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.