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sound bites.
I overheard London and Mosely talking this week. They didn’t know I was listening. “We’ll be best friends forever – right?” “Right.” “You can call us BFF’s.” “What?” “B.F.F. The B is for Best. The F is for Friends. The F is for Forever.” “Oh, right, best friends.” “I almost said Best Friends Virginia!” (Crazy amounts of giggles.) “Virginia starts with a V.” “So does vomit. Vomit starts with a V too.” (Dangerous amounts of giggles and then falling over noises.) Man, I love those girls.
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homesick
I dropped Riley off for a going away party for a friend one night recently. I had no idea what I was about to drive through on my way home. The driveway was long. Gravel. Winding around a few trees and some lovely fields. Passing a garden. Up a ridge. Mountains in the background. The recent rain had left everything that deep shade of green you cannot get any other time. Clouds were hanging low. It looked like a scene straight out of one of the old Civil War movies my dad would make us watch on lazy Sunday afternoons. (The only day TV was allowed during daylight hours at…
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A walk in the park.
When you’re two and your name is Wilde Fox a walk in the park is never a walk in the park. First, there’s the desire for control. For complete and utter control. The directing and the wishing and the veryvery underdeveloped verbal communication skills. Next comes the demanding and the pulling and the desperate breakdown that gets him almost less than nowhere. Then, ultimately, a measure of submission is reached. A settling of sorts. A coming to terms with reality.
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a prayer. sort of.
“I think I just love God more than anyone else in the world.” That’s what Cece said my seven-year-old daughter told her one night in their cabins at camp this week. And after the campfire, Cece said London also shared some more thoughts as they discussed the week of camp and the teachings they had heard. “You know, if I was God, I wouldn’t want to save a sinner like me,” London told her. And part of me feels my heart swell to near-implosion at the tender image of my little one thinking such deep and pure God thoughts. And part of me reels in terror at the thought of…
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that figures.
I was lighting a candle on the mantle. Beside the candle I noticed an unauthorized item. A plastic bag filled with various shaped macaroni noodles. I quickly played back the day’s events and conversations for an explantion. Oh yes, I remembered. I discovered Mosely’s plastic bag of noodle stash earlier the day and said, “Put these somewhere else please. Somewhere safe where you will remember them and I will not throw them away.” And so she did. So she did.
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eight summers.
How have we come so far so soon? Eight years. Buddies before birth. Raven. London. Last year these girls were walking the paths of camp. This summer they made their debut as Official Campers. Campers who slept at camp in bunk beds. With a Camp Leader all of their own. (The kind and lovely Cece.) This week they ate camp meals every day. They played Slaps in their bunk beds. The went down the slide so many times and so fast. They called once a night. They took notes and short rests and slushee breaks and long walks. How in the world can this be possible? How can eight summers…
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where we stand. currently.
And this is what we’ve decided. (And I say “we” because this is not a decision I desire to make alone and I am gratfeulgratefulgrateful that my husband and I are able to discuss this together and to make a decision for our family from a united stand point. More miracle and grace than we deserve.) You don’t have to agree with me. And I hope I can express this plainly. The truth is . . . I love writing this blog. I love the literal process of reflecting on my day each evening and tip-tap-typing my way through all that did and did not happen. I love having moments…
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That word.
Remember our word? Have you thought about yours in a while? I think about mine sometimes in the ebb and in the flow. Free. And I have tried to kick fear’s rear so many times in my past. I’ve written about it. I’ve cried about it. I’ve tried. I’ve succeeded. I’ve failed. I’ve been round and round with it. And I am struggling again. Fear. That dirty dirty word. I have been reading through a Beth Moore book entitled So Long Insecurity for about six months now. And she says she believes all insecurity is based in fear. When you meet insecurity in yourself just ask, “What am I afraid…
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just a figure of speech
My grandmother always told my mother, “Pretty is as pretty does.” And my mother always told me, “Pretty is as pretty does.” And now I am telling my kids, “Pretty is as pretty does.” Which we all know is just another way to say, what you do is more important than how you look. Who you are matters more than what you wear. It’s the inside that counts. It doesn’t matter what the outside looks like if the inside is rotten. You know, pretty is as pretty does. How do you say that to your kids?
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I don’t know.
I don’t actually feel like writing this post. Do you ever have topics like that? Ideas you know you need to discuss, but would prefer to avoid? Problems you know exist, but it would be so much simpler to bury your head in the sand and hope that while you’re down there, the problem would disappear? That’s how I feel right now. Although I’ve been writing on this little blog for a long time now, I am still not particularly blog savvy. Especially in the area of web traffic and search engines and self-promotion. I don’t really stress a lot about that or pay a lot of attention to those…
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never satisfied
There is no end to my selfishness. I am sitting in a Starbucks right now. (Which should be miracle enough.) I just drank a Strawberries and Cream thing-a-ma-gig and ate a vanilla bean scone. (Which I did not share with anyone as I am here all alone.) I am typing on an iPad. Which was so graciously given to us by dear, kind and generous friends. (More miracles.) And my time here is almost up because I need to go pick up my children from Art Camp. And all I can really think is, “I want more. More time. More quiet. More vanilla bean scone.” Why? Why is it so…
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nothing
I love nights when “nothing” is going on. And by nothing I mean, nothing for which I have to leave my house or change my attire or look in the mirror. Nothing. So that I can listen to music as I putter around the house. I have time to erase the chalkboards and write up something new. To hop over to the computer to type down an idea. You know – nothing. I need my life to be more filled with nights of nothing.
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the sounds of summer.
Summer’s here. And its name is Trouble. Well, sort of. Camp has started. And I feel . . . insane. exhausted. sleepy. unable to properly punctuate my words. I think there is a continual buzzing in my ears of something. Oh wait – that’s the steady sound of my youngest son’s constant displeasure at all things. Like the air that surrounds him. And like every food item I place upon his usually-circular food holder. MmmmHmmmm. That’s the kind of life I am living right now. The kind of life where when I acquired a half hour of quiet time at our home, I retreated to our closet. And spent thirty…
