I was sitting in my therapist’s office where I’d pent the last hour detailing all the things that had been going wrong, all the messes I’d been cleaning up (both literal and figurative). We were wrapping up our session and she gave me this assignment. “I want you to keep a list of ways the people in your life show you they care.” So I did, and something happened. The more I notice the extraordinary magic following me around, the more magic moments there are to notice. So I’m keeping my eyes open, determined not to miss this every day magic.
Lucy and I are snuggling on the couch, a post-nap ritual. She’s eating goldfish and watching Toy Story while I read The Seven Sisters by Lucinda Riley. I’m thirty odd pages from the end and I don’t want to put it down. My mom walks out of her room and asks how many pages I have left. “37” tell her as I do some quick mental math. She’s quiet for a moment and then says “I’ve got her. Why don’t you go downstairs and finish.” And I do. I shimmy under the covers and read to the end. Then I call my favorite bookstore and order the next 3 books in the series.
Lucy’s in bed for the night and my mom’s home so Jeff and I step out into the night air for a walk. We walk for several miles, talking all the way about things deep beneath the surface of our everyday lives, things we can’t reach between bites of dinner and tidying up the house and budget meetings. I tell him abut my mom guilt and that I often feel needy and high maintenance. He calls bullshit on all of it and tells me the truth.
Blythe and I meet for dinner after scheduling and rescheduling for a year. We place our orders at the counter. A veggie burger for her, Margherita pizza for me. And two margaritas. She pays despite my protests and we settle on a spot on the patio. We talk for a long time about what’s good and what’s hard and the particular joy and despair of these early mothering years. I walk away lighter, buoyed by the knowledge that I’m not alone. The next afternoon I eat the leftover pizza for lunch. The smell of fresh tomatoes and melty cheese takes me back to the night before, to friendship, to seeing and being seen.
It’s Sunday of a three day weekend, sunny and mild and the books I ordered are in. Jeff takes Lucy for the morning, so I browse the bookstore toddler-free, adding to the growing stack behind the counter. When I leave I get a pedicure and then read over lunch at one of my favorite restaurants. I come home nourished in every way, just as he gets her down for nap. We close the bedroom door and throw our clothes on the floor like wrapping paper on Christmas morning.
Neat stacks of clean laundry folded by Mom.
Post-nap couch snuggles with Lucy. She turns, smiling, and puts a veggie chip to my lips, sharing her favorite snack with me.
I feel Jeff get out of bed and I turn over to go back to sleep. A few minutes later I hear the sound of a coffee cup being set on the nightstand and open my eyes. Jeff, who does not drink coffee, made some just for me.
Jeff chops the onions, peppers and cilantro, and juices the limes for guacamole so that all I have to do is mix. He knows the onions make my eyes burn and that the tedious chopping of all the things is my least favorite part.
Jeff, my cousin Matt, my Uncle Lee, my Dad and his neighbor stand out in the rain to lift a tree off the hood of my car and assess the damage. The car is fine, just a little scratched. Sometimes love holds a saw and looks like a bunch of guys standing in the street.
The way Lucy still chooses me over just about everyone else.
Jeff’s commitment to make my 30th birthday something to remember in spite of all the obstacles 2020 would like to throw our way. He spreads the celebrations out so that they add up to a month long birthday extravaganza including two birthday dinners, a long weekend away with my best friend, a trip to visit family, and a party with our friends. He leads the charge as dozens of people conspire to welcome my 30s with a bang.
Steaks and baked potatoes and green beans on Wednesday nights, made by my mom so I don’t have to cook.
Watching our house rise up out of what was once just a hole in the ground, every day a little closer to being our home. It stands as evidence of God’s providence.
Kels sends me an old photo of us and I’m reminded of the value of friends who have seen you through puberty, bad haircuts and worse boyfriends, through funerals and weddings and babies. She’s seen it all.
