When You Are Five

When you are five, you snuggle close to Mama in the top bunk just before bedtime.  After stories are told and a few million questions are half-way answered you say, “Oh, that reminds me,” and roll onto your side, pressing your little bum against her leg.  A sudden “B-rrrrrr” echoes through the room, followed closely by the high notes of a little boy’s giggle.  Mama is surprised and not surprised at all.  The laughter of two sings together at your silly, gassy habits and a prayer is whispered that she may survive the rancid business of raising boys.

When you are five, you scale the kitchen counters like a professional mountain climber.  You eat rainbow sprinkles straight from the jar and handfuls of chocolate chips that are hidden in the back of the fridge.  You leave compelling evidence scattered across the counter tops and in the tracks of chocolate smudged across your cheek.  

When you are five, you still fit perfectly in your Mama’s arms.  There is just a lot more of you to hold.  Instead of the being wrapped in a small blanketed cocoon, there is an abundance of gangly appendages dangling in every direction.  There are bony elbows and knobby knees jabbing and wriggling against Mama’s soft flesh.  Your shins are covered with bruises and scrapes that mark brave ideas gone awry.  And your brow is the most accurate mood ring ever made – revealing all emotion in the height of its arch or the absence of one.

When you are five, you dance in the pouring rain.  Your feet love to walk across the smooth stones that line the bottom of a cold river; you sunbathe in your underwear.  You jump off furniture, wage transformer battles, and love to climb and conquer the branches of a tree.  You play backyard baseball, Old Maid, and race laps through the house.  You love to catch fish, to go hiking, and have been known to occasionally wear clothes.  You are constantly noticing the world, making sense of what you see and comparing it with all that you know to be true. 

Five years ago, I held you in my arms for the very first time.  I was thankful and exhausted and filled with love.  I am still all of these.  It is our greatest joy to watch you grow, to laugh and love, to snuggle and play each day. 

Wishing our sweet Jackson, an amazing fifth birthday filled to the brim with all of your favorites.  We love you so very much!  

Now, go put on some clothes!

yoga in the buff

dancing in the rain

climbing trees by the river

first day at home

seriously, why am I in a chicken suit?

first birthday

2 years old

working on his tan

The Barefoot Life

With spring’s arrival, we shed shoes and socks at our house. This brings great relief as there are never 4 (much less 8) clean socks to be found, and the search for them can consume every bit of ten minutes. Spring means no more sock hunting for me. Instead, four little bare feet now race into the day.  

Bare feet ride on scooters down the sloped sidewalk, gaining speed along the way. As the scooter collides with a patch of grass adjacent to the road, they press hard into the ground, braking fiercely until friction works its magic. They stop and savor the ride for a second before they scoot back up the sidewalk, anticipating another wild ride.

Bare feet walk behind a bubble mower, right next to Daddy as he cuts the grass. They move with great pride in every direction across the half trimmed lawn. Eventually, they gallop toward Daddy and help push the real mower right beside him in perfect parallel lines. This slows the process significantly, but mostly, no one minds.   

Bare feet race across the lawn and toward the chicken coop, delivering apple cores, melon rinds, and old lettuce to the hens. They bolt behind the coop and suddenly stand on tip toe so that eager eyes can peer into the egg boxes. They jump at the sight of an egg or two. Then grass crunches underfoot as their owner carries tomorrow’s breakfast in each hand.

Bare feet splash and romp and prance and stomp. They soak in a muddy puddle that was formed by curious boys wielding a water hose on a lazy afternoon. Pants come off; dirt wiggles under untrimmed toenails while mud splatters porcelain legs.

At the day’s end, four small feet hang over the edge of the sofa exposing adventures in filth and freedom. They are black and grass stained and stinky and caked with dirt. I know deep down that this is the mark of a day well spent. I corral the bare feet into the bathtub and douse them in soap and warm water. I scrub them clean, knowing that tomorrow, all my work will be undone.

For in the morning, bare feet will rise and reign again.