2: Lion or Lamb?

It is the second day, Dr. Seuss' day
Indecisive snow covers the blooming bulbs
Chilly air overshadows last week's sandals, sun
It is all milquetoast now despite the greening grass
Two nights ago the wind howled
like a freight train
like a spring storm
like an 'almost trip' to the basement
It's too early
for you
for me
for March

Is it in like a lion?  Or a lamb?

I sit in the living room's antique rocking chair
Nestled atop its black leather seat
already wearing wooly slippers, a TC sweatshirt, and jeans
writing, thinking, writing
trying to put thoughts
into words
into stanzas
into sense
into published sense
for you
for me
for March

Is it in like a lion?  Or a lamb?

A neighbor lady runs by our living room window
She's warm from rhythmic breathing
focusing on the next stride and the next
contemplating her day, listening to music
making it all go away until she sees her own driveway
It's nine weeks until the big half-marathon in town
one long run each week
five miles
six miles
seven miles
eight miles
for March

It is in like a lion?  Or a lamb?

The boys form Play-doh masterpieces in the kitchen
They're friendly, perched on bar stools at the island
collaborating on creations, coaching each other
making my mama-heart sing
It's been a long time coming
after fits
and tears
and time-outs
and retail therapy
and prayers
for March

Is it in like a lion?  Or a lamb?

Is it possible, both?

Write on,
b

30: Auction day...

We walk in through the far-right door for guests; my anticipation is palpable.  

WHAT WILL WE FIND TODAY?  

WHAT WILL WE BE ABLE TO WIN AND BRING HOME THIS AFTERNOON?

While Dad checks in and picks up our bidder numbers, I case out the nearest booths. See the distressed teal trunk?  Yep.  I did, too.  It goes on my mental watch list as the crowds meander through the rows of furniture, antiques, and collectibles.  

At 9:00, the opening bell (hanging from the building's center) rings and before it even stops, a gaggle of auctioneers (each working a section) begin brokering deals. We stop at the booth below to preview the salvaged windows that will come up for sale.  I notice the retired road signs behind the auctioneer -- they also join my watch list.  For a couple of littles I know....

I also notice a wooden bell-shaped object at the booth next door.

My adrenaline rushes because the auctioneer and clerk are almost ready to sell it. The current owner shows it off, adds a disclaimer to honor the sizeable crack on the reverse.  The auctioneer throws out a price.  I wait for it to dip lower.  No one bites. It dips lower still.  $10.  I raise my hand half-way, even though inside, my stomach jumps into my heart.  "10. 10.  Who'll give me 12-and-a-half?"  

No one else counters.  She points to me after what felt like more-than-sufficient wait time.  "Sold.  $10."

I smile.  "Thank you."  

I always wonder what I am missing if I'm the only bidder...  This time, however, I cradle the roughed-up item in my arms and celebrate the uncontested deal.  After all, that is the land and milk and honey for an auction-goer.

Minutes pass and it is almost as if the steady cadence of the auctioneers' din takes a backseat to the mental balancing of my wish list.  I make it back in time to bid on the swivel old-school desk chair that reminds me of its Pottery Barn replica.  It's built like a brick house.  I jump in, place a couple bids.  "27.50.  27.50.  Who'll give me $30?"

No once else counters.  She points to me with more speed this time.  "Sold.  $27.50."

I smile again.  "Thank you."

Once overflowing booths empty. Winnings move toward the building's perimeter as bidders prepare to check out and pack up.

We end up on top for a few other items -- like a grey chair to paint for the smaller little's new big boy room, a repurposed book 'tool box', a crate for my friend, and a rectangular side table (still with the original tags) made in my hometown by furniture manufacturer Dunbar many years ago.

We walk back out through the far-right door for guests.  Dad backs up the truck. With satisfaction, we wrap, bundle, load, and bungee the pieces into the back before jumping into the front to recount the day's details on the way home.  

We talk about the next trip and what we might find then...

Write on,

b

20: The egg and the hair dryer...

The egg-decorating project reached a standstill late yesterday afternoon.

Little Emmie clarified, "The plastic doesn't fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, Aunt Brenna."

Her mommy added, "Well, when I was little we always used to put the eggs in really hot water 

to shrink the too-big plastic bands, but that may take away the eggs' coloring."

I extended, "When I used to work part-time at Pottery Barn, 

during Christmas we'd always use cellophane bags.  

They came in one size -- big and square -- and then we would add 

whatever gift the store wanted to feature.  

You know what the trick is for shrinking a cellophane bag?"

"Sure!" everyone replied without pause.

"A hair dryer!" I whispered.

So the eggs skittered around on the plastic blue plate all the way down the L-shaped hallway 

and then rested on the bathroom countertop while I plugged in the hair dryer.

I wondered, "Could I just do them all at once?" 

So, I tried.

To save you the suspense, it didn't work.  Not even a little bit. 

The eggs would need to be done one-by-one.

So I held each one between my thumb and first finger,

rotating it every time the heat became too much.

1.

2.

3.

4.

and

5.

"Emmie!!!!  Look!  The hair dryer worked!"  I called.

And two little sets of little girl hands filled the blue plate 

to merge egg displays into one...

...in the center of the kitchen island.

"Can we eat them know?" a little voice chirped.

Write on,

b

18: Hallowed ground...

This slice is a follow-up to 16: Around the Table...Again:


We stood outside this morning
on a tiny postage stamp patch of wintry grass
underneath a tiny canopy
made vibrantly blue by the colorless sky
black overcoats, suits, dresses, tights, boots
packed in by family
behind the two rows of felt-covered folding chairs
that lined his golden oak casket

I caught my eyes darting between headstones
close enough to read

WULLIMAN

Harry and Elmira

were just beyond

FLUECKIGER

Robert and Marilyn

To the left there was one darker stone

almost covered by the throng of mourners

I could only make out the last three letters 

yet the tears welled up

and rolled down, down

my fingertips straightened

and pushed my pockets' seams

to stifle the smallish gasp 

because I knew

just like that

where we were standing

MC KEAN

Gorman and Lorraine

the hallowed ground 

where my grandparents

rested

I remembered them, too

Write on,

b

16: Around the table...again

Years ago in the house on West Dearborn
the living room lights would twinkle on a Friday night
there would be four cars in the driveway after dinner and
four couples
laughing about diets and desserts
remembering farms and furniture factories
telling stories and
playing games like Bones and Skipbo
around the dark formica table in the avocado kitchen

But then it was my grandpa twenty years ago
and my grandma's sister's husband one month later
which was a blessing
they had each other here
and they had each other there
so they removed a leaf from the table
and then it was my grandma's brother on April 7
and my grandma's younger sister on April 7 the next year
so they removed another leaf from the table here and added one there
and then it was my grandma's brother's wife a few years later
and then it was my grandma a few years after that
so they removed another leaf from the table here and added another one there
and then it was my grandma's older sister a few months later
and yesterday it was my grandma's younger sister's husband

When I heard the news I heard them
laughing again
like they did years ago in the house on West Dearborn
the living room lights would twinkle on a Friday night
there would be four cars in the driveway after dinner and
Earl and Corrine
Harry and Elmira
Gorm and Lorraine
Bob and Marilyn
would play games likes Bones and Skipbo
around the dark formica table in the avocado kitchen


Write on,
b

7: Team colors...

We stumbled into Kohl's, between Target and a date at Starbucks, with merchandise credit worth $21.85.  I had no agenda -- other than to spend every red cent -- however Reid may have disagreed.

With each step further into the boys department, I marveled at our good fortune.

Free money.
(Well, kind of.)

Yellow and red clearance stickers dotted stacks of fitness tops and pants.
(And more stacks.)

We started in the big boys section, with the orange long-sleeve shirts.  Orange has unofficially become our team color -- it seems like this section of my laundry sort paint pallet grows wider and wider -- so the elder little asks to have the one with a soccer ball, baseball, football, and basketball arranged in a neat square on the front.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Next, he went for the stack of lime green long-sleeve shirts.  It fits his favorite genre of clothing -- athleticwear -- and they still have it in L(7).  He's an L(7) now.  Big stuff.  This one shows a big soccer ball, front and center.  Playing soccer, namely practicing his moves as a goalie positioned in the center of our eating area/family room arched doorway, is how he's spent his winter months.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Then, we cross the ivory linoleum aisle into the little boys section.  At his advice.  "Mommy, you know what would be really cool?"  I stop.

Full stop.

"What?  What would be really cool?"

"Well, I was just thinking, it would be really cool if we could find the same clothes in Grant's size."

I found myself instantly back in the yellow hallway bathroom, just months earlier, listening to a crying little brushing teeth before bedtime.  Things like, "Can we just take him back to the hospital, Mommy?" and "It was so much easier before he came to our team" were said for the millionth time. This time, I had something to say back: "Do you ever think it might be your problem...?  I mean, sometimes I think you try really hard not to like your brother, and sometimes it seems like you might give him a hard time just for something to do."  He stopped.

Full stop.

Big, brown eyes betrayed the coping mechanism he labored daily to maintain.  He collapsed into my arms.

"You know, there is room for both of you on our team.  The four of us go together because God put us together.  He knew we needed each other to have fun, to live, and to grow.  So can we do that together?  All of us?  I promise...we will do great things if we work together.  It all starts with the decision to try.  Will you try?"

"Look!  Mommy!  Here is the orange shirt we found in my size.  They DO have it in Grant's size!  Let's get this, too!"  I say, "Perfect," and on the shelf below the shirt, the matching track pants are available in 2T.  We add them to our stack.

"Hey!  They have the green long-sleeve shirt, too.  Look!  2T!  That's Grant's size!"  I say, "Perfect," again because we have matching pants at home.

"This is so cool.  I know Grant will think it's neat to have clothes like my big boy clothes."

"I agree.  I think he will.  I think you may even like having clothes that match. You know, it was a generous suggestion to spend part of our money on some new clothes for him."

We find our way back onto the linoleum path towards the cash registers up front.  He arranges our items just-so on the checkout counter.  The saleslady makes eyes at Reid and she cooes, "Do you have a little brother?  You're going to match, Handsome..."

"We will.  They're team clothes!"

Here they are representing today...

Write on,
b

26: The last Saturday afternoon date...

We bundled up as the golden leaves blew
across the front yard and into the drive
I knew I should go
as if my heart foretold the end
that Saturday afternoon
Grant nestled in the carseat
and I in the front
We headed north, toward the place
that's one stop closer to heaven
In the parking lot I unhooked his latches
he wiggled out and into my arms
The wind still blew
and the leaves still danced majestic in the autumn sky
and the tears still formed
waiting
knowing
and then falling
and then stopping
the brave face
I put on to go through the
first set of double doors past the nurses
and then the next set into her wing
and finally the single door into her room
that opened like a treasure trove
full of the people I love
all sitting there
all waiting
for the next breath
in the center
Grandma laying
her cornflower eyes hidden
her crown of soft, white curls
danced as she gasped toward
her next breath
I looked in
my heart
buoyed only in knowing
soon she'd find
the bright space,
the perfect place,
her Savior
and
my grandpa
her mother
her father
her brother
her sisters
again

I shared Grant and padded in toward the bedside seat
I held her familiar hand and
I nuzzled her wrinkly cheek
Grandma, I love you
years of memories rolled across my heart
as I sat
smiling
at the thought of heaven
tearing up
at the thought of this world without her
that my boys would never truly know
the woman
who steadied my slippery baby body
in my parents' kitchen sink that first bath
who lavishly loved her family
who chose to laugh in all circumstances
with determination and moxie
a woman
after whom my heart is fashioned

We bundled up as the golden leaves blew
majestic against the blue sky outside her window
I couldn't stay
yet I lingered
knowing this would be
the last Saturday afternoon date
We held hands
three generations
linked

I kissed her forehead
I'll see you there...


Write on,
b

11: Mama, geeks!

A gaggle of them congregated
using their gangly, sticks of legs to scratch around
the barren fairway that backs up to my parents' yard
These wild turkeys looking for an afternoon snack
were much bigger than I expected as they
pawed around animatedly and
moved bit by bit down the treeline

We watched in wonder from our warm perch
in their east-facing kitchen
Each voyeur taking a slender window as
we closely read each movement and shrieked when they ran
across the fairway as if playing chase
We talked about wild turkeys as
color commentators would a big game
The smaller little excited, added his two cents
"MAMA, LOOK AT THE GEEKS!!!!!!!"

No worries my child,
I see one peering out from the mirror each day and
I'm OK with that

They skittered out of clear view
while we laughed
richly,
deeply,
with tears
and a few well-placed nuzzles
to his still-babyish cheeks

Write on,
b

8: The variables...

The day had been bright and warmish....snow melted, socks were put away in favor of ballet flats, and after church Saturday night we found ourselves at a local pizzeria with a handful of other parents with other littles.  As the sky turned from cool to warm and then all the way to black, we chomped on the dinner we called ahead to order.

We thought we were being responsible; hungry kids and little wait time should make for a happy family.  And smooth meal.

But, somehow, that simplistic math...with no variables...ended up including a few.

Like the fact that our five-year-old sighed and grimaced while waiting for the hot pie and breadsticks. A grand total of five minutes.  But that wasn't quick enough to suit his exacting standards.  Luckily the pie arrived before his grief came full-term.

Like the fact that the pizza joint has arcade games and they were just a few feet from our table. "Mommy, can we PLEASE play the game now?" and "After we are done eating, remember?" composed the bulk of our dining banter.

Like the fact that I was lucky enough to have the exact change for him to play 'the claw' game with my husband --- just once --- after stubby pieces of crust were all that remained of the once grand pie. But then that wasn't enough because the elder little only won two Tootsie Rolls instead of a big, glamorous prize from the display case.  

Like the fact that he doesn't even like Tootsie Rolls today, so he stood beside our table crying, throwing his hands, growling, and then hurling a wadded up napkin at an unsuspecting dad engaged in casual conversation at the next table.  His kids were playing arcade games while their pizza baked. They kept running between table and game, table and game, delivering their candy winnings. In good spirits; laughing.  The parents laughed, too, as they talked about all things --- trivial and important.

Like the fact that when the elder grew increasingly upset, so did the smaller little. And they were both crying.  At our small four-top table with one high chair shoved in the back corner.  Beside the games. And everyone turned around to look, sometimes sheepishly, sometimes with rapt engagement.  We were the only entertainment; everyone else's kids talked, ate, giggled, smiled, and stared.

Like the fact that I quietly ushered both boys outside to wait on the sidewalk while my husband paid. You know,  to avoid any other unsightly fits, outbursts, etc.  Even as we exited, I felt their eyes fixed on our little troupe.  We caught our breath in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that canvassed the narrow storefront.  I knelt down.  In a calm, quiet voice, I talked with the elder little about the napkin situation. He listened, his chocolate eyes melting into mine.

Like the fact that in full view of everyone inside the pizza restaurant and a couple two feet away getting into their car, he snipped my comments down to a more palatable proportion by winding up and smacking me on cheek.  Hard.  Before I could even see it coming.  Underneath the eye that squints a little more when I break into a smile.  That side of my face smarted, as did the inside of my cheek which I chewed to avoid the ugliness that my flesh wanted to spew all over the sidewalk and anyone who would listen to my hurt and empathize with my embarrassment.  Like a statue, I stood staring out at the passing cars bumping along the brick street.

But none of this compared to the wound festering inside my heart that seems to grow a little more each day.

We've tried praise.  We've tried sticker charts.  Programs.  Incentives.  Rewards. Yelling.  Not yelling.  Taking toys away for a period.  Time-outs.  Time-ins. Time-outs downstairs.  Time-outs upstairs.  No trains.  No TV.  More time with mommy. More time with Daddy.  Fall soccer.  Winter soccer.  Explaining.  Not explaining.  

I always think, Are we the only ones dealing with this brand of pervasive inflexibility and impulsivity?  Because again at the restaurant beside all the happy kids, I felt that way.

After the shortest bedtime routine ever for the elder, I googled it.  We can't be alone in this.

And most assuredly, the first article I read described my son perfectly...and this one led to a string of others.  The formal search term, five-year-old tantrums.

It is a real thing.
And we aren't alone.
And we can get past this.
And he is still one of the neatest kids I know.
And he's fiery, but what his passion could someday accomplish...

Maybe another variable for the list above is that the other kids and other parents were just moments away from their control dance...

Write on,
b

7: Saturday...

I lay there
half-expecting it
in the thoughts that lie partially buried in a murky sea bed
I get restless, shifting to the right side and
then back to my favorite left
But it's quiet
there's no buzzing,
no dancing-vibrating thing
clamoring toward the very tip of my nightstand
threatening the end of tonight's journey
I snuggle in again
albeit the smallest part of me
still waits for the other shoe to drop
as if this too-good stretch of slumber could go
poof
at any time
and the really luxurious thing is
that it doesn't
no, it doesn't
because
today
is
special

It's Saturday

Instead
there are padded footsteps
hurrying toward my bedside
and the buttery-soft hand
of a little
reaching out
touching my cheek
inviting me to the day ahead
"Mommy!"
his velvet voice whispers while
climbing up
blankie and friends in tow
nestling in
blonde shocks of babyish hair
cushioning my chin
because
today
is
special

It's Saturday

Write on,
b

4: She said...

She said, "I was just taking my little sister to the basketball game in Geneva that night."

She said, "He was sitting up on the top row of the bleachers with his friend from church."

He said, "She's the one -- I think I'll marry her."

She said, "He got my number and called me on the phone after that. For a date."

He said, "Will you marry me?" just a few months later.

She said, "Yes, I will."

She said, "That's how our family started seventy years ago."

That's what she told me, over coffee in Fellowship Hall, the snowy January day we buried him.  

I said, "Beautiful, Grandma..."

1.13.2015


Write on,
b

3: The stairway message...

We had gotten up late that Friday morning
There were shirts to be picked and put on wriggling bodies
There were pants to be matched, too
And tiny socks with small shoes
There were cups of milk to warm
And a 'Curious George' episode to que

The phone buzzed, jiggling across the creamy vanity counter
I stared into the mirror applying eye liner,
first on top lid and then on the bottom
My mom and I always talk on the phone once I jump into the car,
And all is calm

Another buzz.  Voicemail.

Another buzz.  Text.

With make-up compacts jammed back into their rightful compartments
I glanced at the text

"Did you listen to my voicemail?"

Quickly,  "No.  What did it say?"

"Listen to it.  Then call me."

"OK."

I pulled on pants; picked a shirt; pushed on boots; prepared to listen to her voicemail
as I bounded down the stairs to dress the awaiting littles in the family room
Darkness passed through the second-floor stairwell picture window,
dimming the steps
Mid-flight, I stopped; the morning din gone
In its place the bossy silence of shock
Her words, heavy

"I just wanted to see if I could catch you."
"Grandpa...died this morning."

They clunked around first in my mind,
and then in my heart,
and then fell out in a puddle of tears
while I stood on the tred fixed
half-way up and
half-way down
as I remembered
his smile
his laugh

"Tom," I mustered

His footsteps understood and padded toward me
I hid myself in the solace of his warm eyes
Before the shirts,
the pants,
the socks,
and the shoes

And there
in the hours since
I've stayed


Write on,
b

2: Preface...

Since we met last March, new writing territories have emerged -- some invited, some invaded -- while familiar ones have grown deeper, more specific.  The darkness of some has made the space for blessing even brighter.  And, while it isn't my hope for this month's stories to lie heavy upon you, my reader; I'm keeping my writing honest.

Because I'm using it as a tool for healing.
Because I'm using it as a wedge to highlight places where 
the fullness of hope and love have shone bold and true.  

Since we met last March,

• My former job dissolved and a perfectly thrilling new opportunity emerged
• I've navigated the waters of a new position, a new educational community, a new district, a new schedule, and new materials
• I've traveled to places like Atlanta, Georgia; Columbus, Ohio; San Diego, California to learn from consummate reading and writing professionals
• I've struggled with five-year-old behaviors that have consumed my marriage and most of my sanity
• I've watched my smaller little's health thrive
• I lost my maternal grandmother and two months later... 
• I lost my great-aunt and two weeks later...
• I unexpectedly lost my paternal grandfather
• I've witnessed changes in my extended family because of loss...my parents' hearts break and then mend, break and then mend

It's like Lucy Calkins says, "I write to hold this life in my hands and declare it significant."  

I write to learn.

I write to know.

I write to heal.

I write to celebrate.

I write to remember.  

I write to share.

So, tomorrow, dear one, come back for a new story...a new moment to learn, know, celebrate, share.

Write on,

b

1: Where I'm From...

I am from coffee breaks,
from baseball games and sweet corn
I am from lazy summer afternoons
in a small town like Mayberry
I am from the church directory
and the family cookbook whose recipes
grew me up and 
grew me strong
I'm from ham loaf and pies
from Carol and Jim
I'm from the gigglers in the back row
and joyful workers who serve
from "It's a long way from your heart"
and "Brennie..."
I'm from Nuts & Bolts* out of the baggie in the basement freezer
and homemade 7-Up punch
I'm from Gorman and Lorraine
and Clarence and Helen
from "forenoon" and "How was school?"
From the furniture factory and the canning factory
the bakery and the appliance shop
In the spare bedroom closet photo albums 
gather to share memories 
black and white, and Kodachrome
of faces I never knew and others I love to nuzzle
I am from these moments--
all the places
where yesterday
encircles today and 
births tomorrow

Write on,
b

*Nuts & Bolts: regional term ('country-ism') for homemade Chex mix

Mentor text: "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon

Saturday Celebration! 7.5.2014

It's Saturday...and while the sun shone, the green grass somehow looked more like an emerald comforter; the blue sky more like an azure ocean; the light breeze more like a refreshing hug.  And, as I followed a little yellow bike with training wheels around our neighborhood, or pushed a red umbrella stroller through a gathering of classic cars, I thought of you.  Because there is so much ground we need to cover.  So many tidbits to tell.

Like this one: I got a new job.  God connected each and every dot to create an amazing opportunity...and I'm over the moon about it.  I will be working as district literacy coach by supporting seven building-based coaches, creating and providing professional development sessions on a variety of reading and writing topics, setting goals with administrators, and encouraging all my colleagues to be passionate risk-takers.    

Or this one: Reid is learning how to swim.  Last week he wouldn't jump into our neighborhood pool without an adult catching him before his toes even hit the water.  This week he met Miss Courtney and over three lessons a world of intriguing possibilities opened to him like an unlocked treasure trove.  He's confident.  He's trying new things.  He's smiling.  And, he's asking to go to the poolallthetime.

Or this one: My boys are playing together.  THIS has been a long time coming.  You see, the elder little is an unflattering shade of green whenever the smaller little is nearby.  It's maddening, these behaviors.  It's maddening, the discipline.  For these stretches of strife, my words and actions aren't flattering either.  Sometimes I feel like I'm running on a treadmill, all day every day, or refereeing a boxing match.  It (seemingly) never gets better and it (seemingly) never ends.  Until, lately, when I'm not looking -- I'll turn to catch a glimpse of two boys playing cars quietly in the family room.  Or, four little feet pattering across the wood floors in an impromptu game of chase.  Sometimes they giggle.  Then, my heart melts, just like it did the other day when I witnessed Reid passing Grant the board book he dropped from his car seat when we were on our way to Target.  Somehow this summer is bringing the brothers closer...

Or this one: Tom and I took a short trip.  Which, incidentally, has also been a long time coming.  For four days, we talked, and breathed, and chewed and tasted our food at restaurants; we stood on dunes overlooking Lake Michigan; we splurged on appetizers and a tennis outfit for me; we rented a court and played -- for the record, I beat myself; we window-shopped in picturesque little towns with historic names.  And it was relaxing.  We smiled at the feeling of limitless time -- until we were on our way home.  Then we sped toward my parents' to scoop up two little guys.

Or this one: Grant is healthy.  If we've hung out electronically over the past 20 months, you know my littler little has had breathing issues since birth which surrounded us with a host of nebulizer meds, more than our fair share of pediatrician appointments, two stays in local children's hospitals, and a satisfied insurance deductible.  April brought pneumonia, four days at Riley, and new inhalers.  It also provided a new day care situation because my lovely friend offered to watch G in her home so he could fully recuperate.  And he has.  He hasn't been sick since.  He's growing.  He's happy.  He's full of energy.  His eyes are bright.  Ours our too.

I'm hoping today also finds you with bright eyes, bluer than normal skies, and close family ties. Celebrate this long weekend! :)

Write on,
b

Roadtrip!?! | Slice 26:31

If I were a drinking girl, I would've been bellied up to a bar -- mine or someone else's -- by the time our blessed Jeep was ready to leave for Grandma and Grandpa's house this afternoon.

Each little checklist item took more effort than it should to accomplish. I will spare you the painful details -- I'm not yet ready to fashion them into crafty words -- so an overview will have to suffice.

Each little temper tantrum escalated past normal ranges. The elder, by the way, not the baby.

Each little momentary escape to be in a room by myself was interrupted by "Mooooooooommmmmmmmy?!?"

Each little glimpse of progress dimmed in the shadows of a new mess.

Each little job to do devolved into some variation of this exchange:
"I'll do that for you, Mommy."
"Thank you, this is so heavy, I'll just go ahead and do us both a favor by carrying X out to the car."
"Moooooommmmy! I said I would do it!! (insert fit here)
"Thank you -- that's so sweet of you -- but I'll find another job for you."
"Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

And finally, the three of us stood in the kitchen...ready to take the last bathroom break, grab the last snack, sip the last drink, and give the house the last once-over before cozying into car seats.

"Hey, Mommy!" the elder little started as he squeezed his applesauce packet dangerously. "I can eat this faster than two elephants eating hay!"

I never would've thought.

In a few minutes, I can jump into the Starbucks drive-thru line for a grande chai faster than you can disagree with me...

Write on,
b

Chew... | Slice 24:31

Like spokes on a wheel, we sat around the cherry dinner table tonight...me, then Reid, then Tom, then little Grant in the booster seat attached to one of the chairs matching our dinette. As the homemade fried rice and teriyaki drumsticks splattering our white scalloped plates cooled, I situated myself from the most recent trip to the refrigerator (this time, for juice) and ate, determined to finish before the next "Can you get..." request. But, with each bite, my mind traveled deeper into my career quandary and farther from the cheerful banter that convenes when we sit down together each evening. I descended into my modus operandi (over-analysis) by fashioning this week's events into an ESPN '30 for 30'-type episode. I prompted myself to chew, ironically...

A faint sputter, that grew more pronounced, turned into a cough..that turned into a red-faced baby... catapulted me out of my arresting thoughts and toward him, my palm rhythmically tapping the top of his back. Pat. Pat. Pat. Firmer. Pat-pat. Pat-pat. Pat-pat. 

"It's not working! Look -- his face is getting redder! He can't breathe!" I appealed while Tom ran around the table and unhooked Grant's tray (strewn with succulent pieces of chicken, juicy peas, stranded grains of fried rice, and shards of mini pretzel twists shedding salt) before I even finished my words. Reid sat quietly, his eyes like coffee brewing...developing depth with each passing moment.

We both fumbled with the booster seat's harness, while Tom's finger swiped over Grant's tongue. Nothing. But 'nothing' certainly wouldn't elicit the sounds he was now creating, nor the pall changing his complexion from reddish-scary to grayish-REALLY-scary. I patted the butter-soft skin under his wispy white-blonde hairline. Harder. And harder again while Tom propped him between his chest and right knee. I blinked in disbelief -- this ordeal played out at my Amish-made dinner table, sitting on my burgundy floral rug, in my L-shaped kitchen where Tom demolished the previous owner's floor and painted the walls Stonehenge Greige with my parents' help as I sat, big and pregnant, in a royal blue fold-out chair more familiar with baseball games than home improvement projects. Just a couple months before this little one joined our family...

I focused in on his thick silver wedding band that flashed like a streak of lightening as he raced against time to free Grant's airway. My eyes zoomed toward his, peaceful as a sun-drenched river in springtime, which seemed in direct opposition to the intent revealed by his pursed lips. He held our baby like a shepherd cradling his sheep. 

Pat. Pat. Pat-pat-pat-PAT.

Like an answer to prayer, an impressive hunk of gummied pretzel appeared and downgraded Grant's cheeks toward fair-skin flush.  

It wasn't until then that I heard Reid asking questions about where food goes when we chew and swallow. It wasn't until then that I heard the neighbor's black and tan dog barking in the backyard. It wasn't until then that I heard the suppertime traffic wheesh past our front door after a short stop-off at home to grab the family before heading back out for someone else's cooking.

"Here's your sippy...have some water. It's cold." His little hand, powered by the whole of his diminutive frame, pushed the the blue and green cup back to me while the other ran from his tummy toward the left diaper tab. Today I realized he can unhook them. 

"Want some applesauce?" I slipped into the pantry grabbing a pouch to sway his vote and unscrewed its lemon yellow lid before offering a sip.

"Drink," I encouraged. Wash it alllllll down.

He did, between giggles and goo-goo eyes. I cradled him, nuzzling the satiny hair that framed his satiny forehead. And for the second time during tonight's dinner, time stood still...

Write on,

b

Counting the days... | Slice 20:31

Gleaming like the morning sun 

it sits on the eastern kitchen sill 

as a monument to 

anticipation

what will come come over spring break

when the bags are packed 

and the Jeep drives two hours north

and the boys and Mommy 

unbuckle, unload, 

and then unlock 

the door at Grandma and Grandpa's house

it is the topic before dinner and after prayers

Mommy, as soon I as get up I will tear off the next link

because we will be another day closer

to seeing Grandma and Grandpa

And sure enough he remembers this morning

bounding down the stairs like an arrow speeding toward its target

Will you help me get it down?

Absolutely

Thank you

Rrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiip

Let's touch and count

1

2

3

4

5

6

7 days!

I can't wait, Mommy

Me neither

Write on,

b

Pillow talk... | Slice 19:31

The covers snug around my face, I started one last conversation with my husband before sleep.

B: Today in a planning meeting, we talked about subordinating and coordinating conjunctions. 

T: I don't remember what those are.

B: Well, a subordinating conjunction introduces a dependent clause, like 'When I get my hair done, I will have no grey hair.'

T: Oh, right. OK.

B: And a coordinating conjunction connects words, phrases, and clauses, like 'I want ice cream and french fries for dinner.' Think FANBOYS: for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so.

T: Got it.

B: Then we started talking about the Oxford comma.

T: Are you kidding me?

B: Of course not. Oxford commas are important. I mean, you've seen that poster that says, 'Let's eat Grandma' and 'Let's eat, Grandma.'

T: Yes. But it's bigger than that. I once had a whole undergrad class session devoted to its use. Not everyone agrees that that last comma is as important as you think it is. 

B: Really? Why? If you don't include the last comma, you end up putting two things together that may not necessarily go. Like not everything goes together like peanut butter and jelly, right? If you put two items together without the comma, the list makes no sense. 

T: Yes. But sometimes the comma takes up space. Word economy is critical to writers. So is space economy.

B: I still think the Oxford comma makes the most sense and I will still keep using it.

T: OK.

B: Good night, love.

T: Good night, love.

Write on,

b

Smooch | Slice 17:31

We storm out of the house each weekday morning...accounting for children and car seat buckles, school bags and lunches, sippy cups of milk and show-n-tell tubs. With one eye on the clock and the other on the minutiae, we make our good-bye rounds. 

"Grantie, have fun with Miss Heidi."

He follows with a rough wave (he's still fine-tuning its mechanics) and something that sounds like "iy-dee."

Smooch.

"Reidaroo, be good to Mrs. Sedam and Mrs. Oslos -- it's a Rainbows class day."

Smooch.

"Daddy, drive safely and be a blessing at work."

Smooch.

The roaring engine of my husband's powerful sedan awakens, followed by the grumble of my Jeep. They slide down the driveway first, I ease out and shut the garage door. We speed away toward the neighborhood's entrance where, with patience, we wait behind other cars inching into the stoplight's growing trail. Sometimes we make it in together, sometimes I have to catch up to the charcoal muscle car with two little bumps sprouting from the backseat windows. 

I most always do though. It's like the final goodbye -- the final send-off towards the hours that meld into school and drafting and doting and learning.

There's the light at 106th Street that collects worker cars, school cars, gym cars, and the occasional semi-truck heading back toward the city. It's on the slowest timer and I usually find them there, talking and looking around, as I pull into the adjacent lane. I wonder what they're saying...I wonder if Grant has fallen back to sleep...I wonder if Reid is singing radio tunes since, most likely, my husband is listening the The Police. And then I wonder if he'll turn and look my direction...

He does and makes eyes like fireworks exploding on a dark summer night. His lips mouth, "Daddy! There's Mommy!" And then a smaller hand shoots up...with that little mechanical wave. If I could see his eyes...I know they'd be wide pools of blue, inviting me in to take a dip.

I blow Reid a kiss, his exaggerated catch overflows into its landing on his rosy cheek.  

Smooch.

He blows me one and I follow suit. 

Smooch.

The light turns green and the lanes spread us apart... The Jeep heads east and the Charger west. But that's just logistics; we're really altogether.

My heart says we are.

Write on,

b