story of one afternoon, celabration of 8 years

The whole family was carting around together on one lovely Saturday.  In sweltering heat.  With a fussy little girl babe.  And two fidgety, fighting boy children. 

{Just setting the stage to justify what's coming}.

We headed out of the grocery store and down the long parking lot aisle to our vehicle.  My vehicle really, but Jim was driving because that's the way we roll when all together.  So he fished the keys out of his pocket (finally!), which irritated me because I, of course, always have them poised & ready for a quick unlock job as we exit on a hot day.  He clicked, but the doors did not unlock.  Which irritated him, because he, of course, would never let his remote unlocking mechanism become so disasterized (see picture above).  So words were exchanged.  Both of us instantly on the defense AND offense - we're talented that way.

And then we fought further upon our next realization.  My vehicle won't even start without first clicking the "unlock".  Doesn't matter if it is already unlocked, doesn't matter if you have the right key, the engine will only start within 30ish seconds of the click.  So it seemed we were stuck. 

{And let me refresh the scene - grumpy kids, grumpier parents, searing heat}

But at least I, proficient genius that I am, could unlock at the doorpad.  My fingers deftly keyed in the code.  I would get us in.  Except it didn't work.  He, remarkable memory that he has, nodded his head in humiliating dismay.  He would never forget his code.  So more words were exchanged.

And then. 

I peered in the car.  You know, the one that had spent a good 7 minutes as stage for our tantrums and victim of our pokings.

It wasn't ours. 

A quick glance down the row revealed my white Ford Expedition.   Sideboard lights ablink with all our clickage.

Jim's eyes met mine.  And we laughed.  And laughed.  And suddenly - our follies spotlighted in this ridiculous situation - we were no longer angry. 

***

a note to Jim:

Today we celebrate 8 years of marriage.  Which I think is ridiculous.  Because we've obviously been married for more like twelve trillion. 

I realize it may take double that time for our stubborn selves to master patience, longsuffering, holding of tongues, holding keys at the ready, humility, et. al.  But I'm here for the long haul.  Because - even in the midst of sweltering heat and daily mayhem - I'm left to lock eyes with you at day's end. 

That's something I wouldn't trade for twelve trillion picture perfect days.

Thank you for {patiently} being mine.

happily sick

Aidan knows the in's & out's of stomach sickness, but Davyn rarely catches any bug.  Thus, he hasn't been properly trained in sick protocol.  As in, to throw up you run to the toilet. And that is how it came to pass that D's bedding was in the wash on this Sunday morning.  And mine was lined up right behind for the next load.

Still, after the double doing, he asked with twinkling eyes and wan complexion, "so this means I really am sick, right?" 

He was obviously beyond excited.

"I don't like throwing up, but if I'm really sick, I get to eat upstairs.  And I get special drinks.  And I get to lay in your room.  And I get alone time with you and dad."

Though feeling fine within an hour, he still got official *sick treatment* today.  To atone for the injustice of good health, I suppose. 

What a boy!

to Aidan at seven

 

At some undefinable point this year you grew up.  That statement may sound unreasonable, but I swear it's truth.  Though I didn't notice until it was time for birthday presents.  Your wishlist included a reading light, alarm clock and books.  I tucked you in tonight, surveyed the fat stack sidled up to the bedside lamp, and felt a pang.  After all, I've been here all along.  I'm just not quite sure when YOU - this new you - arrived.

As a first time mother, I was overwhelmed.  How could I - ridden with weakness, failings, flaws - bear the responsibility of teaching all you needed to learn.  Basic physical milestones seemed so impossible when I watched you newborn in your cradle.  I can't teach a child to walk.  Or speak.  Or read.

Yet, with time it became apparent that the weight all those milestones was not on me.  The seeds of each accomplishment were born inside of you.  Your strong body was made to crawl, then stumble, stand and walk.  With so little prodding.  Your tireless mind and tongue were made to think, then formulate, form and speak.  With so little help.  Reading, writing, riding a bike - all have come with similar ease.  The seeds pre-planted within.

So as we've left the little Aidan behind, my worries have shifted.  

How can I  - weak, failing and flawed - bear the responsibility of teaching all you need to learn.  The spiritual milestones loom as I realize that in one short year you'll be baptized, making important covenants with Heavenly Father.  

But a few weeks ago my mind was put at ease.  As I witnessed the powerful seeds of testimony pre-planted in your being.  It was a Sunday and you picked up a Book of Mormon from the shelf, asking if it could be yours to keep.  Yes, yes, I quickly answered and moved on in the let's-get-to-church rush.  In Sacrament meeting you read 1 Nephi, chapter 1.  Which made me grin, of course.  But I gave it no more thought until you came in my room the next night.  Explaining that something had you scared, so you decided to pray.  "And then I just wanted to be righteous, so I asked Heavenly Father to help me."  Your voice was trembly.  I became teary.  Gave you a hug, and said I'd love to help, too.  

The next night you were on chapter 3.  And kept talking about Nephi.  So we made a bookmark out of verse 7, discussing as we designed.  

Two nights later you came downstairs, face stamped with serious concern.  "I just discovered I'm like Laban."  A woeful discovery, indeed.  I was decorating cake, which typically pardons no interruptions from boys who should be in bed, but somehow I knew that had to be put aside.  

"How are you like Laban?"  

The question threw you into instant explanation.  About how Laban took all of Nephi's family's treasures without giving them what they wanted.  About how you took Sunshine Bear and Charlie away from Davyn, so he was left with no sleep companions.  And then, with no prodding, you went into solving mode, giving Davyn Sunshine, Charlie and Mammy (who never leaves your room).

You've likened the scriptures to yourself.  Felt the power of The Book of Mormon.  Realized that righteousness is happiness.

I was stunned.  Awed.  Grateful.  Humbled that we're not left on our own to instill these powerful lessons.  The seeds were yours already, your first and best birth day gift from a Heavenly Father who loves you so. so. much.   

As I do, too.  

purse cake

 

for a Relief Society activity, thus the RS buckle.

my favorite part of this was making the flowers...which were really much lovelier in real life.  

additional cakes for serving:

from Luna...

Azure loves horses.  Camping in a meadow with three of them was her ultimate delight.  When she couldn't con any of us into outside visits, she'd perch at the toyhauler window, nose pressed to the pane, eyes enormous.  

Aidan doesn't love horses.  Not the real, flesh & blood, two steps away with no fences between you kind.  It became apparent as the whole family trekked across the meadow to visit last year's forts.  Azure rode proudly on Dad's shoulders, steering him away from the original goal with demanding coo's and a stubborn, craning neck.  How dare we march across that field without a visit to her friends.  So, of course, Dad altered our route.

And Aidan stopped, shook his head and muttered, "Here come my fears again."   A few steps to his rear, I also stopped and asked why he was so afraid. To which he turned back, eyebrows raised and words deliberate:  "They are very large animals."  

But the boy did continue despite his nerves.  

Meanwhile, Azure's giggling sounds and flailing limbs intensified with each step.  Davyn stood right below her high perch, a quieter replica of pure delight.  They greeted the horses, and then we turned back toward the original goal single file.  But one mare fell in as caboose.  

Aidan urged, "How do you make a horse not follow you?"

I had no idea, of course, and was likewise nervous at the animal's proximity.  But in Davyn's mind I know all.  So he tugged at my hand with a whispered, "Don't tell him the real answer."  

Which made me grin.

He and Azh would have been happy to be followed all the way home to Queen Creek.