This week all the snow melted in our front yard. I found a beaded necklace, a baggie of Legos, a length of orange and grey yarn, a white plastic Frisbee, and a baggie of Kix cereal.
This week we biked to the park in sweatshirts. (In February! Biking! I will from now on be surprised by nothing.) The boys could have stayed for five hours. I hope they never tire of the playground.
This week I finished Born to Run by Chris McDougall. Adored it. Considered, briefly, becoming an ultra-marathoner. Decided that at this stage in life, half marathons are as much time as I can spare. But someday…
This week I made meatball soup, turkey pita pockets with yogurt-cucumber sauce, and homemade chicken fingers. Homeruns, all three. I love dinnertime success.
This week I saw a sign outside a Lutheran church that said, “Get out of Facebook and into God’s Book.” It made me smile.
This week Asher became 99 percent potty trained, thanks to four pounds of Jelly Bellies. A diaper-free house! Almost as miraculous as a 45-degree February in Minnesota.
This week I backed into the garage door with the van. And sent Seth his favorite text ever: “I just killed the garage door.”A lovely repairman (Aaron) fixed it, and told me if I don’t run into it again it should be fine. I was so happy I gladly forked over my hard-earned freelance money, the money ear-marked to buy a family canoe. I reminded myself that there are still a few more months (and therefore, several more writing opportunities) before the lakes will be canoe-ready. (See above pictures.)
This week, with a full moon hanging in the evening sky and a yard full of trash and a crunched garage door, I thought of a poem I wrote three years ago when I was in the throes of postpartum blues and wondering why I decided to have so many children. (I am not a poet, so please excuse the gross imperfection:)
The moon that hangs in front of me
Is like a gift:
Thin as rice paper.
So close, I could reach up and flick it,
Tear a hole in its orb
Or lay it gentle on my
Tongue and let it dissolve
Like a sacrament.
Deepening to orange
Like sunrise to sunset
The colors and hues of my days.
Long and stretched
So rarely illuminated
I have really two choices
With what I can hang in my vision.
I can tear at it, looking for something
Greater lurking behind it.
Or make my sacrifice
A sacrament of thanks.
Moon, you remind me
Of everyday beauty.