Still

Still, just about every time I climb into bed to fall asleep and snuggle up to her, or every morning when I feel her next to me, I pull her close, kiss her face, and say quietly, even as she’s sleeping, “I love you so much.” Claire was a baby when my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. During the brief 6.5 week window from diagnosis to death, my sister Sue commented that Claire was a little ray of sunshine for all of us in the midst of so much devastating sorrow. I thought of that tonight on her 7th birthday and it’s still true. This girl is a champion snuggler, a chocoholic, and her spice will surprise you. She’s genuinely funny and always has me laughing. She’s smart as a whip, energetic, happy, fiercely devoted, tender, and full of love. 7 years later, she’s still lighting up our world. 

Claire Elizabeth, I love you so. ❤️

11

They turned 11, and the day was much like the Monday afternoon of the day they were born.

I remember laying there, pushing those boys out of my body, and noticing the bright blue sky outside and the sunshine.

It was a beautiful day.

Funny what you remember. 

We had friends show up at 7:45 this morning with donuts, a sweet and lovely surprise for the boys.

I was already cooking sausage and planning to make scrambled eggs, but it turned out they ate donuts and sausage instead.
(Healthy.)

When we dropped them off at school, Claire and I ran errands and then came home to do party prep:

making chocolate cake (scratch chocolate cake with scratch peanut butter frosting and crumbled peanut butter cups)

and filling favor bags.

Then it was time to make the relay lists for the party. I split the boys into two teams and explained what they had to do: an act of service, 50 jumping jacks, a round of pictionary, a round of tricks on the trampoline, an egg/spoon relay down the backyard, 2 times around the block, and a scavenger hunt for 4 things. The winning team got full-size candy bars.

They nailed it, it was entertaining, and it kept things from getting too crazy. (You've got to harness the energy of all those tween boys!)

After the party was over, a lazy couple of glorious hours ensued. My sister and I talked on the deck. After she left, I sent friends home and made tacos and we took some pictures and then sat down to eat.

And then we gathered round for a new tradition: drawing words for the birthday peeps from the "oracle" box one of my sisters gave to me on my birthday this year, and writing wishes for the birthday peeps for the coming year. 

I choked up with one of Claire's simple messages:

Dear Isaiah, On your birthday I want to tell you that I love you always. Love, Claire

Mia wished that Benji would get a lego set that would end up being one of his all-time favorites and that Isaiah would make a meaningful friend.

Isaiah capitalized on a family joke when he wished Benji a bowl of salad.

And me? I offered a wish about Benj not letting fear hold him back, and I choked up when I read it out loud. (Isn't that one of those life lessons that most of us have to learn again and again?) And for Isaiah? That he'd make a delectable cake and get some new cologne, among other things.

And tonight, after the sound effects of a "fart in a can" gift Benji got had died down (You should have seen the laughter and fart imitations going down among all those boys while we were eating cake and ice cream and opening presents on the back lawn. I couldn't help it. I could. not. restrain. my laughter.), they read in their beds and then made me laugh with a rendition of "Do Your Ears Hang Low" that references the male anatomy as taught to them by a friend. 
(Insert: "Do your balls hang low?")

Oh. my. word.

And due to party prep, I didn't get to work today. The result? I worked late and looked up from my screen periodically at the three of them that fell asleep in my room. 

And you know what?

Tonight I’m feeling very aware of something as I look at each of them; their lengthening bodies, their peaceful faces, the noise of the day now quiet and still. 

It's that gentle, beautiful ache that reminds me they’ll be gone before I know it.

They have been--and are--the greatest privilege of my life.

I love him so

 After two truly craptastic mothering days (they should fire me!) and some other current stress, I was grateful for the gift of today.

I awoke and texted my sisters, wishing our dad a happy 70th birthday.

I mixed yogurt with chopped fruit and berries and raw oats and nuts as light came in the kitchen windows. That was happy. (And yummy.)

And you know what?

Today, the sun shone. 

Even though it was cold, the sky was blue! (Blessing!)

I took valentine decorations off my mantle and put spring up in its place while listening to the Weepies and Claire requested a Tim McGraw song she loves.

(And yeah, if you're in Utah, I know what you're thinking: there's snow outside. But maybe forsythia and boxwood will encourage the outside world to follow suit.)

Late in the afternoon, the girls and I drove to dad's grave to put some flowers there.

When we got back, they headed out with their dad for a while and I went out on a run as light was slipping from the valley. It was dark by the time I got home.

I mixed cake, lit candles on the mantle, and sat down to do some work.

The kids came home, and while we waited for the cake to come out and then cool off, Claire and I sat on the couch singing "The Wheels on the Bus," and then I whistled various tunes and she'd guess the songs.

We put 4 candles in dad's cake (cuz...70!), sang Happy Birthday, dished it up with ice cream, and read together.

And as I go to sleep tonight, I'll talk with God about how grateful I am for a gentler day: for those bright yellow rays that brought hope and joy, for my children, for the opportunity to learn and try again and apologize, the chance to be humbled and see my faults, and for being able to run and move my body. I'll express gratitude for a warm house and food to eat.

But also, I'll thank God for the blessing of a kind and wise father and friend. 

I love him so.

Happy 69, Dad

I've been at my dad's grave a lot this past week. 

We gathered as a family on Saturday, stood around his grave, held hands, and talked about things we loved about him.

I went back on Sunday with the kids before dinner and we just walked.

Then, I went back on Tuesday, the first of March, because it was his birthday.

I took fresh flowers and put them in a mason jar and tied some twine around it.

This little verse was given to me after my dad died.  I was moved by it, mostly because of how it beautifully articulates the influence of one person.  Their death affects you in deep and lovely ways because of the richness of what was shared in life, all the love that was there, and their footprint remains in everything you do.

It simply says this:

"Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color."

(W. S. Merwin)

And you know what?

I've put spring on my mantle.  

And I had to put the little organ up there, because it makes me think of him 

(March being his birthday month and all).

xoxo

So long, December

December came in a whirlwind and was gone.  

On Friday, I took down Christmas and found myself feeling rather melancholy.

It was a beautiful month---full of excitement,

expectancy, 

birthdays, 

yummy food, 

family,

cathedral going, lovely music, fires, cozy lights, lots of snow (including fresh snow on Christmas morning---totally magical)

and gingerbread house making and decorating.

The kids were so! excited for Christmas morning...more than I think I ever remember them being, especially the boys. 

All in all, it was lovely, and I was sorry to see it go.

My house always feels bleak and empty when everything comes down, tho I suppose that could be symbolic, too.  

But I guess that's what makes it the way that it is. 

Once a year.

Commemorating a sacred birth.

Traditions and lights and quiet and snow and family and love.

Lots of love. 

Two Bright Lights

Last night after I'd nursed Claire to sleep, tucked her in, and the boys were in their room reading, my gal and I went upstairs and stuffed party bags while candles burned on our mantle and the house smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.  Then, we wrapped presents and hung our birthday streamers from the table.

After we were done, we slipped out the door, drove to the library to drop off books and then to the grocery store to pick up sausage (part of what the boys had requested for breakfast today) and candy bars to top their presents.

It was just she and I in the dark, windows down, both in the front seat, music playing.  I looked over at her at one point and said, "I love you, Mia."  And, for a second, I found myself thinking about quick evening runs to the store with my dad years ago---sometimes really late trying to beat the Sabbath, or sometimes to grab some yogurts or ice cream or odds and ends.  I wondered if she'll look back and remember times like this.  

I know I will.

When we came home and walked in the back door, I was reminded of Christmas with those yummy fall smells combined with that scent that comes from the smoke when you blow candles out, and I instantly felt warm inside.

This morning, Claire sat on the counter in the kitchen, sunlight streamed through the backyard, the presents and streamers decked the table.

We turned on Pharrell's "Happy" and it set the whole mood while we grooved and mixed up some pancakes,

cooked sausage and fried potatoes, and then we sat around the table and I told the boys about the day they were born.  

I told them about how, the day before, an early Sunday morning about 6:30, one of them kicked really hard and broke my water, and I found myself out of bed, standing there, trying to figure out what was going on.  

I told them about soaking through two towels on the way to the hospital.

I told them about how they gave me a shot to ripen their lungs, if they'd stay inside for 72 more hours.

I told them about how that didn't work---that about the time I was ready to go to sleep that night, my body went into labor.

I told them about getting an epidural in the middle of the night and waking a couple+ hours later and throwing up my dinner, and then being sick for the next several hours, all the way through delivery.  

I told them the day was just like today was: beautiful, blue skies, a gorgeous September afternoon, and they were born in a room with huge windows and lots of medical personnel on hand because they were early.

I told them how I was so tired that the ground seemed to be swimming beneath me as they wheeled me to my room for the night, and how they'd flown in a helicopter, only a couple hours old, the same one they watched in wonder as toddlers.

I told them that as soon as we left the hospital the next day, their dad and I went straight to the hospital they were at, so anxious to see them.

I told them about when they were first put together again, in the same bed, four days after birth.  It was as tho they immediately recognized each other, snuggling up, nestling in.  The comfort was something you could actually see.

We were totally smitten, and I remember I couldn't stop taking photos of them that night.

After breakfast, they went down to their bedroom and started putting together the lego sets their sisters had given them and I started making birthday cake.

We finished up school and my sister arrived with her kids.  We filled a couple more bags for the party, I frosted the cake, we talked in the kitchen.

And then, the yard was full of children and we played Pictionary with sidewalk chalk on the driveway and Red Rover in the backyard, ate cake and ice cream and unwrapped presents.

(I must say here: I can only handle that many boys together for about an hour once a year.  And I feel saintly for it.  Wow.)

Later, after the party, the kids left with their dad, happy.

It was a good day.

I picked up the last pieces from the backyard and came inside.  I looked at photos I took of them this morning---goofy, excited and spazzy because of the birthday love, 

and posted one on IG and said this: 

"They've been lighting up my life for 9 years today.  I can't adequately articulate what I feel for them, but my stab at it tonight is this: they've humbled, encouraged, challenged and taught me; given me 9 years of stretching, laughter, love and tenderness; and filled my heart so full of beautiful experiences I wouldn't trade for anything I ever could have had in exchange.  Happy Birthday to these two bright lights."

And then I went for a run in the dark, feeling peaceful and content.

And, here's the thing.

Something I have never questioned, not ever?

Them.

My children.

I yearned for every one of them.

They've made life more meaningful and substantive, rich and blessed.

And getting to be a part of their lives has been such a profound privilege in mine.

I've said that before, and I'll say it again.

Because, it really has.