The last time all of us had gotten together had been my Uncle Mike's funeral, and it was raucous and big - not at all like this. We sat on the floor, the lone bench, with babies still strapped in car seats, and circled each other like kindly lionesses.
So it seemed God-given when a woman in my church approached me yesterday at coffee hour with another woman I hadn't met. We lit candles, and set them afloat in the tub in Larissa's garden.
We went so far as, when looking for our house, half-joking with our real estate agent that this room or that room would be good for the foster kids.
Of running springily up hills. When we arrived home, it was obvious my dreams of turning the boys over to daddy for the afternoon so I could devote every moment to working were for naught. I have daydreams of lying on my bed on my stomach, typing on my laptop. " Even though he's grown up big and STRONG! That barn meant something to me.
And I won't ever be able to come again.
I wished I had something prepared, some anecdote or advice request that would demonstrate my commitment to this community.
I stood him on my crossed calves, looking out at the other babies and mamas.
Maybe if I just want it enough? I was thrilled upon entering Larissa's home at the attendance. Once Jonathan gets home from his "duty," and we finish fixing up the other two of our three bedrooms, theoretically, we could handle a foster child or two, especially young ones.
Or something of the sort.
And finally, it was our turn. A year and a day ago, I posted my first item to this blog.
I fed Everett orange pieces and remembered things not on my shopping list and kept under budget. During Warrior Two, Emmett wouldn't let go of his mom's pants drawstring, and when he did, he grabbed her pant cuff and sucked as if he might inhale the entire garment.
At the farmer's market, as I furiously spent money and gathered fresh-made goodies, he grew more tired and impatient at every step.
And I can't figure out why I, a work-from-home mom with an involved baby-daddy in the picture, should be having such a hard time with guilt. The last time all of us had gotten together had been my Uncle Mike's funeral, and it was raucous and big - not at all like this.
He's eating like crazy, and he has this special sense of zen that is all his own. The birth was frustrating, glorious, painful and joyful. " The attic is the "hole" and, no, the ghosts are NOT up in the hole.
Everett and I loved that place.
We sat, and waited, and changed diapers and shook off the haze of a late morning when none of us sleep. The next month, they were open, serving Stumptown Coffee and fried egg sandwiches that left me salivating for days.