when love hangs out in the sludge

February 19, 2021 Joy Becker

Fifteen years ago, all six of us were on the same page. We aren’t anymore.

That realization would have launched me into a panic as a senior in college. I would have wept with confusion and fear and doubt, praying for us to come back together in agreement and unity. What I understand now that I didn’t before is that unity and agreement are not the same thing.

We’ve all changed, but we haven't all changed in the same ways. We’re all asking questions, but not the same questions. We’re all letting go of some things, but not the same things. We’re all keeping some things, but not the same things.

Disagreement is unsettling, and I have to fight my gut response to keep talking it out until we get back to common ground. It rattles my soul to think that ground might be gone, and my mind starts asking ridiculous questions like, “Can we still be friends, like best friends, if our faith doesn’t look the same? Will they think I’m naive because I still believe? Will they think I’m hellbound because I don’t? Were we wrong before? Are we wrong now?”

There was ease in reciting the answers our faith offered rather than wading through the muddy questions our faith compels.

Maybe that’s our new common ground: murky, knee-deep sludge.

It makes sense that love hangs out in the sludge.

This season, these questions and doubts will forever hold a spot in our journey, but we all know better than to believe this is our landing spot. It can’t be. We’re not done yet.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "280 Words".

favorite things: january 2021

January 31, 2021 Joy Becker

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I’m such a sucker for some favorite things. I love recommendations that save me hours of searching and shopping on my own because P.S. - I hate shopping. I get easily overwhelmed by too many choices which means the mall and the internet leave me exhausted and crabby. I much prefer when someone I trust tells me, “Oooo, I love this lipstick, bra, candle, podcast, book, and coffee! You will love it, too.” Yes, please. Done and done.

Each month of 2021, I will be pulling together a small collection of my monthly favorites, so hopefully you too can find a “yes, please, done and done” on this page.

Reading

Party of Two by Jasmine Guillory: Sometimes I want books to touch my heart or challenge my thinking, but sometimes I just want a solid rom-com, and this one hit the spot. It was a fun read that I sped through in just a couple days. I’d love to know if you’ve read anything else by Guillory! 4/5 Stars

Bless This Mess by Rev. Molly Baskette and Ellen O’Donnell: This one was recommended by Sarah Bessey, and she rarely disappoints. I don’t agree with everything in this book—which is probably true of most parenting books—but it is a great starting place for thinking and discussion. I marked it up with dozens of post-it notes, and I know Stephen is eagerly waiting for me to go point by point through all my thoughts and questions. 5/5 Stars

Reading with My Darlings

One of the best parts of homeschooling is extra time to read all the amazing books that fill our library shelves. I adore our public library, and at least three times a week, I launch into a lengthy monologue about how public libraries are the greatest gift to modern society and the debt to which we owe those who have gone before us to pave the way for FREE access to books. (Charlotte: Mom’s talking about the library again. Stephen: Just let her be.) I currently have 92 books checked out of our public library, so this list could on for miles, but with the help of my darlings, I’ve limited it to our top four.

Ranger In Time Series by Kate Messner: This has been one of my favorite series to recommend to 3rd-5th grade students for years, and I’ve eagerly awaited the perfect opportunity to introduce them to my kids. (They are 6 and 8, so I’m reading them out loud.) I took a writing class with Kate Messner in 2015 when she was just beginning this series. I’m a lover of historical fiction, and what better way to bring this genre to kids than with a lovable golden retriever! We’ve been in an Earth Science unit, so it was the perfect opportunity to read Disaster on the Titanic (while learning about glaciers and icebergs) and Journey Through Ash and Smoke (while learning about volcanoes). Hurricane Katrina Rescue and Escape from the Great Earthquake are up next!

The Three Little Gators by Albert Whitman: Andrew is in kindergarten which means we work on a lot of retelling simple stories. The Three Little Pigs is perfect for this, so I check out a few (read: 10-15) versions of this story. Most of them I was familiar with, but this one was new to me, and we loved it! It was such a fun twist on the classic story.

The Top of the World: Climbing Mount Everest by Steve Jenkins: First of all, Steven Jenkins is our favorite. If you are not familiar with his brilliant collection of nonfiction books for kids, get on your library website and start clicking away. During our Earth Science unit we learned about the formation of mountains and ended up on a rabbit trail of all things Mount Everest, and this book was packed with cool information!

Listening To

This episode from The Happy Hour with Jamie Ivey has been in my queue for a couple months, and I finally gave it a listen. Navigating parenthood with the additional challenges of phones and computers feels so daunting, but this podcast gave some good starting points and reminders.

Eating

For nearly 10 years, I have wanted a Le Creuset Dutch Oven, but man are those suckers expensive. I hemmed and hawed over this decision, and finally Stephen just pulled the trigger for me and bought me this one for Christmas (in red.) We decided to exchange it for a smaller size, so I didn’t really dive into this beauty until a couple weeks ago, and I’m already regretting all those years of braising I’ll never get back. I’m using it all the time! One of my most-used cook books, Dinner: A Love Story, has provided some of our tastiest opportunities with pork ragu, our favorite chicken soup, and this chicken pot pie (I just used the filling recipe, and we poured it over biscuits).

What’s Making Me Smile

With the addition of that large and oh-so-pretty red Dutch Oven, I needed to do some rearranging in our tiny kitchen. I began with the underneath cupboards which lead to the up above cupboards which lead to a total reorganization of the kitchen. The last time I organized those cupboards was the day we moved it. Things needed some reshuffling, and now, I can empty the entire dishwasher without taking a single step. #smallkitchenbenefits This definitely makes me smile.

My mom bought me this from Athleta, and now I want it in every color.

I bought this from Glossier for a secret sister gift exchange in December and ended up buying one for myself, too.

Because One Day You Won’t: A Shortened Version of This Series

Because one day you won’t spread across this table to fumble our way through another day of homeschool.

Because one day you won’t surprise your dad by decorating his office for Valentine’s Day.

Because one day you won’t both fit in a toddler bed.

Because one day you won’t give yourself a pretend black eye with a pen.

*We take a lot of pictures of our kids sleeping. They’re just too cute when they sleep, right?

And Finally, Some News

Stephen and I have been certified foster parents since 2019 and have spent the past year helping foster care families by doing short term respite care. Over the summer we told our agency we were ready to accept a placement, and earlier this month, an 11-month-old little girl came to live with us. The transition to four children has been difficult and sweet, exhausting and exciting. There is so much pain that comes alongside a foster care placement, so much loss and grief and a desperate need for healing. We pray every day for this little darling’s mother and father—praying that Jesus would capture their hearts and change their lives so their daughter would be able to return safely home. For our family, it is honor to step in and fill the gap during this time.

Until next time,

savoring this school year

November 20, 2020 Joy Becker

We had this date night on the calendar for weeks, just Andrew and me. In true 2020 fashion, we made reservations for a time slot at the pool, and then went for curbside pick up at Dairy Queen. Afterward, we hit up Target to buy Andrew’s school supplies. I’ve made this annual outing twice before with his older sister, but this was Andrew’s first official journey into the magical aisles of school supplies. He would start kindergarten in two weeks, and it was finally his turn to flip through folders and gaze at all those perfectly pointed pencils. Unblemished erasers and the scent of new crayons were calling his name, and even though Andrew isn’t much of a crafty kid, he still gets pretty jazzed about a fresh glue stuck. But I should clarify that what Andrew would actually start in two weeks was virtual kindergarten which means back-to-school shopping is more appropriately titled keep-staying-at-home-and-now-log-onto-a-computer-each-morning shopping.

And that kind of shopping is pretty lame.

Fortunately, he didn’t know any differently, so I put on my happy face and talked up the school supplies even though our list was only two items long. We already have plenty of pencils and scissors and notebooks, and we’re pretty much drowning in crayons and markers. The only items on his supply list that we did not have at home were those My First Pencils—the big thick ones for tiny hands, and a blue and yellow folder with prongs. So when I say I talked up this shopping excursion, you can see I had my work cut out for me.

“Whoa, buddy! Look at these big pencils! This is so cool! Your sister didn't get to buy these big pencils. These are just for kindergartners. And prongs! Do you know about prongs? Let’s hurry over to the folder aisle so I can show. You’re gonna love prongs.”

To my great fortune, the pack of My First Pencils came with a small pencil sharpener which was the highlight of the 3 minutes we spent in the school section. He wasn’t as fascinated by the prongs.

*****

By the time I pulled up a chair next to Andrew on his first morning of virtual kindergarten, I was already maxed out. The buildup to school was both nonexistent and completely draining. We had shuffled the children’s rooms around, moved beds, borrowed desks, hung bulletin boards, and printed schedules to hang in every room of the house. And now I was stepping into the role of learning partner, not just for Andrew, but also for his second grade sister, a role that required me to be “available” to help during the school day. I joined millions of parents across America who suddenly landed the job of administrative assistant to their child—managing various schedules, downloading software updates, and documenting logins and passwords, all while keeping the half-naked potty-training toddler out of the background of the class meetings. And I’m proud to say that only once did my child’s teacher need to schedule a call with me to ask that I keep the “exposed baby” away from the camera.

After months of motherhood demanding more of me than I had, virtual school felt like the slow, painful peeling off of my last layer. How many times a day could I die to myself and still have something left?

For the past nine months, I had made the best of a crummy situation. My creative energy and positive spirit were in overdrive as we’d head out for yet another family walk, and I’d carried on about how wonderful it was to have all this extra family time. Well kids, we might not love everything about being quarantined, but it’s the best decision for our family right now and we’ll make the best of it! School felt like yet another situation for this same tired pep talk. Well kids, we might not love everything about virtual school, but it’s the best decision for our family right now and we’ll make the best of it!

But our best efforts weren’t working, and three weeks into the school year, we decided to unenroll our children from virtual school to homeschool instead. The notion was comical.

Hadn’t I just spent weeks (i.e. months) surviving on fumes, and now I was going to solve this problem by homeschooling? It was ridiculous. When the governor shut down schools for three weeks in March, it felt like too much. I couldn’t imagine a lockdown with three children for three weeks. Now, somehow, I was willingly signing up to be with these children everyday for the next year AND be fully responsible for their education. This wasn’t lining up.

But I was crumbling under the demands of virtual school, starving under a mountain of boredom as I locked myself upstairs running back and forth troubleshooting technology and reiterating the need to sit in a chair and pay attention to the screen, a screen I’ve put so much effort into limiting.

“Get back on your computer! You can finish with the Legos later! Right now you need to be on your computer.”

These unfamiliar words felt poisonous. We had gone from months of extreme freedom to a day dictated by the schedule posted on our new bulletin board telling us to eat our snack from 9:55-10:10. These new restrictions were taking the frustration of 2020 to an unhealthy level for our family. But homeschool? Could I really do this? Time for another pep talk.

Well kids (and Joy), we might not love everything about homeschooling, but it’s the best decision for our family right now, and we'll make the best of it!

I didn’t believe a word of it., but my bar for making the best of it was pretty low at this point.

*****

We explored nonfiction books all week, and it was now our turn to take a crack at writing our own. Charlotte was already off and away designing a magazine about pumpkins as I sat next to Andrew to begin my daily opening line about how the first thing an author needs is an idea.

“I already know that, mom. You tell me everyday.”

“Well, today darling, you get to be the teacher as you write and draw,” I said in my half teacher, half mom voice.“You need to pick an idea that you know a lot about, so you can teach your readers. What do you know a lot about?”

At this point I was paving a trail for the answer I expected. Andrew is an animal expert, devouring and remembering the strangest pieces of information he’s gathered from animal books, movies, and countless trips to the zoo. I was ready for him to pick an animal, draw a picture, and write a simple sentence. Snails have thousands of teeth. Dogs can only see blue and yellow and gray. Geckos shed their skin and eat it. It seemed pretty cut and dry, but Andrew wasn’t taking my bait. He had no interest in writing about animals today.

“I want to write a recipe book like Charlotte,” he announced. Charlotte has written a handful of recipe books, and by written I mean she either makes up recipes she hasn’t tried or copies them from her favorite dessert bloggers. (Sidenote, if Charlotte ever sends you a recipe in the mail, contact me first before making it. It will be crucial to know if this is one of her own, untested creations. And once again Smith family, I apologize for the chocolate pudding disaster.) I understood that Andrew wanted to mimic his big sister, but a recipe seemed like a big undertaking for a little boy with minimal writing stamina. I continued to suggest animals he was more familiar with, planting my feet firmly in the plan I had imagined.

“No, I want to write a recipe.”

“Ok,” I said, slowly drawing out the K. “What do you know how to make?” I asked with part curiosity and part smugness, ready for his grand idea to hit its first wall.

“Cinnamon sugar toast,” he announced. Everything about his face told me he was saying “duh” in his head.

My mind swirled to figure out the next step needed to help him create a recipe. I knew I couldn't shut down his confidence, but this was not my plan. Did we have the freedom to completely ditch my plan? How-to writing wasn’t scheduled for at least another month. Isn’t this the beauty of homeschooling? I can ditch the plan and go with the flow, right? During this internal 20 second debate, Andrew drew two lines, splitting his paper into 4 boxes. He numbered the boxes 1, 2, 3, 4, and then started drawing all sort of rectangles in box #1.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“These are going to be my steps. First you need ingredients.” He pointed to each rectangle in box #1 and named his ingredient. “This is the toaster, the bread, the cinnamon, the sugar, and the butter. Oh, and you need a plate.” He added a circle. “And a knife!” He smiled up at me, and although he never said it, we both knew his idea was better than mine.

*****

For fourteen years, I have been teaching young children to read and write. I have nothing to contribute to a conversation about investments, interior design, event planning, or business start-ups, but if you want to talk about early literacy development and six traits of writing, I’m your girl. My favorite part of the school day was writing workshop when I pulled kids to a horseshoe shaped table or sat down next to a child in a chair meant for a six-year-old, all for the sake of putting pencil to paper. We brainstormed ideas, attempted to spell words that seemed too hard, drew pictures to enhance the story, pushed through writer's blocks, and celebrated writing in all its beautiful forms because these students had become authors. I loved it.

And somehow, in the midst of this nightmare we call 2020, I was given the chance to sit next to Andrew and watch him become an author.

This mushy feeling inside me, the one clogging my throat and blurring my eyes came with a strange realization. I’m not inclined to look for the good. All that silver lining, glass half-full nonsense irks me. I mean, why can’t the bad just be bad? Why do I have to look for diamonds in my rough and roses in my thorn bushes? But this felt different; it wasn’t a bright side or a fake smile or a mustering up of positivity from a dry and cracked well. It felt lucky, like winning a little jackpot. It felt like relief and genuine joy, and for the first time in nine months I could see our family moving past survival. This school year—the one that started with tears because I didn't want my kids in front of a computer all day, but I also didn’t want them to miss out on buses and backpack and gathering on a colorful carpet to listen to Kevin Henkes books—had become a gift.

We have every intention of sending our children back to public school next fall (famous last words, right?), but I have a hunch that this school year, this wretched 2020 school year, will be one of my favorites.

she made it

September 22, 2020 Joy Becker

I waddle across the sterile room and lower my eight-month pregnant self onto the edge of my dad’s hospital bed. Four days earlier, my mom found him on their bedroom floor, paralyzed and speechless from a massive stroke. He has made no progress since.

I lift his hand and tuck it between mine. “Stephen and I are going to drive back to Ohio tonight, Dad.” He nods in agreement.

“It’s probably best if I have this baby there rather than here in Chicago, yes?” It’s a weak attempt at a joke, anything to bring air into a room that was otherwise holding its breath as we waited for the next doctor’s opinion. Dad smiles with half his face while the other half folds and droops.

“It certainly isn’t going to go the way we planned,” I say to him. “But I’ll bring your grandbaby to Chicago as soon as I can. You get better so you can hold this baby.” It is a ridiculous thing to say. You get better. As though it were up to him.

As Stephen and I make the five-hour drive back from Chicago that night, I try to imagine how the next month will play out. Our first baby is due in three weeks, and the vision I have spent years creating is crumbling. I imagined my mom and dad sitting in the waiting room, nervously anticipating the news. I imagined Stephen dressed in hospital coveralls, just like in the movies, bursting into that waiting room to announce the arrival of a healthy baby. I imagined them cradling their new grandbaby, and then sticking around for the next week to help wash clothes, cook meals, and hold a baby when I needed to sleep.

It is clear to me now that none of this will happen.

I don’t know where Dad will be in a month. In the hospital? In rehab? Maybe home? But I am certain he will not be in my hospital recovery room holding his grandbaby.

And as for my mom, I don’t worry much about where she will be when I have this baby. Surely she will be there with me. Moms don’t miss that kind of thing.

*****

As my due date approaches, my mom says we will play it by ear. She will do her best to get to Ohio, but it will be hard to leave Dad as long as he is in a full-time rehabilitation facility; it will be impossible if he is released to come home.

The week passes.

My due date passes.

Six more days pass.

The next morning, my mom calls as we are getting ready for church; she says she will not be coming to Ohio. Dad has been cleared to come home in a few days.

“I have so much to do to get the house ready for him,” Mom explains. Her voice breaks like she is struggling to get out each word. “Some men from church are coming over tomorrow to move the furniture. I need to find someone to install more railings, and the physical therapist needs to teach me how to help Dad bathe and climb stairs. Oh Joy, I cannot imagine how he is going to climb these stairs.” I hear the panic in her voice.

I say I understand. I say it is the best decision, and I will be ok.

It isn’t exactly a lie. I do understand. It is probably the best decision. And I will be ok. But I still hate the whole mess. Our first baby is about to be born, and we will have no family at the hospital. No family.

I finish getting ready and quietly cry as we drive to church. This damn stroke messed it all up. How did this happen? Doesn’t everyone have family come to the hospital when a baby is born?

*****

Twenty-four hours later, my water breaks. As Stephen tosses bags into the car, I call my mom hoping she might change her mind and come. She doesn’t say either way, but on the drive to the hospital when I call again, she is packing her bag.

I imagine her, alone in her room with two Vera Bradly weekender bags open on her bed. No doubt she is talking out loud, volleying between her packing checklist and prayer. Nothing about this is easy; anxiety and unknowns are stacked against her. Dad has always been the driver, not because Mom couldn’t or wouldn’t, but because when the family goes somewhere, Dad drives. Driving five hours in a car by yourself when your husband is in rehab and your daughter is in labor is bound to rattle anyone. But she is coming anyways.

Mom arrives at the hospital just after 4:00 that afternoon. Charlotte is born just after 4:35.

She made it. Our family was there.

*****

Mom sits in the delivery room as I nurse Charlotte for the first time, and she calls Dad so I can tell him about his granddaughter. She follows behind me as the nurse rolls me to the recovery room, and she takes my picture as I bite into a glorious Jimmy John’s Turkey Tom sub.

In true mom fashion, she comes bearing gifts. She pulls a dozen baby girl ensembles from a bag and even comes with gifts for me: books, lip gloss, a killer orange leather purse, and a hair dryer she claims will change my life. She listens to the fresh details of the day as she holds Charlotte, and she meets our friends as they invade the hospital room with all things pink.

Mom leaves the next day, arriving back to their home of 28 years which has now been transformed to be handicap accessible. Dad is released from rehab two days later and comes home to relearn his life. Mom is now a full-time caregiver for her husband, a man who talked her ear off for the past forty years but can now only utter strange sounds. Her life is a constant whirlwind of physical therapy, speech therapy, doctor appointments, and administering prescription medicine at just the right hour of day and night.

I think about my mom often during those early weeks of motherhood. Our day-to-day motions bear such a tiny resemblance to the lives we knew a month ago. We both care for someone at all hours of the day and night, stepping up when everything in us wants to sleep or cry or quit. Our love is pushed to its limits as someone else’s needs soar above our own. We both question God, “Am I really the best one for this job? I don’t think I can do it much longer.” Meals show up at both our doorsteps each day around 5:00. Cards flood both our mailboxes, and we both know people all over the country are praying for us as we adjust to a new normal.

But I can’t shake the guilt that even when I want to kick, scream, and whine about my new normal, I am also flooded with joy. I asked for this child, prayed for this child, and for every moment I am exhausted, there are two other moments I am smiling. I think about the future with excitement. What is in store for this child and our life together?

But not Mom. When she wants to kick, scream, and whine about her new normal, she is flooded with fear. She never asked for this stroke to paralyze dad’s body and steal his speech. She is exhausted and scared, and although she never says it, she must be mad. What about her future? What is in store for dad and their life together?

*****

I waddle across Charlotte’s bedroom floor and lower my three-weeks postpartum self into the La-Z Boy recliner. A suitcase lies open on the floor, overflowing with enough outfits for a month-long getaway even though we’ll only be gone for a weekend. I pull Charlotte close and position the Boppy as she begins to nurse.

“Well, girl. You up for your first road trip?” I whisper. “This isn’t how we planned it, but I promised your Pop Pop I’d bring you to Chicago so he can hold you."

The next morning, we make the five-hour drive; Dad is waiting in his wheelchair. We carefully place his swaddled up granddaughter in the crook of his left elbow and snap pictures as he smiles with only half his face. The day is beautiful and heartbreaking, and by 8:00 that night, we’re sitting silently in the living, too tired to speak.

“Well, I need to get Dad ready for bed,” Mom says as she unlocks his wheelchair and lifts his feet onto the footplates. She turns him toward the hallway. “That was a big day for you, wasn’t it hun? I bet you’re exhausted.”

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I catch myself before echoing her exact words to Charlotte. Instead, I lift Charlotte from the blanket on the floor and walk behind Dad’s wheelchair as we all head toward the stairs.

“You go first,” Mom says to me. “It still takes us awhile to do this.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“Nah. We’re getting the hang of it.”

I walk up the fifteen steps to the second floor. I know it is fifteen steps because I’ve counted them, dozens of times. When you’re a kid, strange things like how many steps are in your house matter, so you count and recount and ask your parents questions like if the last step up to the landing counts as an actual step. My old blue bedroom is now the guest room, still with my Kristen and Molly American Girl dolls displayed on a shelf.

Everything about this home is familiar, but nothing feels the same. I now have a daughter lying on the bed in front of me, and I can hear my mom’s voice coaching Dad with each shaky step. She reminds him which foot to lift first and where to place his hand on the railing. She counts down the stairs as they approach the landing. “Only four more to go. Three...two...one. We did it.” I hear them exhale in unison, a sound of both exhaustion and triumph.

Mom pokes her head into my room as she walks by. “Goodnight, sweet Charlotte. Thanks for coming all this way to visit your Grammy and Pop Pop. And goodnight, Joy. I hope you can get some sleep tonight.” She lifts her gaze away from her granddaughter to meet my eyes. Grief and joy hang heavy in the air between us, and we both know this isn’t how we thought it would be.

“Thanks, Mom. You too.”

This essay was originally published by Kindred Mom.

because one day you won't, part 5

September 2, 2020 Joy Becker

The Becker household has struggled this summer.

We somehow managed to roll into the quarantine craziness of March and April with relative ease. Slowing down was a welcomed change, and I found great joy in hunkering down with my little team. It was sort of fun having Stephen working upstairs all day. Remote learning wasn’t too bad because although there are millions of things I know nothing about, elementary education is my jam so our hour of “school time” each day turned out to be a highlight for me. I tip toward the inverted side of the scale, so I didn’t really miss people or plans or events, and although I spent $50 on just the right yearly planner, I didn’t mind closing it up and tucking it away for a couple months. I will always remember these early months with sadness and joy—sadness for the heartbreak and death happening around the world, but joy for what was happening in our home. There were in fact many times through April I quietly admitted to Stephen, “I think I’m living my best life right now.”

But then came May. And June. And July. They kicked our butts. Hard.

The end of the school year brought out unexpected big emotions for our kids. The novelty of Stephen working from home wore off and became more complicated. Milo stopped napping and started crawling out of his crib instead. The start of summer felt like a tease without pools and parks and food truck festival and roller coasters and roadtrips. My mom kept calling from Chicago with more bad news about the deteriorating health of friends and family members. Then our basement flooded which sent me into a downward spiral of overwhelm and anxiety. And just when I was settling into my own pile of self-pity, our nation erupted with even more reminders of racism and division. For the first half of the summer, I ignored discussion of what a new school year would bring, but as expected, come July I could no loner ignore the decision of how to best educate our kids this year. The intensity of this decision put my mind on overload and activated yet another surge of fury toward the leaders of our nation. It has been impossible to be an engaged mother when I want to collapse in a pile of grief and anger. I stopped living my best life, and instead, longed for the day I can say “one day we won’t.”

It is necessary to keep my head up and my eyes out, both aware of and engaged in our broken world. But sometimes, for the sake of my health, I need to zoom in and turn my attention to the ones next to me—the ones who are right here, talking to me, touching me, and needing me all day long. I am intentionally looking for the ridiculous and tender moments of childhood I know won’t always be there.

Right now our home is engulfed in childhood, and if I am not careful, I can be annoyed by it. There are so many bikes and scooters in the driveway, and there are so many shoes in every room of the house—shoes I know they are not wearing because all their little feet are disgusting by the end of the night. There are milk cups left in the garage for days. There are massive glitter spills (yes, spills, plural) that takes weeks to recover from, and the other day I found a suitcase in the shower.

I started this series years ago when I found a single purple Croc with an acorn inside it on my bathroom counter. It was so random, and it made me laugh. I desperately need to laugh more after months of tears, so I am looking for the hilarious and tender moments to remind me that this season of childhood—the kind of childhood that invades every corner with scooters and glitter and ridiculous outfits—is far too brief. So today I will notice those moments.

Milo,

Because one day you won’t be entertained by a mud puddle.

Because one day you won’t cover your little eyes with those chubby hands each time we pray.

Because one day you won’t be allowed to go outside in just your rain boots.

Because you day you won’t share your bedroom with your dad’s office.

Charlotte,

Because one day you won’t tape Tubberware to the wall to create a doorbell to your room.

Because one day you won’t invite all your friends onto a Zoom call to teach them how to make a glitter jar.

Because one day you won’t save your money to buy cotton candy extract, a gecko, and nail polish. (This is the perfect summation of Charlotte.)

Because one day you won’t lead a craft session with your brother teaching him to make a toilet paper mask.

Andrew,

Because one day you won’t create a grave site for a worm. RIP Scwigle. (Squiggle)