Making up after a fight should be measured in inches, not words.

It is the inch I lean away from him when he tries to put his arm around my shoulder in a silent apology. It is the half-inch I step to the outside when he moves toward me.

Measure it in the three inches I set my gaze downward, toward the ground, as I meditate on the hurtful words in my mind; in the slight turn of my face.

But then, measure the reconciliation in the inch I lean my ear to him when he whispers, “I was wrong” even though I know he wasn’t. Or in the 6 inches my hand travels from an angry crossed-arm stance, relaxed downward to grasp his…and then the inch further when my little finger wraps around his.

And then watch reconciliation in the 12 inches of arm I press against his, shoulder to shoulder, down to our elbows.

Small movements, very few words. Sometimes my pride is too deep to lurch out of. I need to leave it behind, inch by inch.

I think I worked off all my calories from Thursday. And I left them in San Marino.

We spent yesterday chasing after the girls through 120 acres of gardens at the Huntington Library and Gardens. I carried my 60 pound first grader on my back up a road named “Steep Incline” and I wrestled a screaming toddler to a time out position more than once. We walked/jogged/ran through the Chinese, Japanese, Rose, Shakespeare, and Children’s gardens.

I dragged my uninterested 6 year old through the European Art exhibit and showed her the Guttenberg Bible and Ellesmere Chaucer Manuscript in the Library. And then we played tag on the lawn.

I am exhausted. Black Friday well spent.

What did you do on Friday?

We are not in Atlanta, but have remained in sunny/rainy/windy Southern California for the holiday.

However, I couldn’t let the day go by without thanking my dear friend Annie for leaving me my new favorite cookbook back in June when she came to visit.

I haven’t made Joe’s Meat Loaf (p. 80), or the Carmelized Onion Elk Roast on page 64. I’m sure the Salmon Souffle on page 89 and the Black Cherry Salad in the Jello Chapter are great. But I chose to simply recreate a “Downs Family Thanksgiving Tradition” in the form of a Pumpkin Chiffon Pie.

So, the California Markleys say Happy Thanksgiving to the ATL and everywhere in between.

This one will make you laugh. Watch for my long-haired husband. And watch me ALMOST DROP THE PIE. Yes I do. About 2/3 of the way through.

But don’t watch for my zit. It was at the end of a long day. A long day.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Happy Thanksgiving, Atlanta from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

What an exhausting, but fun morning at Disneyland with one of my bestest, oldest friends. It was way too short. Our kids were cranky and tired but we managed a few rides even so (yes, Hope, the tram is considered a ride).

If you look closely, you can see Sleeping Beauty’s castle decorated for Christmas behind us.

Thanks, Lisa, for capturing us with your creativity!

Photo Credit: Lisa Leonard

Here we are. Sorry we are a day late.

Me and the giant, scary birds.

Big Scary Birds from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

We got out the crayons tonight on the floor of my first graders room.

She opened up a Jumbo Christmas fun book tonight leftover from last year filled with word searches, dot-to-dots and coloring pages. She got out her art kit and went to work. After awhile, she ended up on a page (opposite an outline of a chubby laughing Santa) titled, “Wish List” and started in.

She wrote HORSE first. Then she went back and wrote “TOY” in front of it. I asked her why she wasn’t wishing for a live horse (because there is always maybe and someday). She told me this is her REAL list, not her dreaming list. A little part of me felt sad, like she had already lost a piece of her childness already.

Because I am at a loss for what to actually get her for Christmas this year, I was eager to see what she would write next. I asked her to fill in the rest of the list.

She said, “How do you spell ‘American Girl Doll’?”

A, M…

She stopped and shook her head. I asked her if she really didn’t want one.

She said, “No, I just don’t want to be greedy.”

And that was it. She left the rest of her list blank and went on to another word search for the names of Santa’s reindeers.

I smiled and decided not to make her fill in the rest. If she felt that way, I wasn’t going to quell that.

Greedy. What a lesson for me, as I walk through Target and the Mall and make my mental wish lists. Greedy. Even the dreams I have of Europe and maybe Hawaii again someday; my travel wish lists. Greedy. I try not to think even of the things I want to buy for my kids someday, the kinds of experiences I want them to have.

I’m trying to learn the secret of being content. I want to be satisfied, whether we have much, just enough or not enough at all. I want to be happy with my toy horses, and move on to more important things.

I can’t figure out if I just dreamed an earthquake last night or if it really happened.

Whatever it was, it woke me up. But dreams have been known to do that too.

Usually, when earthquakes happen in the middle of the night, I wake up as they are beginning and I am awake through most of the shaking. Which is odd, because most earthquakes we feel only last a few seconds.

But last night (I think) at about 1 am, I woke up as the shaking was ending and I knew exactly what was happening. My husband was still asleep, but I would never expect him to wake up for something like that. In fact, I usually have to hit him several times when I “encourage” him to turn off his alarm in the morning.

I heard the shaking and felt it, and then heard everything settle like it does at the end of a quake. Now I was completely awake with the adrenaline/blood rush that happens in the middle of the night when you know something just isn’t right.

Or it could have just been Chad turning over in bed. That tends to make the mattress jiggle sometimes too.

And because I’m not really sure about the exact time of the dream-quake it makes it difficult to decipher the already confusing USGS website.

So my answer is “probably”. There are enough earthquakes happening in California all the time that I probably did feel something.

And then I realized how faulty my memory really is. There might have been a detectable earthquake, there might not have been. Even the website doesn’t help much to make me decide.

How often do I remember things wrong? Sometimes we remember things better than they were when they happened: we add a rainbow and some clouds when there was really a screaming toddler and a dirty diaper. But then, I am thinking, I remember things worse than they actually were: I insert sarcasm in someone’s voice tone or anger in their intention when those things are just my own personal creation.

Eathquakes aside, we rely on our memory for so much “truth” that we probably need to be careful to be observant, give grace, and look at things on the bright side when possible. And remember that it might just be your husband turning over on his side of the bed.

We have secrets.

Oh, they aren’t the adult-style, shatter-your-known-existence type of secrets. Our secrets are the whisper-in-your-bedtime-ear, giggle-when-they’ve-been-spoken kind.

When I put my littlest to bed, she wants a prayer, a song, a story, and a secret.

For our prayer we collect our day’s events and thank God for them. We also thank him for our family and friends and all the things that make sense to a two-year-old. I always sing to her “Jewels”, an old children’s hymn that my mother sang to me. And the story always begins like this:

“Once upon a time there was a little baby princess named Naomi. She lived in a big princess castle with her sister Princess Hopey and her mommy, Queen Mommy and her daddy King Daddy. And one morning…”

Every night. Every time I begin a story this way. We sing the same song and we pray. We have a routine.

And then we tell a secret. She pulls my ear close to her mouth and tells me about something that is real in her world or in her imagination. It is usually 3 or 4 words, something sweet and silly. And then I think of one to tell her in return. It is intimate. And it is quiet. And in the nightlight-dark of her room, we exchange ideas that will certainly not change the course of the world, but will change the course of our hearts.

And, I’ve been dying to tell you what we say to each other. But I can’t. Its a secret.

I’m going to do this in the style of my good friend Annie, because I have learned most of what I know about funny from her.

Oh my word. I checked my Google search terms yesterday (because of Annie’s post, again). Among a rather weird and at times disturbing collection of terms, the following searches led people to my blog. Somehow. Honest.

Will a spin class a day make me skinny? I have often wondered this myself. But the answer is NO, taking indoor cycling every day will not make you thin; it will only make you cranky and tired.

Beautiful women with gray hair. Thank you very much; I confessed I found ONE white hair, but seriously, I don’t have a head of silver locks (this just made think of the lady on the Clairol bottle with a salt and pepper perfectly coiffed flip).

Why does my living room smell rotten? I must admit I have thought about this but I would never belive the internet would have the answer. Yes, the corners of my tiled floor collect goldfish cracker remnants and stale cheese, but rotten? Only when we lose a sippy cup of milk under the couch.

I hate my husband’s whining. While this is true, have you really heard me lament about his whining? My kids, yes. My husband, (although he does have his moments) is relatively whine-free.

Fake pictures of adults and kids smiling. Really? Come on. We are not fake. We are real people. Although Mandy has been known to do a fake laugh or two.

Chad’s diapers. Maybe in about 40 years.

I am 33 and do not know what to do with my life. Wow. Did they read my mind?

Mary Lou Retton barefoot video. Weird.

Stay at home mothers, complainer. Okay…I have read blogs that complain. Really. You know who you are and you know you have read them. But, really, do you think I complain? I think I just tell it like it is. No complaints. I really try not to. And why would you search for that anyhow? Why would you WANT to read complaints. Sheesh.

Are small sandollars babies? Yes.

Aerobic g-string leotard. I have never worn one. I will never wear one. And I will never blog about one.

AND…the creme de la creme…

Hot soccer moms in bathing suits. YES! No, seriously. I am not hot. There might have been a brief period between kids, but I wasn’t a soccer mom then. Like really brief. Like for 5 minutes. And, I will never, of my own free will, pose in a bathing suit for any camera of any kind.

I can’t think about who was searching for grey-haired, barefooted, purposeless smokin’ hot soccer moms in bikinis, but they ended up here. Gotta love it.