Thursday, March 9, 2017

What it Takes Sometimes

First, we tackled the Duty to God goal: make a well balanced meal for the family. Truman worked next to me in the kitchen, chopping, mixing, and reading a recipe. We learned an important lesson about not using the same cutting board for raw chicken and broccoli. The end result tasted delicious, "Chicken, snap pea, pineapple stir fry in black bean sauce." But the best learning moment occurred when Truman said, "Cooking dinner takes a lot of multitasking." Yes. Yes it does! This validation was wonderful.
Next we pursued the last minute passing-off of merit badges for the upcoming Board of Review. We drove to two different leader's homes and got things signed off on those blue, rectangle cards.

Of course everything took longer than expected. I had left the kitchen in a state of crazy - the cooked-from-scratch kind of crazy. I had left the other kids to fend for themselves for the evening with their homework and instrument practicing. 

And somewhere along the dark, gravel road on the drive back home, I realized that sometimes this is what it takes. Sometimes I have to leave the mess behind. Sometimes I have to leave four other children behind to help one. And I know when my husband is finished with this upheaval of a job, we'll share these jobs and less people in our family will feel left behind. But on this night, it was the best I could do. 

I came home to a mostly clean kitchen (yes, angels live in my house!) and a monumental herd of stuffed animals at the top of the stairs where Charlotte had entertained herself. It was a soul-stirring moment when I realized my children also know what it takes: it takes a family. It takes everyone pulling together, working together, pressing forward together. Sometimes we're the ones in the car being helped. And sometimes we're the ones left behind at home to face the mess. Either way, we need each other. 

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Two Days with My Daughter

We cross the street, empty but for the parked cars and a few yellow cabs. The city is strangely quiet for a city that never sleeps. We enter Central Park from the west side near a group of runners who stretch and chat. We pass the arbor made from twisted vines thick as a broomstick handles, a whimsical landmark. We join the Saturday morning runners and begin Madi's birthday run along the paved path. She talks with me, and I cannot now recall our topics. But the sun shines. The sky opens above us like a huge blue umbrella. The city skyline marks the permitter. We marvel at the rooftop luxury apartments with their terraces and trees growing in pots. She tolerates my requests for selfies, and do-over selfies. And six miles later, we find ourselves where we started. The street is a little more crowded. The park holds more runners, dog-walkers, and vendors.
I took Madi to NYC for the first time in March 2008. She was eight years old. The highlights of that trip were lunch at the American Girl Store and playing the floor piano at FAO Swartz. It snowed our first night there, large quarter-sized flakes filled the sky soft and white. We purchased "I love NYC" hats because it was colder than we expected.

Nine years later.

We consider going back to FAO Swartz to recreate our first NYC memory. Google informs us the iconic toy store on 5th Ave. has closed.  We look at each across our slices of perfectly thin pizza in disbelief. It is really closed? There is no more FAO Swartz? And there it is. An ending. A symbolic hint of the changes to come over the next four years.  Childhood gone.

I love this girl of mine. I love her sense of adventure, her love of literature, her gift of words, and her companionship. I love her so much that it aches to think of the coming changes. Sad for me. Happy for her.

Which, of course, makes this day all the more significant. It turns our morning run into a snatch of perfection. It turns our pizza eating, cookie munching, and restaurant hunting into treasures. They are memories in the making that will linger longer than a toy store, longer than a trip, and certainly longer than a cookie lasts in my tummy.