little things lately

mom & dad 

My dad's random visits to see us are a ray of sunshine upon my week. He demands his littlest grandchild in his arms, he rounds up all the walking ones to meander across the street for ice cream - I'm tempted think, oh how this military Chief Master Sargeant has softened through the years, but he's always loved babies.

Every Wednesday, Wilder and I meet my mom at a coffee shop and sit outside on the patio and talk about our heart thoughts lately. This is easily the favorite part of my week and I'm always reminded of how grateful I am for this wonderful woman I get to call my mother and best friend.

persnickety peanut butter 

For a decade I have chosen the no-sugar-added, impossible-to-stir (is that on the label? I feel like this should be on the label) peanut butter because apparently, I love being a healthy food martyr. I imagine the amount of hard, clumpy peanut butter I've thrown away could be measured in pounds, and I've seen many rose-colored suggestions such as, "store the jar upside down!" and, "just use an immersion blender!" Alas, these are but hopeful deceptions that lead you to ponder, maybe it's just me.

No, it's all of us. And now I want to give you the real - and only - solution to this problem. Always have two open jars on hand, using one slightly more often than the other (this works well if you live with a bunch of cavepeople who open new Things before previously opened Thing has been emptied) and when you get to the end of one of them, add the clumpy peanut butter to the newer jar. Then take a fork and break it apart and stir it around to the best of your ability. And there you have it - slightly less clumpy, sort of reconstituted peanut butter. Life-changing.

raising readers

I have been faithfully reading to Wilder since he was three months old, and yesterday was the first day he sat in my lap, still as could be, and gazed at the pictures and seemed to be entertained by the lilt of my voice. I read seven books to him before he grew bored and began arching his back as a means of escape. Of course, my mom mind is already dreaming up all the afternoons we'll spend cuddled together reading Narnia, Harry Potter, Misty, and Jean Craighead George.

little house on the prairie

I bring everything back to the Ingalls family. Ma is practically my personal patron saint of homemaking. If I feel like I am making the same meals again and again, I remind myself that Laura and Mary often ate the same dinner of cornbread, pork, and squash on countless nights. If the kids are complaining about being bored, I remind them that Mary and Laura had no idea what Disney Plus was, and all they had one summer was a corn husk doll and a pig bladder ball. If I'm feeling the slightest guilt over not being the type of mom who sits down and plays with her children (but trust me, this guilt does not surface often) I think of Ma Ingalls. Ma would not fathom playing dolls with her children! Read to them, play games with them, and teach them, yes - but imaginative play, she did not. When the cows needed milking, and the floors needed sweeping, and the wheat needed harvesting? Who could imagine, indeed!

The other day, our power went out for an hour and a half. At first (the narrative always goes), this was met by grumbles and big eyes pooling with tears, asking "what if the power is out for a week? What if I can't fall asleep tonight without white noise? What will we eat for dinner? But tomorrow is media day!" We were practically transported to the 1800s on the prairie. I sat in my rocker (just purchased second hand - how appropriate!) holding the sleeping little one, and tsked my tongue. "You'll just have to think of things to do. We will light candles and play games. We'll have bread and glasses of milk for dinner. Maybe the fireflies will finally come out tonight, and y'all can catch some in a jar - that will be fun!" Inside, I was secretly filled with glee.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), the power eventually came back on, which was met with an equal amount of grumbling as when it went out. But it was an enjoyable 90 minutes of complete quiet, absent even of the hum of a fan or the computer in the next room, and the endless possibilities of what could fill our unplugged hours, our imaginations feeling the expanse left by the vanished boundaries of technology. 

And the fireflies did come out that night.

coffee and flowers

Currently listening to: Haven by Nova Amor

In another life, when we had our water cut off people asked (ever helpful) Well, do you buy coffee or make your own? as if denying myself a $2 cup of coffee once a week would have paid the water bill. If only they knew how those paper cups of coffee (handed to me under the dim, comforting lights of the cafe the hushed murmur of voices the chair's crackled leather seat cool on bare Texas legs) were one of the only things that made me feel human after having to leave the five-dollar package of dishrags back on the shelf at the supermarket because to buy them felt too indulgent. Now I buy paper cups of coffee whenever it suits me but only recently have I allowed myself to buy the flowers. It feels decadent like asking for another slice of chocolate cake or staying out late with a friend without paying attention to the time. There's so much I could say about things like fresh coffee and fresh flowers, but I will start with: when it's hard to go to bed at night because you know you'll have to wake up to another day full of hard things it's okay to do the little things that makes you feel human.