The Good Life

Grandad came for breakfast! The whole world tilts his direction, his celebrity status firmly attached to Grammie. She spoiled us all to the tips of our toes yesterday. {Sigh} Sure nice being a daughter.

Now, quarter past nine, Jane is curled up in a blanket nest. Upset tummy.

Jack is in the kitchen preparing banana slices. He dumps all in a froggie bowl, scurries for Jane's nest. All she needs is a little bell.

Lulu has explored the bananas, ate most of one trashed it, and stuffed one down the hose of the shop vac. Her face is rather dusty.

I'm eating a blueberry poptart.

Life is good.

Baby

3.44 cm and growing. Another little one. Ten weeks and a tiny pomegranate seed of baby has sprouted already to strawberry size. Heart pulsing 160 beats per minute, all the hope and possibility of a person unfurls. Arms, legs, hands, feet. Lead violin sounds high A and in a small concert hall just behind my belly button, the symphony begins. That drum of a heart beats on strong and clear, a metronome of life. The whole body encircles it.






Janie and Jack swear they can already feel the little kicks.

Favorite name: Snoopy.

Grace

Anyone else wake up to the melodious strains of, "MooOOoomma! Wipe my POOOOOP."?

Mary-Sunshine, Jane, greets grumbly me en route, "Momma remember, 'Do to others..'"

Touche'.





And also, was it before or after breakfast that the children converted a half-full toothpaste into a fire hose? Apparently between the three they can siphon water from the sink. Oh, and any comments on an appropriate amount of toothpaste to ingest?

And all the while my life sleighs along past pit stops and toothpaste puddles. I lean over to Jane, "Think about the BEST thing in your day," I whisper. Camera poised, I hold my breath. And before I can capture her dewy face or still spirit, she leans around my camera. Her arm across my shoulders, {squeeze}, "THIS is the best part of my day."

I lean into her. For a moment my eyes squint shut. Oh Lord, may I be the woman she sees.

Confession

She's perched on the top bunk. Her blue eyes roam the ceiling as if an answer were tucked between the wooden boards.

"Jane." She avoids my eyes. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?" I stare. My eyebrows form an impenetrable fortress. She's breathing in and out like a road racer. "Jane." I bark it out sharper than I expect.

She hugs the ladder and fidgets, all elbows. Then suddenly, like a pop-tent collapsing, she claps her hands, covers her eyes, and bursts into a whisper, "Dear God, please give me the strength to say it. Amen."

As I exhale, the room seems small. Even as she wrestles the truth out like a long splinter, inside I shrink down to the size of a penny. Courage unfolds and I am undone by a thimble-full of confession.

Bike Rides

This is the girl who wipes down our soap dispenser with a hair bow when I ask her to clean for company. And her side-kick who sits on on the counter and watches with complete adoration.





She always spots the biggest trees.




And he pedals the fastest.





Sometimes this makes for a tangle.





Or a long ride.

Kisses

"Jesus, thank-you that I get to be with my mommy today. Amen." And here I thought she was going to bless the food.

Later it's nap time. Jane strings hugs and kisses into long tangents. Her small hand on mine, she grins, "My whole heart is full of kisses, Momma."

I play along, "Oh, I save them for when I am sad." I say.

"Hey Momma, is it ever hard to get out just one?" They're all bumping together and filling her with giggles.

"Oh, I usually take a whole handful because they all just sort of stick together. Is that what you do?"

"Oh. No. I just take them all out in my hand and just look for the one I want. But you have to kind of be careful and not tip them or they will fly all over. I actually had that happen once and then they get mixed up with everyone else's and they are hard to find." Kisses are serious business.

"So what did you do?"

"Well, for a while I put my name on them but that kind of works."

Every kiss has a name. Sometimes I have so many I almost forget.



**Special thanks to S. Cowger for the pictures.

Now, I Won't Get Dead

"Now, I won't get dead," Jack announces. "Like some people get dead, I won't get dead." Faith and fact the same to him, he raises both eyebrows, "THAT a good point."

My Dad's kitty died. Just sort of disappeared for all Jack knew. No one noticed. And still, I told him. "Honey, the kitty's dead." In a fumbling sort of hopeful way the story of Jesus and dying, sin and salvation tumbled out. A miracle unspooled there on the bed all gossamer and delicate.

"Do you want to pray about it?" He stares at me. I want to repeat it. I wait.

"Well..." he eyes the ceiling, "that mean I will die?" It's as if he's never considered this. "You pray for me."

In a counterpoint of mother and child we weave ideas. Grace and wickedness, fresh as the dawn, brush against each other. In the afternoon sun my man-child becomes a child of God. I want to hold my breath and not rumple those first understandings. I'm swamped in the simplicity: God died. For me.

"God DIED for me!" When in doubt he shouts. And the whole room shatters into a million tiny slips of ideas like chaff blown away.