It is Thursday. My favorite day of the week. . .because there is so much promise of rest and family ahead. Tomorrow I get to wear jeans. . .and a t-shirt to work. Tonight, I got to cook an easy dinner and listen to my husband and children laugh as they watched the Three Stooges (Thad could very nearly not breathe.) while I sat in front of the remains of our fire.
My “clean” house (from two weeks at home and having company over) is moving back the other direction. On the floor around me at this moment I can see:
four different types of pencils in four different colors.
two 7th grade text books.
flash cards for a Texas history final.
a James Avery catalogue.
two computer games.
a pack of Post-its.
a multiplication chart.
a tube of Neosporin ointment.
a Geronimo Stilton book.
two scraps of paper
a long, skinny Tootsie Roll wrapper (Tootsie Roll impulsively ingested by me just moments ago.)
a wash cloth.
and the recent addition of a husband.
and also a jingle bell from our Christmas tree removal a couple of weeks ago.
I had a co-worker, a friend, tell me the other day, “Y’all are like a painting.” Meaning my little family. “Perfect kids. Perfect house. Perfect marriage.” He didn’t say it in an envious way. . .more of a “that really can’t be real, but I kind of hope it is” way. And it isn’t real. . .unless the painting would include arguments, pouting, tears, disobedience, and a lot of dirty laundry along with the love and laughter–the fires and hugs and inside jokes–the family time and the constant strain of balancing it all. I don’t think I try to exude or even imply perfection. I think what I can’t CONTAIN–what I can’t HELP but exude is happiness. Joy. Contentment. Those are blessings from God. Every. Single. Day. This painting of mine. I also know that it’s not finished–there is always room for more light and more shadow to fall. There are moments of complete and utter peace and other moments of white-knuckled terror. But his comment made me think–things both positive and negative.
The fire is dying. I like to poke the embers. There are times when they sound like glass shattering. . .and this batch of wood tends to pop and explode sending little showers of orange sparks onto the hearth.
Tony has draped part of a blanket over my left shoulder. He is piled next to me on the carpet with the majority of the blanket draped over him. This is not selfishness. I have the fireplace (throwing some AWESOME DRY HEAT) on my side. Half of me is baked. Does that mean I’m half-baked? HA!!!!!!!!!
This is me. . .this is what it sounds like when I write a letter to my letter writing buddy. This is up with which she puts. Maybe my blogs are this way too. I don’t know.
What I do know? I know that:
Tomorrow is Friday.
There is hot wassail in a pot on the stove (made by Tony. . .that man has a domestic side when he wants to).
Thad is getting clean (or the water is running so at least he is in the general vicinity of clean).
Victoria’s legs are VERY, VERY long. . .and her waist is VERY, VERY small which makes buying jeans a nigh unto impossible process. (Carolyn recently, and wisely told me to pray for warmer weather when she can wear capris.)
Tomorrow is Heather’s 2nd birthday and her parents’ 5th anniversary.
I am reading The Solace of Leaving Early by Haven Kimmel. And it is good.
I guess outside of that there are lots of other things I know. . .but none of them seem too important at this moment. Time for wassail and bed.