TALL

"How'd you get so tall?" Myra bumbles past my knee down the hallway. Aspirations of being BIG, I capture her at TALL.

A green rain boot under one arm, eyes serious blue and marble-round, she pats a topknot of red hair. "My hair's long," she says, furrows her brow, mimics my eyebrows. She pulls her pony up pointy-straight. "And my pony's long," she adds.

I blink-blink to her moon-round eyes and watch her blink-blink back in Cathy-doll fashion. "That's how you're getting so TALL?" I sing-song back.

"Yeah," she nods, dips her chin with definitive staccato, lips pressed. We nod simultaneously, unanimous consent. But really, I'm just watching her copy my face.

Words run out. She thrum-drums down the hallway, and I replay the blink-blink of those eyes.

Gratitude:

4063. "I really didn't use much of my brain to do this," Jane confesses as she glues the finishing touches on a display of ancient Egypt.

4064. Cerissa and the kids come over to sled. She says don't tidy the house, so I don't.

4065. I try my hand at minestrone soup. It's not my favorite, but we dine with salad and bread and dearest loved ones. Then it's delicious.

4066. Joey tries screaming in those first baby teeth. Still no eruptions.

4067. We finally train the older kids not to fetch Joe his every toy, and he screams himself into rolling to toys. Loud, but effective.

4068. A dear friend invites us to Deaf Country, the world of the Deaf. The children begin sign language. Me too.

4069. I marvel at how it's an art, facial expression and body language all the commas and punctuation.

4070. "Lord, thank-you that you made this world. And thank-you that you placed the sun," Lucy prays.

4071. "Mom," she says, "if you even play quietly, the Lord still can hear you."

4072. Jane and I take an evening out together and share secrets and chocolate. We color, sip a steamer, weave gossamer threads of conversation.

4073. We promise to be back by 5-ish, and Craig says, "Stay out as long as you want." So we do.

4074. Jack fires his bow and arrow through the house, heart set on becoming dangerous.

4075. I catch coffee with Mom, shop for fabric, and instead of fabric find conversation and friendship.

4076. Craig and I have our daily visit over breakfast. Secreted away in the basement, anchored at opposite ends of the old green couch, breakfast bar, Quaker oatmeal cereal, two types of coffee, his feet slung up beside, we sigh. It's a good life.