Monday, November 22, 2010

A sweet week~



So last week was really good. Things have been a little slower around here...or a least they're supposed to have been since Dirk's still recovering from his hernia repair surgery. Now if that doesn't sound middle aged - then I have no idea what does. But truly we're not feeling it... after my recent birthday I am that age which conjures up images of women in weird shirts who snort when they laugh. But that's not me or us . I guess it is all relative after all.

Anyway...I digress. Last week was good or it sure looks that way from the rear view mirror of Monday. Little Ainsley has started to speak a bit about our Lord. She calls Him Jeez-ut. Which sounds an awful lot like Cheez-It. She'll randomly (or maybe not) say "Jeez-ut here" or "It's Jeez-ut," which reminds me all the more that these little lambs are angels among us. They are so much more open to the happenings in the spirit realm then we are. We'd do well to pay more attention.

So on my birthday little Ainsley woke up and was calling for me from her bed. "It's scary, mamma," I heard her say. Though she surely didn't sound very frightened. Nevertheless you tell me you're scared and I'll be there in a hot minute. She must have known this trick. But it was sweet, our time together that night. Her warm body nestled in my arms I was drunk on love for her. I know these times are passing by at warp speed. She won't be small enough for me to hold her in my arms for long. When she's sleepy like that she is so supple, so small. She smelled so good as she strummed my rib cage beneath my nightshirt (one of her favorite things to do when it's just we two). When she'd had her fill of milk and was good and sleepy again she simply said quietly, "Blanket, bunny," which meant that she'd sure like it if I'd put the three of them back in that snug little bed if I pleased. That time right there...really was one my favorite parts of my birthday. Sleep interrupted or not.

Then there is Emie. Emerson Hope, the very one. She just slays me with her profoundly sweet heart. While getting ready to go to the Bible study she was leaning over to put on her shoes and lost her balance a bit. She steadied herself by putting both of her hands into my hair. Not on my head but in my hair. Now I love her (a lot) but I surely didn't want my hair all funky right as we were headed out for my one guaranteed social event of the week with grown ups. So I asked her not to touch my hair. Now I didn't snap or yell but she knew I really didn't love that move and she was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry I did that, mamma. Will you forgive me, again?" Oh the tenderness in her. How precious that she wondered (at least for a moment) just how many of these "I forgive yous" a person can expect. I loved that moment. The chance to tell her that I'd forgive her a hundred times a day... as many times as she asked for always. I would always grant her forgiveness when she asked for it. She seemed wonderfully pleased. Glad. Secure. Don't we all need that reminder? He will forgive us ... again.

That afternoon we were having lunch with a few other moms and their kids and she announced, "I'm going to give a lot of my toys to kids who doesn't have any toys at all. They should have my toys." I'm pretty sure I grew about three inches taller in that moment. Though the credit wasn't mine to take. She's so uncommon - such delight.

Then there was one night last week (I honestly have no idea which night it was) when she came in to bed with us. This almost never happens anymore but I have to say I kind of love it when it does. She, like her mother, is a bed hog, so it does make for interesting "sleep". But rolling into her warm little body and smelling her soft hair is everything dreamy to me.

I look in the home magazines decked out for Christmas and I'm full. Filled to the brim with inspiration to make the most precious little felt birdies, and flowers you can imagine. I am ready to hang amazing boughs of greens and light candles wrapped in old sheet music and serve hot buttered rum in heavy beautiful mugs. And then I remember that I don't have any more chance of getting one craft made in the presence of these glue-stick loving maidens than I have to fly to the moon. And hot drinks and hot flames just aren't in the cards unless the girls are well asleep and by that time...I am too. But this season...this moment when they're little and such delight - well that's what makes Christmas beautiful any old way.

Leave a Comment

I blog for comments. . .