What Not To Do

Something to remember in 2008: never leave a toddler alone with a blue, non-toxic marker. Even if she is strapped in her high chair, she still will pull the marker felt tip out of it's plastic encasing with her teeth.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to me!

Raising Daughters

Last night at a wedding, we sat next to the dance floor as the father and daughter took their first dance. In the past, when I have witnessed this, I've been reminded of my own father and my own wedding and my own closeness with him.

But yesterday evening, when they danced, and Chad looked over at me, no words were needed. I began to tear and so did he, as we both looked forward across the next 20 years. We saw him there dancing with our girls. We saw our own labors and triumphs raising daughters; we saw our own girls as women saying goodbye to their daddy.

It was enough to make us hold each other closely as we took the dance floor with the other couples a few songs later. It was enough to make us whisper and let the rest of the party blur as we talked about our own journey. It was enough to make us wonder what the next two decades hold and who will win the hearts of own our little girls someday.

Little One

My father wrote me a letter recently, and in it he sentimentally named me "little one". I am turning 33 and he still called me little one. As I have my own family now, our relationship with its natural ebbs and rises has developed into more of a friendship and mentorship than anything else. But this tender name helps me to remember that he was an adult when I was a baby, and he has lived much more of this life than me. It resonates with me and makes me think about my own little ones.

Little ones have little hearts that are easily crushed, but quickly mended with the right affection and kindness. Little ones have believing minds and moldable thoughts and their trust can be simply broken. Little ones are vulnerable and need protecting; they need their big people to watch for danger.

My little ones are all of these and I quite often forget that I was once a little one. And as my father reminds me, I still am. I am still in need of kindness and a mended heart. I still need my trust in others fulfilled and I am often exposed and unguarded.

I still remember being little. I remember the things that worried my tiny heart and scared me in the dark. I remember feeling the loneliness that is inevitable in childhood and the sting of hurtful words. I remember needing my parents and not being able to fathom life without them (I still can't). I remember my comfort rituals (arranging my animals and dolls on my bed at night, sleeping with my one special stuffed dog). I remember the hate-love-love-hate feelings that sisterhood brings. I remember missing my family if I was apart but enjoying a piece of independence at the same time.

I remember this, and I cannot forget that my two little ones are just the same. I should not interfere with my daughters' comfort rituals even if I don't see the value in her stuffed dog sleeping in its own pillow-house by her bed. I need to take the time to recognize the "littleness" of my girls and the tender places in them. There is no need to toughen them; they've been created soft and the world will bash them around enough when they are older. They are my little ones that I have been given to protect.

Thank you, Daddy, for reminding me that I was once a little one, and in your eyes, I still am. You have helped to remind me of the softness and tenderness of my own two little ones.

East and West

California is the proverbial West. It means West: the Pacific Beaches, the Coastal Ranges. It IS the West.

But we still have the sunrises that burst over the eastern hills. It was the East that made me lace up my running shoes this morning to try to catch it. It was the East that woke me up today.

And I run East when I run up the hill, and over my left shoulder, to the North, are our local mountains, this morning shrouded in fog and leftover snow from last week. My horizon is covered by hills, so by the time I actually see the sun (and not merely the brilliance of its reflection), it is high and mature.

The notions of East and West are difficult for a child looking at a globe. The East goes around and then goes around again, somehow always being East and never West. And the West does the same.

And I think of the One who tells me that my wrongs are as far as the East is from the West. I try to catch the East in a morning jog and I never will; my futility is evident in my slow stride and heavy legs. But I am revived today knowing that not only will I never catch the sunrise, but I will never again know those same wrongs, the ones that are hidden from me in the East.

Able

Chase me, catch me and then let me bake my own cookies. Let me eat the sugar-dough if I can. And by all means, let me put on my own shoes, right feet or not. Let me fight it out with my sister, even if my protests are nothing more than the screeches of a toddler who has been wronged. Mama, let me do all that I am able, and no more.

Mama, give me books to read, ones that are a little too hard for me because I want to figure it out on my own. Let me stir the pancake batter and don't stand over me; what's the harm if a little spills? Let me run to the far end of the park (watch me if you must) to explore my secret-girls-hideout. Let that be just mine to have. Let me work on my art projects at the easel and don't worry about splattered paint: I am old enough to help you clean it. Mama, let me do all that I am able and no more.

Recognition

My husband, with a new sweater and a smile on his face, went to work this morning, even though he was tired. Thank you, dear friend, for your dedication to our family (and for my Christmas surprise!).

Thank you, sister, for your help in the kitchen yesterday and your easy laughter. Thank you for your willing heart and happy eyes. Thank you for my salad bowl, too.

Thank you, Dad and Mom, for wrestling my turkey into the oven and for vacuuming my stairs. You are certainly generous with your gifts but so, so generous with your time. I know you sacrifice.

My mother-in-law and father-in-law, with a beautiful Christmas Eve table set and an exploding fireplace, hosted the ideal holiday gathering even though my mother-in-law didn't think it was perfect. It was absolutely perfect and Hope won't put that silly stuffed dog down. She's been dragging it around by it's "leash" for 36 hours.

Hope's 5th Christmas was one of constant squeals of delight and adult-like expressions of joy as she opened each gift. Thank you dear, for your unabashed amazement at the mundane.

Naomi was in a Christmas-present-stupor by 10 am, but still wandered around with fairy wings over her sleeper pajamas, a cookie in one hand and pink-silvery-wand in the other. Thank you, sweet baby, for allowing us to shower you with our hugs and kisses and wrapping paper.

Thank you for ornaments and waffle-makers; for cake stands and homemade fudge; for gift cards and cookie sheets; I am overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness!

Peace Tonight

Someday, she will carry the weight of embarassment or the struggle of stress on her little shoulders. Not this week. She is almost two years old and it is Christmas.

Someday, she will feel the burden of money or the hurt of a misunderstood word; she will know the load of a relationship that isn't right and she will be responsible for many things. But tonight, this baby-child will stay up as late as her little body will allow, and she will sleep deeply in the safety of my home.

She will be at peace and rest because the world is too big for her tonight. The only world she must care about is the one inside this house. This world is brightly lit and is full of kisses and kindness. The world she knows tonight is calm and familiar, and it is hers.

Someday she will put her own babies to bed and stay up late to assemble new toys so they can find their places next to the tree. She will bake in her own kitchen and clean her own floors. But that night isn't tonight, not for her.

This child will expect, tonight, simply gifts under the tree, and another Child. Because tonight, there is peace.

Mice and Fairies

Today I was able to watch my little girl's eyes light up and hear her giggles collide with all the other young giggles in the theater as we watched her first and my first production of The Nutcracker. The sweetest thing is that I saw this for the first time with my little girl. I've always wanted to see it since I was a little girl and now I was able to share it with her.

I certainly wasn't as wiggly as she was in the second act, but we both laughed as the Mouse King died in a comical way, and both were in awe of the ballerinas on their toes and the jesters' acrobatics. The Russian dancers made her laugh as did the little mice whom she sat up straight in order to see.

I watched a little girl who wants to spin and dance on her toes yawn with the Sugar Plum Fairies' as the music began to make her eyelids heavy. She would lay her head down on my lap for only seconds, then pop back up so she wouldn't miss anything.

Looking over at her face that is becoming older each day, it is reflected in the lights of the stage and I see wonder in it; I see a little girl's dream of leaping high on toe shoes. I see her take in the music and the beauty of the ballet.

And as we drove home later and she fell asleep, I couldn't help but wonder if she dreamt. She might normally dream of galloping horses and open fields of green, but tonight, I wonder if she dreamt the same dream as Clara: of Snow Queens and Nutcracker Princes, of Spain and of Russia, of mice and fairies.

Reset

After a week of green cornflake wreaths, lamb costumes and graham cracker houses, I think everyone is ready for a break from Kindergarten.

Another mother said it like this: she couldn't be a Kindergarten teacher because of the constant bending over to the short tables. My upper back has been in a constant spasm from helping in Hope's classroom three times this week. I am ready for not setting out school clothes or packing a backpack. And like my friend, Linda, I am ready to plan a day of pajamas-until-dinner if I want. I am ready for easier mornings, my own brewed coffee, and my Christmas china.

The swing of the school year, the consistent schedule and rhythm helps us all. But a break is much needed, just like laying my head down at night to sleep. The 6 or so hours I get with my eyes closed and my body at rest is what I need to reset. And Christmas Vacation, I hope, will be enough for me and my girls to reset themselves and ready themselves for a new year.

Reset. Recharge. Be quiet. Rest. Right yourself. Get ready to begin again.

Renew yourself. And definitely wear your slippers all day at least once.

Student

Writing nearly everyday for almost six months has me accustomed to desiring the discipline of quietness. The only environment in which my words are born is a calmness of heart and spirit. It isn't the hearing nothing that I need, but the latitude to have peace and rightness in my heart. I've become used to watching and studying this life.

So now, after writing for something like 165 days in a row, I've come to need this quiet time, this time of contemplation.

I usually find it when I am running, which is why I think, I have to do it. I need this time to reset my heart and my thoughts. I depend upons my runs for this.

I can't always find it. This week, for example, I had so many things to accomplish that it seems like I fell asleep sometime on Sunday and woke up this morning. Most every minute was accounted for in some way and I just did all that I had to do. I just did. But I slept, it seemed. I didn't watch life carefully like I have been trying to do. I didn't take extra time to laugh hard at the cartoons my girls like to watch over and over again.

So maybe, this weekend, tonight even with nothing planned, I might find the quiet and the peace. Maybe I will see inside my husband's words and try to understand my toddler's cries. I might take time to be the student of life that I love to be.

Kitchen Table Lunch

Girls, let's never forget lunches at the kitchen table with dark clouds outside and laughter inside.

I love the safeness it brings: warm meals with you both near me. I know where you are and I am the one caring for you needs.

This is one thing I know I will miss as you age: simple, easy lunches together in the kitchen, sharing the interesting things about our mornings. And there are simple choices: chicken nuggets or peanut butter and jelly, strawberry yogurt or applesauce, milk or orange juice.

I know someday you will both be in school and I will pack lunches for you. I will sit quietly in the empty house and eat my own lunch at our table. And I will pray for you and your day, I will pray for your lunch-friends and that the food nourishes your young bodies where ever you might be eating.

But for now, I will be the keeper of your mid-day meal. I will make you wash your hands and feed you healthy food. I will ask you to take your plate to the sink, but then I will wipe the table and wash the dishes. I will snuggle with you on the sofa while your food settles.

And then you will look at me without the pressure of homework on your shoulders and say, What will we do today, Mama?

I love our kitchen-table-lunches and cozy afternoons.

Letting Her Believe

I am still a little confused about what Hope believes about Santa. I do know that Naomi won't get within 20 feet of him (as witnessed last weekend at our local Christmas Train visit).

In my house growing up, my sister and I were never taught to believe in him, but it was more of a fun, pretending thing. Some gifts would say From Santa; we'd leave cookies out for him, and we did go to get our pictures taken with the nearest Santa at the mall. But I never had the moment when a mean older child told me the truth. My world did not come crashing down because I never truly believed. I remember in fourth grade one of my little friends finally learned the dark truth (a couple years past her peers) and spent her lunch time crying in the girls' bathroom.

I wasn't going to do that to my children. I was going to systematically teach them that Santa was not real, but that we can have fun imagining. I didn't want anyone crying in the bathroom.

Things don't always go as planned. I had thought that I had taught Hope that Santa was not real, that there was no real village at the North Pole and that the Polar Express train didn't really come at night. It isn't as if I am the no-make-believe mom....just the opposite. It is just for this one thing, I thought that the truth was important.

Sometimes culture and friends win out. Last week, Hope asks me...

So, who puts the presents under the tree?

I hesitate. "Mommy and Daddy do."

I know...but after we go to sleep...

Again, "Mommy and Daddy do."

Noooo, after YOU go to sleep?

Right...moment of decision. "Well, I don't know."

Not another word from the backseat and now I'm afraid to ask. She's smart enough that she might just figure it out on her own. On the other hand, she lives in a world where WebKinz and Unicorns have conversations, and horses become princesses with cats as their subjects. I'm not quite sure what she thinks. I've decided that if she CAN believe, despite her mother's its-just-pretend-attitude, I will let her.

Prize

My prize for a long day of mothering never comes before the sun sets.

Any affectionate benefit I reap for being my daughters' mother does not come after the long day of chasing and running after my toddler. It does not come from wrestling two slippery children in a bathtub each night. Any prize I might win for enduring countless whines and demanding requests does not come quickly.

I must wait.

I must wait until the next morning, after sleep has drained the impatience and complaints from their bodies. The next morning will come and all the injustice of the previous day is forgotten in a little mind, and has been replaced with joy.

The prize comes in the sound of footed pajamas padding down the hallway at an early (but not too early) hour when a five year old, holding her special blanket still, says, Good morning, Mama.

It is the calling of my toddler from her crib, Mama! The prize is in picking her up and feeling the firmest hug of the day, the most enthusiastic kiss I will get before the next morning. It is in feeling her wiggle her little body into mine to hold my neck and sighing again, Mama... It is in the bleary-eyed trust of the early morning.

This is my prize. This is what I win for all labors fought. But I have to wait. It is never won the same day.

Ache

My mother reminded me this morning that today would have been my grandfather's 100th birthday. December 17, 1907.

I was only ten years old when he died at the age of 77 almost 23 years ago. When he died, I was more worried about my mother than I felt my own loss for him. I was young and had not built any life with him.

My memories of him are childish, layered with snapshot ideas of hot summers and Thanksgiving tables. And these memories are old, stunted in time and probably influenced more by photos in albums than by my own recollections. But, as I try to call up thoughts of my grandfather, they are rich and peppered with Julys in Northern Indiana, wide open grass and prickly new cucumbers. I see him near a hay barn and old farm equipment; I see him among rows of corn and the dusk's fireflies. These memories are mine.

There are things I could say that are my sister's, and there are memories I could relate that belong to my mother. But we all have our own stories to write.

In all honesty, I must say that the feelings of pain I feel at my grandfather's absence are not that of a daughter for her father. The pain I feel at times is dull, but real. The hurt is not in the "missing", as my mother would feel. My ache is over incompletion, something that has gone unfinished. It was as if something beautiful was begun, but was cut off. My ache is more for a relationship unknown, for conversations never had.

I do not miss my grandfather. Not like a wife misses her husband and the daily things he does, or how a daughter misses her father, the words and hands held. I don't. I wasn't given enough time with him. But the ache is there. Maybe my ache is for my young mother who lost him too soon; maybe the ache is that I am certain he would have been in love with my two girls. Maybe the ache is because I know he might have liked the woman I've become. Maybe he would have been proud.

Treasure

I have long ago given up on the fact that my family will sit as a group, open the Christmas cards we receive one by one, and smile and laugh and joy in the families we know.

Now, with the our busy schedules, the cards get stacked on the counter or the table, and I go through each of them, reading the letters and a relaying any appropriate information to my husband. Then I plaster each one of them to the back of our front door. It is becoming an amazing photo-journal of the lives of our family and our friends across the world.

This morning, the cards that the post brought us yesterday were still sitting in a stack near my sink mixed in with December's bills. During my daughters' breakfast (I had already eaten - standing up...), I began to read each one.

Sometimes there is unexpected treasure in seemingly simple places.

A card, a normal card, came. From a woman in my church around the age of our mothers, this card was beautiful, simple. Pictures of grandchildren, a nice sentiment, and then a typed letter neatly folded inside.

I read the letter and stood dazed. It was a sweet and honest "thank you" for the ways my words had affected her life for good this past year. It was also an encouragement for others to thank the person who had made a difference in their lives as well.

I am humbled and stunned. I am overwhelmed by the kindness of this dear woman. I often live in disbelief that my words might affect any person in a positive way. I am sincerely humbled.

So, thank you, Judi, for your words. Thank you for your candid kindness and openness. Thank you for changing me with your gratitude.

Thank you for this treasure.

I Can

I can. I really didn't want to, but I did. It was good for me and I don't regret it.

I ran 10.22 miles this morning in 97 minutes: slow, I know. I decided to run long, flat laps around a local reservoir, each lap being 1.7 miles. That's six, long, slow times around.

The first lap was stiff and slow. The second lap was defeating because I thought of the 8 plus miles I had left to go. The third and fourth were the "sweet spot" laps when I was running my fastest and I felt invigorated. The last two were just a little numbing: my muscles weren't fighting against my mind any longer; they just did what they had done for the 7 miles previous.

I'm tired now and my feet hurt. But what gets me is that I almost didn't even go out. Really. Some days my motivation just plummets. I'm sure its a combination of stress, being a mother of little ones, exhaustion and too many loads of laundry folded.

But as I did get dressed (two layers on top, one on the bottom, sunglasses, ipod, headband, Garmin, watch, socks, shoes, car key), this is what I thought: I can. Simply, I can. This is something I can do right now. Even if I don't want to do this, I can.

There have been times in my life when ten miles would have been impossible: when I was overweight and out of shape, or during my pregnancies. And there will be times in my future when I can't do this any longer: I will age, my ankles will break down and my knees will most likely need replaced (unless I am the 75 year old grandmother who runs 6 hour marathons three times a year).

Right now, I can. Of course there is the extra ten pounds I carry because I don't really watch my eating very well, but I am in moderate to good shape. My legs and heart are strong, my feet will move me that far, and my husband will watch the kids so I can do this.

I can.

It makes me wonder what else I can do...

Captive Audience

Let me begin by stating for the record that I am not a shopper. Online, yes. In store, I'll pass. Usually. I like browsing, but I usually put whatever I picked up down before I make the effort to buy it. I talk myself out of it.

However, the combination of the holiday as it is pressing upon us and my trip to Europe putting a kink in my get-it-done-before-Thanksgiving habit has forced me into the malls.

Today I stood in a Christmas line at a bookstore which wound far away from the counter and through the aisles of books.

I made friends with the women near me. I moved forward in line. I put something else in my hand (a board book for Naomi). I watched as the little girl behind the counter "broke" her cash register. I stopped moving. One register down. Another manager-esque employee stopped ringing up customers to come to her aid. Two registers down.

Eight minutes and I haven't moved at all. I put another thing in my hand (A book-light)

"Thank you for you patience, please bear with us during this problem. We will have the issue resolved momentarily."

One lady, having made her purchase and was now free from the line, tried to exit the store. Buzzers, lights....her book had not been desensitized. Another employee addresses this problem. Now, there is only one working register. This is why I usually use "virtual" shopping carts.

Twelve minutes with my feet glued in the same place. I choose something else from a shelf near me (a bookmark for Hope's stocking this time). This is the time when I usually put down everything in my hands and head for the door.

I stuck it out; I smiled and was even labeled "optimistic" by the shopper behind me in line.

Register fixed: I now know the login code for this particular bookstore because the manager-looking man practically yelled it into his headset when he was in the middle of the crisis.

I made it to the counter with my original choices and three extra "grabs" as I was waiting in line. As I am thinking about my $74 spent this morning and knowing that about $24 of it was "extra" because I saw it waiting around...I wonder....was it rigged? Did they KNOW I (and others) would place extra items in my hands while waiting? Do they realize it is people like me who make impulse buys that make capitalism work? They must. They put these things at eye level, hand level, wallet level: cheap enough to buy but expensive enough for a perceived value.

I usually pride myself on being able to say "no", to magazine door-to-door kids, to telemarketers, pretty much to anyone who wants me to spend money. I will choose how I will spend my money and I will not be persuaded. Usually. This morning was different. I felt like I was at an all-you-can-stuff-your-face-with place: thing after stupid thing made it into my credit-card-wielding-hands.

My only excuse is that I was truly a captive audience, I was tired and hungry, other people had more stuff than me, I was in the "idiot rows", I was bored, I ...wait, that is more than one excuse. No real excuse except that I was caught up in the buy-it-all spirit of Christmas shopping.

Perhaps I should stick to online shopping from now on from the comfort of my own computer.

Hands

I looked down at my hands this afternoon, and normally, they are soft. But this week, they have been roughened from a combination of the change in weather and a manicure long-overdue. My cuticles need pushed back and my nails need a good file. In general, my hands are overworked and under-pampered.

I usually keep my nails cut short because any longer and I would revert to my childhood nail-biting habit. And, my hands are looking older. Dry wrinkles will remove the youth and smoothness from anyone's skin. They aren't ugly, but in my own opinion, my hands lo0k a bit masculine right now.

To me, this afternoon, my hands looked like my father's.

When I thought of that, it struck me as strange. But actually, in many ways I am physically built like him: powerful legs, broad shoulders, and hands that look the same. I don't just want to be like him in body (healthy and active at 59), but more so in heart and in mind. I want to take after my father in spirit and intensity.

My hope as I age is that not only do my hands look more like his, but that they do the work of this Life with the same passion and fervor as he has. I want to do good and true things and accomplish loyal and faithful tasks as my father has. And strength: I want his strength.

I am going for a manicure this afternoon, and after some polishing and exfoliating and filing, my hands should look and feel more like a woman's. Even so, I still admit I have my father's hands. I am proud to be a part of the legacy of him.

Cost

If it weren't for my husband, my garage would be organized and my counters would be free of clutter, but then, I probably would not have a garage or kitchen to clean.

If it weren't for dance classes, gymnastics practice and toddler play and music, my mornings would be quiet and calm spent with a cup of coffee and a magazine, but then, I would never feel my heart smile as I watch one of them succeed at something newly tried.

If it weren't for little fingers wanting to help with dinner, I would finish quickly and have a hot meal waiting at the table, but then, dinner would never be as fun if it weren't for a 5 year old to thank.

If it weren't for four people's dirty dishes and laundry, I would have all the time in the world to exercise and write at my leisure, but then, I probably would have nothing to write about.

If it weren't for a toddler who likes to dump out drawers and toys, the playroom would be organized and clean, but then, I might not have a reason to keep a playroom and it would become an office.

Everything has a cost; nothing truly comes for free except for our greatest Gift. What I pay each day in stress over disorder, time spent cleaning, and work done with my mother-hands, I reap in benefit thousands of times over. I receive little arms hugging, tiny lips kissing, and pretend tickles on the floor. I receive a husband who adores and provides and daughters who are doing their best to grow up and obey.

I will gladly pay the cost for these beautiful things.

Home

When I met my husband, I begun to believe that home is where I make it. My home is never far away as long as I stay close to the ones I love. And to the ones who love me. To me, my home is where my husband is. And in this stage of my life, it is where my girls are.

However far away I travel from my house, or even my hometown, I am still home with my husband and my daughters.

I create my home in the circle of them.

To you who are far from your mothers or your sisters, to those who are distant from your children or your families, to you who are far from home, remember that you make your home when you are with those who love you.

Newness

I found a trail this morning. I'd actually been searching for it for a couple of years and the whole time it was in my backyard. Mostly flat, a canyon shadowed by oaks, cool in the late fall and it was new to me.

New to me. The concept of newness is sometimes lost on a person whose routines are daily and experiences are repeated often. Eleven years of marriage. Almost 33 years of life. There isn't a lot that is new.

However, occasionally there will be sunrise that I selfishly believe was created specifically for me, or I see the beauty in the ocean's brilliance, even though I've seen it thousands of times before.

This is one reason God gave me children. I was reminded during my canyon adventure that to my girls, everything is new. Life is new, sunsets are new, ladybugs are new...IT IS ALL BRAND NEW! Hope's laughter often shows me that there is humor in the mundane, and Naomi's smiles suggest that there is so much joy to be had that I just don't see. The newness of it all excites them, invigorates them an propels them to run wildly at the park to really try to catch the one last butterfly.

Girls, the world for you is new! It is something to engage, to seek and to play with. Stare at the minute particles of the beach-sand and study the birds above. Chase the dogs and gather the eggs. Ask a hundred questions. Don't let your heart become bored. Explore and reach. Climb and think. It is all new, and it was created just for you.

Window

Orange tree. Barely-moving white clouds. A hill-top covered in the brownish-green Californian shrubs. Wide stretching coastal oak tree, still dropping old leaves. My view from my window this morning.

Sitting at breakfast earlier I also had another window-view.

We sat next to a group of senior citizens, 4 women and 1 gentleman, none of them less than 75 years old. In this town, we've noticed several senior homes, more than what is proportionately common, so to see an group of old friends having breakfast seems normal.

We were close enough to listen to their conversation, lively and full of laughter, and that was all the entertainment we needed. In fact, we stopped talking with each other, and simply smiled across our table at the different topics they covered and the way they related to each other.

They were obviously old friends from a small town, and knew each other's cousins and children. They talked about childhood obesity, the theater, Death Valley, Christmas cards, and technology. One thing struck me as I ate my boysenberry scone (so good!): there was no gossip or bitterness in anything they spoke of. They were happy to be together, to eat good food, and to share in their long lives lived.

It seemed like I was able to see, as through a window, into the lives of these people, and catch a glimpse of what life could be like after I've passed through the stages of life I am currently in. I just grabbed a 45 minute look, small in comparison to the length of life they've lived, but a window-view into what life can be.

I don't have to become bitter as I age. I don't have to be alone. I can still enjoy the company of good friends. I will have grandchildren and they will grow and my children will struggle with parenting. I will resist technology, but it will be something to joke about. I can laugh, even if my face is riddled with wrinkles, and my smile will still be sweet.

Nest

I've eaten too much and I haven't run nearly enough (Actually, not at all since Thursday). I'm relaxed; I went shopping this morning and I spent way too much time in the shower this afternoon. I ate almost a whole pint of Chunky Monkey last night and I watched nonsensical TV from our bed for several hours.

I'm away for the weekend with my best friend.

We are nesting in a little inn in the tiny town of Ojai. In an large oak-filled canyon, Ojai is sandwiched between the civilizations of the Central Coast and Los Angeles about 30 miles south-ish of Santa Barbara and about 50 miles north of where LA begins.

Its quiet here. Even the town is quiet: the Christmas shoppers have already come and gone for the weekend, searching for nuggets along Ojai's main shopping Arcade. Its quiet, and calm and cold. Our fireplace keeps our room cozy and our conversations thoughtful. Even my soul feels at rest this afternoon.

We only feel like we are missing one thing, or two little fresh-faced things, to be specific: our girls. We have built a family that includes two precious daughters, and when they are not with us, however long our walks can be and however relaxing our mornings are, we still feel the weight of the holes that are left.

The are in the capable hands of my parents and I don't worry about them, however, I feel their absence. I know Hope would have shared the Chunky Monkey with me.

But I also know that this time is needed, to build a quiet place, a nest, with my husband. We need the time to be able to simply read and look out the window at the coastal range and watch the clouds darken the peaks. I need the time to linger over coffee with my best friend, to begin and end and begin again the same conversation without losing my place. We need this, I need this.

Honest Hope

The sun is rising late these mornings and I didn't get up to run. I should have because the sunrise was truly glorious. I did see it from my bedroom window and it was almost surreal. The moisture of this December morning was caught between the hills and made a mist, that in the dawn, was pink. The moon was still up, a sliver above the purple cloud.

I left the shutters open as I made my bed and brushed my teeth. And as all sunrises do, the pinks and purples faded. What was left was golden clouds in a clear blue sky.

My Hope walks in and notices the dissipating sunrise. Beautiful, Mama! Look at all the colors!

I only notice the blues and golds. She says, I see blue and peach and yellow...

I tell her that she should have been here ten minutes ago, and then I describe the deep purples and pinks I saw before she woke up.

I seek pinks, Mama, I do! Look there!

The pinks have actually gone by now and there are none left. She wants to see the pink, she is optimistic that some remnant of the purple-pink sky is still there. She has hope. Her hope is honest and true and searches for the best in what she sees. She notices what I cannot see.

I smile, and nod, and say that I think she's right. Maybe some pink is left in the sky and I am sure that she sees it.

She smiles too and takes in the beauty. I am reminded that there is truly always hope, and its okay to see the best, the most beautiful in something, even if it is very faint.

Reach

She turns so quickly that I can't focus my camera on her eyes. Or her smile. She spins out of reach.

It seems like I am always reaching for her at this stage: she is running, she is tumbling. I am chasing and catching. She turns away from my camera as if to hide shame she hasn't yet discovered.

I wonder how long it will be before I catch her. Or maybe I will always be reaching and running for her.

Physically, today, she is within my grasp. I can touch her; I can certainly throw my arms around her and hold her close to my body.

I don't know if I will be able to reach her, capture her smile, in ten years. In twenty years. But I know that today I can hold her. I can clasp her blue eyes in my heart, if not in my camera.

Breakable

I am a chair with the fourth leg too short.

In general, I am fragile, wobbly. My confidence, my self-assurance is at best tenuous and at worse, completely unstable. I am a chair that doesn't sit right.

When I think about it, I am very easily broken. Small words and minutiae humble me.

Sometimes, I think that I can hold my own in a debate, I can use my words to get things done, I stand firmly in my convictions. Sometimes I think I am confident.

But then, as if the steel girders of resolution were never there to begin with, I falter, I shake, I wobble. I break.

There have been times in my life when broken is good, when I've been calloused and false. When the callouses fall off, the shattering is a means to healing.

But this breakable is different. And as I recognize my own deficient fragility, I realize this vulnerability in my own daughters. In their small world, I am almost god-like in my reactions to them, in the words I speak to them. It is my choice to become upset or to remain calm, and these decisions profoundly affect my girls. I alone can send them instantly into tears: they are as breakable as I am.

I know that I must keep this in mind all of the time: how like me they are. Their little spirits, their hearts are fragile and even within my own instability, my breakability, I must try to keep them intact.

My chair is wobbly, and as a mother some days are much more shaky than others, but I know that I must not allow myself to falter too much. I have two little girls who see me as solid and confident, even if I do not see it myself.

Lighting

Californians are silly. At least those of us who live in the south. We wear scarves and hats and gloves and heavy winter coats when it dips below 50 degrees. And we wear flip-flops. I guess we just try so hard to make it feel like winter, we want to dress the part.

And when we go out at night, to our city's Christmas Tree Lighting, we do so to feel a part of the community that can be so lost in our Orange County megalopolis. We want to feel the small-town-ness that is here in small pieces, in glimpses of the lights strung across the early-century old town streets and the smells of kettle corn and cinnamon buns being made at the food booths. We want to feel close to others who live here too, even though we don't know most of them, but we pass them in the market each week.

We let our toddler run around the fountain in the center of the plaza, taking turns in the chase. We allow Hope to explore the Nativity scene and wander, within sight, to look for her friends. We find a bench and take a seat to wait for the carols, the lighting, and for the program to begin. We watch as one of our friends, a young man with so many disabilities he seems to have overcome, is invited to light the tree. This makes us feel even closer and more connected to our city.

We find at least eight families we know throughout the evening, reconnecting, hugging, saddened we don't talk more. Community is here, even in the cold and with those we do not know; even in the thickening crowd.

The tree is lit, and people begin to walk back to their houses or cars in the dark. And even though it is cold for us, and I am wearing my scarf, it feels warm because I know I am part of the heart of this community.

Orchestration

Time spent with oldest of friends can be the sweetest.

With a few more lines around our eyes and a few more children added to our circle, we are thankful. Simply thankful. More laughter than I've had in months, we've been busy raising our families and moving forward in different parts of the world. The ease of many hands working together and shared experiences make our time sweet and comfortable.

Thank you, Michele, for honesty and transparent laughter.

Thank you, Chrissie, for bravery and beauty in uncertainty.

Thank you, Lisa, for strength and self-knowledge.

Thank you, Debbie, for your quiet heart and wisdom.

Our lives, where ever they are lived, are single melodies in the Grand Orchestra, and together, even for a short time, sound even sweeter.