Hold My Hand

"Mom, MOM, wanna go check for eggs with me?!" Jack tumbles into the kitchen, a circus around my ankles.

I splash dinner's silverware into the sink, shake crumbs out of the rag, sigh at the cutting board, cheese grater, and avocado peels scattered on the counters.

"Sure." I measure out the word, blink into his blue eyes. Sloppy bowls from taco soup frame the kitchen. Still, I dry my hands, slip into shoes and red coat.

He tilts his head, "I like going," he says, "with people I love, so I want to go with you."

We step into the black night, winter air wet around our necks.

"Here, hold my hand," he encircles my cold fingers. "Just follow me," he pulls my hand over the frosty grass. "I don't want you to get lost," he says.

His shoulders square against the moonlight, we stroll to the henhouse, creak open the nesting box to peek for eggs. None, just straw.

And so he clunks it shut, gathers my hand, tugs us back, over the grass and into the house.

While I wipe smears of avocado off the kitchen table, slosh bowls from the sink, call for children to change into jammies, it all feels light, a comma between moments.

Gratitude:

1801. How Jane holds up a picture of Jack's, "The question," she says, "was how do you get salvation, and Jack tried to draw a picture of a person praying."

1802. How the children take the extension cord from their alarm clock and use it to plug in the toaster at the dining room table before I'm out of bed Monday.

1803. Jane from the backseat of the car, "The candy sometimes falls on the floor, and then throughout the year we find some of it and eat it."

1804. Lucy burping one of her baby dolls, "Mom, there was a spider in one of the strollers, and I killed it with my bare hand."

1805. Laundry done in shifts, everyone helping.

1806. Learning again the importance of eye contact with the people I love.

1807. Jack's determination, "I want to be a farmer when I grow up."

1808. Lucy's wide-eyed, "Did you see me DROOL?" when I tuck her into bed. And her matter of fact, "I still sleep pretty well when I drool."

1809. Frank conversations with the people I love.

1810. Stew and a table set for us, family gathered to enjoy it.

1811. Learning when to give small acts of service to our children as tokens of love.

1812. Saying no to small expenses that add up to a lot.

1813. Learning more how my mom thinks about the world and finding it change me.

1814. Jane's scrawling on the chalk board for Craig when he gets home: I love you, Daddy. Thanks for working so hard.

1815. Homemade pizza with cold Pepsi.

1816. Lucy's exclamation, "Mom, when I get in the other kids' bean bags, they whip a banana peel at me. And it's very FUN."

1817. My resolution to let banana peel-whipping be on the list of things I call now fun.

1818. An imperceptible shift toward being a little less sharp, a little more willing to let things go.

The Woman in Blue

"She's being rude." Jane leans her face to my ear, gestures at a woman on stage.

I nod, furrow my brow. Myra snores on my lap. Jack flaps the sermon outline like a flag. Jane frowns at the woman in powder blue.

The woman in blue huffs and slouches next to her green purse. She makes her words sharp, her chin jutted -- a crisis of faith. A sketch. Jane measure out the woman's gestures, traces the arc of the her eyebrows, and cross of her arms, the staccato of anger.

Her story circles like a raven in flight. Jane watches the trajectory, her lips parted and brow furrowed. The story lilts in softly. Adults clap, nod.

The moment broken, I feel Jane at my shoulder. Oblivious to applause and grown-up nods, she leans to me, face in my ear. "She was the rudest person I have ever seen," Jane says.

On the way to the car she wants to know, "Was that woman just pretending? 'Cause that was so disrespectful."

"Yes, it was a sketch. She was trying to show us what happens when we believe a lie."

"Oh." She steps over a puddle. "I still don't really think it was a good idea to be so disrespectful up there."

The kids and and I trundle over parking lot gravel. I turn her words over in my mind and marvel at how the research is true. Kids internalize what's modeled. The model is the message.

And while I weave the pastor's sermon and woman's sketch together for her to see, it's just a footnote to her.

Gratitude:

1777. A gallery meeting, Jane and Jack quiet at my elbow, how they insist that they love coming.

1778. Jane in the tundra of spelling homework, "I don't know what's come over Jack, but he is being all SWEET."

1779. How Lucy assimilates whole pages of letters and shapes intent to do homework like Jane and Jack.

1780. Her serious voice, "Mom, I put my finger in my mouf, and it hurt. That was a good lesson."

1781. My insistence that the kids fold towels on the couch because I don't like to dry off with dirty towels and Jack's cheerful, "I can dry off with dirty towels no problem."

1782. How Jane and Jack spar over noise levels during school and Jane ends with, "I wanted to say, KNOCK IT OFF, but I knew I would get in trouble so instead I said, Jack I love you."

1783. How when I leave a note on the chalkboard for the kids before bed, they answer with a note in the morning.

1784. Jane resorting to, "I have to tell on you, BOY," when Jack steps on her last nerve.

1785. Taco soup with sausage and cajun seasoning.

1786. Jack's question during math, "What does, DON'T MAKE A PIG OF YOURSELF, mean?"

1787. And how he peeks around the corner at Jane doing spelling, "From time to time can I go see how Jane is doing and tell her GOOD JOB?"

1788. Lucy's conclusion, "Two plus two equals ORANGE."

1789. Jack trying out theology, "Lucy, you are NOT home." How they spar at the kitchen table over who is home and Jack trumps with, "No, HEAVEN is your HOME."

1790. Her follow-up, "Jack YOU can take care of my plate."

1791. How he does.

1792. Raspberry pie, the kind that Gramma makes and ends up in brilliant streaks on Myra's face.

1793. A whole freezer full of farm fresh meat.

1794. Jane's gratitude, "Dear God, thank-you for our family and how I like all the people for different reasons. Thanks that I get to have people that I love in my family. Amen."

1795. Jack's report, "I'm at least a little bit close to God everyday."

1796. The six of us gathered in my doctor's ultrasound room for another peek at sweet baby boy, 26 weeks now and doing well.

1797. Four boxes of hand-me-downs!!

1798. Jack's prayer, "God, thank-you that we have clothes so we can be modest."

1799. Learning the liturgy of going to bed early.

1800. The rest that ensues.

A Ton

"When are we going to read Bibles?" Jack flops his blue Bible against the black leather couch. "Momma, when are we gonna read?"

I walk shoulder tight, balancing morning fog and taut headache. "I'm comin'."

The children plop like marbles next to Jack, bump and bobble, squeeze in, Bibles stacked on knees.

"Where am I gonna sit?"

They shuffle a narrow slit between Jack and Lucy, optimistic of my swelling body. The couch reshuffles around my landing.

"Ok." One at a time they pass me Bibles. I read. I string the words together, hope they sprout wings and carry the day.

We trundle through 1 Chronicles, the temple, King David, how he donated hundreds of tons of gold to build the temple. Donated. Whole tons of gold. I wonder if my piano weighs a ton. A hundred tons. I wonder how much a garbage truck weighs.

In the barrage of images I hardly notice David's charge, "How many of you are willing to set yourselves apart to the LORD today?" It's between paragraphs. I take a breath.

And before I read on Jack blurts, "I am!"

Jane choruses, "I am." And I hear it. They're following the threads. All I have to do is read.

Gratitude:

1762. How the children gather baby dolls and diaper bags, load them in the rocking chair, and Jane calls out, "Okay, everyone, start your motors." One by one, they punch start on their mechanical toothbrushes, pretend their car has a real hummin' motor.

1763. How Jack bombles past the computer desk, "Mom, you're doing a good job cleaning." We blink at each other. "If you were cleaning," he ammends.

1764. His confession, "I know grown-up-talk." And the explanation, "It's how to talk and like it."

1765. Jane's breakfast commentary, "When Lucy opened the door it sounded like a whole sea was rushing in."

1766. Jack's observation as he bounds in from the henhouse, "When cats run they spring up and down," eyes wide.

1767. A morning playing with cousins in the winter sun and grown-up visiting amongst mothering.

1768. How Jack pats his new Bible, "I like this Bible better than all my others even though it doesn't have pictures."

1769. Chocolate chip cookies baked with browned butter.

1770. How Lucy plugs an ear, shrieks, and calls, "Can you HEAR me?"

1771. How Jack offers to make my bed, wide grin and blink-blink of blue eyes.

1772. How I find his fake snake slither between the sheets that night.

1773. A pot of winter stew and the company that came with it.

1774. New Year's Eve with cousins run blissfully wild among adults and hors d'oeuvre and an early night's sleep.

1775. Jane's, "Come on guys, let's go downstairs and play house," when my neck and shoulders strain against the thumb-drum of the headache.

1776. A new year, 25 weeks into this pregnancy, and pressing on, rounding the 17th mile of this marathon.

Merry Christmas

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Gratitude:

1747. Jack's attempt at adult conversation, "Myra's such a little childhood."

1748. How Lucy calls Craig's spiky hair, spicy hair.

1749. Jane's confesses when we ask about Christmas grafitti scrawled on the dining room wall: MERRY CHRISTMAS with holly berries.

1750. How Lucy says she like her baby because it has happy eyes.

1751. Jane's response when I ask her to tidy up the bathroom, "Momma, I don't really want this to become a cleaning day."

1752. Lucy up early from nap, "Mom, my thumb hurts. I took off the hangnail carefully my own self."

1753. How Jane tires to talk politics, "Why won't they grab the bull by the horns?!"

1754. Her commentary on me making Christmas goodies, "Mom, you're actually cooking, like COOKING-cooking."

1755. How Myra pushes a recipe book off my lap and climbs up to snuggle.

1756. How Lucy taps my leg, "Momma, I want you to dance with me where you hold me."

1757. Jack with a handful of grapes, "Guess what I did? I presented treasures to Myra."

1758. How all our kids want to dip their Springerle cookies in my coffee.

1759. All the family and gifts gathered to celebrate Christmas down on the farm.

1760. The bliss of cousins wound up and full of cookies and nuts and cheese and candy canes.

1761. A movie and popcorn with husband.

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Normal

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

"And God," I squish my eyes shut, lean against the bunk bed, "please forgive me for being so cranky today." I sigh.

From the top bunk, "I couldn't tell you were cranky," Jane whispers.

A smile pulls the corners of my mouth, "I know you don't want me to treat these kids and Daddy that way," I pray. "I'm sorry, God."

The night rocks in quietly like a ship docked in still water. We snug covers around children's shoulders, kiss their warm foreheads.

I climb the ladder and smile at Jane. "Did you say you couldn't tell I was cranky today?"

"Huh uh," her voice like a songbird, "You were just your normal self."

I hug her, her warm cheek against mine. "I love you."

I trundle down the bunk ladder, step into the hall. My normal self. Am I cranky so often it's the normal-me or does she just see normal-me in all I do?

Like most days, I pray for grace to cover me.

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Gratitude:

1732. How Lucy breaks up our writing lesson with a whispered, "Momma, you have stinky breath."

1733. How she mimics Jack sounding out words.

1734. Her charge to Jack, "Let's pretend we're RATS."

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

1735. A day of Christmas shopping, a new vest and Christmas clothes, the festive clomp of our feet on tile floors and camaraderie of looking together.

1736. Jack's examination of Daddy's Lincoln Log house, "How'd you DO that?" And Jane's spontaneous, "It's cause he's amazing." And Jack's, "You're TOO amazing Dad."

1737. How Myra keeps kissing the characters of the nativity on our hearth.

1738. Jane and Jack's chorus during dinner, "Dad, you're the smartest man in the world."

1739. Craig's appreciative, "Wow. THAT hit the spot," as he polishes of a plate of pot-stickers. And Lulie's, "Why'd you eat a SPOT?"

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

1740. Jane's continued infatuation with my growing belly, "Do you think people think you're fat or pregnant?" We stare at each other a moment. "Probably pregnant," she adds.

1741. The gathering of family to celebrate Christmas with my side. And how weaved between the gifts and fancy food: two days that unfurl like a long sigh.

1742. Playing Pit for the first time and laughing to tears in the playful banter.

1743. The full feeling of spending time with a people who love me for who I am, the weight of that anchor.

1744. Loving them the same.

1745. In the teetering excitement, Craig's question to Jane, "So, do we need a present for you?" And her confident, "No. I don't really need anything."

1746. How every gift is perfect in that moment.

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Spliced

"Why does Emma and Jack get to do two pages of writing?" Lulie plops her three-year-old self next to me on the hearth, warm fire at our backs. She blinks her wide eyes.

"Do you want to do two pages?" I tilt my head.

She nods. "I already did one."

I curl my back so my blue jersey shirt pulls tight and warm against me. "Ok, you'll have to do another one," I say.

She nods her head, bobbling and serious. "I will," she says.

***

Later children gallop through the house. The kids hang on for dear life, piggyback on Jane. All bomble and chortle, they climb off the ottoman onto her back and thumb-drum the house full of squeal and gallop.

She dumps them in bed for naps and soft as a bunny pads back out to the living room.

"You just have to enjoy 'em when they're little," she says to me. She shakes her head, "Each year just feels like half a second." We nod in that grown-up way, let an adult moment pass between us.

Half a second. Grown-up moments spliced in between.

Gratitude:

1708. Nutmeg logs. Christmas cookies, little brown logs that taste like butter rum.

1709. Pulled pork and black beans Brazilian style, a whole week's worth.

1710. How Myra puts a pair of Lucy's unders on her baby doll.

1711. Janie's hands rough with callouses.

1712. Expressions of genuine respect from her. The growing ability to risk social awkwardness to show respect.

1713. How every time I'm pregnant I'm a little more aware that this body won't last forever and savor the moments.

1714. How when I go to bed upset at Craig, I remember all the ways he overlooks things I do and loves me anyway. How I'm not mad anymore.

1715. Knitting with my mom.

1716. Lucy's admission, "I was getting out of bed to be naughty," when the babysitter tells on her. Her sorry note.

1717. How Jane points to Jack riding piggyback, "There's a backseat driver!"

1718. How half through tidying the living room Lucy announces, "Jane and me are just enjoying the time we are laying here [on the ottoman while everyone else cleans]."

1719. How Jane opens the cottage cheese at dinner, furrows her brow and reads, "LOWFAT. There's not much fat in this. Guys, I'm sorry."

1720. Roasted nuts crackling as they cool.

1721. The snarl of wrapping paper spread across the living room. And how the kids keep wrapping up their toys to give to each other.

1722. When I ask why, Jack replies, "Well, we've got other ones. And I know Lucy will share. She's really nice."

1723. And how when I suggest we take away his remote control car if he's naughty he adds, "Well, good luck with that. It doesn't really belong to me anymore," before getting in trouble.

1724. Jane's, "You did a great job, bud," in response to Jacks masking tape encrusted wrap job.

1725. How when I fall into an afternoon nap down on the farm Craig's parents somehow fill in all the gaps and keep the world spinning.

1726. How Jane tries to talk politics, "I hope someone like Aunt Janey and Uncle James gets voted president when Obama gets voted out."

1727. Jack's conclusion, "Mom, sewing machines are REALLY expensive. They are like a thousand dollars, 'cause I know they're really expensive -- like a thousand or a hundred."

1728. How Myra tries to pull her red corduroy pants onto Madeline, the rag doll.

1729. Jack's joyous, "I heard an egg rolling around so I just reached under the chicken and grabbed it," as he bounds in from the hen house.

1730. How Craig surprises me with an early Christmas gift, and how I repeat over and over like a parrot, "I can't believe you did that!"

1731. Letting this Christmas season pass slow and even, full of presents wrapped with masking tape and cookies with finger pokes in the frosting.

Rooster

"Mom, a rooster is in the nesting box," Jack calls all a-tumble into the living room, winter coat and boots molted by the back door. "Looked like it was grunting," he says out of the side of his mouth, eyebrows raised.

I fold a pair of blue jeans, watch him lilt around the room. "Oh," I say and add the jeans to a stack of folded laundry.

"I guess that rooster comb isn't a rooster," Janie adds and shakes out one of Myra's white undershirts, folds it into a square.

Jack jumps off the hearth for the bliss of it all. Jane gathers laundry piles and heads for the bedroom.

"What if the chickens actually lay a baby?" Jack whispers, a marionette puppet at my elbow. He makes his eyes wide and round.

"Oh, they can't do that, honey. They just lay eggs 'cause there's no rooster."

"But Momma, what if they accidentally lay together in that special way?" he persists hardly able to stifle a giggle, smile round in his cheeks.

"But if there's no rooster, they don't do that," I say.

He hops on one foot, makes lap through the kitchen, then trots back out to the henhouse for another look. Oh, the mirth of all these eggs.

Gratitude:

1685. How Myra says, "Yay," and hugs her head when we give her Greek olives.

1686. How Lucy holds her baby's finger to follow along with the words while she reads.

1687. Jane's comment, "I don't love love math, but I love arithmetic," her grin and teehee. "It's a grown-up joke," she says.

1688. How she tells us, "My favorite part about Christmas isn't getting the gifts. It's GIVING them." And the subsequent hours sewing away on her machine.

1689. How we decorate the tree and they want the backstory on every ornament.

1690. How so many are from my Gramma, and Jane determines, "She spoils you rotten, Momma."

1691. The children trying to make a compliment, "Mom, this tastes as good as store bought!"

1692. Jane's determination, "If you love Jesus, you can't love animals more than people."

1693. How Craig's parents treat the kids and I to a night out when Craig's out of town for a couple days.

1694. How the children whoop into laughter and a heap of wrestling chortling screams when Craig returns, a tornado of glee.

1695. How Myra climbs up and rests her head on my tummy when I fall asleep on the couch.

1696. An afternoon with dear friends, 10 children between us, miles and miles of history.

1697. Fresh eggs.

1698. How the children mop up their own messes, clean white hand towel not withstanding.

1699. Watching Myra Rosie try to sort laundry.

1700. Feta with charred pineapple sauce.

1701. Meyer lemon cookie thins.

1702. The continual tap-tap of baby limbs in my womb.

1703. Lulie's exclamation, "Momma, Momma -- we're playing where I'm a bear and they're shooting me." How Jane and Jack pound by hand cuffs, goggles, and nerf gun in tow. "Not with a REAL gun," Lulie adds.

1704. The kids tidying the living room before lunch. Jane's frown and, "Momma, I'm trying to work, but it's hard when a bunch of kids are acting like one-year-olds."

1705. And her assessment as she seams a bookmark, "This might kind of clash together, but it's just what I made."

1706. How when I ask her what God's been teaching her lately she says, "To not be angry when I do something wrong." And while I pause she adds, "'Cause when I do something wrong I just want to get all worked up."

1707. All that drive for perfection gradually, day by day, smoothed still by grace.