The other evening, my 8-year-old daughter tugged on a pair of black-and-white soccer socks.
"Did you put your shin guards on?" I asked.
"Yes, but can you fill up my water bottle while I tie my shoes?"
I pointed to Anna's backpack, lying beside her on the breakfast-nook floor. "Honey, your water bottle's right there, and it is full."
Anna sighed. "Mom, that's my school water bottle..."
"Agh, fine." Now I sighed, and grabbed a green Gatorade water bottle from the kitchen counter.
This was Anna's soccer water bottle, because it's the same as the ones she sees NFL players use in all the Sunday Night Football games she watches alongside Stanton and Grace all fall and winter long.
The green Gatorade water bottle now full, I checked on Anna's progress with her shoes. Everything laced up—good.
"Where's your soccer ball?" I asked.
Anna pointed to the back porch.
"OK, so do you have everything you need?"
Anna did; we headed out.
Before I brought Anna to her soccer practice, we swung by the middle school to pick up Grace and her best friend from an after-school activity. Then I dropped the friend at her house, and brought Grace back home.
All of these places are within a few miles of one another, so no problemo.
Water-bottle preferences aside, I genuinely enjoy giving my daughters (and their friends) rides when they need them. In-the-car chitchat tends to be quick but fun, and hopefully building blocks for deeper conversations down the road (pun intended 😉 ).
In-the-car chitchat tends to be quick but fun, and hopefully building blocks for deeper conversations down the road (pun intended 😉 ).
Like everyone else, I've been fairly busy lately—work, family, holidays. I've felt very full, though. Like, I get to do this.
The Friday evening after Thanksgiving, I had the real joy of making dinner for Stanton's older brother and his family, plus their mom (my mother-in-law). They were all visiting with us from out of town.
As much fun as I knew they all had had on their travels, I thought it would be restful and welcoming to prepare a meal we could share in our home, where the kids could play after they finished.
This is what I did, then, cooking a baked penne dish and reheating Thanksgiving leftovers too.
We sat around the family-heirloom dining table that Stanton and his brother's grandparents had gifted us, and stayed chatting even after we'd finished eating. (Meanwhile, the kids played upstairs—I'm not sure exactly what they were doing, but it sounded like they were having fun.)
My brother-in-law thanked me for the home-cooked meal, while my mother- and sister-in-law expressed concern that it had been too much trouble. There were quite a few dishes stacked up alongside the sink, but I truly loved cooking for all of them.
For me—and probably for many of us, across time and space—feeding someone is an act of caring, of love. And to have loved ones to gather with, to share a meal with—to me, that's a gift.
What a gift.
After all the Thanksgiving-holiday fun, I did loads and loads of laundry. I dashed to the grocery store and restocked our kitchen with everything we needed. Later that week was Staff Development Day at the library, and—among other agenda items—I learned how to use my workplace's new AED machine.
"Wow, Mom," Anna exclaimed. "You can save someone's life!"
"Yes, I'm basically a doctor now," I joked.
Grace joined the conversation: "No, you're not, Mom."
No, I'm not.
😉
Standing there in the kitchen with my daughters, with the refrigerator and cupboards full of food again, and Stanton on his way home from work so that we all could watch "Elf" for our family movie night and a relaxing weekend ahead of us...I had everything I needed.
Photo credit: Pixabay
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