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An Early Spring

It’s cold tonight. This should feel normal—it’s March—but it’s not normal. Not this year. Sophie’s birthday is Friday. In my very first blog post, here, I wrote about spring. It arrived while I gave birth to Sophie. But this year, it came early.

It’s a gift I’ve gladly welcomed. I like winter. I like seasons. But this winter has been so mundane. Chilly. Rainy. Slushy dustings of snow nowhere near enough in volume for a snowman (this, despite Sophie decorating our front door with snow-themed stickers in an attempt to make it snow).

Early March I found myself in the attic, digging through bins for summer clothes. Fearing it would get chilly again I haven’t packed the winter clothes away. As such, every bedroom is filled with boxes and bins, and the closets are becoming a mis-match of seasons. The boys still wear different sizes. And both wear smaller pant sizes than they do shirts. So I’m dealing with four different sizes, lots of hand-me-downs (which I’m so grateful for) and numerous seasons. The task to sort it all out has become so daunting that I’m avoiding it, which is just making the entire situation worse.

The flowers that graced our backyard trees eventually fell. To there.

And here.

And everywhere. Some nights, at dusk, I watched my children play as a warm breeze blew petals around, as if soft pink were falling from the sky. It was so idyllic.

I mean, at one point they were sliding down the slide into a pile of petals. 

A gift.

The previous owners must have loved birds for there are gorgeous birdhouses all over our backyard.

All three of my children love to feed the birds. They each take a turn with a small, metal bucket and spill seed all over the feeder, Tucker and grass. And laugh.

Lately Sophie has perched on top of our play set pretending to be a bird. She tweets, loudly, talking to them.

We found this lovely nest. There are two cardinals that swoop low while we play outside. I love that. The children love that. Tucker really loves that. Sophie recently found two red feathers in the yard, which I later discovered she decided to store in a plastic container full of M&Ms. “So the boys wouldn’t take it.”

Of course.

Today was chilly, though, as was tonight. The boys, however, played outside in their sandals. They had no choice. Last week I took all three children to Stride Rite for summer shoes. Another woman was there, with a daughter a little older than Sophie, twins a little older than my boys and a newborn. (I can’t imagine.) Every time the salesperson asked any one of the six children to run around the store to try out a pair of summer shoes, the five remaining children followed suit. It was loud. Totally chaotic. And there were boxes everywhere (in part because I asked the woman to kindly try several different sizes/widths for each child considering the boys will only have one pair of shoes each and they’re expensive and I want them to be exactly right). I know. They had to hate me. Anyhow, as I was rescuing tights hung on a wall from James while simultaneously stopping Owen from going into the back room, I noticed the salesperson collecting our boxes. I had assumed she put the boys’ winter tennis shoes in them. But that wasn’t her job. That wasn’t her responsibility. And frankly, she was probably exhausted from the 30-minute chaos before. So I paid for the shoes. Left the store. All three children rode home in their new sandals. Sophie’s winter shoes somehow made it into a box. The boys’ did not. And the boxes sat, in our entry, for two days before I opened them and realized what I had done. I called the store. They were there, with dirty socks still stuffed in them. And I still need to pick them up. But the idea is kind of exhausting to me. So I haven’t. But I should. I’m sure the boys had cold toes today. And I’m sure the people who work at Stride Rite don’t need two random pairs of shoes, and dirty socks, lying about. Tomorrow. I will tomorrow.

New sandals. The wisteria is blooming. I’m (slowly) cleaning out winter-ravaged leaves from beds. Open windows have allowed us to air out the house. The children are happier. Dirtier. And the inside of the house is cleaner. Calmer.

A gift.

“Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day.” —W. Earl Hall

Parents’ Night aka Sophie’s Night

Several weeks ago was Parents’ Night at Sophie’s preschool. We took the boys with us. This was not smart. Sophie goes to a Montessori preschool, although I imagine any preschool has low-lying shelves with lots of little things on them. They boys’ eyes were big, their hands, everywhere. And Sophie was less than thrilled with their presence. Honestly, she’s pretty good about sharing. She has her toys that are hers only (as she should) and she keeps them in her bedroom, often playing with them by herself, while the boys nap. But she has her moments. We all do.

Still, her reaction at her preschool surprised me. It shouldn’t have. After the fact, it made sense. Her preschool time is her time. That night was for her to show us what she does—not what the boys can do with a tray full of beads. She was irritated and frustrated with the boys grabbing things, touching things, exploring things. Andy and I each took a boy, making sure things that were played with were put back exactly as they were found. And while doing this all-consuming task, we also tried to listen, watch and learn from Sophie.

We couldn’t.

She made that  clear, in her own way. But I feel bad. We should have seen it, five minutes in, instead of 30.

So Andy took both boys outside, to walk around. And I sat on a rug with Sophie and finally  got a taste of what she does every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, from 9am to 11:30am. I know she loves preschool. But watching her solidified my belief. And I’m sure that much of this has to do with the fact that it’s something for her, and only her. She spent so much of the boys’ first year stuck inside with me, listening to me say “wait,” “hold on,” “in a minute,” “just after I finish pumping,” “just after I change this diaper,” “shhh, the boys are sleeping.”

And then, preschool started. And she was free. Free to leave our house. Free to make friends her own age. Free to do “work” without the boys messing with it, free to do craft projects without the boys crinkling it, free to do her own things on her own time without having me say “wait,” constantly.

And she blossomed.

So I get her frustration Parents’ Night. This was not our night. And definitely not the boys’ night. But her night.

After some time Andy and I switched, and I took the boys outside and Andy sat with Sophie on a rug, watching, listening.

It’s funny. We went to Sophie’s school that night to learn about the things she’s learning about when in fact, we were the ones who were taught.

That said, having had children, I now believe children are the best teachers, no matter how much we try to reverse that sentiment.

“Children are human beings to whom respect is due, superior to us by reason of their innocent and of the greater possibilities of their future.” —Maria Montessori

 

Catch Up

I feel like it was just yesterday when we were tromping around a hilly field, looking for the perfect Christmas tree. And just like that, on Monday we dragged what was left of it in our backyard to the curb (I know, I know, it’s March and we should have recycled it with the rest of our neighbors in January and yes I did feel ridiculous dragging a totally brown Christmas tree out to the curb in 70° weather).

Some days I feel so behind, on everything.

So here’s a post of the many things I had hoped to write about this winter, and didn’t.

We went with Nini and Pop Pop to see a most amazing model train exhibit, in the basement of one of my dad’s co-workers. That marked the beginning of Owen’s current obsession with trains (or choo-choos, as he calls them).

Annual holiday dinner party at Ferrari’s with friends. I was too busy keeping two toddlers well-behaved in a nice restaurant to take good pictures, but I do have this one, of Sophie playing peek-a-boo with Mya.

Play date/Christmas cookie decorating with Angel, Zoey, Mya, Christine, Connor, Jenna and Hannah.

Zoey and Sophie always exchange Christmas presents. Early fall Sophie asked Nini if they could make a blanket for Zoey, together. So they did. We went to a fabric store and Sophie spent a long time contemplating different designs before choosing this one. She then spent a day with Nini, pinning and cutting and tying (and trying it out, of course). Zoey and Sophie exchanged gifts before decorating cookies together. Sophie was so excited. (Thank you, Nini.)

Tis this season for surprise packages in the mail. Through this blog I have connected with Andy’s Aunt Cheryl and Uncle John in Texas. And although we’ve never met in person, I’ve loved conversing with them (thank you, technology). They’ve shared old photos and memories with me, and over the holidays sent me some lovely tea cups for my collection, as well as Texas-themed ornaments and little stockings filled with candy for the children (which was met with much glee).

James and Owen fell in love with Little Bear on TV (they’re watching it in this picture). “A Kiss for Little Bear” is one of my favorite children’s books and I’ve long loved the series—the show is quite beautifully done, with lovely drawings, classical music and sigh-worthy story lines. If they’re going to fall in love with a TV show, I’m happy it’s this one.

We had to keep all of our chairs up on the table so the boys wouldn’t climb on them and fall. This was a huge pain. Also, Sophie danced. A lot.

The boys realized a dream of theirs—sitting on top of a refrigerator.

The boys also learned how to climb out of their highchairs, even with straps, so we gave up highchairs, with great trepidation. It was so wonderful. So great. They embraced the chairs (even though they often eat standing up on them) and because they are now allowed on chairs, they no longer care about climbing up on chairs—and the table—and the chandelier, and so we were finally able to put (and keep) all the chairs back on the floor, where they belong. I realize this sounds like nothing but oh did it irritate me, putting those chairs up on the table and taking them back down every time we ate.

We celebrated birthdays.

My cousin Kelsey cuddled with Sophie (and Owen learned how to say “Kelsey” perfectly).

Sophie tried on my riding boots.

James spent many a days wearing Andy’s winter hat.

We spent a most wonderful, snowy weekend in Michigan, visiting our good friends Matt and Christi, and their son, Quinn. We ate out, ate in, went to a children’s museum, stayed up late talking, cared for the kids together and played with the kids together. Christi and I escaped for an evening, to a movie and La Dolce Vita in Ann Arbor for dessert. Andy wore his OSU sweatshirt everywhere.

Sophie played with her baby doll.

We all got colds. Caring for the children while sick wasn’t easy, but their cuddles helped quite a bit.

Sophie wore her beautiful poncho, which my cousin Emily made.

I found the exact kitchen island I’ve long wanted on Craigslist, for half the price. Part birthday/part purchased with freelance money, it’s now become a favorite snacking spot for the kids.

Our house smelled like spring much of late February (thank you, Angel).

Sophie fell in love with Nini’s iPad.

The Lapthorn family visited—and brought pizza. Sam and Sophie are close in age, as are their twins—Charlie and Nathan—to our boys. Needless to say, we always have much to talk about when together.

There was a lot of this.

And now we’re airing out the house (thank God) with windows open in March. And soon it will be spring. And summer. More time to get ahead. And fall behind. And so it goes. So it goes.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: It is the time for home.” —Edith Sitwell

Lost Keys

I was cutting bananas, half-awake, bleary-eyed, while Owen and James, in their footed pajamas, clung to my legs pleading for “bana.” Sippy cups of whole milk. Glass of milk for Sophie. Yogurt for Sophie. Cut bread, made toast. Just butter for Sophie. A (little) cinnamon and sugar for the boys. Made coffee. Fed Tucker. Let Tucker out. Let Tucker in. Found outfit for Sophie. Dressed Sophie. Listened to Sophie insist on some modifications (aka red sparkle shoes instead of tennis shoes, bright orange ribbon tied to her wrist, barrettes halfway down her hair). Modified. Brushed Sophie’s hair. Listened to Sophie complain about the necessity of daily hair brushing. Another banana for James. Another piece of toast for Owen. Pleaded with Sophie to let me pin her bangs back, which are growing out so  s l o w l y.

Throughout all this, Andy was getting ready for work. He noticed his keys (the only set we have) on the living room floor (why they were there, I don’t know). He only had to grab his coffee—he thought, he’d get them when he walked back through the living room.

Except, one of the boys got them first.

Gone. Completely gone.

We don’t have a garage. Both our station wagon and van were parked in the driveway, the station wagon (which Andy drives) blocking in the van. There’s no way we can get the van out, because of trees, without moving the station wagon.

Stuck. Totally, completely stuck.

Andy and I looked for an hour. Everywhere. We pulled cushions off of furniture. Crawled around on our hands and knees. Emptied every toy basket and bin. Looked inside the play kitchen’s cabinets, the fireplace, the china cabinet, under the piano, under the buffet, behind the couch, through the cat door which leads down the basement steps. I frisked the boys, thinking one of them may have dropped them down their footed pjs. We gave them the van’s keys and watched to see what they did with them. We asked them, over and over and over, “Keys? Where are the keys?” To which they responded, “Keys, Mama! Keys, Dada! Look! Keys!” They would then drop on all fours, look under furniture, pop up and say, “Keys!” Not helpful.

Andy called into work, saying he had to work from home. We had to tell Sophie we couldn’t take her to preschool (that went over well). Andy and I argued. I claimed he was mistaken, that he didn’t see them on the floor, that they were in a coat pocket or pants pocket or in our bedroom or in the fridge, next to the coffee creamer (I looked there). He went down to the basement (we have a finished room down there) to work. I continued looking. Off and on, while taking care of the boys.

For five hours.

I thought for sure I had found them when I discovered a half-full container of cinnamon in the kitchen trash can. That meant the boys had been throwing things away that morning. That meant the keys had to be in there. I pulled out the container of cinnamon and washed it. And then went through every piece of garbage, piece by piece, with plastic grocery bags wrapped around my hands.

Nothing.

I pulled everything out of the pantry and the pantry’s bottoms shelves.

Nothing.

I rechecked everything.

By this time, my mom had come over. She must have sensed my frustration. (Moms are good at sensing frustration.) She helped take care of the kids while I looked. She looked. Andy spent his at-home lunch break, looking.

It was parents’ night at Sophie’s preschool that night. We promised her we would go. “We’ll walk,” I said. My mom called my dad and he said he’d come after work, so we’d have another car. We promised Sophie, promised her, we’d be able to go.

“Should we call a tow truck?” I asked Andy. “To move the Subaru?”

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In our living room we have a set of French doors that open all the way, against our living room walls. I checked behind those doors several times. Andy did, too. They weren’t there. They weren’t on the floor behind the doors.

My mom was looking, in the crack between the French door and the living room wall.

She noticed something.

This.

Either Owen or James had tossed/shoved/put the keys between the door and the wall and they landed, looped around a hinge.

I squealed and hugged my mom. Andy gave me a I-told-you-they-were-on-the-floor-and-not-in-a-pocket look. Sophie, still upset about missing preschool, asked me if we could have a treat (aka candy) now that the keys had been found (in her mind, any celebration deserves a treat). The boys continued napping.

We have a key bowl. It’s in a cabinet, in our entry. We’re just so bad about using it.

Changing that. Changing that now.

“If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let ’em go, because man, they’re gone.” —Jack Handy

What have your children hidden from you?

Dressing a Ballerina

This week, we signed Sophie up for her first extracurricular activity/class/sport etc. of her life—ballet at the YMCA.

The class meets once a week for 30 minutes and is free with a family membership. She’s been dying to take a dance class, specifically ballet, ever since she went to a preschool friend’s birthday party held at a dance school. She had to be 4 years old, though, to attend the class. She turns 4 March 30 and per the Y’s rules, she was able to sign up the month she turned 4. So we signed her up.

The afternoon of her first class, I was frantically trying to find the boys’ shoes, having not paid attention to the time, having not been used to 4:45pm activities. Sophie was wearing a black-and-white striped dress and, because it was cool, I insisted she wear leggings. As I was putting her (gray) leggings, socks and tennis shoes on, she looked at me, horrified.

“This is not what ballerinas wear!” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“This is not what ballerinas wear! I need shoes, tights, skirt and a little top. Pink.”

“Oh, Sophie,” I said. “This is just a casual thing. No one is going to be wearing an entire ballerina outfit. Your outfit will be just fine, I’m sure.”

Cut to the class.

Every single child was wearing soft pink. Soft pink leotards, in various cuts and styles. Soft pink tutus. And tights. Some soft pink. Some white. And ballet shoes! Everyone had ballet shoes.

Sophie glared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Truly, I had no idea. We’ll get you an outfit.”

Andy left work early to watch her, just for her first class.

“What is she holding?” he asked when he arrived.

“She’s not holding anything,” I said. “She’s wearing a large, plastic, Disney ring from a cupcake she got at her last birthday party. She was worried her outfit wasn’t going to be fancy enough.”

“She was right,” Andy said.

When I played T-ball, I had a uniform. In fact I remember my dad showing me how to tuck my socks into my pants, just like the pros did. Artists wear smocks. Musicians have instruments. I suppose I should have realized ballerinas, even at 4 years old, wear ballet shoes.

So, today, we went to Target.

And now I have a very happy ballerina.

“I wanted so badly to study ballet, but it was really all about wearing the tutu.” —Elle Macpherson


Morning Snow

“Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.” —Bill Morgan, Jr.

The Huffington Post Guest Post: Apologies to the Parents I Judged Four Years Ago

An essay I wrote, about parenting and judging, is featured on The Huffington Post. (I’m thrilled!) You can read it here. And while I’m always grateful for comments on this site, please feel free to comment and share this essay through The Huffington Post site (they encourage that sort of thing).

And the apology is sincere. To the parents I knew four years ago, I’m sorry. I had no idea.

“When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.” —Wayne Dyer

Mother, Protector

I’ve been reading a lot about the tornadoes that swept through our part of the country Friday afternoon. We spent some time in the basement, as the sky grew dark, but the storm spared us. Houses, and people, as close as a county over, weren’t as lucky.

An article I read today talks about a woman, a brave woman, from Henryville, Ind., who lost both her legs while physically shielding her two children from two tornadoes that destroyed her house. Her story reminded me of another mother, from a very different time and and a very different place.

Before I was a mother Andy and I spent a weekend visiting my brother and friends in New York City in December. Our friend Alan, a paleontologist, was at the time working at the American Museum of Natural History. He took us to places in the museum not covered under the normal ticket. One such place was a very large room filled with rows and rows of tall, thick metal shelving. On the shelves were dinosaurs bones. Hundreds of dinosaur bones. Rows and rows of dinosaurs bones. It was incredible.

Near an exit door in this warehouse of dinosaur bones I stopped and spent a long time looking at a perfectly preserved female Citipati—an oviraptor. Her wings were stretched wide and it was obvious that she was doing all that she could to protect the perfectly preserved eggs that were underneath her. According to Alan, she and her to-be-born children were buried in a massive dune collapse. Oviraptors lived, or at least laid their eggs, between big dunes. When dunes collapsed, they buried oviraptors and nests very quickly, hence the preservation.

I think about that Citipati all the time. As I know I will the Henryville woman. So much has changed, since the Late Cretaceous period. And yet,  so much hasn’t.

One of the first places I took Sophie to after she was born was one of Andy’s softball games. I will never forget the shame I felt that day. Someone yelled “Heads up!” This typically means “fly ball” and the “heads up” command means exactly what you think it means—look up to ensure you’re not about to get hit with an errant softball. I never do this, though. Instead of looking up I always look down, an arm sheltering my head, hoping for the best. I know it’s not smart but it’s instinctive, automatic. I’m lucky in that I’ve never been hit.

On this particular evening, though, I was holding my firstborn, a newborn. My instinct should have been to shelter my baby while also looking up. Instead, I ducked, arm sheltering my own head, Sophie blissfully, thankfully, unaware that her mother wasn’t actually a mother yet. We weren’t hit. But I was (rightfully) made fun of, without mercy. The entire situation scarred me. I worried that I didn’t have the natural mothering instinct so many other woman seemed to get instantaneously, upon giving birth. I worried that when it really mattered, I wouldn’t be able to protect my children like a mother should. I assumed the universe had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Many months later I remember complaining about a constant backache. Andy pointed out the fact that I spent my days walking around the house bent at the waist, arms outstretched, following Sophie so that I would be able to catch her, immediately, should she fall while toddling about. When you are searching for a chiropractor Vancouver WA to help with your back pain, it is important to find a company with a strong reputation. Yoder Chiropractic Clinic provides a free estimate and a detailed breakdown of chiropractor recommended treatment. You can also ask for references and check online reviews.

“Stop it,” he said. “You’re protecting her too much. She needs to learn to fall as much as she needs to learn to walk.”

It wasn’t immediate, but sometime between that softball game and Sophie learning to walk, the primal protectiveness all mothers have for their children finally kicked in.

I was thankful.

These days, I strive for middle ground. I swear my heart stops for a moment when Owen or James takes a tumble. A little yelp almost always exits my mouth. I’m fast. I’m good at getting from the living room to the dining room—no matter how many toys are in my way—quickly so that an inspection and hugs and kisses can be given out in a timely manner. But I also know that sometimes, falls have to happen. I can’t be there, arms outstretched, always.

And yet. Should the unthinkable happen, I know—I know—I would give up my legs, my life, for my kids. And although knowing that, really knowing that, doesn’t make that softball game years ago any less cringe-worthy, it’s comforting, to me. It makes me feel strong. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful woman one state over whose children survived two tornadoes without a scratch, thanks to their mother’s arms and legs, outstretched. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful Citipati, tucked away in a museum basement, who did all that she could to save her children, wings outstretched.

I suppose all of this simply has to do with the survival of species.

Or maybe, all of this simply has to do with love.

Either way, I’m comforted thinking about this connection, this sameness we mothers have with each other throughout time—since the beginnings of time. And I’m comforted believing that this deep desire to protect, no matter the cost, will remain, tomorrow, through many tomorrows. Tornadoes hit. Softballs fly. Dunes collapse. And yet we’ll be there. Stretched wide. Saving. Protecting. Braving. Loving.

Perhaps this, this right here, is the definition of mother.

“Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.” —James Joyce

Valentine’s Day

heart sun catchers made with wax paper and crayon shavings

a wooden bowl full of tiny Valentines’ and candy from classmates

my homemade Valentine for Andy, also my first embroidery attempt: a simple backstitched heart on card stock—note the tangles, numerous tries and wasted floss; imagine the cursing

a beautiful orchid from my love

I debated whether or not to give our children something for Valentine’s day. I roamed Target’s holiday-themed aisles contemplating chocolate, small toys that wouldn’t last, yet more stuffed animals. In the end I purchased three children’s books, each with a theme of love. I’m pretty sure they would have been more thrilled with chocolate, but the decision satisfied me. Andy’s mom sent a lovely care package, filled with cards, conversation hearts, chocolate (which Tucker helped himself to) and a beaded heart necklace for Sophie. My mom sewed large, plastic, Eric Carle placemats for each grandchild (more on that later).

After Andy and I put the kids to bed we ate tiramisu (which Andy picked up at a nearby restaurant while I was finishing putting Sophie to sleep), drank too much champagne and watched Downton Abbey. Before I kissed Sophie goodnight I asked her about Valentine’s Day. I asked her about love. She was mostly excited about the wooden bowl full of candy and cards sitting on our kitchen island. But I think she knows. We play a game, almost daily, debating who loves the other one more. She always loves me to her room, to our backyard, to her school, to Nini and Pop Pop’s house, to Grandma and Paw Paw in Baltimore, allllll the way up to the sky and back. I always love her the same—and more. She may not understand Valentine’s Day, but I think she understands love. As, I think—I hope—Andy and I do. Me fretting over a backstitch, Andy buying an orchid even though we agreed not to buy each other gifts.

It’s simple, no? Yes, sometimes. No, sometimes. But there, always. It’s James choosing my lap over an empty seat on the couch. It’s Owen hugging me—clinging to my shoulder, face nuzzled into my neck—when I get him out of his car seat. It’s Sophie loving me to who knows where—everywhere—and back again. It’s same-old seats, on a same-old couch, watching a same-old show and loving it. Love.

Grateful.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.” —Elizabeth Barrett Browning

In the Time it Took the Water to Boil

Andy came home. Both front doors were locked and I had no idea he was standing on the porch, on this blustery February day, peering through the window, trying to convince the children which way to turn the dead bolt. All three kids finally came running and screaming into the kitchen, where I was making simple spaghetti.

“Daddy’s home!”

I unlocked the door. Sophie insisted on doing the rest. What followed was the every-night pushing forward, jumping up, stepping in, arms reaching, tail viciously wagging chaos as James, Sophie, Owen and Tucker all competed to be hugged first.

Andy complimented my hair, even though it was a simple mess of curls piled on top of my head.

I checked the water.

Sophie begged Andy to play monster.

More chaos. Andy on all fours, roaring, roaming about the living room, taking children one by one and tossing them onto the window seat cushions (which had long been pushed onto the dining room floor) and tickling them until they begged him to stop. And then begged him to start again. Screams, laughter, roaring, barking for a good five minutes.

The water began to boil. The monster was tired. I listened to the house slowly quiet as I watched steam rise and disappear—much like the moment.

I held out my hand in front of me, watching as the steam floated upward through my fingers, wishing I could grasp the moment, catch it and put it in the handmade wooden puzzle box Andy gave to me years ago. The box that holds simple memories I’m able to keep outside of me—a dried wildflower picked from a patch of grass along a sidewalk we used to walk on often; a small origami bird made from a bright orange Post-it note; a tiny diamond earring, its match long gone.

I love big. I do. Often, while folding laundry, especially, I wish for more big. But would more big mean less small? If so, I take back my wish. I do.

“The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise. It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us.” —Ashley Montagu