These Are the Days

and I don't want to miss a thing

I often finding myself wandering through corridors of the past and testing the abilities of my memory. I relive the sights and sounds which allow me to be a child experiencing life with its unique setting and characters for the first time.

Yet, with the years that have passed and the wisdom — no, I don't mind if you chuckle— I've gleaned, I can't help but seeing things differently than I did back then. I long to fully understand the people in my memories and make sense of their actions and reactions. I want to learn the lessons they were teaching me and forever honor their memory, whether valiant or floundering.

Too often I find myself rummaging through my treasure chest of memories, oblivious to the riches of today. But in my heart, I know that these are the days, and I don’t want to miss a thing.

These are the days...

…of waking early and creeping down the hall to sip coffee in silence while I read my Bible and journal for a bit. As I pack lunches, I begin making a bit of noise. I increase the noise at carefully staged intervals until I'm marching up and down the hall, barking wake up orders through bedroom doors, while my coffee cools in the kitchen. Some days I take it with me and sit on the chair in the girls' room. I chatter noisily and threaten to not leave until they are all awake and out of bed. (I trust they will appreciate this more when they too are mothers.)

These are the days…

… of watching my school children trudge down the sidewalk with backpacks slung over their shoulders. They climb into the Highlander that’s as old as its driver, and off they go. When this began a few months ago, I’d kneel on the couch, peering out the window. I’d watch them as long as I could, then I’d say a prayer, and hope for the best.

These are the days…

…of walking out of the airport after watching my firstborn head off to security alone. She had multiple layovers, many hours to spend at the airport, and an international flight to grandma’s house. She was calm, cool, and collected. Her mother on the other hand… I’ll just say that I told her, “I’m allowed to worry this time, okay?”

These are the days…

…of hearing hammers pounding out a beat as brick walls crumble in the yard. The children do most of the work, but if you stop by and catch me swinging a sledgehammer at a brick wall, don’t worry. All is well. We are tearing down a wall to build a room. Every swing is energized by the dream of having a comfortable suite for Grandma when she comes to visit.

These are the days…

… of calling my mom and feeling such gratitude that I can still do this after the scare we faced this summer. Once again, she’s confident and strong and able to answer my endless questions about recipes and genealogy. Yet I’m always aware that after a cancer diagnosis life is just never the same.

These are the days…

…all seven of us pack into the van for the Sunday morning drive to church. It’s a short drive, but a lot of squabbling can be done from here to there about whose feet and arms belong where. For the record, Vaughn and I don’t participate in the squabble and do not mind if our hands happen to touch. On Sunday evenings, I scrounge through the fridge, pantry, and freezer evaluating my stash before spontaneously inviting friends over for the evening.

These are the days…

… of vitamins and supplements and a carefully watched diet for myself, but liberty to exercise my culinary creativity on my family and unsuspecting guests. (I've yet to learn that it's generally a good idea to try something new before serving it to others.)

These are the days…

…of the clock displaying 3:06 as children come crashing in the door. Coats fall onto the bench. Shoes gather on the rug. Lunchboxes clutter the counter. Hunger is proclaimed. Silence is banished.

These are the days…

…of discovering the remains of a lime drink on the counter surrounded by sugar, sticky measuring cups, lime rinds, and splashes of juice. I clean up the mess because I am the mom, and the drink’s creators have vanished. But I guess I didn't mind, because I'm the one to slip another bag of limes into the grocery cart the next time I'm shopping.

These are the days…

… of voraciously tackling shopping, sewing, cooking, cleaning, washing, and ironing, with the hope of finding a quiet moment to pour my brain onto the page.

These are the days

…of puzzles cluttering the dining room table, of Odyssey stories adding to the afternoon noise, and of squeals of laughter and squeals of protest penetrating the air as children chase, torment and tease, and bounce balls in the house.

“Where's their mother?” You may say.

“Have you forgotten?” I ask. “She's scrubbing sticky lime juice from every surface of the kitchen. Or perhaps she is mopping up her mess on the page?”

These are the days…

…of high-school girls agonizing over algebra and accounting, of a wonder-struck first grader eagerly reading stories and trying her hand at a journal, and of a 7^th grade son frantically finishing homework in the minutes before dashing off to school.

These are the days…

…of invading the furniture store with pizza and noise on Friday evenings when my husband works late. We fill our plates and the chairs behind the counter. We eat and laugh and talk until the pizza boxes are empty and the last drop of soda has been sipped (or spilled.) The children scatter and vanish under beds and behind bureaus and around dressers to begin a game of Hide-and-Seek. Vaughn continues to work, and I sink into an empty chair and wish I could tolerate caffeinated coffee at this time of day.

These are the days…

…of a small boy creeping into our room after we are settled in bed.

“Mommy, pray with me.” He says as he pulls back a corner of the covers and wedges his small self in beside me. We pray.

“Okay little buddy, back to bed.”

“Just ooooone minute more. One minute.” He bargains.

“Okay, one minute.” I say and return my eyes to the page of my book.

“Mommy, what does that say right there?” He slides his finger over my book.

I read the line.

He giggles.

It's not a funny book. In fact, it's a book about grief, but I too have to smile. He's so content to be snuggling here with me. It's hard to send him off, but I know we'll have to lug him to his bed if I let him fall asleep here, so I pursue.

“Okay buddy, time for bed.” I say again.

“Ima pray.” He stalls for more time.

He definitely knows the tricks.

“Okay,” I say because who can resist the prayers of a sweet, tiny boy?

“Dear Jesus, help us to feel well and help us to sleep good. ‘N Jesus nameamen!”

He gets a kiss. I get a kiss. He slides out of bed.

“Good night, little buddy.” I say.

“Ima pray with daddy.” He says walking to the other side of the bed.

I hear more prayers. I wonder why I am still holding a book. I’ve read nothing more than a line since our door opened many minutes ago.

When he's finally on his way, he looks back with a big, happy smile.

“Love you. Good night. Sleep good.” I say.

“Good night. Do your best.” He says.

“I'll do my best.” I say, “You do your best.”

He pulls the door toward him leaving only a tiny crack of light peeking through.

“Like this?” he asks

“That's perfect.” I say.

“G'nite.”

Maybe you’d like to grab a pen and writing your own “These are the days…” because you don’t want to miss a thing.

Nola