Fairy Wings

Over a month ago, I was laying in bed with this girlie next to me (like every night).

And out of the quiet she said,

"Mom.

If we were fairies, we could fly like this."

And she started to move her arms like wings, and added,

"And we'd have wings on our backs."

I gave some sort of affirmation to that point, but really, it was one of those moments that made me quiet in my heart.

I looked at her and thought about the wonder that is being three years old and wondering about fairy wings before drifting off to sleep.

Creative Play

We have been graced with some seriously gorgeous weather the last week and a half, folks.

Like, wow.

Beautiful beautiful, especially for the end of February.

And March hasn't disappointed so far.

The other day I was sitting at the kitchen table in the early afternoon.

I was writing an article for work, sitting in the sunshine as it streamed in through the window.

I stopped at one point to make a bag of popcorn and take it out to the kids who were busy outside.  

I snapped some photos, because they had created this whole shindig on the deck, and I hadn't even noticed.

And then, a while later, I snapped these photos through the window of this guy making his way around the yard on his bike.

And last week, when I went outside, I found them busy kitchening, setting up their own stations and busy creating.

And I thought about this quote by Fred Rogers that I totally love:

"Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning.

But for children, play is serious learning.

Play is really the work of childhood."

Honestly, who could give a care about school work on a day when they could be out using their minds like this---

stretching their limbs, 

being imaginative,

breathing fresh air,

soaking in sunshine?

Yes.

Play is the work of childhood.

That's their job.

Sunday Pals

Sometimes this is how Benji makes it through sacrament meeting.

 

 

This morning, these photos are making me happy, and that's all.

An Exclamation

Recently I was sitting in the red chair in my front room.

It has been an unseasonably warm February and the kids were digging in the small flowerbed, just to the left when you walk out the back door onto the deck.

The back door was open.

I was reading something, but could hear them talking just outside the door.

I couldn't help but smile, tho, when, upon discovering something out there in the dirt,

I heard Benji exclaim, in all seriousness, in amazement:

"By jove!"

A few thoughts:

That kid.

He might drive me crazy sometimes, but I am so proud of him.

He makes me laugh.

He is endearing beyond belief.

And...my gosh, I love my kids.

Sunday Evening Stroll

Sunday afternoon the sunshine was intoxicating.

It's like late April in February right now.
The weather has been so odd.

But. I couldn't help but be cheered by the sun when we got home from church.

This man and I peeled potatoes and chopped them, 

put them in the pot on the stove to boil.

I made brownies and mint frosting.

We headed to dinner at some friends' house.

We got home in enough time to to stroll once around our neighborhood,

arriving home just as it was getting dark and there was a nip of chill in the air.

As we made our way up and down our streets, past familiar houses,

the older kids were scootering and Claire was in the stroller.

I watched my boys cruising ahead, playing together, ditching the scooters,

jumping back on, this dude sporting a pirate patch and dangly necklace

hanging down the back of his head.

(So awesome.)

Made me wistful and happy.

Oh! to be 8 again.

When I'm smart enough to slow down and try to observe through their lens --- even briefly --- I see much more tender hearts than I stop to think about most of the time, imagination, joy, quick forgiveness, hope and courage, 

reservoirs of feeling, faith, simple amusement.

Yes, to be 8 again.

Crackly China

Yesterday I went to go and pick up this old beauty.  

It has been in storage for several months because I didn't have a place to put it.  

It's an iconic piece from my childhood home.

I love everything about it.  

The rich dark color.

The small little windows on the front.

The drawers that always had candles and salt and pepper shakers and coasters from Switzerland tucked inside.  The warm, distinct smell it has.

The way it was filled with crystal and china that we pulled out for fancy dinners.

Last night, about midnight, this is what my kitchen looked like.

I was awake, unwrapping piece after piece of my grandmother's china (and some other iconic crystal pieces from my childhood).  

My favorite pieces are the ones that are like this, where the china appears crackly.

I lit candles on my mantle and had Christmas carols on as I worked.

It felt almost like a Christmas morning.

The hutch and the china take me to happy places in my memory: that china on top of a blood red tablecloth, and laden with all kinds of yummy.  

Holiday dinners and Christmas Eve morning breakfasts as we listened to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, live from Cambridge, England.

Dad used his mother's set every time he prepared a fancy feast, and I can look at it and remember how he always talked with great affection when he spoke about his mom.

I look at it and I can hear beautiful music in the background, and smell any number of delicious things cooking: turkey, Dad's pork tenderloin with mushroom sauce, pies, bread, mashed potatoes, bread puddings.  You name it.

It reminds me of the holidays -- candles burning, Christmas trees lit up, a warm fire bringing cheer and warmth on a snowy night.

I see the little cut glass crystal bowls (pictured above) and immediately think of tapioca pudding.

I remember pulling out the dining room table and adding extra leaves to make room for guests, how we had to stand at opposite ends of the table and pull.

I think of us around that table -- plates laden with mouth-watering food, and all the hours of talk.

My family loves to get together and talk.

I hear us laughing or getting a scientific explanation from Martin or playing cards.

It makes me sad, but in a happy sort of way I guess.

I came upstairs and opened the curtains this morning and looked at the china through the glass, tucked away.

I looked around at my newly arranged front room (since the table was moved out).

I see fall on my mantle, but I've been planning all week for Monday---when Christmas will replace it.

I've got a wreath to make and decorations to haul down from the attic.

We'll go and buy our Christmas tree.

I'll have carols on again, long into the quiet hours at night, warm lights twinkling in the background.

I'll pull out more of my family's history with decorations that are as much a part of my childhood as that hutch.

But.

Last night?

Those cream pieces took me to people I love, to a warmth that will never leave this heart,

to love and happiness and joy that will sustain me all my days.

(Next week I'll be blogging about a fall activity to do with your kids and holiday recipes. 

And, of course, about Christmas decorating -- which should actually be expressed like this: !!!! 

my heart.)

Seeing Lucky

Last week I was outside, trying to get our garden ready for tending.

Evening light has to be among my favorite things.

I was busy pulling out plants that had come up in the spring, stuff that needed to be pulled so the ground could be tilled.

Shortly thereafter, Isaiah and Mia came over and began picking them up.

Mia exclaimed,

"Look how lucky we are!"

Her delight at spongy parsnips and small onions was genuine and full of joy.

They set to work making soup.

That one line has stuck with me.  

In my life's assortment of onions and parsnips, can I see how lucky I am?

Am I willing to do this thing?  

Am I willing to submit to the process?

To learn?

To find joy and growth in what could have been cast off?

True Friends and a Little Boy Heart

This guy.

He is too cute for words, but I suppose most mothers say that about their sons.

I could say oh so much about him.

Mr. C. and I talk about him with love and adoration, exasperation, and...with great fondness.

I love him.

Tonight gave me a little window into his boy heart that I love so much.

It was kind of an off Sunday.  Mr. C. and Benji weren't feeling well, so the rest of us headed to church without them.

When we came home, Mr. C. and I alternated naps.  I lit a fire, he maintained it when I went to sleep.  When I got up, it was still stormy out, the sky gray, and the wind teasing the pampas grass outside.  The world was wet.

After scavenging for leftovers, we were eating at the table.  The boys started talking about their preschool days, and things that had happened.

Then, Benji came out with this.

"There's something I never told you that I did then that I regret now because I know it wasn't right."

?????????

I was curious.  I was expecting something along the lines of sneaking something or doing something he had been told not to do, or taking something that wasn't his or....you know, those sorts of things.  

But what came out of his mouth was classic.

It went something like this.

"Well, I would tell my teacher that I had to go to the bathroom, and you know how I'd sneak my baby (insert Mr. Bear, his favorite small stuffed animal, pal and companion through thick and thin, even in family portraits, formal and informal -- see below) in my backpack and it would be out in the hall in that thing?" (a locker)

(hard to see here, but he's clutched in his right hand)

Me: "Ya."

"Well, I'd tell her I needed to go to the bathroom, and I'd go out in the hall and get my baby and get in that thing (the locker) and shut it and just sit there and snuggle him for a few minutes.  Then I'd go back in and my teacher would say, 'You okay?' and I'd say, 'Ya.'"

And that was it.

I told him I didn't think that was wrong, but if he'd been doing some graffiti or taking something or damaging property, etc. -- that wouldn't be okay.

But it was one of the highlights of my day because it says so much about him.  

He has a tender heart.

He shows -- and isn't afraid -- his vulnerability and need for comfort and connectedness.  He goes with him to church, in the car, to bed, to breakfast, as a buddy in school, outside....basically, he takes him everywhere, and has since he was tiny.  He doesn't seem to care one bit that others might find it funny to have such a friend in a little stuffed companion.

But the other part of it?  

I found this young-in-mothering heart of mine thinking oh...if only.  If only the regrets in his heart in 15 years amount to relatively equal categories of "benign." 

Who knows?

But for the meantime, I'll take it.

And do you notice Mr. Bear in all these photos?  I have soooo many photos with this gentle friend, including one of Benji snuggling him, while snuggling with my dad, the day before he died.

I think we all need gentle friends.

They make the going a little bit easier.