All posts tagged: infant

The Inevitable Aftermath of Travel

I’ve written a lot lately on positive perspectives because, in this season of life, it is incredibly easy to operate in the opposite frame of mind. Yesterday, we returned from a two-week vacation in the Pacific Northwest. It was, at times, as slow going as Sun Road traffic. It was, at other times, as swift as cold currents. By plane cross-country and by car through three states, from Montgomery to Dallas to Kalispell to Essex to Spirit Lake to Spokane Valley – and back and forth between Spokane Valley and Spirit Lake a dozen times – all in the name of visiting family I miss dearly everyday. In the throes of such travel, it is the promise of familiar faces – and the pleasantry of familiar places – that fill the hours of travel with joy, not dread. Though traveling with two young children graces that mileage with an extra challenge. Still, I was happy to carry sleeping Izaak on my chest, sleeping Abigail on my hip, and loaded diaper bag on my back from …

Humble Pie at the Playskool Kitchen

One dog forgets his size while the other requires an escort to the backyard. Rufus and Scout. Amplifiers of chaos. Two extra children to raise. When all hell breaks loose, Rufus and Scout are the first to get the boot. “Scout! Kennel! Go!” He’s too swift to spank; I tap him on the butt with the toe of my tennis shoe. He runs in the opposite direction. Hides under the dining room table. Freezes in the shadows until I finally get close enough to scoop him up and just carry him to his kennel. He’s gone in a flash. I give up. “Fine,” I say. “Stay out. Whatever.” You’re small enough to not frighten anyone, though your yap is obnoxious. Rufus at my feet – and legs and hips – turns in the hallway like a yellow school bus stuck on a one-lane country road. “Rufus, move!” When he, like a horse at the stall door, is on the other side of the baby gate, I can finally open the door to greet whomever. Or …

Time is a Gift

When I am an old woman, the vivid image of your gray-blue eyes may flicker and the way she scolded you for crying. The sound of your whimper recalled only by recordings. That funny look that made her laugh, only a photo. One afternoon, the last ten miles home, you cried. She cried, too. Weary of the road, missing her YaYa. We were a family of four on our own for the first time, and the car filled with the kind of desperation that dissipates only when the engine dies. Your week old voice crescendoed. She matched your volume. I would have felt helpless except for your dad, who smiled back at me. Time slowed. I took in the June sun on summer kudzoo; the gray asphalt snaking through farmland, lush, even in drought; the unison of your distraught cries; the hand holding mine. I memorized the moment for myself for tomorrow, next week, next year. For the days when I am an old woman and unable to remember. Remember tough times. Sweet times. I …