There’s a ten-year-old boy in my life (not my own, though nearly just as dear) who is obsessed with birds. A couple of weeks ago he downloaded a bird call app on my phone, and we listened to the various warbles and calls, chirps and trills.
I did not set out to be a co-sleeper or many of the things I’ve now become, for that matter. Before having kids I made such bold statements as, “My kids will never sleep in my bed!” And most horrifying in its naiveté, “I will never hand my kids a screen to shut them up.” It’s a miracle onlookers, some of them seasoned mothers, did not slap me silly. The audacity of my claims is mortifying in retrospect.
My little Magpie frequently begs to go through the boxes at the top of her closet. When curiosity gets the best of us, I drag them down and open each box’s lid. Memories flood the room as old cards, work papers, ticket stubs, and bent-cornered photos come tumbling out.
Tonight I attended my online MBA class with Margaret nearby. We begin at the table, listening while decorating birthday cards. “Nana’s turning 60 and Aunt Libby’s turning 1859!” Later we listen from the bathroom (on mute and without video) while Margaret takes a bath. I look around at the bath toys, the floor wet from her splashing, the discarded clothing next to my computer and notebook. Instead of feeling like the hard-working career mom I often aspire to be, it suddenly feels like too much.
Almost nothing makes sense these days.
For example: This week my 90-year-old neighbor put a Trump Pence sign in his yard. I tend to think Trump is the devil incarnate. No, not really, but I will say everything he stands for is so contrary to the gospel I believe in that there does seem to be touch of evil there. But my neighbor is the same person I recently brought morning glory muffins to after his wife died. Who for nearly a decade has tolerated my unkempt front yard despite his lawn service and the lush green splendor it delivers. Who accepts how worked up his tiny dog gets when my children are playing outside a little too closely to the fence despite my yelling out the back door, “Get back! You’ll rile up Buddy again!!”
Right now we’re in … week 3? 4? 1 million? of staying at home to hopefully flatten the coronavirus (COVID-19) curve and naturally my brain is on budgeting and finances. Whether you’ve lost your job or are just being intentionally frugal in the face of the unknown (and the general state of the economy, yikes!), you’re likely thinking about money too.
Yesterday our family visited a new-to-us church. “Is it going to be s-c-a-r-y?” Graydon asked, his desire to spell out words increasing with each new word he learns. “Not really,” I replied. “All churches are made up of people, and people are just people, so that’s not so scary.”
Do you know that feeling you get when you think you should probably say something, but you kind of hope someone else says it so that you don’t have to be the one to speak up?
That’s me right now. I’m over here hoping I don’t have to be the one to say something while knowing deep down I can at least be a one. One person who adds to the chorus of people speaking up and out, lifting their voices to effect change.
I used to worship at the altar of busy. I would flit from one thing to the next, arriving late to each function and meeting, guzzling down so much Diet Coke my body would be humming, my heart skipping every other beat.
I was supposed to go to Iowa today to see extended family but was up half the night with a cough and a seriously runny…