Renovations

"And sometimes I probably haven't been the best example," I say.

Nose to nose with Lucy, I gaze into her wide and watery eyes. An almost invisible nod.

"It's probably really easy to see when I do it," I say. "But it's wrong when I do it, and it's wrong when you do it. Will you forgive me?"

She shatters into tears. "Yeah," she says. We both nod arms wrapped in an oaken hug. With that we carry on. With the face of fresh morning she smiles into my eyes.

"Ok," I say. "Let's go out and help finish the dishes."

"Ok," she says and we return as if feathers alit our shoes.

Gratitude:

6448. Mom returns from Montana. All the assurance and love that trails an invisible wake behind her sets my world straight.

6449. Jane has her first babysitting job. She steps into the new responsibility outside of our home with grace and confidence.

6450. I find the perfect tote bag to carry our adventure needs as these children get older.

6451. A dear friend brings me a plate of oxtail.

6452. Another dear friend connects us with Blue Apron and sends us some meals.

6453. Nourishment finds us. I sit in the stillness of this kindness and drink it in.

6454. My dad, like most Saturdays, comes over to help us more on the kitchen. I'm growing fond of seeing him each Saturday.

6455. Bit by bit we work away. Now we do most of our dishes up at the new sink by hand. As we stand, the many of us filling the kitchen, washing dishes, clearing the table, finishing food, I look and marvel that it doesn't feel crowded, just clean and simple. The nine of us being together fills me with nourishment.

The Drywallers

"They work really well as a team," Jack says.

The seven kids and I shimmed into our basement library, we visit over a makeshift dinner. Shored up on a couch, an ottoman, miscellaneous stools and lawn furniture, bookshelves along all the walls, we sit. Homemade salads and cold burgers balanced on our knees, we visit. A master drywaller and his two children smooth our kitchen together upstairs. Experts. Artists.

"Just really well, they work really well together," he says again.

"That's an interesting observation," I say. "What makes you say that?" Out of the corner of my eye I see Betsy's bowl, salad juice bloomed over the edge. She optimistically fills her spoon. Half a cherry tomato falls off her fork, over her knees, rolls under the couch, rice in it's wake.

"They each know their part," Jack says.

"Yup," I say.

"They're not like, What should I do now?" he says. He mimics the annoying I-don't-like-to-work voice. He nods, a faraway glaze in his eye.

I replay the scene I think he's picturing where Kevin hands a smoothing cloth to his dad, nary a word between them. In the same motion, all twelve years of him, he hold his father's drywall knife. Then, as if playing by heart they switch back and move down the wall. It's art and affection, the interplay between, adoring son eyes, attentive, obedient, watching out of the corner of his eye how to be tall and strong and good.

"Yup," I say. "They do it well." The others nod between crunching bites of salad.

"They really do," Jane says. Lucy nods. Myra nods too but more out of agreement with the group than any passion about the topic. Joe and Betsy elbow each other on the double camping chair.

Working together. The images emblazoned, the practiced two-step of obedience and initiative, the dance partners of work, art, and play, we trace their countenance until we can spot it amidst the camouflage of regular life. So subtle, so outrageous, apparently unmistakable to the eleven-year-old eyes there kitty-corner from me and to the gaggle of siblings nodding applause.





Gratitude:

6266. Stainless steel bowls to use in the rustic alternate kitchen set up in the basement.

6367. We take an afternoon to hunt grasshoppers.

6368. We begin to form a more cohesive way of working together in the middle of inconvenience, disorder, and irritation. As we meditate on the challenges, I remind the children (and myself) that even the weak appear strong when there is no challenge. When things are difficult, that is where our true character shows.

6369. We set our minds to be made stronger, kinder, and more suited to whatever the future holds.

6370. I remind myself that getting enough sleep is a small kindness I can give and should.

6371. Invisible peace begins to settle on us. The moments grow more precious. We begin to see the blinking eyes behind each face and love them.

6372. And somewhere in the middle of it all Craig works more on the kitchen. It continues to take shape. Family continues to help us masterminds problems and solve road blocks. The project marches forward, miraculous.

6373. Something inside of me grows less afraid of everything in life and more mindful of the good right in front of me.

Praying Mantis

"Having a praying mantis is one thing," Jack says. He tap-taps a plastic coconut oil container turned mantis habitat. A nest of twigs the color of sand ensconce the inside.

"Yep," I say. Lulled by the running litany of mantis facts, I nod in time with his words, half listening, half filling in the gaps with leisure thoughts of knitting or masterminding a pattern or what's for dinner only to resurface in more mantis fascination.

"But," he says, "having a fertile egg sac from two mantis you mated yourself, that's a WHOLE other thing." He shakes his head, elation splayed across his face, as if mating mantises were as rapturous as sunrises.

"Ahhh," I say. "Indeed."

"Yep." He nods the camaraderie of assent there between us. And so it is, the mystery of reproduction unfolds for the whole family to watch. We take it in, elation the consensus of the day.

Gratitude:

6256. Jack embraces the life of praying mantises and all bugs or caterpillars as if he were present at creation when they were made.

6257. Our home continues to transform under the diligent work of Craig and extended family to renovate the kitchen. So many hands reaching out to hold us up. So humbling. So loving.

6258. We add a second jumbo sized popcorn bowl for serving Sunday night popcorn.

6259. We squeeze in the first pizza night in weeks. The warmth of memories settles around us.

6260. Two lovely wraps find their way to my arms, one to stay, one to visit, both to wrap the afternoons in cuddles and fall strolls.

6261. Jack pops 20+ quarts of popcorn for the weekend. I drizzle enough butter to almost double its weight. Our fingers shine when we eat.

6262. Still cooking out of the tiny basement bathroom-turned-kitchen, we continue to work shoulder to shoulder, stepping on toes, filling the floor with crumbs, and learning what it actually means to be patient, honest, and kind.

6263. We remind each other that these things really only prove themselves in adversity. It's not a trial, its a proof, a privilege, a chance. I still find the words, "I'm sorry," and, "Will you forgive me?" my constant companions. We offer them as the only antidote we have and work to do better. Sacrifices of love. Proofs. Moments where little things mean all the world.

6264. And there in the middle of it all, I hear Jane saying, "It's ok, Momma, I do the same thing too sometimes." And we nod, small acts of forgiveness the love between us.

6265. I find myself taking away some measure of gratitude for long list of trials we've lived lately. It's the antidote to fear, living out trials. I feel quiet and rested despite all the pressure, despite the lack of sleep.