes up plans for a new family table.

6006. New essential oils; ginger, marjoram, and lavender.

6007. A doctor check reveals baby boy is doing well.

6008. Craig gets a new shirt.

6009. The garden finally squeezes out a few tomatoes of various varieties.

6010. New bathmats.

6011. Barbecued hamburgers.

6012. New balls of yarn.

6013. Craig and Jane build a Lincoln Log tower. It measures out at four inches from the ceiling.

6014. A spatula to replace the broken one.

6015. We find the last of dregs of summer sopping up well with school prep. We await the first day with anticipation.

6016. Craig helps me rearrange the studio.

6017. Peace settles over the house. We enjoy the play; we prepare for work. Contentment.

Growing Pains

"There are FOUR," Myra yells. The duck pond glistening just beyond the bridge rail, she points, an exclamation mark emphatic. "Last time there were only three ducks. They had a BABY," she effuses.

"Oh, WOW," I say. We watch them, her excitement a foaming ocean lapping against me as she points and hops and bungles against my shoulder.

"They put their heads in the water like that because they don't want to look at us," she says. All three ducks momentarily troll the shallow water for niblets on the bottom.

"I think they might be eating," I say.

"Oh yeah," she says, "they're eating." One at a time they poke heads up then trollop back down, tails in the air. "OR," she says, "maybe they are scratching their beaks."

"Oh," I say. "I think they're eating."

"But they MIGHT be scratching their beaks," she says.

"Well," I say, "I guess so."

We watch them bob and dive and eventually flap their impossibly orange feet up on shore. Myra sidles as close as possible before they edge back into the water.

***

"Do you remember me rubbing your leg last night?" I say. Now back in the car, the afternoon heat swollen around us, we scroll the windows down, and pull out. Something of a breeze flaps across our sweaty foreheads.

"No," she says.

"Remember you came into my room and asked me to ruby your leg?"

"Oh, yeah," she says, "I forgot because I did my same thing."

"Your same thing?" I say say. In the rearview mirror, I see her hand's out the open window. She's cupping it to the wind.

"Yeah," she says, "remember? I pray and ask if Jesus will make my leg stop hurting, and then I rub it while I fall asleep."

"Oh yeah," I says. "That's good."

"Yeah," she says.

It hadn't seemed my careful massage helped much, but then this newly turned six year old has a way of fixing things herself. These middle born children, these unflappable ones, they're a mystery to me. They quietly formulate answers, blaze trails, and invent solutions without audience or fanfare. They observe more than they bluster. They're almost invisible unless you look directly at them, and they are becoming more rare every day. Strange to have a nation of so few middle borns.

Gratitude:

5853. We go on vacation with extended family. Moments and memories ensue. They glide in on the wings of sea birds. They slurp in with the tide. They glitter and gleam in piles of agates. They howl and crash and encircle us with unending fellowship, mirth, and strength. The children begin to weave the matrix of family. We pull together and find the fabric of family surrounding us.

5854. After numerous beach adventures, treasure hunting unending, trails and waterfalls eternal, we slide/crash/collapse in to our own beds 2:00 am Thursday morning. Since I married Craig, we enjoy everything to the very last possible drop.

5855. Myra turns six. She becomes six as if it were the next very best version of herself. Best of all, she wears it without looking over her own shoulder hinting for compliments.

5856. We celebrate the Mother/Daughter Tea with Craig's mom in his hometown. The featured speaker shares the story of her life. We can hardly blink for how miracle after miracle unfolds in her life.

5857. The children share things they love about their mothers at the tea. "I love that my mom is kind, but she doesn't let me get away with things," Jane writes.

5858. The children gradually settle into their regular routines. We put things away and tidy the house.

5859. "If you stay out playing basketball," Joe advises, "you might get goosebumps." Myra nods. "They don't hurt," he adds.

5860. "The white eggs don't have a yolk," he confides.

5861. As we settle back into routine, we find the break has changed us. All the conversations of loving each other, sacrifice, giving when your tired and hungry and upset, they've made marks on the inside of us. We love each other more. We've made a little deeper groove of sacrifice.

5862. So it is, we give and that makes us love. I pray these bonds grow stronger each day.

Breakfast and Dinner

Urban Rose Photo

"Momma, when are you gonna get up?" Joey says only his head leaned through my bedroom door. "We made you EGGS," he says.

"Pretty soon," I say. I sigh and roll over. He clatters the door shut and shouts down the hallway to Myra. 

"PRETTY SOON," he says.

Pretty soon. I sigh, open the covers like an envelop and slip out. 

Joe pokes his head in again, then whispers in full voice," SHE'S UP," to Myra.

Urban Rose Photo

"We made you EGGS," Myra says. 

"Thanks," I say.

"We made you eggs, but we didn't make you toast," she says. "Not to be mean, but 'cause we don't know HOW," she says, shoulders raised, arms protruded in explanation.

"Ahh," I say. "Well, thanks." She can fry an egg but can't make toast. The eggs were delicious; they even had a fat tomato waiting for me.

Urban Rose Photo

"Every church day you want me to make me eggs like that?" Myra says.

"Sure," I say.

"Okay! It might be kind of loud," she says, "I'm just telling you. Want me to make them tomorrow?"

One good deed leads to another.

***

Urban Rose Photo

"The house is actually looking pretty good," Jane says. She pats my back. 

Dinner guests. House prep. Four o'clock and I'd forgotten to put potatoes in the crockpot. A new blitz in full gallop, schedule careening: ham, potatoes, and brownies spindling through our shoebox-sized oven; I pause. I force myself look at Jane, feign calmness. 

"Yeah," I nod.

"Just a little more CPR," she says, "and the it'll all be up to snuff."

Urban Rose Photo

CPR. House CPR, humor splashes the landscape. All hands on deck, we pump this home to life. A party unfolds. Family communes. We laugh and serve plates high and deep with green salad and ham, potatoes just in time. The butter runs out, but there's plenty of olive oil. Brownies and ice cream.

We eat with the people we love and celebrate the birthdays of our children. By evening's end all the preparation feels like an honor, like making eggs. We cook for the people we love.





Gratitude:

5576. A wonderful birthday dinner with family. Everyone takes the time to write cards of encouragement to the children.

Urban Rose Photo

5577. I go on a date with Lucy and a walk with Joey. I memorize their luminous faces.

5578. We have a game night with the kids complete with popcorn, cookies, and ice cream. We let loose and be silly.

5579. I come across an old book of Lincoln's speeches. The editor calls Lincoln a humorist. "It is the great humorists who have drawn the truest pictures of human life, because their humor was a constant corrective against one-sidedness." I consider this in light of Craig's knack for humor.

5580. Laundry bags. Three.

Urban Rose Photo

5581. I find second-hand snow boots for the kids.

5582. Running shoes.

5583. Jack inundates me with all manner of bug facts.

5584. He finds another praying mantis.

5585. Craig and the kids harvest what they can from the garden before it freezes.

Urban Rose Photo

5586. We settle into an autumn pace of life, let the emphasis fall to academics and late afternoon sunlight. Memories of so many autumns before greet us like old friends.

Nine

"So, what's something you hope happens this next year?" I say.

Jack in the passenger seat, me in the driver's scooted way back, we balance pizza on our knees. Paper plates barely thicker than coffee filters show signs of grease leaking through.

"Um," Jack says. It's his birthday. We're on a date, napkins piled on the console.

"You can think while you eat your fuel," I say. "Jet fuel," pizza.

"Hmm," he says around a bite. "I hope I get better at sharing," he pauses to swallow, a deliberate chin tuck. "And being all the fruit of the Spirit," he says.

I nod. "Mmmm," I say, his answer as deliberate as that bite. "That's a good one. Me too."

We shuffle pizza from one knee to the next. Leaned over, dabbing grease and sauce at the corners of our mouths, careful to keep piece B from falling off as we eat piece A, a bronze awning reflects sepia over us.

"So how are you going to make the fruit of the Spirit happen, big guy?" I say, my pizza long gone. He  glides an enormous bite to one cheek, then swallows.

"Pray about it," he says, "and try to do it." Conversation is like this with him, one gentle lob, and then another, back and forth, forth and back.

"That's a good one," I say.

"'Cause that's how you do it," he says. "You don't just do it perfectly or just become all rotten. That's why they call it fruit. It starts green and has to ripen." Pizza forgotten for a moment, he stares straight out the window, scans the horizon.

"That's true," I say. He takes another bite, a vineyard of ideas elapsed in that moment. I watch smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

"That's why I kind of like that it's called fruit." he says.

Fruit. It's a year of fruit.

Jack turns nine.

Gratitude:

5511. Jack turns nine.

5512. I turn 37.

5513. Betsy shows great affection for daily routines and giggles if we change them the slightest bit.

5514. My legs feel better each passing day.

5515. The kids clean the house so the Tuesday Girls (and kids) can come over.

5516. The children continue a summer society of paper airplanes, handmade weapon fare, book club conference calls with the Dishman Hills Bookclub, Hardy Boy books read by the armful, and a menagerie if hand caught bugs in mason jars with holes punched in the lids.

5517. The girls and I plan a last summer project of lap quilts. When we shop for them, they get the fabric cut themselves.

5518. The summer continues to roll by in the strange combination of a trickle and freight train.

5519. We set our hearts to enjoy every minute. The art of joy interlaces our moments.