We just finished a Doctor Who mini-marathon, all five of us cuddled into our little office/ playroom. The kids ask so many questions, they miss half the answers, but we enjoy ourselves anyway. I am fiercely protective of our Saturdays, and though I always seem to apologize - "Sorry, we're not doing anything... sorry they're watching so much telly... sorry i've spread out ten different piles of ten differently laundry loads..." - no one seems to mind and we never seem to change it.

It's only been a couple of weeks, but I intentionally chose a wee blogging break. I've started and left unfinished a half dozen posts. I've sat and stared at empty notebooks. I'm woefully behind on any and all correspondence. I powered through a migraine to seek inspiration from the Irish decorative arts museum. All this despite the fact I'm three weeks into a creative writing course; sadly, I've not got much to show for it, yet.

Oh, and I'm making buttons like a boss, offering my sad design skills up to the Nester's 31 days crowd in exchange for a bit of advertising (comment below if you want in on the action!). It's a very welcome break from fretting over writing.

But I am still here... sifting through the normal faith, motherhood and culture stuff, planning my 31 days series and enjoying the laziness that letting myself off the hook affords me. I hope you'll meet me back here on October 1st.

But before then, I've got this latte to finish (handmade with love by the man of the house), the 11th load of laundry to start, and a child to find shoes for. The autumn sun is shining and we've got all of Saturday to spare.

***

Proof I'm still alive, the boots made their seasonal debut yesterday...

Curious about 31 Days? Sift through my last two Octobers: 2011 and 2012. Some real gems in there, trust me. 

The marriage bed

When Matt first brought me home to the brownstone apartment in Oak Park, we laid down in the marriage bed belonging to his grandparents. It was thick and dark, heavy old wood, storing memories like secrets we would never know. I guess you would call it mid-century, all clean lines and right angles and the start of our prairie life together.

Unfortunately, we broke it less than a year in, the victim of a tickle fight. I swear.

Fate and Jesus would have it that my job at the bookshop provided a hefty Christmas bonus. I'd never had one before - a full time job or a Christmas bonus - and suddenly my rash refusal to put off returning to school seemed fortuitous. We apologized to the parents for accidentally destroying their birthright, took that $500 bonus and bought a mattress set and faux-wrought-iron Ikea bed. Happy Y2K.

That bed moved from Chicagoland to Kansas City with us. It's gone from apartment to house to apartment again, up flights and flights of stairs, been crated and shipped overseas, held our babies as I nursed them to sleep. It's been jumped on, fought on, loved on, peed on, stored for several years and put back together again, always worse for the wear. Still beautiful, still ours, but old and rackety as 14 years, ten moves and three children will do to you.



Today the marriage bed is on its last leg. This bed... this bed is so done. Just sitting on it feels like you're breaking its back. The sounds it makes when I roll over at night keep me awake, not to mention the wee lad sharing the other side of our wall. It literally sounds like it's dying, creaking and groaning loudly with every midnight breath. Between the noise and the no sleeping, it's time to go.

I'm not particularly torn up about it, as beds (even beautiful mid-century oak beds; even especially Ikea beds) don't last forever. The mattresses are wearing thin, too, and at this point in life and marriage, it's time to trade up. And while we know it's time - probably way past time if we were to be honest - I'm dreading it. It's not just the money (of which we have none) or the memories (of which we have so much), but it's the time and the effort and the discernment. It's the future we must take into account now, making the wisest, cheapest, best decision for our family. It's the stress of getting it wrong, spending too much, wincing over every knick or scrape or squeak. I'm all a ball of nerves just thinking about it, the anxiety rising with every move in the night.

And, you know, it's our marriage bed. At 35 I love it as much as I did at 21, in all its fake wrought iron and brushed metal finials glory. It makes every house a home, holds every secret.

But, you know, I kinda hate it, too. Secrets will only allow you so much sleep. Secrets, and lumbar support.

***

I have this habit of writing odes to inanimate objects; the marriage bed is just the latest. What do you love/hate in your own home?

Binging on living, for today

The house is a mess.

We came home from Germany to three adorably sleeping children and a beautifully orderly home, vacuumed and wiped down to perfection by my mom and sister. Then we promptly trashed it. We stayed up till 1am watching Say Yes to the Dress. We spent all day walking a seaside town and falling over in sand. I relinquished all sense of motherly duty and ran around Dublin with my sister, trying on veils and flipping through wedding books. We have spent these last two weeks living, wildly. Our kitchen counters and sticky floors are less than pleased.

But tomorrow my mother returns home, my sister already there. I'll leave city centre adventures behind and spend the day in the laundry room. We'll run from shop to shop to shop finding uniforms and shoes and stocking up on little boy underwear. I'll have to jump-start the menu planning and act like I care about groceries and budgets and three square meals.

And I know I'll be so homesick for family - this is the flipside of visitors, for they always leave and you will be reminded anew of the sacrifice - that just rolling out of bed will take courage and kleenex.

So for one last day, we won't clean. We'll play fast and loose with the rules. We'll send Granny off with a bang, and maybe some dessert.

Tomorrow the recovery will start, the school prep will begin, maybe the bathroom light will get fixed.

But not today.



Go ahead, let's encourage eachother: what one thing will you put off till tomorrow?

Give me your blah

I don't feel like I'm standing on holy ground. It feels more like I'm standing on three day old remnants of shredded wheat. 

I don't feel like I'm giving my kids the greatest gift of love and therefore receiving their love and overflowing with God-love. It feels more like I'm just barely keeping them alive till bedtime, and before then the best gift I'm giving them is unending rounds of crackers (or m&ms or fill-in-the-blank).

I don't feel like motherhood is holy, like it's my highest calling, my greatest joy. It feels more like really, really hard work. Hard work I'm not even that good at.

Mommy bloggers, you are amazing. I love you and I am one of you. But really, if there is one more post or article or book about the wonderful redemptiveness of diaper-changes and burnt dinners and holy ground walking on a dirty kitchen floor and the beautiful gift of receiving God's Beautiful Gifts, I'm gonna go nuts. It's not that you're wrong or misguided... I think you're probably right, and I think there are some days where I do need to hear it.

But most days? Most days it's just blah.

Most days it's just coffee and errands and laundry. Most days it's just videos and temper tantrums and impaling my foot with a tiny lego man's lego sword. Most days it's just make it to the next days. Most days the only moment of peace is in the bathroom... and even then it lasts less than a moment because within 30 seconds someone is looking for me having spilt his milk all over the brand new computer keyboard. Most days I can't even think to whisper gratitude. Most days I don't think.

Do I love my children? Yes. Is this the job, the people, the life God has set before me? Yes.

Am I complaining? Yes.

Because I think we need to know - the new moms and the old moms and the Princess Kates and the Kim K's - that it's not going to feel holy, amazing, fulfilling most of the time, probably not even a fraction of the time. I think we need to know it's ok to feel blah. It's ok to not feel like this is the greatest thing on earth, the most divine, the most sacrificially-like-Jesus we will ever be. We need to know it's ok to not like it. It's ok to look forward to the days they're all in school, the days they go to bed early, the oh-so-rare days we get to go away by ourselves and be refreshed and renewed by something other than soapy water.

It's OK. It's just OK.

We still love our kids. We still want them to grow up to be compassionate, loving, amazing, joyful people. We're still grateful for the gift of them. We want them to grow up and be the best moms and dads they can be.

And then, there will still be those moments of pure joy when we will bask in the wonder that is a child, a Gift From Above, who loves and forgives and trusts without even thinking about it... just because we're Mom.

But on the blah days, the blah months and the blah years, when we are just hanging by a thread... don't tell me how holy and blessing-filled and Christ-like I'm being. That just makes me feel worse, like my tiny piece of thread is fraying, leaving me and my children dangling in mid-air.

Tell me you and God and my kids will love me anyway. Tell me we'll all survive. Tell me about your blah days, minus the silver lining or spiritual lesson. Just give me your blah. Then, maybe, I'll feel a holy space to tell you about mine. And one day (probably not today), God will redeem it all.

***

Ok, so it's probably just me, but do you ever just feel blah? About parenting or work or marriage or whatever? 

Camogie Camp, a restropective

DAY 1
I watch for her, sweaty children in masks making their way from the clubhouse. Her pink backpack precedes her and I wait, anxious: Did she make it ok? Sid she stay dry? Did she love it? As she turns, her frown confirms my worst fears. Slowly, she makes her way towards me, her arm juts out, middle finger upturned in my face. Oh no! I think, Already? She's turned on us already? It takes a moment for the flesh-coloured bandaid to register. "I got hit," she says. That's a relief!

DAY 2
Fumble. She goes missing for a few minutes in the locker room whilst I wait outside, camera in hand, to take a picture of her with helmet and hurl and smile on her face. I find her crying on the bench inside, knee banged up, all determination and joy gone. We cuddle for awhile, get her helmet fitted, take a couple of very sad photos, then the smile returns. This picture is for Papa, I say.

DAY 3
The boys and I arrive early to catch a glimpse of our little camogie darling. It is hot as all get-out and it's hard to find her in a sea of small people with caged helmets and green uniforms. Finally we spot her and watch her stand there, walk aimlessly for a bit, and then break out in a dance when her team scores. "Did you see me make a point?!" she asks. "I saw your team get a point, " I say, afraid I'd just burst her bubble. "Oh yeah, that's what I mean!" Joy undeterred. She is pink as a grapefruit.

DAY 4
"I scored 100... no... 1000!" ...Questionable.

DAY 5
We are now both adept enough to get her helmet securely on, and we take action shots for the family back home. I promise to arrive early to catch a few minutes of her last match. But... I get that sinking feeling all parents get when they drive into a parking lot only to see it completely full, knowing that you must've missed something. Sure enough, it's the award ceremony. I spot her in the middle of the huddle, all shiny and exhausted. And when she finds me, I get two big thumbs up. She is wearing green, white and orange. Her new colours, and one shiny medal.

***

So this is what we did this week... plus drama workshop, plus grocery runs, plus temper tantrums in car parks, plus sun sun sun. What did your week look like?

A (discombobulated) Day in the Life

I had this grand idea to go out for the day "on assignment" (as in, I'd been given some assigned work to do and thought I'd double dip and make this an actual blog assignment), grab images of my day along the way, and share it with you. And it was going pretty well... until a school-pick-up crisis. Then it all went to pot. But no matter. I'm gonna share it with you anyway.

Soundtrack: Illinoise (Sufjan Stevens)
Reading: Jesus Calling (Sarah Young) & Bird by Bird (Anne Lamott)



The bus is our primary mode of transportation when going into City Centre. When we lived here before, we took the train into town, riding fast along the sea. But now we're bus people, on the upper deck for the better view.





Every street sign and most building signs are bilingual. Irish is still the "first language" of Ireland, but English is the primary language for most of the country. I am terrible at pronouncing Irish words, but you do find yourself getting used to seeing them everywhere and using them occasionally.





Most sidewalks/footpaths have a pedestrian side and a cycling side. This is great for me as I'm incapable of walking straight, or figuring out which side of the road or path I'm supposed to walk on.



Fact: I do my best work by the sea. With coffee.



Ok, now here is where my day lost the plot. Imagine it's filled with speed-walking, frantic phone calls to a friend who serves as our school emergency contact, waiting for buses, and an usually quiet afternoon while we all cooled off. Don't worry. No children were permanently scarred in the making of this day.



At bedtime, Jack had to do some emergency surgery on E's lego ice dragon.



How I end my day, every day, under those bright curtains with a snoring Asher by my side.



And there you go. About 2/3 of my day. I skipped all meals as I have a general "no pictures of food" policy (with one french exception) and our kitchen is usually overrun by three small people and a LOT of crumbs under the table. Besides, I usually default to coffee anyway (see above).

If you blog, do you have a day in the life post? Link below, or tell me: what do your days usually consist of?

wordless wednesday {Dublin Edition}

Nose-picking rhythms

Asher picks his nose before falling asleep. Every night, without fail, it is the last thing he does before closing his eyes. I know this because I am always beside him, sharing his twin bed, listening to his music, trying to coax him to sleep. On nights like tonight it takes just minutes. He plays with a couple of action figures, rolls to his side, picks his nose and out like a light.

Other nights are long and loud and full of tears, his and mine.

He's not yet fallen asleep on his own on this side of the ocean. Whether it's big brother or Matt or myself, he is in need of one of us in the dark hours. Last night was one of the long ones. I was trying to rock an angry three-year-old to sleep, except without a rocker, which was left behind in America. I've not wanted for many things we didn't take with us (the couch and the dining room table and the pallet headboard have all found better homes), but last night... all I could think in that moment was how much I missed the soft underlying rhythm of that rocking chair. And we both cried.

We are happy here, enjoying life here, having several victories in hand for every one overly-hard day. But we've got no rhythm, no backbeat. Asher cries in the night - every night - and we all switch beds. We're staying up too late and getting up too late. Eczema still lingers on my hands and on Ella's arms and legs. And I can't even begin to think about meal planning or cooking or grocery shopping. We're still eating in pasta-marinara-survival-mode. We still feel off.

When will we feel normal again? When will we sleep again? When will we eat well-balanced meals and go to bed at a decent hour and maybe sleep through the night again? When we will find a rhythm again?

As I bask in the success of a painless bedtime routine tonight (so far... the night is still young), I wonder if it isn't so much about us finding a rhythm, as it is letting the rhythm find us. I read an article in a magazine this week where a woman describes her lack of musical beat, her reticence to dance. Her husband tells her, "count the steps... let me lead you."

Count the steps... let me lead you.

What we're doing right now, we're counting the steps. We're learning the dance. We're getting the timing right and letting good days wash over us like rain after a long, long draught. And soon we look up and remember the way, feel the rhythm.

Our life here before, it's not like memory foam. We can't just lay into the dent our bodies once made. It's a whole new dance, but the backbeat, the reason, the calling and the God... still the same. And if the rhythm now is laying in bed every night next to a nose-picking toddler, He'll find me there... I hope.

***

Do you practice rhythms in your life? What are they? 

Reaganing

I hear bumps and shouts from upstairs, but it's all good. We actually have an upstairs now! I'm letting the children run ragged up there, playing and running, legos scattered everywhere, tickling fights being had. The eldest gets annoyed with the youngest, but they hash it out without tears and I sit down here listening to my Easter playlist and Reaganing.

It's a 30 Rock thing, and my husband resonated with it immediately. When Jack Donaghey is on a roll, gettin' stuff done, he calls it Reaganing. I don't particularly remember Reagan, or his Reaganing, but there really is a fantastic feeling that comes with accomplishing a laundry list of things.

This week has been another week of sorting through the startings of a brand new life. Trash bins and utilities and proof of insurance. Even when you make the calls and pay the bills, you still need proof of such things and you occasionally still have to run down the trash tuck with proof of payment so they'll take away your rubbish. The children were off school Thursday and Friday, so we took our wee three valentines to Dublin for the day. Not so much for fun, but for work. They needed some important government numbers and we hoped to make a day of it.

Now a disclaimer: many times I leave our new front stoop thinking I'll get something done and dusted in a half hour and can just pop in to a coffee shop or other such establishment to celebrate my success. This is often not the case, resulting in two or three such trips before one can technically call oneself done and dusted. Taking the wee three to Dublin on a weekday to wait in line at a government office seemed like one such event. So we played it loose and cool. We were rollin' with it, willing to wait for awhile, praying for patience, reminding ourselves of the adventure.

But lo and behold, manna from heaven! The queue was short, our number was quickly called, and as we gave the woman behind the glass our passports, she gave us a gift. Our children already had these Very Important Numbers! She wrote them down on a sticky note and sent us on our way, in 15 minutes or less.

Huzzah! Victory! This has been our most painless adventure, yet (and in stark contrast to the hard flat tire tuesday lesson), so we celebrated with lunch at a new favourite spot, a walk in the city, and the crowning glory of a playground.

So here's my lesson for the day/week/month: I write a lot about the regrets, the frustrations, the losses and the waiting. I don't often write about the victories, the proud moments, the wonder and the fun. They often go hand-in-hand. But I'm trying to celebrate more than mourn, rejoice more than complain, pursue more than languish, laugh more than cry.

And on the days we laugh, when the sun shines in Dublin for the first time in weeks, I want to remember it. On Valentine's Day 2013, we were Reaganing. Getting stuff done. And we celebrated.

Oh, and we got some groovy mid-century chairs at a thrift store, too. Bonus.

Tell me your latest victory...

How to be called (on your birthday)

So, we call you Jack, now.

I mean, we've always called you Jack. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles and sister call you Jack, and it has bounced between our tongues in our home from the moment we carried you into that first apartment. But to others, to the outsiders, to those whom we love but are still somewhat separate from our tight crew, you have always been Jackson. Until now.

You love the story we tell, of how we chose your name. We wanted something strong; fun but formal; something that wouldn't hem you in, confine or define you. Your dad loved CS Lewis before I did, so that when he told me he'd like to call you Jack after him, I hadn't a clue. He gave me Surprised by Joy to read, in which Lewis offers up the proof: when he was four he named himself Jacksie after the dead dog. He would answer to nothing else, till after awhile he was somehow convinced to go by Jack, and there you have it.

I thought Jack was fine, though short. Being a Karen, I'd always wanted a classic name for formality, but a nickname for familiarity, so we compromised. You became a Jackson.

Just two weeks ago, on your first day of your new school in a new country, the principal was trying to squeeze you into a class. He checked with the teachers and the classes, and all the while you sat there with a big smile on your face, unafraid to be new. We're living an adventure, that's what we tell you. And, thank God, you're starting to believe it.

He came back to the office, successful in finding your place, barely looked up from your enrollment sheet and said, "So your name's Jackson, is that right?"

"Yep," you replied, smile still in place.

"Do you mind if we call you Jack? How 'bout we just call you Jack."

Not a question, but a statement. Here you are called Jack. You sign your name Jack. On the papers and the backpack and the tracksuit your name reads Jack. You have become new again. Your identity is coming into view.

I worried that you'd miss Jackson. Apart from family, you've always ever been Jackson to everyone else. But you said no. You said you liked being Jack here. You said it reminded you of family, that you were going back to your roots. "After all, you named me after CS Lewis, and he was a Jack. So I'm a Jack, too."

So, we call you Jack, now. On the eve of your 10th birthday, when I remember all those years ago practicing the full length of your name in cursive, then shortened, then in print, then typed in different fonts, I wondered what you'd end up being. I had it in my silly little mind that we were somehow creating you.

The truth is, we only chose the name, but you have chosen everything else. 

You chose how to trust, how to make do, how to look on the bright side, how to create, how to imagine, how to be kind, how to get along, how to organize your clothes in your dresser, how to wear your hair, how to sign your name, how to be brave and now... how to be called.

I was afraid I'd mess you up somehow, I was afraid to hold you for a long time, I was afraid to cut your hair, and then I was afraid at each passing birthday. "Oh time," I thought, "you move too fast! Soon he will be gone!"

But I'm beginning to take my cue from you. When I pray courage for you, when you choose courage, I pray it and choose it for myself. You go forward with joy and excitement, you pass time with ease, and every day is an adventure in the story you are writing.

Like the author we named you after - Jack - you are chasing after Aslan.

And I am following close behind you.



A love letter to the eldest on his 10th birthday, who is choosing what - and how - to be called. What do you want to be called? 

Wordless Wednesday

Eventually I'll start writing again.

It doesn't snow in Ireland, and other lies I've told

At 2 am this morning, I had this brilliant idea and opening paragraph of a new post (the wee lad was awake and screaming due to some sort of tummy trouble). In the light of day and under the haze of little sleep, I don't have a clue as to what it was going to be about. But I'm pretty sure it would've been deep, awe-inspiring, witty and humble. You know, the usual.

We're ten days in now, only a handful of which we've managed to eat regular meals, and even fewer where we went to bed and woke up at proper intervals. And after months of telling our friends "It never snows in Ireland," we're on day two of occasional - blink and you miss it, so light you almost have to wish it to see it - snow. And as I put the period on that sentence, it picked right back up again, showing me how little I know about the weather, about Ireland, about God.

I stood in the woodchips of the playground, feeling those tiny white dippin' dots hit my face and crunch under my feet, the wind so fast and hard by the sea, and we all laughed. Only in Ireland would this be walking, playing, sightseeing weather. A month ago we would barely dare to brave the walk from our parked car in a suburban Target parking lot.

But things are different here. I could hide under the duvet in this holiday flat and wish away all the changes we face, the decisions we must make, the phone calls and emails we have to pursue to start again, again. In fact, maybe I did that for a day. It can be overwhelming, how long it takes to jump through the beaurocratic hoops of car insurance and visas and landlord references. But we've had a bit of practice with the waiting. And I've learned one can only hide for so long.

So I start the kettle and fill cereal bowls. We find scarfs and mittens and double up on layers. We face the stinging sea and we laugh... and sometimes, we cry. 

And we build a life again... again. We build a home.

Have you hid under the covers recently? 

Trust and obey

There's a song we sing when someone is baptized, memorized words in unison floating over the blue of the pool. I don't remember ever learning it, but always knowing it. I remember the comfort and fellowship it brings to see it released from the mouths of people you've known your whole life, consecrating the baptized, young and old, following Jesus.

I was thinking about it today, as so many questions and fears and doubts run races round my head and heart, three weeks before we leave my hometown - again. I don't know, Lord. I don't know how this will all work, but I trust. And obey.



When we walk with the Lord in the light of His Word,
What a glory He sheds on our way!
While we do His good will, He abides with us still,
And with all who will trust and obey.

Trust and obey, for there’s no other way
To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.

Not a shadow can rise, not a cloud in the skies,
But His smile quickly drives it away;
Not a doubt or a fear, not a sigh or a tear,
Can abide while we trust and obey.

Trust and obey, for there’s no other way
To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.

John H. Sammis, 1887

On falling off the wagon :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 29}

You know how they say you shouldn't fall in love/get married/give away your flower until you love yourself and/or find your wholeness in God? And then they say you shouldn't have kids until you've travelled the world, paid off all your debt and bought a house? And then, you know - as a parent - you've now got it all figured: the planning, the budgeting, the disciplining and the healthy eating?

Yeah, well, I've just fallen off the wagon.

Matt found me (and loved me) back when I was a mess - more of a mess than I am even now (if you can believe it). We grew up together, made idiot decisions together, fought and healed together, followed God together. We are a super, massive, grace-chasing work in progress. 

All this while having kids, then travelling the world, renting one house after another, full-time ministry plus several part-time jobs, learning to cook and then setting things on fire (meals/food/pots & pans), getting fat, getting skinny, planting a garden, moving away, becoming less healthy, then more healthy, then - hooray! - prepregnancy weight (only took nine years).

But these last couple of months have found me reverting to my old ways, going back to my old loves, indulging in some... gasp!... comfort food. Lattes, candy corn, late-night chips and queso, and more crying/worrying than walking/exercising. Just like that, five pounds have reappeared, attaching themselves to my waist and making my slim bootcut jeans very upset.

Now, I'm not a total failure. I'm still within a couple pounds of my Weight Watchers goal weight (a lifetime member now, thankyouverymuch). But I feel it in my trousers and in my energy, see it in what I feed my children and how we spend our free time. And I'm down, and frusrated, and not really liking where I think this is going.

The thing is, it can be exhausting, making healthy choices. A lot of research goes into menu planning, a lot of time into grocery shopping, a lot of energy into cooking from scratch. And I'm not very good at it. Sometimes the kids don't eat it. I have a toddler asking me for mac & cheese daily (he wants the powdered, pricey boxed stuff; won't touch the homemade Pioneer Woman baked goodness that I slave over a literal hot stove for). I mean, what's a mom to do?

[it should be noted that said toddler is at this very moment dropping coins down the heating vent; i just wanted you to share in my pain for a bit]

Well, I know what I am to do. I've got to gird up my loins and go back to Weight Watchers. Weekly, not just monthly for my pat-on-the-back. I've got to start keeping track again, buying fresh fruit and veg again, using recipes again. I've got to make a date with a park a few times a week. I need to walk around this hilly neighbourhood, praying and singing and looking heavenward. And I've got to get my kids in on the act. I want them to see in me a woman of purpose and moderation and joy. 

And even though it's just five pounds, those five pounds are taking up some valuable joy space. And I've only got so much of that to spare.

Do you feel like there's one area of adulthood and/or parenthood you've finally sorted out? Or is there something that keeps rearing its ugly head?

Chocolate for breakfast :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 10}

Ok, so maybe he had a chocolate peanut butter cup for breakfast. And maybe we all slept in well past the point of no return. And maybe the children didn't brush their teeth before school. And maybe the wee lad threw himself down in a fit in front of the door, refusing to put on jacket (or socks, or shoes). And maybe I yelled. A lot.

Still we say I Love You as each one exits the car, off to a day of adventure at school, a day of burning bushes at work. 

And I carry him to the front door of the apartment because the ground is too cold for his bare feet.

And the man sends me a series of texts: Yes, he did mail his voter's registration. Is asher too small/big for a leash? Will I meet him for a lunch date?

Suddenly, life is back to normal... whatever normal is for us. We're so far from perfect or ideal or normal that sometimes I'm suffocated by the weight of what we've created.

And sometimes I turn my head to the sun, rejoicing in the broken beauty of it. 

Lazy summer into autumn

Oddly enough, my lazy summer days have made way for even lazier school days! It's just the wee lad and me most of the time, and we are walking in the park and window shopping and meeting for coffee and just hanging around being best pals. So here are some images from our current season of life, keepin' it real, keepin' it lazy.

 

first day of school

the offspring and me

and this happened... she's a kindergartener

work day (ok, a quick coffee break). look how fancy!

just the wee lad and me

splash park smiles

goodbye summer days

Today autumn is supposed to arrive, with afternoon rains and cooling temps. And we are welcoming a visitor from a place we used to call home. Big day. 

How's your Friday, your Autumn, shaping up?

The piano wall

It is finished.

18 months in the making (give or take), my husband has finished the piano wall; the crowning masterpiece of our baby grand deconstruction.

Why on earth would you deconstruct a baby grand piano, you ask? Well, because my mother was moving and it was old and fragile, unable make the move with her. Professional piano movers refused to move it, saying it would be better to take it apart and salvage the parts before they would risk it.

My mother grieved in her driveway, said goodbye to the antique mahogany piano that had brought her new life, and phoned us with a strange idea. We would dismantle it ourselves, and Matt would salvage it, redeem it, make it into something - several things, actually - beautiful again.

So we did.

With every bit of piano we unscrewed, lifted, separated and removed, our hearts broke a little bit. A man's hands built this. Maybe several men. It is thick with artistry, heavy with shape and form. We undid each shoulder, each ligament, each leg, until it literally lay in pieces in a wood shop downtown.

And then, very slowly, it came to life again.

Oh, and it is for sale. In case you need new life, too.