11:31 -- Collecting moments...

Now that I'm back at school from maternity leave, it seems like every little task and tidbit is completely compartmentalized.  There's a specific order in which we get ready to make sure everything works out:

Get up
Shower
Feed the baby
Finish getting ready
Get the toddler up
Breakfast for everyone
Finish packing the bags
Move bags to the car
Get coats on
Get baby from upstairs
Grab school bags
Move out to the cars
Say goodbyes
Drive away NLT 7:20 a.m.

There's a specific order for how we unwind in the evenings too.

The jumble of jobs is smoothest if done in a certain order because the packing is dependent on the dishwasher and the dishwasher is dependent on the meal...  You get it.  If I think about all this too long...my life starts to look like an instruction manual from Ikea.

But, in all these mundane, predictable moments...there are surprises too.  Ones that make me giggle, or want to shoot a few quick pictures, or give kisses and hugs, or close my eyes in complete thankfulness that all these mini-events are the stuff of my life.

The future isn't thinking about sending my boys to school in an actual elementary, or how they'll be in high school.  The future is what we do to manage the moments in the present.  How we collect them to make something special; a life with more to come.

This piece of wisdom (and wordart that I created above) is courtesy of Leslie Feist, singer-songwriter of 'Mushaboom,' which incidentally is one of our favorite songs right now.

One of the funny moments in our collection is when I pretend to be Feist and Reid pretends to be the mushaboom guy when we sing in the car...

Write on,
b

10:31 -- Sticky fingers...

Within the first five minutes of arriving home after school, the contents of Reid's school bag are usually strewn around our house like a board game path.  Sitting cozily on the living room couch Friday in wait, I pre-emptively invited Reid over with the big red tote so we could go through it together...you know, in an organized fashion.

"Do you have any projects?" I asked the two little hands already sifting through stuffed animals, a lunch bag, a Ziploc bag full of spare clothes, and his favorite chamois blanket.  Reid looked up, flashing a mischievous glance, and continued rifling.

Instead of an item involving glue, construction paper, pipe cleaners, and/or googly eyes emerging, before me hung a string of silver Mardi Gras-like beads shining in the late-day sun that streamed through our white wood blinds.  And, behind them, stood a wild-haired toddler now sporting a nervous grin.

"What are these, Reid?  Did you get them at school?" 

"They're beads," he offered; his eyes and smile conflicting.

"Are they yours?" I asked, confident I had cracked the case.

"No."  he replied without skipping a beat.

(That was quick.  And easy.)

"Well, whose are they then?"

"Mrs. Clark's,"  he answered and our deep brown eyes locked.

"Then Mrs. Clark should have them back.  They aren't yours.  And, when you take something that isn't yours it is called 'stealing.'  Jesus says it isn't good to steal.  It makes him sad."

"I'll write Mrs. Clark a note and take her beads back to the dress-up station next time I'm at school." he planned.

"I think that's a great idea," my heart leapt in response to his thoughtful solution.

"Can we put the necklace and note in a plastic bag?"  he asked already moving toward the kitchen drawer containing plastics and foil.

"Sure.  Mrs. Clark and the other boys and girls will be glad to have their beads back."

"They will," he confirmed as the silver necklace disappeared  back into the red tote to be hand-delivered next week.

Hopefully, this case of 'sticky fingers' will be an  isolated occurrance...

Write on,
b

9:31 -- Making room for magic...

3:00 -- Reid's haircut.

I'm selfish: I always volunteer to take him to these appointments because it offers us a little special time...  Lately, with a newborn, our dates have dwindled; so like a champion scheduler who's more creative than logical, we left the salon with a tidy little boy's cut and a craving for mid-afternoon sweets.  After all, our favorite frozen yogurt spot connected this errand to the last -- grocery shopping.  A quick stop would fit.

Yojoy is one of those serve-yourself and pay-by-the-ounce frozen yogurt stores.  It doesn't matter that we stomped in wearing boots and a turtleneck; their treats are seasonless.  And, when I say 'treats' what I really mean are our two favorite standards -- cake batter yogurt with as many sprinkles blanketing it as Mommy will allow for the Master and oreo twist yogurt with a spoonful of crushed cookies for the Mrs.  We're creatures of habit.

What's variable, though, is our conversations.  Sometimes we sit, like an old married couple, to do the job of eating sweets bite-by-bite with our respective pink and green spoons.  But today, Reid joyfully explained lunch at school and the happenings at soccer this morning.  Enamored, I listened...until...

Spontaneous laughter erupted.  The rich, unpredictable, roller-coaster-like toddler kind.  The kind that takes the biggest smile, like an open garage door, to ensure every last giggle is freed and enjoyed by its delighted audience.  The kind that makes you want to laugh too.  Because it feels so good.

Near tears, I inquired, "What's so funny?"

"Ernie has a sock on his nose, Mommy!!!!"

I racked my brain for what this string of words could mean.  There's no TV here.  We don't usually watch 'Sesame Street.'  Between us, there are four socks, for which all are accounted.  And, I don't know anyone named Bert...unless you count the Boys and Girls Club leader at my school.  Reid doesn't know him or his socks.

"What do you mean?" I probed.

"You know, when Bert and Ernie are playing that game!!!!" he reminded me between velvety giggles and spoons of melting, tie-dyed yogurt.

With vague recollection, I pieced together an afternoon a few weeks ago when we did watch a deliriously funny skit -- by toddler criteria.  (If you need a pick-me-up: the link is below.)

So there we sat, giggling and eating and eating and giggling about a puppet playing a silly sock-on-the-nose game.

It was sweet and endearing, much like my date.  Even as I type now tonight, I still hear his laughter...and will trap the memory in my mind and heart as testament to the magic that happens on a regular Saturday in a normal store when we make room for it.

Write on,
b

8:31 -- My magnet...

It's simple, really.

There's this magnet...it's bigger than me...it's connected to both my brain and my palette, and by extension, my wallet...and it draws me close earlier in the day rather than later.  It's sometimes my motivation for getting up as soon as my alarm rings instead of hitting snooze for the sixth time (even when an extra few minutes of sleep would be fantastically refreshing) or making a not-so-great choice (even when I know I shouldn't).

The magnet is my favorite place in the world: Starbucks.  The latter is my cautionary tale of the day.

I left at my new two-kid departure time -- 7:20 a.m. -- to embark on my half-hour trek to school.  As an aside, along with the new house came an uber-convenient Starbucks stealthily located on the right side of the road as I head south to get on the interstate.  Just like always, I played the contingency game as my car gently veered into the right lane in anticipation of the drive-thru turn about two miles up the road.

"Will the line be short or long?
If it is, what will I do?  
How many cars are tolerable in the line...?  
Do I have extra time to wait if it's packed? 
If I don't wait, can I stop somewhere else?
No, the next store isn't as convenient as this one; I'd have to get off the interstate and then get back on. "

The car keeps moving and the conversation progresses until I pass the bank, and the fitness club, and the car wash....until, finally, the skinniest view of Starbucks' parking lot becomes available.

It's Friday and it's busy with all those self-regulating, disciplined people who save a trip to the coffee shop for an end-of-the-week treat.  A quick gander tells me the long line doesn't hold much promise for my travel time window which diminishes by the second.  The small voice in my mind confirms what my eyes behold.  

"Skip it today, b.  You don't need it..."

But, do I listen?  Goodness, no.

I go ahead and make the right turn, idling behind the other 15 drivers jockeying in the same small space for their caffeine fix.  

Five minutes pass; no movement at my normally efficient shop.  Impatience steals a few cars ahead of me and the situation improves. 

"You should get out too."

But do I listen?  Goodness, no.  

A couple minutes later, I order my standard beverage in barista speak: a tall, nonfat, no-water five-pump chai; however, I watch the clock like a child in time-out. Its reprimand stings more with each passing minute.

At the window, I offer enough cash to cover the random 20-cent price increase and make polite conversation with Jessi, my daily drink giver.  "Here's your nonfat, no-water chai tea latte," she announces as it's thrusted out the swing-and-shut window.

"I'm sure she just didn't read the entire drink description," I rationalized; albeit one sip a mile down the road spilled the beans.  

"UH.  No spicyness...no sweetness...no gusto; only the faintness of milk.  I shouldn't have stopped, but I'm pretty sure I already knew that.  The line was long; the price was higher; this drink was a paler version of itself."

For a second, the magnet lost its power.

Write on,

b

7:31 -- I need to be alone...

Sometimes, during my maternity leave
the room would spin
and the house would shrink.
The noise level would rise
and race my blood pressure.
The non-stop neediness
perforated my polite nature
and toddler trials clouded
my sun.

On an episode of 'Grey's Anatomy'
Dr. Arizona Robbins
engaged in simulation therapy
to refocus her mind
after losing a limb.
She imagined the waves,
the breeze, the sun,
and the peacefulness
of being at the beach.
I thought I could benefit,
vacillating between sane stay-at-home mom
and
one whose fuse was about an inch too short.

At dinner one Sunday, I confided in my brother's wife
who also has two small children.

"I just want to lay on a quiet beach

all by myself

with a book and some music

where I can nap 

if I want to."

"Oh, I get it," she giggled knowingly,
"I'd go there with you."

That wasn't the point.

Write on,
b

6:31 -- Blessing Baby

I admit; when you first arrived
I wasn't sure what to do.
Your brother, although delightful now,
was a handful.
He cried and cried.
And then, he cried some more.
Daddy and I were prepared to be frazzled.
Family members were prepared to support
us in the event of a 'crysis.'
But, we weren't prepared for your gifts.
For the past four months, you have been smiley and calm.
Blessing baby.

On November first, you slept the day away. 
On the second and third days, you did too.
In fact, the first two months all you did was sleep:
at least 20 hours each day!
Your sleep was a blessing:
it helped Big Brother adjust to his new family structure, and
Mommy recover mentally, physically, and emotionally, and
Daddy return to work knowing that all was well at home during the day.
We weren't prepared for your gifts.
For the past four months, you have been a sleeper.
Blessing baby.

When I hold you near, you snuggle in to find your niche.
You move your cheek beside my lips for intermittent kisses.
You contentedly ride around with me to accomplish
housework,
and cooking,
and shopping.
My arms are your home; my shoulder, your rock.
We weren't prepared for your gifts.
For the past four months, you have been a cuddler.
Blessing baby.

You smile.  All day.
In the Bumbo seat, or the bouncy seat.
For two minutes while I eat my peanut butter toast each morning
or 42 minutes while I exercise each afternoon.
While I shower and dry my hair.
Even when I put on makeup afterward.
We weren't prepared for your gifts.
For the past four months, you have been flexible.
Blessing baby.

I whisper, each night at bedtime, how thankful I am for you.
I nuzzle your cheeks and stare into your ocean eyes with
chocolately pools of concentration.
We weren't prepared for your gifts.
For the past four months, you have been growing us.
Growing our faith,
growing our hearts,
growing our minds,
growing our love.
"Blessing baby," I tap your tiny fingers and tiptoe away.


Write on,
b

5:31 -- Shoulder Ride

Yesterday, I rode on shoulders of
Loved ones
Friends
Electronic connections
Colleagues
Each supporting me by
Providing dinner
Saying prayers
Making contact
Leaving comments
Sharing surprises

All day, I didn't have to do the work of
Climbing
Running
Walking
Lifting 

Crying

No, I simply rode and it was
Peaceful

Easy
Inspiring

It made me wonder
Who I can
Carry...

Write on,

b