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pockets of beauty & grace
“I hope you are finding pockets of beauty and grace.” That’s what the text message from a friend said this week. There are days and moments that weigh heavy on my heart. News that breaks and bends. Realities that burden and ache. And. There of moments of shared laughter and genuine joy. Hope that soars and restores. Pockets of beauty and grace. Yesterday my oldest son and I had a date. (We are still working our way through their Christmas gifts – a one on one date with Mom to some fun event.) He was DJ in the car so it was all Okee Dokee Brothers and The Hunts for…
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when the hard work is in vain
He enters the room like a whirling dervish and he’s grinning my favorite grin. He has something in his hands and he absolutely cannot wait for me to see what it is. My boy is holding a creation of his own design. A perfectly rounded Lego bridge born of imagination and trail and error. With genuine and joyful pride, Bergen’s hand is outstretched toward me and he sighs/breathes/says, “Look”. And I look. I open my mouth to offer my sincere awe and praise, I barely get the words to the very tip of my tongue, when his whirling is irrepressible. He spins. The treasure is accidentally launched from his grasp.…
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this stuff really happens at our house.
Ryder is still under house arrest after his surgery. House arrest for this giant puppy involves leash walking exclusively for every bathroom break. We’ve got a decent little system of sharing the load between the kids and I and the friendly fur face is progressing nicely and honestly such a happy dog despite his kennel and his steel plate. However. Because this is real life and not a comic strip (But that would be funny – right? Think Calvin & Hobbes meets Family Circus meets one of those serious ones that no one ever actually reads.) sometimes the trips outside can get a little rowdy. Ryder is still a puppy…
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post 9,429
A large collection of beautiful seashells were being explored by the fellas as we helped Hilary pack up a few things from her home. For some reason the beautiful shells created quite a hubbub with the boys and a lot of silly banter. And the jokes were a-plenty. (And, actually, pretty funny. Which means either I have a humorous son or my standards on comedy have lowered with the increase of children in my home.) Bergen Hawkeye came up to me and said, “Mom – this is my shell phone.” And then ….. “And guess what server I have Mom?” my blue-eyed charmer grinned. “It’s A, T & Sea.”
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too much knowledge.
Maybe this kid knows too much. At bedtime – of course at bedtime, it’s always at bedtime – Bergen Hawkeye comes shooting down the stairs. (You can never say that boy walks down the stairs. He just doesn’t.) He sails into the living room and exhales. “Mom!” he has that look in his eyes. “There’s a cockroach in the girls’ room!” Ugh – gross. A cockroach! What in the world. “Son,” I give him a certain look in my own eyes. “Go kill it. Just kill it please.” “Mom,” he grins. “That might be hard. It takes six pounds of pressure exerted on a cockroach to kill him.”
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Hawkeye Thoughts
His feet are filthy. As in, gross dirty. Those weird little lines of crud that only a pair of Keens can outline so distinctly. Those ragged little beasts are currently snuggled up against mine as I lie in bed tip tap typing away. I should move my feet before my size eights are contaminated by his size fives, but I don’t actually care all that much. His eyelashes are longer than mine on even a good blinc mascara morning. This boy is sensitive and funny and quick witted and changing even as I write this post. Bergen still loves affection. He’s a cuddler. A hand holder. A back scratcher. He…
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the only choice
Cuddling beside my boy, his shaggy hair between my fingers. It’s late and he wants to talk. I was going to offer a quick tuck in and then do some writing, some reading, some anything else in the magical quiet hours after children fall asleep. But he pressed his back against me, shoved his ever-growing, warm, newly size 6 feet against my cold feet and so I stayed. Held him closer. We whispered into the dark night about fishing lures and Harry Potter and times when he’s been afraid. “When I can’t find a family member, I get scared,” he confided. We talked about the time he was at the…
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The Interview: Bergen Hawkeye
So. This interview. Let’s get started. Let’s talk about birds first. Do you still enjoy watching them? Yes! What sorts of birds have you observed lately? Woodpeckers. Robins. Some terns. A few hummingbirds. Terns are seabirds. What kind of bird have you never seen but would love to? Pileated woodpecker. Golden eagle. White seahwak. Peregrine falcon. Golden crested woodpecker. Green woodpecker. I thought we saw a golden eagle this summer? No. We didn’t. What did we see? A bald eagle. Oh. Okay. Besides birds, what holds your interest lately? Fish! Obviously. What have you caught so far? Bass. Perch. Crappie. Bluegill. What do you want to catch? Pike. Perch. Carp.…
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I know, son.
Whilst in a store with my nine year old son …. “Bergen, can you please settle down? Maybe stop leaping down the aisle?” His blonde head pauses briefly in its movement. “Okay, Mom. I can try. But it isn’t in my nature.”
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gifts. all the big and the little ones.
Nine. He’s been our boy for nine of the speediest years I’ve ever lived. There are days when this boy cannot keep his bum in a seat for a single half hour math lesson. Days when he bumps, jumps and hops his way through every room of our house from rise to fall of the sun. Sometimes he doesn’t use the kind words to his sisters that I would prefer. But then there’s other times. Oh my word. The other times. The other times are just so overwhelming. The times that make my heart physically hurt, so profoundly that I fear it may burst. We were at our weekly Trader Joe’s…
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say what you think, son.
Dinner table. He’s down to the last few bites of salad left in his bowl. Bergen turns to me. “Momma, do I have to eat the last two leaves in my bowl?” he asks, pointing to the arugula. “No,” I tell him. “You’ve eaten all the rest. You can be finished.” He smiles. “Good. To me this tastes like melted PVC pipes.”
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Hawkeye’s Ode.
Hawkeye. Every time you laugh, I know you mean it. Your eyes are searching and your hand resting on my shoulder is a blessing to my core. Being your momma is a treasure and an honor and as often as you jump and hop and flit and wander off is as often as I think about how blessed and full you have made my life. Like sunshine, you are to me. Like warm tea on a cool evening. Like a good gift. Like a rainy morning when you get to sleep late and lounge all day. Like light. Like flowers on a mountainside. You are all joy.
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real life conversations overheard.
Mosely and Bergen were chatting on the front porch. “Hey Bergen,” she says. “We have matching pants – both jeans.” “Yeah,” Bergen acknowledges. “Well, kind of, I guess,” Mosely changes her tone. “Your jeans are not really blue. They’re more like green and brown with dirt all over them.” To which Bergen Hawkeye responds, with a shrug of his eight-year-old boy shoulders, “I lead a rugged life.”
