dancers

The sky was overcast and gray. The clouds hung low and heavy. The air was cold and still.  And then the clouds burst, pouring forth their contents into view.

Slowly they began to dance. Large, white flakes like downy feathers. With no hurry to their routines they swirled down and then up, some left and some right. Each with abandon, following their own course. And yet, each dancer, different though it was, looked beautiful beside the others. A billion flakes that filled the air. No two dancers looked alike. And I marveled.

There was much to do inside which kept me busying about. And yet, I frequently found myself at the window staring through the glass like a child, my little companion by my side. "Beautiful,"she whispered into the stillness. 

The afternoon found us out amongst the dancers. We drove Frosty, our trusty Sable, into town for some errand doings. It was cold and the stores were busy, no parking spaces near the door. We parked with a walk before us and grabbed hands. The dancers swirled around us.

I started off briskly and found my hand pulling her along. I looked behind me. Her sweet face was turned upward, her mouth wide open and her eyes closed. "Catch any yet?" I asked. She laughed, "No, but they keep going up my nose!" 

I slowed my pace. Together we walked; our faces upward, our mouths open. We laughed as the flakes tickled our skin and landed everywhere else. Unsuccessful at our mission, we entered the store and at once became lost in a beautiful sea of fabric. 

Lost in the pattern books, my little companion filled a sheet with the corresponding numbers. Each to an item she confidently assured me that I could make. "My mommy is the best sewer," she announced to the kindly sales associate who had stopped to help us. "And I have lots of things for her to make!"

Hand in hand, we wandered through the possibilities and managed, somehow, to complete the list of necessities for one pattern. A pink and yellow flowered print to be transformed into a sweet little summer dress. Buttons and bias tape. Laughter and sweet conversation. We walked to the register and transacted our shopping. I counted change while she tried on the foam beards and hats beside me. "Look," she cried with glee.  And I saw her, my little leprechaun, her eyes dancing. 

Slowly, and with mouths opened,  we made our way to the car. The air thick with giant white flakes that seemed to evade capture when finally, I tasted success. And as I exclaimed, she did too; sharing our moment of joy with one another. 

Our ride home was filled with chatter. I watched the road and the dancers. She designed a car wash aloud. Details that went from simple to complex. And the sound of her words was like music, sweet and melodious. The music to which the dancers danced.

And the show was complete. 

We pulled into the driveway and parked. Gathering our bags we made our way to the door, our boots scattering snow like dust bunnies.

And my heart clapped. 

sleep

Andy and I closed down the party at exactly 9:08 last evening. The lights went out and sleep came swiftly. It was the earliest we have seen the back of our eyelids in about three weeks of burning the midnight oil. Andy's alarm gives a faithful 4:30am wakeup call no matter how much sleep we've accomplished. 

We were giddy at the prospect of sleep and counted out how many hours were before us. Seven. Seven hours of consecutive sleep. Seven hours of crazy adventures for my dream factory of a brain. 

At approximately 10pm the beep, beep, beep of a received text sounded from the kitchen where my phone was plugged in. Andy stumbled out and checked it. A message from a prospective Craigslist buyer. We had a quick discussion about answering it and decided that Sunnie could wait for our reply until morning. The phone was turned down to vibrate and plugged back in. 

The captain of the nose blowing team began practicing at about 2am. She may be a small girl but Evie can use her nose to create a sound that resembles the trumpet of a full grown elephant. Both nostrils are firmly pressed in and she blows out with all her might. It is a process repeated over and over and over again. Unfortunately, her technique is not actually effective at removing any of the offending nose material and she is very resistant to any sort of help in changing her approach. She has seasonal allergies so boogies are a daily issue. She blows so hard her face turns red, I worry for her safety. 

After a few minutes, I heard the sound of small feet march into the bathroom and back to bed. More blowing. This was my cue. I slid my glasses over tired eyes and plodded into her room. Gently, I took over the tissue handling and tried once again to help change her approach. "Don't plug both sides," I whispered demonstrating my idea. I took the kleenex and depressed one side of her nose while leaving the other clear for removal. She blew hard. 

The right nostril was free and clear but the left was obstructed and no amount of blowing was going to remedy it. She was certain that it could be removed. I took the crumpled tissue away and offered other suggestions. "Just breathe through your mouth." 

I laid beside her and rubbed her back until she lay still and her breathing was slow and even. Usually I wait until her feet twitch, which is a sure sign of sleep, but I was tired. I made my way back to my room, where Andy soundly slept, and thanked The Lord for the swift answer to my prayer. 

Back in bed, I pulled the covers up and closed my eyes. Sweet sleep called to me and then, so did the sound of the trumpet in the next room. The nose blowing had resumed. 

Not wanting Andy to be disturbed, I grabbed my glasses and followed the sound. She was distressed about her nostrils and not to be consoled. I stumbled through the living room to my small little oil stash. Peace and Calming called my name. I needed it just as much as she did at this point.

It was dark in her room, but I carefully tipped the bottle over and felt one drop hit my palm. In my hurry to right the bottle, another drop fell. The pungent fragrance filled the room. I rubbed it at the nape of her neck then gently rubbed it across her forehead. "MY EYE!" she yelled out,"YOU GOT OIL IN MY EYE! GET IT OUT!" 

I think I might have quietly laughed at this point as I pictured other mothers (in long white nightgowns with beautiful braided hair) leaning over their restless children and gently applying oils which soothed them. I was wild haired, bleary eyed and trying to calm a child who was distressed by my sabotaged attempt to soothe her. 

Somehow we made and it and again, after a long back and head rub, she was still and breathing slow. I left her room. The blowing resumed. I climbed into bed, rolled over and closed my eyes. I prayed for the persecuted church. 

Over the next two hours she battled sleep, telling wild tales of the rescuers, blowing her nose, calling "MOOOOOOOOOOM" and making frequent trips to my room with requests to save her from the scary shadows on her wall. Andy slept soundly, for which I was grateful. He isn't allowed the luxury of sleeping in. 

Morning came quickly. A beautiful wet morning, covered in the gentle rain that had fallen on it while we slept. Much needed refreshment for our parched ground. I fell back asleep and woke up after Andy was gone. 

I heard it. The sound of blowing. I froze and listened more carefully, my emotions rising. Through my open window, the cars passing by on the wet streets drove through a giant puddle and the sound of their travels matched the blowing. The girl was still sleeping. The morning was quiet for a little longer. 

panera

It's a lovely morning, quite warm. My favorite kind.

I am alone. Alone on the busy patio at Panera. Alone with a frozen lemonade and my iPad but surrounded by the busy chatter of those gathered. I love the laughter and the conversations that catch my ear. I love that I don't have to talk. 

I am an introvert. No shame there. Silence is the fuel that fires me. 

"They call me Mrs. H," laughs the lady with short blond hair. She sits across from a friend with a long ponytail and sunglasses. Mrs. H. has carried the conversation for the past 30 minutes without ponytail getting in a word. She is excited about life, about God, about her mother and about prayer.

At the table across from mine sits an older lady in a blue plaid shirt. Her husband brought out a toasted bagel and prepared each half. She takes hers with thin layer of cream cheese but he prefers butter. He must have been hungry, polishing off his meal in a hurry. She takes her time. Savoring her half and mug of coffee, he a glass of ice water. 

A couple, on break from work, ate their sandwiches while planning a party. He tried to keep the numbers down, around 10, and requested beef jerky to be on the menu. She wondered who would help them set it all up, perhaps his musician friends? 

I think of Evie. She was excited to go back to Vacation Bible School again this morning. I curled her hair and dressed her a fancy short set. My little mud puddle lover looks so grown up and acts so grown up around her peers. It's sweet, bittersweet, to leave her behind though I must admit that I have relished being alone for a few hours. 

What is it about needing words that makes them so elusive? I am attempting again to write a piece for a contest and find my brain blank. I am working to recall a time or a person or a place of which I can write 2,500 words and yet, nothing. I thought perhaps a frozen lemonade and a table in the sun might awaken my sleeping brain.

The patio is clearing out. A new crowd begins to gather. The lovely ladies next to me bow their heads and one begins to  thank her Heavenly Father for their time together and the lunch before them. She says amen and adds "God can do anything." I take this as my cue, the changing of the guard, the encouragement that God is able and the reminder that my little fairy will be soon waiting for me with popsicle stained lips and stories. 

What a gift, these minutes on the Panera patio. I leave with a thankful heart. 

dandelions

I tried to go to bed but it didn't take.

It took for the other members of my family. Evie, after a long hour of telling adventurous stories and a trip to the potty, succumbed to the magic spell of dreamland. Andy, approximately 8 seconds after laying his head upon the pillow, was breathing slowly and his right leg twitched.

What a day. What a week. What a month.

Take a deep breath.

Evie and I stopped at a garage sale today. I say Evie and I because she was in the car with me, let not the reader mistake my words for suggesting that she would have stopped willingly had she been behind the wheel.

I stopped at a garage sale today. What a lovely drive it was through the winding roads, the landscape decorated with homes that might have rivaled Super Target for square footage. The peaceful drive was narrated by the girl in the backseat who did NOT want to shop.

This garage sale was actually a driveway sale. I stopped the car at the end of the driveway and told her it was time to get out of the car. She fussed so I offered her a deal.

"You can stay in the car,"I suggested. This idea was met with hesitation at first until I offered her the alternative: shop with me. "I will stay in the car," she agreed.

I think they must have been redecorating their mansion. The items were arranged like settings from a home store, except with large pictures propped up against couches and tables due to the lack of walls. No expired toothpaste or used underwear here. I admired a few things and passed a kindly greeting to the man tending the sale before turning back to the car.

There was the car. There was Evie. They were not together. They were not on the same side of the street.

There, across the road and in a field of dandelions was a girl in a heart jacket, bent over, picking handfuls of bright yellow flowers. "EVIE!" She turned at the sound of my voice then came back to meet me at the edge of the street.

She handed me the bouquet with a smile,"I picked these for you, mom."

I was not charmed.

"Real motherhood is different. You find yourself alternating between feeling like your friends talked you into some sort of pyramid scheme so you could share in their misery and thinking this is the most fulfilling thing you've ever done in your life." -Melanie Shankle

countdown

It hardly seems like a day of marked significance. The end of an entire year counts down with the tick of my kitchen clock while I sit at the living room window enrobed in a fleecy jacket. It is a cold afternoon, though the pale sunlight highlights the beauty of the season. I am glad to see its face today.

Andy is working. He was up and out early and in his absence a little girl with tousled hair and a pink unicorn crawled up in bed beside me to finish her sleeping. "I saw the kitchen light on so I knew dad was up," she mumbled as she snuggled under the covers. I relish these sweet moments, yet I was awake and could hardly let the morning hours waste away. They are my favorite.

Evie chose this morning to dream long and took a great deal of coaxing to be awakened. I snapped a picture of her sweet sleep before I leaned over to whisper in her ear. She did not stir, this for the girl who normally wakens at the drop of a sock. There is something about  a morning with a scheduled appointment that invites children to sleep more deeply. We celebrate sleep around here.

It feels much like a normal day. Much like the 364 that preceded this one. Yet, in the normalcy of the days there was much that marks this year as a quite significant. God did great and mighty and miraculous things right before our very eyes. We made changes. We saw changes. Life was good. Life was hard.

We made it.

In some sense, the triumph comes not only in the highlights of joy but also for the victory of making it through the darkness. Life is a celebration. Even if only to raise your hand to acknowledge that you haven't been swallowed up...celebrate that.

God is blessed by our joy.

The tick of the clock and the fading of the sun behind the bare armed trees remind me of things yet undone.There is dinner to be made and my little artist begs to paint in swirls of vibrant hues across the kitchen table. I must bid my haven of words au revoir.

There are memories to be made before the year is over.

"I-love-you-so-much-I-can't-stand-it" hair

She is a little fairy of joy. Her feet dance to the tune of the songs on the radio and the songs in her heart. Her joy is contagious and sometimes a little bit dangerous.

She is the wild sort.

Overwhelmed by joy or a surge of 4 year old energy, she nearly bursts with excitement at times. To those who are in her path, beware. You are in a danger zone.

Often it's a head severing neck hug. A giant leap onto a poor, unsuspecting seated or standing individual. A dancing leg hug that knocks a person to the ground.

It's dangerous.

One day last week we were sitting on the floor downstairs in the middle of a pile of matchbox cars, dollies and plastic animals. My little playmate and I acted out the stories of flying horses and girls on sunny vacations. There was drama, there was excitement, there was a lot of make believe.

I was unprepared.

Little figures went flying as my bright eyed companion exploded from her seat with a shout, "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I CAN'T STAND IT!" Little arms circled my head and neck. I may or may not have screamed, feeling as much loved as I felt scared. Scared for my life and yes, a bit scared for the state of my hair.

She may be small but she is a wiry one. I closed my eyes to protect them.  Her grip on my head was strong and she jumped while declaring her sentiment with joyous abandon, her lung capacity fully engaged.

We fell over, crashing into a pile of plastic hooves and car bumpers. My attacker let go and we laughed. I was thrilled to have survived and she was thrilled with the state of my new coiffure.

It was exactly then that the kitchen door opened, and my weary man returned from a long day at work. He looked down the stairs and saw us. He inquired about the state of my much teased locks.

"I-Love-You-So-Much-I-Can't-Stand-It," I offered.

He understood. He knows a joy-splosion when he sees one.



In case you were wondering, we do not condone these violent expressions of affection. In fact, we are trying to teach her a gentler way to express herself.

a tale of a party

Spend a little time around my dancing fairy and you will hear a story. She loves to weave tales of parties and places and people. Some things are true and others originate from a land of make believe but they are her stories.

She has lots of stories to tell and some are repeated until they become a new reality, her reality and then mine (to a point, of course).

Convinced that birthdays are days randomly chosen to celebrate oneself, she regularly tells people that tomorrow is her birthday. Tomorrow. So people fawn over her and offer their well wishes and she comes away with the grand idea that she has created her birthday.

This does not work with me. I do not whip up a cake or hang the balloons. Tomorrow is not her birthday...but it is Mr. Unicorn's.

Poor Mr. Unicorn has aged considerably in the past month. It all started about the time when she finally realized that her make-a-birthday story did not create parties in our home for her. But what about her stuffed friend, Mr. Unicorn? How could he or I protest?

Nearly every day she tells me that we should gear up to celebrate Mr. Unicorn's birthday...tomorrow. And nearly every day I tell him happy birthday and let her decorate away. And she celebrates. And every night I clean up the party and the next day it reappears, though it does not always look the same. Other animal friends sometimes gather around to wish their stuffed companion a happy day. Scraps of paper and streamers are attached to the walls with masking tape. It is bright, it is cheery, it is messy, it is fun.

This past weekend she took it up a notch, and made invitations for a celebration. Every one she met received a small scrap of paper covered with stickers. "An invitation," she told them. We wondered if the handful of invited guests would appear at our door to celebrate the dear, pink fella and decided that we could ignore it no longer.

"Let's do it, let's put a little party together for him," Andy decided. So we set the date and told the girl our plans. She was thrilled.

Presents were wrapped, papers were decorated and hung on the basement walls, her best tea set was laid out. Her stories about Mr. Unicorn's upcoming birthday party were told to every listening ear. She was so excited that one might have wondered if it were her own special day.

Today was the day. She finished the decorating while I baked our sweet treats. We picked up Joyce and brought her home with us. Nothing could be more perfect and then..a call for a showing this evening. We packed away our party magic with promises for the celebration to continue just a little bit later.

While Mr. Hitchcock and a brown haired fella toured our home (they arrived 15 minutes early!) we took our supper in a local park, sandwiches eaten on a park bench. Evie laughed and climbed as we watched the sun dip behind the trees. New friends came and joined the fun for a bit before we loaded up and headed home, party on our minds ( with the exception of one of our party guests for which the party treats were the biggest draw).

A game of memory, a rousing rendition of  "Happy birthday", gift opening and a cupcake treat. The party, the night was a success. And especially triumphant was a smallish girl who got her party after all for, as she was quick to often remind us, Mr. Unicorn is actually pretend so he can't really play a game or open presents or eat his cupcake (or even blow out the candle!). How good it was that he had such a kind friend to assist him...