Grace Momma

Today is a momma-needs-grace-day.

Normally on Mondays I keep a regular schedule of getting kindergarten offspring off to school, jumping in the car to go to the gym and getting baby to bed for a nap.

But today, my heart is heavy about things I understand and things I don't understand. My emotions are whacko and my baby is energetic.

So I sit.

And I brew some coffee.

I watch a Discovery channel show on mammals. Tush, meet couch.

And I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Just for me.

Being a stay at home mom means no days off. Few breaks. Little time to re-charge.

So I'm popping a pizza because I don't have bon-bons. And because I'd like to eat something without someone picking food off my plate or begging for my food with bright blue eyes. Darn cute, compelling eyes.

I'm watching animals on TV because I don't want to watch anything else that would make me feel lazy or inept. Plus, they're kind of cute.

With a little mental rest and physical pampering, hopefully my baby will wake up from her nap to a smiling momma.

A grace momma.

"Arthur" Luther King

"Mom, did you know that Monday is Arthur Luther King's birthday?"

Suppressing a smirk, I inquired further: "And who is Arther Luther King, Morgan?"

"He's a man who took down signs at water fountains that said 'Whites only' so that black people could also drink from them."

I smiled and said, "Yes he did, Morgan."

______________________

It isn't often that I think about race relations or Martin Luther King's contributions. This past Saturday offered me the opportunity to give to others and get out of the house a bit. I jumped at the chance.

My church was arranging a get-together at Roseland Christian Ministries. The center offers meals for homeless, shelter for women and children and housing programs for families. It's an incredible place that mostly serves blacks. I learned the reason why:

I was informed that the city of Roseland used to be, largely, a Dutch populated place. But several decades ago, industries moved out of the Roseland, took most of the Dutch with it and left a middle class black population with no real jobs. It pretty much devastated the city.

I've been in cities where parts of the town are in shambles, but I have little recollection of seeing a city with such widespread poverty. If I were to summarize the city it would be thusly:

chained link fences, broken

dogs

bars on windows and doors of all buildings, residential OR commercial

unusual window treatments (newspaper, for some)

old cars

I know a picture is worth a thousand words, but I took no camera to Roseland. I was there to be a part of Roseland, not to document my brief stay there.

When I arrived at the center, I was told that I would be helping in the Women and Children's Center. My main job for the first few hours was to take plastic toys and wipe them down with bleach water. The cleaning water quickly turned various shades of gray as we sanitized. At one point it turned a color that was slightly reddish brown and I wanted to gag.

After a few hours of cleaning, we were encouraged to interact with the women and children. The operative word there is "encouraged" because, honestly, the women wanted little to do with us.

There was a large room with couches lining the periphery. In every couch there was a woman, maybe two, and they were all sleeping or in various forms of slouched wearyness.

I knew enough to not expect a welcoming committee from them.

A lot of emotions can pile up when one is a stranger in a shelter. I expected to feel grateful that our family had employment, or grateful that I had a home or (can I be honest?) grateful that I wasn't them.

Oddly enough, as I looked at these weary women I thought to myself that I have been in this state before.

Not unemployed.

Not squatting in a shelter.

No, these women have been through MUCH more than me.

But the emotional wearyness of being a mother, of having little means to change a particular situation... I have been there.

I didn't see women who were a different color than me.

I saw women who were mothers, doing them best with what they had.

I felt akin to them; I'm pretty sure the feeling was not mutual.

I didn't feel pity for their situation; I felt empathy for their souls.

So I did the best thing I knew to do for these women: I loved their children.

It wasn't difficult to enter into these little ones' lives. Kneeling to their level offers them an opportunity to look you square in the eye and give you a shy smile or offer a slobbery piece of puzzle. I wanted to scoop them all up and take them home with me. I wanted to make chocolate chip cookies with them and offer them a place to run. I wanted to rescue them from a world of mismatched, dirty couches and very weary mothers.

One little girl crawled up to me and a little boy followed her and picked her up.

"What's her name?" I asked him.

"I dunno," he said.

"Are you her brother?

"I never met her before," he clarified.

Children were taking care of other children who they didn't know. And most likely, their mothers were children when they had THEIR children. I knew the cycle existed, I just didn't know it started so early. I'm used to white bread women who hover constantly over their children and wipe the noses of their infants before they even BEGIN to sneeze.

This world was quite different from mine.

I'm not sure what Dr. King would say to me personally about how to improve race relations. But for my part, it wasn't about being some great hope.

It was about seeing that these homeless women were proud and weary. They were worthy of being seen.

Hopefully these women will have the courage to see it in themselves and make a voice for them and their children. That is my prayer.

Blessing

One month ago, my grandfather died. He was my first grandparent to part from the earth. I consider myself fortunate to known my grandparents for so long. Somehow, however, the goodbyes are no less difficult.

Before my grandfather died, he called me on the phone. He had been in and out of consciousness for several weeks. What's more, when he was awake, he was ill and had trouble speaking. But on the evening that we talked on the phone, he was strong. He sounded almost well.

We spoke about some family matters. Before my grandfather left the conversation, he said something in a strong clear voice: "Emily, you have always been good to the family. God bless you."

He didn't say "God bless you" in the cavalier way people do when they sneeze or feel they should say something religious. His tone was thankful, as if the words were never said before until he said them right then.

I've heard of people blessing others before they died, but I've never experienced it until now. I've read about people fighting over blessings of their fathers in Scripture. And to be honest, I've always thought it was silly to fight over blessings. They seemed like wispy wishes.

But today I feel differently. When someone takes some of their last breath to say words of strength and love and hope to another, they are unforgettable; they're life-giving. And that's how I felt-- like he took some of his air and put it inside my lungs.

It's been one month since my Granddad died. Today I was a little teary-eyed. I felt scared about something. But when I remembered my Granddad's blessing, I felt strength. Strength in God and His mighty gaze. Strength in truth and true family. I felt blessed.

May you know blessing today as well.

Dinner Out

A dinner out with Dan if I acted like baby Eve.

____________________________

Waiter: "Good evening. Would you like to see the menu?"

Dan: "Yes, please."

Me: (Clapping)

Waiter: " The specials tonight are Ritz crackers and oatmeal cookies."

Me: (More clapping.)

Dan: "Um, okay. That sounds kind of strange for a 4-star restaurant, but I'll go with it."

An appetizer tray appears moments later. The Ritz crackers have an unknown pasty substance on them. The oatmeal cookies are bite sized.

Dan: "Look, dear! Your favorites."

Me: Looking at them skeptically. I take a small bite.

Dan: "You know, hon, if you don't like it, just put it on the side of your plate. Letting it drop out of your mouth like that is rather embarrassing."

Me: More tongue spitting.

Dan: "Let's move onto the cookies, shall we?"

Me: Clapping and giggling.

Dan: Takes a bite of the cookie first. "Um, I'm not sure you're going to like this kind. It definitely has a different flavor."

Me: I take a huge bite and start gagging.

Dan: "Sweetie, little bites. Little bites. And please don't throw your food on the floor. If you don't like it, I'll take it from your plate."

Me: "Uh-oh."

Dan: "I said stop it. Stop dropping your food. Do you want some more crackers, then?"

Me: Clamping mouth shut. Can't penetrate. Starting to grunt.

Dan: "Oh dear. Sweetie, it really is considered uncouth to mess your pants at the table. Can you wait until the bathroom."

Me: More grunting. Face turning red.

Dan: "Are you all done, then? All done?"

Me: "Dada!"

Dan: "Waiter! Check, please. This food was atrocious. My very accepting wife could hardly swallow one morsel. We will never be visiting this restaurant again."

Waiter: Sees food all over floor and smells something fowl. "I'm sorry your visit was not to your satisfaction sir. Can you please tell your wife to stop wiping her nose on my jacket?"

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December Hath A One Year Old

There is a little baby in the house who is responsible for my weary lids and my full heart.

She is now a one year old. And she has me absolutely smitten.

Today, for the very first time, she said "Mama".

Well, okay, she has said "mama" before but it doesn't count because 1) she said to to an inanimate object and 2) she said it with a whiny, tired voice.

Here's why today's version counts: I came into her room to pick her up from her nap. She jumped up and down wildly in her crib and said, "Mama" in a happy voice.

I spent a great deal of the afternoon marveling at this child.

I do that. I marvel.

And I usually do it one child at a time.

Plus, Morgan was playing with a friend and not around. It was the "Mommy Marvel at Eve Hour."

I marveled at how Eve has learned to get our attention from her play yard.

Sometimes she poops her pants and smiles at us expectantly.

Sometimes she throws her toys of the yard and gives us a puppy dog look.

Much to our chagrin, she has recently discovered that if she sticks her little index fingers far, far down her throat she will make a very gross gagging sound. And gross gagging sounds sometimes accompany gagging liquid. But most importantly, it gets attention.

Can she walk, you ask. Yes and no.

Can she? Yes.

Will she? Uh-uh.

My stubborn sidekick will only step sure-footedly when big sister is around and she doesn't actually know that she's walked to her. She prefers to remain a quadruped for the time being.

But I do have this: She dances. A lot.

Any slightest beat or sound make her cock her head to and fro like a clock pendulum. Help her if she's listening to something faster; she could put Eddie Van H*alen to shame. Or so I gather.

This age is endlessly fun. The smallest change in octave to my voice will cause her to crawl wildly away from me. And then, just when I'm about to catch her, she becomes scared and runs AT me. It's a technique that I hope she kicks in the near future as it signals daredevilish tendencies.

She's smart, I just know it. Sometimes her eyes give off that glazed expression, but only when she's plain tuckered out. She manages to say Dan's name ("dada") with a sing-songy tone that begs to have his credit card. He responds in such ooey gooey fashion (who wouldn't?) that I check our credit report regularly to make sure he hasn't done so. Seriously, it's a love fest here.

But the frosting on Eve's cake is definitely Morgan. I'm pretty sure that Eve would grow another set of arms if it meant she could touch Morgan all the more. She loves her. She wants to be like her. She plays with Morgan's toys and follows her around the house. It's absolutely precious. And while I'm loathe to admit that the coming years will have me begging for Eve to not follow her sister, for now it's darn cute.

So there you have it. In the midst of a crazy December, there was given to us a one year old.

December

It's been a very different December.

Other Decembers began with a slow crescendo on December 1st featuring Christmas music and baking of cookies and became progressively faster with Christmas parties and cookie swaps. By December 23rd, the flurry of activities turned into a mad dash for the last perfect gifts, a resolution to not spend quite as much the next year and culminated into a joyous frenzied Christmas Day.

But this December, I am worn. It started with a family funeral. Somehow funerals tend to sap more than just a day of visiting loved ones. It's so much more.

And then the month snowballed into a bevy of bereavements from there. I managed to putter into Christmas Eve a bit threadbare. I took a moment to pour some melted chocolate onto a cookie sheet, sprinkle it with crushed candy canes and crack it into pieces for our Christmas Eve night. An hour later we were calling the plumber due to our basement which decided to flood.

With God's help I managed to keep my head screwed on straight throughout this December. And by God's grace, I walked through it. He held my hand at my grandfather's grave. He enabled me to show love to friends who are very important to me, who are struggling. And in a large, watery puddle in the basement, He kept me from crying as my husband and I held each other in the flood.

In retrospect, there really isn't a more appropriate way to spend Christmas Eve than threadbare, poor and tired. There just isn't.

After Christmas, I was reading Morgan a new Bible. It's the Storybook Bible and it's perfect for the kid who says, "I've heard this story before." Absolutely perfect.

As I read Morgan the story of Abraham and Sarah, I wept. I've heard this story 100,000 times if I've heard it once. It was brand new to me. The book refers to God's saving hand as "the Secret Rescue Plan" and calls Jesus the "Rescuer"... It's an adventure book about love. It sees the big picture of each story. It's marvelous.

I read her many stories from this Bible. I couldn't stop. "Why are you crying, Mom?" my daughter asked. "Because I'm happy," was all I could tell her.

Because I'm threadbare.

And poor.

And washed out.

And He rescues me.

Three a.m.

It's in the 3 o'clock morning hour here at the Dykstra House.

My Morgan gently knocked on the door and asked to open her Christmas presents. "Just your stocking," I told her. Aw, heck, I'd show her. I got dressed and came downstairs.

Little sister cried; she wanted to be part of the action. I gave her a warm bottle and watched Morgan open her stocking. The excitement, the glee... it was all worth it.

Now little sister is back in bed and momma is soon to follow.

But the excitement of my Morgan will be treasured in my heart.

Christmas Spirit

This morning, in the true spirit of Christmas, I barked at Morgan. *sigh*

I made "crazy face".

Not familiar with "crazy face"? T'aint pretty.

It's the face of a momma who is on the brink of insanity. If you take a roll of Scotch tape and apply it to your face haphazardly in order to rearrange your features, then you'll have perfectly imitated "crazy face". Add a convincing growl and you're on your way to the funny farm.

I knew at the moment that "crazy face" made its appearance that I needed to mend my relationship with Morgan. Fast.

I asked Morgan, "Would you like to go on a date with Mommy?" She did. (Thankfully, whew!)

Then I called the sitter across the street and asked her to come to my house at 11:30.

Because the Christmas movie I wanted to take Morgan to started at 12:30.

I grimaced at the freezing rain. I said a prayer of safety and we were off.

I forgot how wonderful it was to be alone with Morgan. I forgot the feel of her hand in mine. And I forgot how much fun it is to let her choose her very own candy at the theater. *Big, wide eyes of excitement.*

We found our seat in the theater. We saw a lousy movie. It was scary and not Christmassy.

But it didn't matter. We were in it together. Disappointing movies and inclement weather. Together.

It's been a crazy December, but I think I found a Christmas spirit in that moment. She was under my nose all along.

Advent

Recently it has been difficult for me to blog. Somehow, the blogs I love to read in bloggyland make me feel as if life, though difficult, can be easily summed up in a few paragraphs. That which is distasteful to blog about can be easily omitted. Cute stories of my children can gloss over other feelings which are boring to blog about. And to read.

So, I don't blog.

I don't have cute pics of children, festive recipes to share or a humdinger of a revelation. But I do have this:

I am a wicked-tired stay-at-home mother.

Can I say that in bloggyland? It's not comforting or funny or exciting and there's nothing redemptive about it... but it's true. I'm tired.

Each day I make choices to keep my day more simple and each day I'm completely humbled by how much craziness is in the air.

Snow pants. Seriously. Who knew snow pants would cause so much havoc?

And baby nap schedules. Or worse yet, skipping the nap.

A husband who is overly active in church.

A deep pang of grief at the loss of two people in my life.

A hellfire anger for the miscarriage of my friend.

Schedules. Responsibilities. Feeling lost.

It's too much. The prayers have barely left my mouth when another wave comes.

So my husband and I have been taking small steps towards sanity:

We decided to skip the company party.

And another Christmas get together.

We decided to watch a movie together at home. It took us three sessions and two days, but we finally finished a 2 hour movie we had been wanting to watch.

This morning I sat on my couch, opened the word of God and wept. I said a prayer in my heart that went something like this Christmas carol:

"Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Emily."

For everyone who asks receives,

and he who seeks finds,

and to him who knocks it will be opened.

Luke 11:10, The Bible

Fog

A little fairy came to me and granted me one wish.

"One wish?" I clarified.

"Just one," she said.

"Then I wish I could remember the past month."

"Impossible," she said and exploded into a thousand pieces of light.

_______________________

Here's what I can gather from the evidence:

There was some sort of big festivity that happened here last week. There were pieces of a large, cooked bird in my fridge and little containers of leftover side dishes. Must have been a big dinner as far as I can tell.

And there are new toys and clothes scattered here and there along with bits of wrapping paper. An early Christmas must have arrived as well.

From the near-empty chicken nugget bag in my freezer, it's apparent that a certain child has been trying out her new teeth with great vigor. Hard crumbs of food under the high chair also indicate some life form with a voracious appetite has been there. A knowing bend in my back suggests that I've been bending over to clean up said floor a lot. Just a hunch. (Couldn't resist the pun.)

From the "size 7" youth pants in the laundry, I deduce there is another little girl who is growing quite tall. There are crayon drawn pictures sitting on various high tables around the home... obviously an attempt to keep littler hands of prey from them. There are little stories as well, written in a language locally known as "kindergarten-ese." It's adorable.

There was a very handsome man in bed with me this morning. He has a wedding ring on his finger (as do I) and appears to be nonplussed by my presence. It appears we are married. He's very cute.

It's a little foggy around here, but I'd say we're hanging in there. And that's probably all a mother can hope for at this moment.

Renewed Vows

I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago about marriage.

About how sometimes man and wife just coexist in the same house, trying to make sense of the beauty and responsibilities of life.

Not much connection.

Fortunately, Dan and I have been able to have little snatches of time here and there to strengthen us... Little moments that strengthen our laughter and help us release our responsibilities, that help us see the real us.

Nearly a decade ago I pledged my love and faithfulness to Dan. Today the vows are a little more specific, but no less precious:

I, Emily, take you Dan, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward,

For dirty laundry-bin-clothes-shopping or clean drawer-ed clothes,

For humdrum evenings or chaotic black Friday morning shopping,

For VISA bills or lottery wins,

For silent weeping in hospitals or joyfully wrestling a baby into clothes,

For minivan or sports car,

For beer gut or six pack abs,

For exhausting birthday parties as well as movies-in-bed,

For the appearance of white hairs on our heads or wrinkles on our faces,

to love and to cherish 'till death do us part.

And hereto I pledge you my faithfulness.

Friendship

There's a continuous blog going on in my head but the connection of my head to my hands to the keyboard is difficult of late. Is it lame to say that I have been a mother 6 years and it still surprises me how much joy and work it is?

As usual, I digress.

Recently I met with a group of women. A really cool group of women who I like very much. I like their differences and their ideas and their vim and vigor. (I've always wanted to say that... "vim and vigor"... tickles the tongue, it does.)

So as I was meeting with this group of women, the subject turned to food. My ears perked right up. How to make dinners. How to get good deals on food. That sort of thing.

I'm a self confessed foodie.

I'm not afraid of a little fat.

And I'm not afraid of cooking something for two hours if it means it's wicked good.

I wanted to hear about flavors and richness and the beauty of taste and texture. I wanted to hear about obsessions with coconut or mishaps with caramel.

As the conversation continued, I didn't really hear anyone say, "Oh man... you have GOT to try this such and such..."

Instead I heard words like "quick" and "easy" and "just open a can of..."

I became very quiet. And, can I confess, I felt really sad.

"Emily, this is ridiculous. You stop being such a food snob. Listen up, girl. You may learn something new," I told myself. But the loneliness stayed. And it seemed to grow.

Fast forward a day. My friend Ann and I are talking on the phone. She tells me, "Hey Em, I made a gluten free carrot cake recipe for you. It's pretty good."

"You did? You made one for me?" I don't think I've had a good gluten-free baked item since I went glutenless a month ago.

"Yep... I can't get it out of the pan, but the taste is really good. I found some special flour at the Whole Foods store. Did you know you can buy bulk spices there? And if you just need a little, you can do that, too!" Ann is such a foodie.

"But Ann, you're not gluten free," I said, putting two-and-two together.

She laughed.

"So you went out of your way to make a special cake for me?"

More laughter. I was deeply touched.

"Well... I like the challenge," she offered. Did I mention that she's modest?

The next day I ate some of the best darn carrot cake known to man. It was sensual and had layers of flavor that hit your tongue at different times--it was earthly and moist and somehow chocolatey. It was amazing.

Now I know it's frowned upon in nutritious circles to be an emotional eater, but I can honestly say that I rarely eat a bit of food in which I don't have an emotion. I really don't know how to stop being an emotional eater. That being said, when I ate this cake I nearly cried for the goodness of it. Each bite confirmed friendship and fellowship and goodness and creativity. My tongue did a happy dance, it did.

Later, I called my mother and told her the two stories. I don't have to explain "foodie" to my Mom. She called me into the fold with her love of cooking years ago. And I didn't have to explain the friendship part, either. We just ate the story up.

God's Grace, Anew

I've pictured the grace of God for a long time like this: a gentle, loving father figure stooping to pick up the pieces of a person covered in filth, wiping him clean. The spirit is somber and sobering.

But today I have a new picture:

My daughter Eve, who is desperately social, was sitting in her wheeled exersaucer. While I was checking email in the office, my clever infant found a way to scoot until she reached the door frame where she repeatedly bang, bang, banged on the door, giggling with glee at the sight of me. She had messed her pants but didn't seem to care. But she was completely delighted to be in the sight of me, bumping around awkwardly in the wheeled toy.

I love this image. I picture God delighting in His children as we seek His face eagerly and awkwardly, as we shriek in joy at His presence and as we come to Him even though we're dirty... We come to Him because we're dirty and social and in need of Him to pick us up and love us.

Thank you, God, for little Eve and this new picture of grace.

Stay at Home Ponderings

It's 11 o'clock in the morning. I've just returned from the gym and, honestly, I should shower. It's one of the plusses of being a stay-at-home mom: I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. *cough, gag, snort and all manner of eye rolling*

The minuses to being a stay at home mom are the same as the plusses: (flexibility) because one moment you're on-top-of-the-world with organizational ecstasy and the next moment you're reluctantly giving the two-hour slot you allocated to (whatever) to the tire center with a nail in the tire. *Boring*

So I'm seizing this moment to blog.

Recently, I was reflecting on what life was like one year ago. I was somber. And weepy. And happy. And crazy. The happy little hormonal rainbow that we call pregnancy was a joy ride for all involved.

I was reflecting on this as I watched my nearly one-year old baby pull tissues out of the box with great glee. About how I couldn't possibly have pictured this feisty little girl in my life, about how I clung religiously to this grainy sonogram picture of her gnawing on her fist and loved what I knew of her. The sonogram picture is still on my fridge from one year ago. One day I'll take it down, but not now. I have reasons which the heart alone knows for keeping it up there.

Much happens in a year. I'm up to my eyeballs in childproofing this house from my wonderfully curious infant. She adores SOS pads, at least the emptying of them from the box. She loves to chew on the ottoman and this little wood finial from Dan's chess table. She's got an adorable temper which I will blog about in a year with different feelings, I'm sure. And she dances with this odd flip-flop of the head that makes you wonder if she's got a tick. Again, adorable.

Last year I sat in her nearly-perfect nursery that smelled like fresh paint and rubbed my belly with all the holy ponderings befit of a mother-to-be. And this year I can barely keep the diaper bin empty as I wrestle my infant to the changing table.

The heart is amazing in it's capabilities, isn't it?

Last year, the quiet ponderings.

This year, I still ponder, but it's done in little snatches of time... a photo I snagged which remains in my constipated digital camera, a scrap of paper with a mad jumble of words on it which reminds me to tell Dan a funny story. That sort of thing.

What joy, to be a part of life, to ride the waves of God's goodness and to marvel at how he fills the heart again. And again. And again.

Friday

It is Friday morning.

Even if this day kicks my tush like it did every day this week, tomorrow is Saturday.

Saturday= Dan.

Dan= help.

Saturday is good.

I am eager to cleanse the house of the sickness that became this week.

When sickness hits our homestead, we are in triage mode.

Dishes only get done out of absolute necessity.

We eat whatever the freezer offers us.

When fresh fruit and veg are gone, they are gone.

I have worn the same jeans all week long. Denim is the ultimate in fabric forgiveness but even this pair could use some rest. And a wash.

I can see the horizon of health and will welcome it with open arms. There is something about the opening of curtains and letting light stream in and picking up laundry off of the floor that lends itself to reclaiming health and home.

With Comet cleanser in hand, I will oust the virus from our bathrooms. Truthfully, it may do absolutely nothing. But I'm not setting out the welcome mat for it, either. Begone, you terrible health-taker.

With some extra rest for my little one, perhaps today will be the day that she'll eat well and fuss less.

If nothing else, it's Friday. Beautiful Friday.

Sick Week

This is the fourth day in which my infant daughter has been sick. In fact, at this very moment she is fighting sleep. Her tired pink eyelids don't know that she is sleepy so she is wailing, pleading with me to pick her up and let her play.

Earlier this morning I sat on the floor with her and just let myself be a present mother. I just sat there. She crawled to me and then away from me to a toy. Then back and forth, back and forth, just to make sure I was still there.

At one point she stood eye to eye with me and turned red in the face while she grunted. I was oddly honored that Eve felt comfortable enough to do her business with me present. I laughed inwardly at her beautiful shamelessness.

Being a mother is, in my opinion, one of the oddest jobs on earth.

I smile as my shiny-faced infant holds out her arms to me and immediately thrusts her face onto my shirt, rubbing her runny nose all over it.

I sometimes smile, sometimes grumble at the sound of Cheerios crunching under my feet on the kitchen floor. "Missed a few," I say to myself. At other times, I'm so dogged tired from the day that I forget or downright refuse to wipe up the food from the floor.

Cheerios.

Banana pieces.

Whole chunks of chicken nuggets.

I justify the food on the floor with a Biblical story I learned as a kid: Kind Boaz told his workers to leave sheaves of wheat behind the harvest so that poor Ruth could find some food.

And so do I.

I laugh at Eve's strength when I bring the bulb syringe to her nose. With surprising speed, she whips her head left and right to avert the inevitable. If I use a tissue, she rips it right out of my hand and throws it on the floor so I can't clean her face. Feisty little one.

My favorite moment with her is right when she wakes up. We hug. I pat her back and she pats mine. It makes me smile every time.

As I reflect on this week, I don't see much in the way of what I have done. I suppose every mother feels that way when there is sickness in the house. But I see that through her mucous-rivered face she feels happy and safe. She even dances. That's all a mother could ask for on days like this.

Morgan Tells It...

I couldn't help but smile that Morgan "got" this about being married. *So* Proud:

Emily: "Morgan, when you have babies, can I snuggle them and take care of them?

Morgan: "Yep. 'Cause me and my husband are going to go on a little vacation."

Emily: "Yeah? Where are you going?"

Morgan: "I don't know. Maybe just go out for dinner."

Emily: "What restaurant?" (Expecting her to say McDonalds...)

Morgan: "I don't know..." (I can tell she doesn't know what restaurants grownups go to on date nights.)

Emily: "And then what?"

Morgan: "Then we'll come home, put on our jammies and brush our teeth and go to bed."

Of course, Morgan. Of course. That sounds delightful.

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Morgan had gas issues (both ends) while visiting grandparents last month. The whole visit consisted of her yelling "Excuse me" loudly in the house so all could hear. I told Morgan that unless people were, um, "bothered" by it, you don't need to say "excuse me".

Fast forward a few weeks at the dinner table:

Morgan: "Dad, did you hear me burp? 'Cause I need to say 'excuse me' if you did."

Oh, for the love of Pete... She thinks of everything.

Nit Pick

A few weeks ago, my mother was in town. Before she came she suggested, "Why don't you two go out and spend the night in some bed and breakfast? Get a night away?"

"I couldn't," I told her.

But then I thought about what a rare gift this was:
Dan.
Me.
Sans children for a night.
It sounded good.

I called her back and accepted.

When the time came for Dan and I to leave for our night away, I was so excited. Dan had booked a night at the new Trump hotel in downtown Chicago and was taking me to his favorite sushi restaurant for dinner. Eeeek!

We weren't able to leave for our date until later in the afternoon. The day was filled with its usual busyness. When the time came to leave, we hoisted the suitcases into our Corolla and dashed down the road for a quick fill-up before we left. We were eager to reach the city before traffic got too backed up.

"Um, Dan? I can't find the gift certificate to the spa, " I said sheepishly. I really didn't want to stop our journey already. We were in "flee" mode.
But I married a patient man who didn't even "harumph" at the thought. We turned around and retrieved the gift certificate.

Okay, NOW we were off.

It had been a while since I had gotten away with Dan for a night.
And it had been a while since I had sat in our 11 year old Toyota Corolla.
It was loud and small and, well, perfect for the short trips to the train station Dan makes every morning. It had no radio and so it offered Dan and I an opportunity to talk and laugh, albeit loudly.

We arrived at the city in less than an hour which really impressed me for Friday night traffic. "There's the Trump!" Dan pointed to a tall, impressive building on the skyline.
I was starving and eager to check into the hotel.
We saw The Trump quite a bit that evening. From the south, from the north, from every whichway direction imaginable. The only part of the hotel we couldn't find was, well, the front door.

Grrr.

Recall earler comment about Dan's patience? Well, he married an opposite.

I could feel a hot impatience in my chest. He didn't get directions? The GPS on Dan's phone wasn't entirely clear. And if you're familiar with Chicago, then you know that some streets have upper and lower levels.

It was at this moment that I realized that I had to set the tone for my attitude for the weekend. The patience I fell in love with in Dan (the patience that enabled him to turn the car around and get the gift certificate I forgot to bring) was also the patience that allowed him to not be frazzled by the adventure of being lost for nearly an hour in the city.

I watched as we passed our hotel again and again.
I looked at my dear husband, cramping his tall frame into a too-small car and being totally non-plussed at our being lost in Chicago. It was probably at that moment that I softened, enjoyed the ride and let him take the lead.

From the moment I decided to stop being negative (in the name of "efficiency"), the air in the car became easier to breathe.
Dan and I laughed more.
I enjoyed the ride and the view.
And when we finally reached our destination, we were able to laugh when we saw that the price of parking our yabba-dabba-do car was almost more than the car was worth. "Hey, we don't do this everyday," my easy-going husband said.

We took out our luggage and stepped into a very nice hotel with very pretty things.
Clean things.
Happy people.
Lovely smells.
Warm eucalyptus towelettes upon our arrival. (You have got to try this.)
A pillow menu, of all things.

But what mattered most was the smile on my face, the smile on his face and the opportunity to rejuvenate with my favorite man on earth.

If I had continued to nitpick, I would have missed the view from our hotel room window.

More importantly, I would've missed the big picture.

Dining Room

I love decorating my dining room for the holidays.

It says, "Pay attention... something special is happening."

It's warm. It's inviting. And it's my favorite thing to do.

This year I bought these sconces to help balance the long wall above my buffet.

I'm all for using whatever you already have in your house for decor so....

when I really really wanted some tall pillar candles, I fudged.

I set two on top of each other. (Shhhhh.)

And then I added mixed nuts to keep them in place.

These pumpkins and corn were bought in Iowa at a darling farm.

And the feed-sack-turned-runner?

I bought that beauty on my birthday this year in Charleston at an antique shop.

I love the graphics on it.

I doubt I'll use it on a real table setting, however because antique burlap doesn't like to be washed. So I learned. *wink, wink*

And then after having all this decorating fun over the past month,

I realized that that darn patch on the other dining room wall it still unpainted.

Drives me batty. Like putting makeup on half your face.

But I have plans, yes I do. Plans.