in this moment:: weekend eight (or nine...I've been slacking)

In this moment::

I am:: spending a lot of time in our rocking chair.

I am:: trying to soak up the simple pleasures of summer, like reading outside in a warm breeze

and taking time to notice the beauty of bubbles that climb the stems of pansies in glass

and watching my children watch the rain come down.

I am:: all about the mini dress. Because, well, just look!

I am:: grateful for the abilities Noah and Max and Lizzie have for reminding me how to play.

I am:: amazed that it is almost August.

I keep coming back to this awareness or understanding or prayer, this knowing of life gliding by so quickly. Because of that, we must be willing to stop and notice-- no, more than notice-- to stop and breath deeply and appreciate the simple and lovely, like the dance of wind on a blade of grass.

Saying goodbye

A few nights ago, I sat at the edge of Noah's bottom bunk. His sheet was curled around him, a shroud covering even his head. He was so still, like he was already asleep. I waited, listening to sounds outside; the slow buzz of a bee at dusk, the building winds whispering rumors of a storm sitting somewhere on Lake Michigan; a motorcycle revving miles away. I waited, because I knew at some point the rock still lump beneath the sheet would give itself away. There would be a shudder or a swallowed onset of tears.


One of Noah's best friends moved away on Sunday. And by away, I mean a distant island called Unalaska, in Alaska.

Google it-- distant is probably an understatement.

We did the sleepovers and the as-much-time-as-possible play-dates in the weeks leading up to Liam's departure. We did the reminders of emails and skype accounts and summer-time visits. We even got a blank book out and had them start writing a story together, to be mailed across the miles and written in by each of their hands.

Still, the first time you have to say goodbye to someone so important is never easy.

Slowly, the sheets began to rustle. My boy's sandy blonde head appeared, tears welling in his eyes.

"I miss him already," was all he said.

Curling up beside my firstborn, I tucked his head beneath my chin and sighed.

I said nothing. I just tried to get our breathing in sync, a trick I learned was so calming to him as a baby. His legs stretched so far down the bed our toes almost touched. I realized just how big he was getting. I realized how soon I might be grieving miles of separation with those I am raising to go their own way. And I tried my hardest to let those thoughts pass with the billowing clouds outside. I tried to go back to our breaths, to be there in a way that said nothing, and everything.

Because sometimes, it is the silence we need the most.

Upon Returning

Today, Max and Lizzie both curled up with me-- one on each leg-- and rocked on the front porch. The air smelled like rain and felt like the after steam of a good bath. Weighty clouds hung lazy in the air as pockets of blue began opening around them.

We were waiting for Noah to return from sailing and stretching the post-nap wake-ups with the rhythm of the chair and the sound of its rocking against the wood boards beneath us.

It was quiet. It was unhurried. It was just enough time for me to listen to both children, their breaths and slight sighs. I noticed the way Max's legs nearly reached the ground as they dangled over mine. I smiled at how Lizzie's hair was indistinguishable from my own. We rocked and we watched the world without a place to go or a thing to do.

And that, my friends, has been our motto these last few weeks.

Where I live, the Fourth of July draws more folks into town than any other time in the year. We have parades and art fairs, huge fireworks and lots of friends from afar in town. It is a non-stop party, for the kids and adults alike, and by around July 7, we all very nearly fall apart.

So we go on stay-cation.


We hunker down, we hang out, we make last minute plans and plenty of trips to the beach. The laundry piles up and then dwindles down. The dishes get done in the morning, maybe. We eat with friends and we let bed time roll around when it seems right-- which sometimes means 7:30 and sometimes borders on 10 p.m.. For me, this deviation from routine can be tricky. I've been known to fret about what it says about my mothering or my ability to stick to the rules.

And then it only takes on evening of flipping through photos from the last few weeks to realize that these are the moments that are defining our lives. Little laughs and late nights, quiet glasses of wine on the porch and noise-filled evenings with friends-- this is the stuff of being, the joy of raising a family.

Just take a look:









These pictures make me realize that my children are so in-tune with stay-cation rhythms. They know when to speed up.

They know when to slow down. Um, okay, that might be a stretch.

They know when to go wild (as in, bumper cars a-la cozy coupe action)

and when to hang out with a board game or a book.

Nothing stands in the way of them living in the moment and they remind me of the bliss that comes with doing the same.

It makes you smile, doesn't it? It makes me celebrate the choices we make, big and small, that allow us to live in this place. It makes me look forward to what tomorrow will bring-- but more importantly-- it makes me soak in right now (soaked is a very literal term, as I've just returned from dinner via a friend's boat and am truly sopping wet. to. the. core. Presently am ringing out my ponytail. Thank you, Lake Michigan).

In this moment:: weekend seven

In this moment

I am:: finally finding the rhythm of summer. And it involves a lot of this

and this

and, of course, this.

I am:: still smiling about a week spent with friends, new and old and in between. Dinners and play dates, girls nights and coffee breaks. Also, am realizing I don't talk and shoot pictures very well, which is why I have no options to illustrate my point.

I am:: loving the morning-till-night hours spent playing outside that make falling asleep, mid-book, on the couch, a daily event.


I am:: probably gaining five pounds a week from eating ice cream cones. But when you live in a town where it is normal to see kids eat ice cream in their pajamas-- on Main Street-- well, it just. can't. be. helped.


I am:: remembering to be awed by the fact that this is my life. While there are reasons to think about leaving-- jobs, lower costs of living, less seasonally-driven work-- the fact remains: we are still here. We choose this place because of the way we become extensions of water, woods, fields, beaches.

We choose this place because of the colors sunsets splash across our children's faces,

the way sand is always in the sheets,

the way we know our roots have dug into the earth, deep and rich with gratitude.

In this moment:: weekend six

In this moment::

I am:: obsessed with baking, which I have never liked in my life, but suddenly adore, particularly when baking with rhubarb.

And chocolate chips,

although I've yet to combine the two.

I am:: loving the vintage finds I keep scoring, like these painted wooden folding chairs, the perfect addition to a long stored antique wooden bistro table.

I am:: sipping sun tea every day. Because there is something about sun tea, and summer, that make me sigh in the best of ways.

I am:: observing summer through the eyes of three ages: the wonderer;

the watcher;

the one who is beginning to understand it all.

I am:: noticing that all of these things take time. The baking, with its ingredient preps and kneading or stirring or waiting, brings moments of meditation. The thrifted treasures were around for many years before making it to our home, and still, they stand strong. Watching a pitcher of water seep into a deep amber as the tea spreads through it somehow feels like slow motion magic. And tastes that way too. And then, there are those three little people. Who have been doing a lot of this

this week, and testing me again and again on patience and parenting presence. But still. One look back at this week's worth of pictures, and somehow, I return to center. I remember this time will not last forever. And yet, I do so wish it would.

Talking about my girl

I'm going to be pretty much wordless today. Because this girl leaves me speechless (and smiling) a whole lot.




Sometimes, mamas feel things that are so big, and so raw, that I'm fairly certain there are, well, there are. no. words.


Quite simply, all I could do today was look through a lens and smile. Because I'm in love.

In this moment:: weekend five

In this moment::
I am:: loving the long-awaited return of date night. Especially because it is summer, and we live where we do, and we found a sitter that can get all our children to sleep. On time.


I am:: amazed at the difference a year makes.



I am:: reaping the good foods of our local farm and even more, reaping the joy that comes with our children spending time there each week.



I am:: celebrating the return of eating every meal outside.

(sunglasses optional)

and of family bike nights.

and dirt. Lots and lots of dirt.


Ah, summer. Welcome back. We've missed you.