Gifts

"That's for you," Joe says. Barefooted, he thunks across the kitchen, palms a green cherry tomato out of his mouth, lifts it up to me, hands shiny with spit.

"That's ok. You go ahead," I say.

"I washed it," he says.

"Oh," I say.

"Can I eat it?"

"Yeah. You better."

He pops it back in his cheek, purses his lips to contain the overspill.

***

"Should I open these?" Myra crinkles a fun sized pack of M&M's between her fingers. The two of us on a date, the budget down to the end of the month, I'd grabbed them on our way out the door. M&M's: a date.

"It's up to you," I say. "They're yours."

"Hm." She pets them with her hand. "I might wait 'til we get home 'cause the kids might want some," she says.

"Ok."

She nestles them next to the booster, a sliver of shade. We run errands, take a walk, circle back home. And she splits the little back open for everyone.

***

"Now that I'm going fast, this is actually fun," Jane says.

I glance up, iron paused and puffing over my quilt. Anchored to the school table like ball and chain, she grins. I laugh. "Yup," I say.

Her math book sprawled open to lesson 52, she leans an elbow across its face. "Careful when you pick my discipline," she chirps, a squirreling smile ribboned across her face.

"Better keep going," I say.

"I know," she says and scrawls repentance across the face of the next hour.

Practice. Practice makes easy. And like water turned to wine, discipline becomes play.

Gratitude:

5494. Jack and Lucy take up Canasta. Myra watches. "I like Canasta," she concludes. "There's nothing bad for me in Canasta."

5495. Craig and I take up Canasta again. I only have to apologize once for being a bad sport.

5496. German potato soup. Mom makes the best potato soup.

5497. Fleece lined leggings. Fall finally hits and the girls winter up with fleece lined leggings.

5498. Good food and family. We end on blondies and transparency, a la mode.

5499. Joe tries his hand at dumping nail polish (again) down the bathroom sink. Brilliant red. Craig polishes it clean with straight acetone. Joe PROMISES never to do it again.

5500. We celebrate a birthday party with friends that feel like family.

5501. Craig helps me distill down more strategies on how to instill good work habits in the kids.

5502. Mom and I trade quilting chores. We mastermind more quilts.

5503. Friends give us hand-me-downs.

5504. The girls get headbands.

5505. We begin plans for Thanksgiving.

5506. Waist high in a discouraging week, deep waters of encouragement spring forth. Each on cue, women I love speak truth into my life.

5507. I feel well for four days in a row. I pray the next week brings wellness untold.

Croup

"This is a story about Robinson Crusoe," Jack says. "He was on a boat that broke." Book cover permanently curled open, he turns to a bookmarked page part way through. He, seated there on the ottoman, Myra, on the couch, ensconced in the long arms of a fleece throw, Jack begins to read.

"Robinson Crusoe was on a ship for many days," he says. Still groggy with croup, Myra pulls the blanket up under her chin. Jack's voice turns soft circles, lulls her quiet and sleepy.

***

The nap spent, the story gone, me sewing in the basement, Jane checks in, turns in morning work.

"I'm gonna go upstairs," she says.

"Ok," I look up from a blue circle half sewn on a cream colored square.

"'Cause Myra said she feels like no one is by her," Jane says, "and she described being lonely. So..." Jane nods, blinks. "Yeah," she says.

"Good," I say, "good idea,"

With that she scampers up the back stairs. A burden of care shifts from sibling to sibling. Invisible bonds grow stronger each day.





Gratitude:

5476. "I'm starting to realize what CLEAN is," Lu says as I have her wipe down the kitchen table, smudge free and shining.

5477. Joey tries his hand at the microwave. We throw out the ruined bowls.

5478. Joey tries to start the dishwasher. Jack vacuums up the spindrift of dishwasher deterrent.

5479. Joey dumps the refill bottle of nail polish top coat down the bathroom drain. Jane sleuths him out, and we wash it away before it dries.

5480. Joey tries to get into my vitamins. Childproof lids protect him from all but two capsules of Citrucel which leave him "regular" but undamaged.

5481. Joey empties my wallet and dismantles the emergency maxi-pad tucked in a zipper pocket all while waiting on my bed to get in trouble.

5482. Joey lets the chickens out, dumps their food, and shuts one's head in the coop door. Somehow none die, and they keep on laying eggs.

5483. Joey decides potty training is for the birds and pees all over the house and yard. He gets in trouble, LOTS of trouble.

5484. Joey gets in trouble ALL week long. And finally, finally, shows signs of reformation. Glory day.

5485. Joey brings his blankie boy, spreads it over my shoulders, and offers to brush my hair with his toothbrush.

5486. Joey prays for the baby in my tummy.

5487. We have an ultrasound and the sweet baby girl is growing strong and healthy.

5488. Jane continues planning Christmas gifts and takes a secret trip to the fabric store. She glows with anticipation as she narrates the gifts for me.

5489. I take a secret trip to the fabric store.

5490. We make a visit to the farm. Craig's mom passes on some sweaters Great-Grammie made and a vintage pattern.

5491. Craig makes pancakes three times this week.

5492. We finally change out all the summer clothes for winter wear.

5493. Craig and I communicate and miscommunicate all week long and somehow find that steadfast love carries us through.

Great-Grammie

"I think I might know why Great-Grammie is living so long," Jack says. He trifles through the kitchen jammie-clad and toothbrush in hand.

"Why is that?" I say.

"'Cause, she says, God can take me at ANY time." He stops at the microwave to brush. But toothbrush forgotten, he pauses. "I was listening in there," he points down the hall, the book of Luke a cacophony around jammies and bedtime clatter, "and it said whoever desires to keep his life will LOSE it. And whoever loses his life will KEEP it."

"Oh," I say, dishrag wadded with table scraps and now forgotten in my hand. "That's very true, Jack, very true."

He nods and shuffles the toothbrush over teeth that look too big for his mouth, timer counting down from two minutes. But I just stand and watch. His words, plucked out of evening routine, they sift through my mind.

Whoever loses his life will keep it. So it is. We give.

I marvel that he pulled the thread end of that knowledge almost out of thin air.

Gratitude:

5462. Pie night. Pizza pie, peach pie, salad in between, family all around.

5463. Kleenex, the soft kind. And Carmex. Another cold takes a hit.

5464. I start another quilt, one in all circles, appliqué.

5465. Good thread, the kind that slides through the machine like butter, the kind that doesn't snag or knot.

5466. "Momma, you feel better?" Joe says. "No," I say. "You should go back to bed," he says.

5467. Craig and the kids clean the house while I sleep until 11 and then nap all afternoon.

5468. Lemon soap and coconut cream, Trader Joe's staples.

5469. Lydia turns one. Cerissa throws a party around the Seahawk's game. The children drink gallons of orange pop.

5470. Lucy dresses Joe for church.

5471. Great-Grammie leaves the hospital.

5472. Jane starts planning Christmas presents.

5473. I make our first beef stew in years. Everyone loves it.

5474. I read more of Tim Keller's The Meaning Of Marriage and note again the special agreement that marriage is: a covenant. I turn this over in my mind all week.

5475. We prepare for another week of learning together, all successes and failures bundled into a giant bale of love. Devotion.

Muscles

"Are you sure you got enough?" I query Jack and his empty bowl. "You have to feed those big muscles you're growing."

"Show us your muscles," Lu chimes.

"Yeah, yeah," the girls giggle.

He flexes, all elbows and baby biceps.

"You better go get another bowl," I say. He complies. It slides down in a sluice of boy gobbling.

Breakfast the next day, Lu stirs oatmeal, while I spread jam on toast.

"One time, when Jack held his muscles up," she tries to describe flexing, "and I held mine up, I said to Jack, Mine look flimsy." The spoon gummed in an oatmeal rut she pauses. "Like it actually looked like you could break mine OFF." Her eyebrows arced in sideways parenthesis, we nod.

"Yep," I say. "He's a boy."

He's a boy. When the new bunk bed came home, Jack helped Craig move it in. A colleague needed someone to deliver a couch; Jack and Craig made it happen.

Over the summer, he and his muscles became a little older, a little more distinguished, a little more man-ish. In the curve of a single season the difference between boy and girl pronounces itself even more. Delightful.

Gratitude:

5648. One tooth gone, Lucy works to loosen more teeth. "Maybe it's like tomatoes," she says. "You pick one, and others start to ripen.

5649. My sweet sis posts pictures of our recent photo shoot. Once again she teases out the essence of our family.

5650. My small group settles into the fall routine. I treasure the time with them.

5651. I come down with a terrible chest cold, and yet everyone pulls together to make life work.

5652. Craig, spur of the moment, takes the family to dessert: frozen yogurt.

5653. I find the perfect camisoles to cover my growing belly.

5654. "Hurry, hurry, Myra," Jane cheers. "Just TRY. You'd be surprised how much mercy Mom gives to people who TRY and how much mercy she doesn't give to people who don't try."

5655. We head down to Craig's hometown for an old fashioned shindig. The children sprawl out to watch Gramma, Uncle, and Cousins play bluegrass in the park.

5656. The day runs long and Craig's mom offers dinner for the seven of us, plus other extended family. With almost no prep, she sets a whole spread.

5457. We linger in the refreshment of family.

5458. Craig cans more plums -- all on his own.

5459. Another week of hard work and Jane sees again the source of all free time: hard work.

5460. Craig comes home from church with a surprise: my favorite cheese. Cheese and chocolate: the language of pregnancy.

5461. We finally settle into the counterpoint of work and play. It's a lolling river to carry us forward.