six

He folds himself into my lap and says:

Momma, I need a little extra of you this morning.

My heart swells, and my arms wrap him up.

I’m happy to oblige.

He’s six today, and to know him is to love him.

He’s a good time waiting to happen, and his sense of humor is beyond his years.

His eyes run deep and his personality is pure energy mixed with contagious joy.

He loves with his whole being :: quickly, eagerly, selflessly, happily.

We whisper about all things while we huddle together in the recliner ::

the weather, sports, creek stomping, babies, cupcakes, passports.

And then we talk his birth momma.

We remember, honor, celebrate her. We pray for her.

We ache for her.

He’s six today, and he still fits in my lap.

So we linger a little longer, and I pray over him.

I still can’t believe we belong to him.

 

 

 

wink, grin, note

He and I have this thing we do: we wink back and forth.

While he does his school work at the table and I wish dishes. While he ties his shoes and I hand him his coat. While we feed the chickens.

It started a few years ago, when I was trying to so hard to climb into his heart. Trying so hard to show him that this home is safe, that we are forever. Connecting was hard. Finding common comfortable space was a challenge.

Becoming family takes time.

Committed love takes relentless pursuit, even when we’re not pursued back.

And winking was an easy way to connect + communicate.

So we’ve kept it up over the years. Our secret code. Our own little language.

In the beginning, it was a subtle wink. Barely there.

Now, it’s a big wink, accompanied with a dimpled grin. The grin is the cherry on top.

But this week: Wink, grin, note.

Hidden right there, in his math book. He was watching me check his numbers, waiting for me to find it. I turned the page, my eyes landed on it, I looked up.

His eye met mine with a wink, a dimpled grin, and a blown kiss.

Our little language is growing, just like our hearts.

Just like our love.

 

 

sunday chronicles

Big cheers to those who got up early so that family morning rhythms before church could go {somewhat} smoothly.

To all those getting littles + middles + bigs fed, changed, hydrated, brushed, flossed, moisturized, cleaned, dressed.

High fives to those packing those diapers + snacks + sippy cups + extra outfits + books.

Fist bumps to those telling those bigs they look handsome + lovely + reminding them who they belong to + speaking truth to them over breakfast.

Hugs to those scrambling + wiping sleep from their eyes + trying not to yell + in need of extra patience + caffeine + energy.

Raising my three-times-heated coffee to all of you + declaring it an amazing day. We did it! We’re buckled + on the way!

Big love to all of you today, whether you’re in the van or in bed or on the couch or just wherever. It’s a great day to have a great day.

Beautiful

She pulls her gear out of her locker, her light pink snow pants and polka-dotted hat.

How cold is it, Momma? Is it glove-cold?

Bundle up, sweetheart, I say, as I bounce baby on my hip and add banana to the toddler’s oatmeal. Two brothers are already sitting side by side at the table, swinging their legs, peeling hard-boiled eggs. Their favorite.

A few minutes later, she walks by, full ensemble: snow bibs, hat, scarf, boots, two layers of gloves. She carries an egg basket + the chicken tray, a large shallow container from carry-out months ago. It’s piled high with kitchen scraps and leftovers from meal prep and the toddler’s plate.

Thanks, babe. Stay warm.

She nods back and winks at me, then trudges down the back steps. She leaves footprints in the glistening white on her way to feed and water the chickens, gather the eggs, and give the goats grain.

My heart soars.

Confidence. Willingness. Eagerness. Playfulness.

All over our daughter’s face, bursting forth with every stride.

She’s beautiful.

 

watching

 

He pulls me by the hand toward the creek.

Mom! Look! Winter turned it into a long, shiny mirror.

He stands on the gate like this for a long while, watching his breath in the cold air, listening to the bird song. We breathe in and out together, feeling the chill fill out chests, inhaling the magic that snow brings.

I get ready to move on, but he lingers.

What are you thinking about, son?

I’m just watching.

And by the creek-side, his words curl around my heart + give it a squeeze.

He’s just watching.

And I’m watching him.

My usually-loud boy is silent. His quietness is reverence.

He’s learning how to notice + count gifts.

The unfurling of life, mystery, glory. All around us. In us. Above us. Underneath us.

Everywhere.