Thankful

If there is ever a time I don't mind being a cliche, it's now. I have no problem joining in the chorus of voices listing off all the things we have to be so very grateful for. And my list sounds like so may other lists; I am thankful for my family and my friends and my home. I am grateful for my husband and for the little girl who is kicking her feet inside my belly as I write.

If ever there was a holiday I wholeheartedly endorse, it's this one. Sure, like so many things its past is a little suspect, but it's the present that matters. Today it reminds me to be thankful and that's what I plan on doing.

Happy Thanksgiving folks. 

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Brothers

There is nothing so important on a warm Monday in November that it can't wait until Tuesday. It's worth eating scrambled eggs for dinner and forsaking lofty laundry goals. A clean house is no match for watching two boys behave exactly like brothers-- brothers who happen to look almost nothing alike except for their streaky blond hair. 

Arlo seems to be growing up twice as fast as Sena and Gus. The influence of older kids has driven him to do things that took the older two much longer to attempt. He spends more time out of my field of vision, off with the big kids, following their lead. He desperately wants to keep up, and for a tottering not yet two year old, he does pretty well. 

When Gus bangs his hammer, Arlo grabs a branch and imitates. When Gus goes scurrying over fallen trees, Arlo is close behind. 

It has been many generations since my very predominantly female family has had a set of brothers in the mix; it's not a dynamic I grew up with. My only brother was lost in a sea of sisters. Rough housing was not a part of my childhood. Watching these two little boys attack the world together, all bulldozers and dirty knees, is an all together new experience for me, one I am happy to devote my energy to while a half dozen projects remain half done. 

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This Weekend We / Played in Fields

We got to their farm right as the sun was going down, which happens so very early these days. And as my sister finished dinner in the kitchen and Arlo slept soundly on her bed, I watched my biggest two take off into the wider, more open spaces.

Later, my parents arrived as did two more sisters and a handful of friends, and we took to the dark, hiding in shadows, while being sought with flashlights. It was very cold and mostly quiet on the farm, though the silence was peppered with the sound of diesel trucks in the distance and the barks of big dogs standing watch on farms nearby. As I sat tucked in among a grove of cedars waiting to be found, I wondered when the last time I sat out in the dark alone was.

The house in the distance  looked warm and inviting, bright windows, smoke billowing from the chimney. Eventually I faked a sneeze to speed up the discovery of my hiding spot. If I can't have farm and field for myself and my children, I'm glad that my sister has those things to lend us for a dark, frigid night in November.

And now for a Saturday night with just my kids and me, some delivered pizza, and whatever movie grabs our attention from the great, wonderful Netflix.

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Blurred Memories

Sometimes the blurry ones tell the most truthful story, the frantic energy pent up inside on cold, dark nights. The littlest boy insisting on running 'round and 'round the house, begging his brother and sister with new found words--"Come on guys." The little boy who is suddenly not nearly so grumpy, who seems to be defying all my expectations for that dreaded year of terrible. The boy with crimson cheeks and labored breath from his evening adventures is flirtatious and agreeable and so much less likely to scowl.

I'm sure this is how I will remember so much of this time, the two years we were a family of five. The memories of the winter we waited for our girl will likely be grainy and a little out of focus, just like so much of the past.

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This Weekend We Did Very Very Little

This weekend was the slowest sort of weekend. We didn't go anywhere. We didn't see anyone. We mostly just were.

The kids came home from their week away late on Friday evening. We celebrated by renting Malificent and making a giant bed on the living room floor. The next morning I made a big breakfast, while debating my own Saturday plans. I was supposed to drive to Baltimore to have brunch with friends, but I had missed my kids in a way that maybe only pregnant, hormonal mothers can miss their children, and I was not emotionally prepared to leave them again. So I bailed on my plans, and then promptly regretted my decision. It took no time for my kids to leave me in favor of outdoor explorations with friends. I was left with a quiet house and conscience guilty over canceling.

But as the afternoon wore on, Tom and I started in on projects. We put more hours on scraping and sanding and priming our new, old doors. I dusted neglected corners and scrubbed every baseboard, and I was happy to do it all dotted with the frequent interruptions of children in need, the very interruptions I was so happy to have a few hours without the week before.

The beauty of slow weekends is that there is time for all the forgotten things; time for jumping contests and bubble baths. Time for rounds of board games and morning reading sessions. Time enough to soak my kids in and feel back to being myself.

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