I wake up in a bed without children, for the first time in ages. It's so unfamiliar to me I can't even place where I am, which bed I woke up in, what country we live in. The sun is up, but that's meaningless. What feels like 10am could be 5am, as the littlest ones know full well. Today it is 8am and the house is still asleep.

Two years ago this time we awoke to a Carolina beach. The parents asked for liquid coffee creamer, but all I could find in the extremely busy and equally limited town grocer was the powder stuff. I was given a slight disapproving eye, but we all used it anyway. Powder our coffee in the morning, sit on the balcony, and watch the hazy sun rise over the Atlantic. It was beautiful, and tasty, and all we had was time. No phones, no appointments, no clocks. Just time.

It's a minor injustice that I can't find liquid creamer anywhere on our current stretch of island. Yes, it speaks to our coffee addiction that milk just doesn't cut it and making the homemade Pinterest creamer wears one out eventually. I told him to leave and not come back without the powder stuff. I just need something, I said.

I'm done with milk in my coffee, it offers no memories.

Two-heaping teaspoons and I remember North Carolina. The powder on the rim of the mug. The way we woke before the children, how they waddled in all blurry. The smell of the ocean and the silence of happily exhausted humans, sitting side by side. We barely talk, breathing in together. Communion.

I remember you this morning, my family. Asher as a baby. Ella in a nightgown. Jack reading his book on whales. Walking on sand with my dad. Drinks with my sisters. Cousins holding hands.

My mug is filled with memories. My morning free from time.

I remember you.

For the time

I leave in tears because I'm so grateful for the time.  

For the sisters who laugh at nothing, yet everything. At the boys who are so different but love with such loyalty. For the baby who learns words every hour of every day and tries out names on his tongue as he looks around the largest dining room table we've all ever seen. For the papa (my dad) who hugs, hugs, and hugs again as we leave, even though we currently live just on the other side of town from him.

{He knows it won't be like this again, and wants to hold onto it for just a second longer.}

For the nana who buys the food and sweeps the floors and keeps us all in check with a smile. For the husbands who cook the food and let us sit and talk and play. For the girl who is no stranger to fear and conquers it at every turn. For the brother who hugs his sisters with big bear arms. For the uncle who comes and joins in the craziness without minding it at all. And for his friend who's willing to endure it all and leaves us with a promise of more visits.

I'm so, so grateful for the time. And for the ocean. And for the dolphins. For creation and for family and for love.

It's been awhile, but I'm back with Gypsy Mama and her Five Minute Fridays, from a rusty old dive outside Charleston, West Virginia, on our way back home. If I can do it after 11 hours in the car, so can you!

At the beach

This morning I wake up early, not to soothe a crying baby or to fix breakfast for hungry children, but to sit by the ocean, with coffee in hand. I forget my Bible, don't have a notebook, my phone doesn't work, so I just sit. And squint. Because the sun reflecting off the water is too bright and too pure for my morning eyes.

(even now I hear the baby on the monitor, talking to himself in sing-song oohs and ahhs... I think he knows I'm writing and resting, so he gives me this time and sings to me instead)

The air is warm and the breeze is slight. People walk along the beach: couples and singles, grandparents and children. My dad is out there and I missed it again; he is an even earlier riser and I'm always just a step or two behind. He'll come back around, though, and I'll grab a kid or two and walk with him, up and down the beach with water and seashells tickling our toes.

We are on vacation - a term I rarely use and feels foreign to say. But yes, we are on vacation with my dad's family, even though the ocean feels more familiar than the parking lot we usually wake up to. I know Ireland is thousands of miles away still, but somehow I think if I can just get in the water and float on my back, the Atlantic will carry me straight home.

The break-out

I'm breaking out of this joint! 

Saturday noonish I'm boarding a plane for Chicago to meet up with my best girlfriend and enjoy a long weekend reading, sleeping in, and lovin' on her kiddos.

me and the sis in Belfast

To say I'm looking forward to this little break-out is an understatement. The last time I went away - sans husband & kids, whom I love dearly and equally and am unable to live without for any extended period of time - was nearly 6 years ago, with the sister, and across the ocean to Belfast. It was a fabulous time making new friends and exploring a new city, but I missed the boy and the man and haven't been away from all-of-the-above since.

But now there's three to contend with, and life in transition and on the move requires little breaks of rest and small amounts of recouping. It's been a good few weeks and months of intentionality with the fam and the home and the work... actually, it must be very hard work because I'm ready for a couple of days off!

So I'll kiss the wee ones goodbye, give the man a long hug and longer kiss of gratitude, and sit on a crowded plane with an open book. This may seem overdramatic, small, silly or inconsequential to some, but to me... to me, it's a great little gift.

Year 1 and transition observations

Having recently returned from a holiday with family in the States, we now find ourselves celebrating a milestone: us and Ireland one-year-old together. Part of me feels like this is more of a birthday than an anniversary, since last May 5th was the start of a brand new life for us. But either way you slice it, celebrations are in order.

We actually flew back to Ireland just days short of the anniversary of us moving to Ireland, however, the feelings that accompanied this most recent transition were so different. Last year when we left home, my heart nearly literally felt like it was breaking. That pain left me raw for weeks and months, but like some other types of grief, the shock and awe of it eventually began to fade, paving the way for new normalcy. When we flew out of Chicago this past Friday, that pain was nowhere to be found. Sure, we were definitely sad to say goodbye to our parents again and wished, of course, that our time together was longer. But upon boarding that plane, we knew we were going home. It was weird, really weird. But weird things can be good, too.

Another odd thing about our short trip back to the US: we, as people, felt different. It was hard to find comfort in the same old things, and sometimes, on occasion, even hard to find comfort in the same people from our old life. Not that we weren't overjoyed at seeing those same things and people again. Quite, the contrary, we had some very sweet (albeit short) reunions. Target welcomed me with open doors, while my mentor welcomed me with open arms. It was wonderful spending some times with our parents and siblings and the few friends we got to see. However, the food didn't taste as good as I remembered it. Shopping at Target confused me more than pleased me.  And there were some quiet patches, lapses in the conversation I didn't know how to fill. Maybe it was culture shock, or exhaustion, or the mental recognition that time was too short to share anything of real depth. Again, it was weird, really weird. But weird things can be sad, too.

So now we begin year 2. I still feel like I'm in a pregnancy funk, but the funk isn't as deep as it was before our little vacay. Maybe all I needed was just a little perspective. The grass isn't always greener on the other side. Unless the other side is Ireland. Then it is always greener. Literally. However, if it's the upper-midwest in the middle of April, then it's always a bit browner.

Good times with cousins.