What it means

I just started the dishwasher.  Again.  It can be three times a day.  Plus the ones I do by hand.  But I smile.  Because it means we had breakfast together.  Todd made omelets.  Andrew made us raspberry lemonade.  Bronwyn and Callum donned their little aprons and cut up fruit and topped it all with sugar.  Bronwyn made us all toast.   So yeah, there were a lot of dishes, and the dishwasher is full.  But I’m happy.

Most days I wish Todd got home earlier than 6:30 or 7 (there are a lot of days when we’ve been playing messy that even that’s too early).  But then I think what it means when he doesn’t.  He had a full day of appointments and surgeries.  He stayed to talk with a co-worker who had a question or a bad day.  Or he stopped by a friend’s house to check on her cat.  Better than coming home a bit early like some dark days of winter when work is slow.  It’s better to have a bulging day.  Work was good.  Dinner can always wait a little longer.  We are so blessed to have a dad who can provide for us.  We are so lucky that he has a job.  We’re so happy that he comes home every night.  That he comes home at all.  So many families don’t have that luxury.

It’s a pretty big stack of outgoing mail on the 2^nd and 16^th of the month.  But it means that we have money to pay the bills.  That they’re not just sitting in our cupboard waiting to be paid.  I feel so fortunate that we don’t have to prioritize which ones we’ll send out this month.

A town thrives in the basement where Little People make their way through the carpeted streets.  An ImagiNext ship is docked not far off.  But you know how I feel about things like that.  It means they used their imaginations instead of the remote; they played together rather than in their own rooms with the doors closed.  It’s worth the inconvenience of not being able to work out downstairs for a day or so.

My alarm goes off early.  But I wake up a bit earlier because I hear the clanking of cereal bowls and the rustling sound of bags and lunches being assembled.  The nights are so short.  But hearing these sounds means my boys woke up and are nearly ready to head out the door.  I get up at 5:30, just in time to say a quick prayer with them and to tell them I love them.  It’s so worth foregoing a few minutes’ sleep to be with them for a bit before they leave for the day.

The balls and bikes sometimes don’t make it back to their designated spots right away.  I’ll admit it.  They mostly never do.  And it drives me nuts, like we need to attract any more attention to our littered lawn and loud living quarters.  Dishes surround the trampoline and just the other day I found a plate that had been buried under the snow all winter, along with a steak knife in the middle of the grass.  But it means the days are warming up, they’ve played outside, they’ve had friends over.  We’ve been home.  But they know what to expect, and in a quick couple of minutes it’s all picked up. 

The calendar fills up pretty quickly.  There’s always some kind of list, a loose plan for the day, as well as the night.  But it means we’re a part of some things, that we’ve been blessed to make connections.  Our lives are enriched because of the experiences we’re a part of.

I’m due for another recycling run.  The plastic bottles are spilling out the top, collapsed cardboard boxes teeter, threatening.  But look at all the milk and cereal and fruit we were able to buy.  It means we have a full house still.  We have kids to feed.  We are so blessed to have these reminders right down the steps in our garage.  They aren’t too much in our way.  If we stack them just right.

Another flour bucket is empty.  How they drain so quickly boggles my mind.  But you know it means I’ve been making bread.  And treats.  The chocolate chip bags must also have holes.  I buy cocoa in bulk, pounds at a time.  I’m on my last ¾ cup I bet.  We are so lucky we have time to indulge.  And that sugar isn’t rationed like it was in war-time.  You know how I feel about chocolate chip cookies.  Not a better treat in a lunch if you ask me.

Our four vehicles sit on our driveway, I’ve told you that before.  And I’ve also told you why.  And that it means there’s plenty of room in the garage for Andrew to work on his knives.  To play with fire and his forge.  To grind metal and to blast his tunes.  Hardly even seems like a sacrifice.

There’s always laundry, and I’ve said it before.  It means we have enough clothes for the week, that we’ve had a variety of options.  If I’m doing laundry it means our machines are working.  Hallelujah, happy day!

The sewing table’s a mess.  There are buckets of markers and crayons in the hallway to go back to the craft closet.  Scrapbook paper is everywhere.  The glue gun has been plugged in all night.  Again.  But you know that means they were creating.  That they weren’t just plugged in to machines, glued to a screen.  They were using their hands and minds and interacting with each other and creating what they envisioned in their heads.  It’s ok.  It all cleans up.

Like the gell tub that Callum dropped on the carpet and bathroom floor before church.  But that means he was being self-sufficient, copying his role-model, that we were going somewhere we wanted to look nice for.  A spatula seemed to get most of it.  Again, like most messes we make in our house, it all cleans up.

Part of making our bed and straightening up our room in the mornings entails folding Todd’s pajama pants, putting his socks with the other dirty clothes, and putting away his shaving cream and comb.  I love it!  How sad it would be to not have that little routine, to not have him home to have worn pajama pants and socks.  It means he’s still around, we’ve had another day together, he got up and isn’t drunk in bed or else very, very sick and immobile.  It means I’m sharing a life with a man.  We’re married and have a great life.  I’d rather put away the shaving cream than look at his perfectly cleared sink top because he was somewhere else.  How sad to have no more reminders.

Most nights I crawl into bed, and have just a few minutes before I’m too tired to keep my pages open.  But what a great feeling.  Because it means I had a full day, I was feeling strong and healthy and able to move around, work a bit, interact with the world, and enjoy a range of experiences.  I sigh with contentment.  Which means it’s a wonderful life, and I wouldn’t have things any other way.