Messages

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"Momma, Momma," Myra says.

I look up from pools of honey toast. "Hmm?"

"Did you know this looks BORING to me," she says. She gestures to a picture dictionary of the human body.

"What do you think BORING means?" I say.

"I don't know."

"Oh."

Wednesday, we read the BORING book. A careful perusal and she still mixes up brains and guts. They look the same.


***

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Thursday breakfast. Tappity-tap-tap, tap-tap, Jane clatters the blinds. Tap-tap, tap, tap. Tap-ta-tap-tap --  ten-year-old intensity bound up in tappity-tap fingers.

"Jane," I finally unleash, "I can't bear that sound."

"I was seeing how long I could bear it," she says. We grin. Of course.


***

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Friday nap time. Myra rouses Joe. "Joey, are you scared?" she says.

"Yeah," he says in post-sleep grog.

"You don't have to be scared 'cause Jesus is with you," she sing-songs.

He grunts the usual wake-up greeting, blankie over face.


***

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Saturday haircuts. "I got a haircut," Joe wallops through the kitchen dressed in superhero skivvies. "I got a haircut, and I washed my haircut off with soap," he says.

"Joe, Joe," I say as I set dinner's burrito buffet. "Joe go tell Daddy. I love you," I whisper in his ear. He hugs my knees and gallops to the living room.

He trots a circle then flops on the couch. "Dad," he says, "Mom LIKES me." A brief pause, message delivered, he rolls to the ground, perpetual motion in flight. Landing half tritt-trot, he rolls on.

Message delivered: Mom LIKES me. Yup. The week distills and coalesces down to one single thought: Mom LIKES me. Our world pulls together like the laces of a shoe cinching up for flight.





Gratitude:

5594. Chocolate and hair ponies and grocery necessities all in one trip.

5595. Craig fixes a sink faucet, a shower faucet, and orders parts for another faucet fix. I never have to hire a plumber

5596. My dad replaces the cord on our space heater.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

5597. Craig washes the car, then rallies the troops to clean out the inside.

5598. I commission Jane to be my kitchen manager for the two weeks after the baby is born.

5599. I knit another baby sweater in cream and mint green.

5600. We donate extra stuff to Goodwill and tidy up the sunroom.

5601. Everyone waits for the new baby.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Football

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"Mom, I don't know if you feel the same way about football as I do," Jane quips from the back seat.

"Yeah?" I say.

"I mean, I like the idea of football, but I sort of get tired of watching the same thing over and over," she says.

I laugh, signal right, and ease into the far lane.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"I would kind of rather just get and update every time they score a point," she says.

"I know just what you mean," I say. Blue reflections of sky spread across the road, I whiz through a puddle. It sprays the front windshield.

"Dad's like, you have to see this great play," she says. "And I'm sort of like, hmm."

I nod, a giggle laced through my thoughts. Another right hand turn, then a left, and we pull up the driveway, home.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"Come on," I say. "Someone unbuckle Joey."

We pile out of the car, into the house, and sidle up to watch the football game. I pop huge bounding bowls of popcorn, and we laugh, and we cheer. And camaraderie springs up there between us. All that tackling and straining toward victory, and something better than football happens. We hold on to it like an invisible thread pulling us together.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Gratitude:

5586. Craig travels on a five day retreat with his team from work. Friday comes, and with it, him safely home.

5587. I knit away on a baby blanket, these restless hands busy and productive.

5588. The children surround me while Craig is gone.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

5589. "I love this book," Myra says. "It's my best-friend-book."

5590. "Good job, Barry-Bear," Joe says and squeeezes Barry. "You're a good helper," he says.

5591. "Are lollipops fruit?" Lu wants to know. "Myra says they ARE."

5592. "How has your eye been feeling?" I ask Lucy. "I don't know," she says and looks at her palm, "I haven't been feeling it."

5593. Another week closes. Another week begins. The count down continues: we pass week 38.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Morning Time

Photo credit: Urban Rose.  

"Why were you pounding on the piano?" I croak.

Joe and Myra promenade around the end of my bed. "We were wanting to sing songs," Myra says.

"Yeah," Joe chimes, "we was. We was."

"Oh," I say.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

They trip-trop out of the room like puppets on a string then parade back through, Joe in underwear, Myra in a sweatshirt and pink rain boots.

"I'm making eggs for me and you, me and you," Joe says. He points to me and him and me and him.

"We're making MUSTARD eggs," Myra says. "But I might need you to crack the eggs."

"Oh," I say. "Better get dressed. Joe go put some pants on."

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

He wriggles into pants, stretches and contorts and finally has Myra snap the front. We make eggs. Myra dribbles on the burner. The eggs stick to the pan. We put lots of fancy salt on them.

"Want to pray together?" Myra says.

"Yeah," I say. And then we eat.

"I'm getting to be a little bit like a pig," Myra says "'cause I'm eating all these eggs." They look orange with salt. She has them cut in tiny triangles. Joe cuts haphazardly. Wet crumbs litter the floor. I make pools of honey on my toast.

"Mmmm. Put your dishes in the dishwasher," I say. "Here, bring me that rag. I'll wipe your spot."

They graze over oranges and bananas. I knit. Myra putters Joe over the hardwoods in a baby rocking chair: their car. He whirls his arms for the engine.

Then I tell them to clean up. The morning unfurls with the rhythm of a gently rocking sea.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Gratitude:

5579. Pomegranates, fresh and fat.

5580. New stitch markers for my knitting. I knit Gramma's old gull pattern no problem.

5581. Craig takes me on a date to a place I haven't been to in 15 years.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

5582. Gramma's old sewing machine comes home freshly serviced. I begin sewing and sewing. We set up three sewing stations for the three of us sew-ers.

5583. Craig takes the kids to the farm.

5584. We count down the days: 20 days until baby due.

5585. And we pray to come up with a name for this little babe.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Myra

Photo credit to Urban Rose.   

"Whaaaaaahhh," Myra bellows from the far end of the house. "Whaaaah." All that red hair sprung up in curls, pink sweater and blue skirt, she bawls over a bowl of oatmeal.

Pulled from bed like velcro unsnapping, I pad down the hallway.

"Her ear hurts," Craig says.

"Oh," I say, "I think I gave the last of that purple medicine to Cerissa." I squint my eyes, raise my eyebrows. "Here let me see if I can find something."

"Whhah," she whimpers.

Photo credit to Urban Rose.   

I rifle through the medicine stash, cypher active ingredients. "Here, let me cut this in half," I say. Serrated knife on tiny red pill, I split it in half. I pinch the crumbs between finger and thumb.

Jane, Jack, and Lu stare at Myra.

"Now open your mouth; this is tiny. I don't want to spill any," I say.

"Ok. Can I have some water?"

"Yeah." She opens. I dispense, just missing quivery red lip. "Here get her some water."

"I think maybe I should leave her," Craig says.

"Do what you have to," I say.

We stare at Myra, full bowl of oatmeal pristine and untouched, the clock nine minutes past when they should've left. She gulps the water, sits up straight.

Photo credit to Urban Rose.   

"I'm all better now," she says. Eyes still red with tears, she blinks. Everyone blinks back at her.

"Oh," I say.

"Oh," Craig laughs. "Well," he pauses. She blink-blinks back at him. "Ok, go get in the car."

She bounds down the hall like a jackrabbit, skitters out the front door, just behind Jane, Jack, and Lu.

Everyone wants to volunteer with Craig. Miraculous recoveries ensue.

Photo credit to Urban Rose.   

Gratitude:

5573. I hire Jack to prepare the baby room, and he delivers.

5574. Craig moves the big pieces of furniture with him.

5575. Lucy and I sew pinwheels together. Jane joins us. I start some dresden plates.

5576. Mom and I visit over fabric shopping.

5577. We call in the New Year with cousins and siblings, pinochle and popcorn, laughter and mirth.

5578. We wheedle away days of rest. Down by the fire, audiobook unspooling, projects open and unfolding on every lap, vacation ensconces us.

Photo credit to Urban Rose.