Through the Looking Glass

A boat, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July -- Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear Pleased a simple tale to hear -- Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream -- Lingering in the golden gleam -- Life, what is it but a dream? ~ Lewis Carroll My worth is so often based on what I do. How well I do it. How completely. How cleanly. How neatly. How effortlessly. As though I'm somehow not human. A machine. Able to accomplish feats of grandeur in my home and family, unheard of among mere mortals. And yet I tend to leave out that all important piece, that thread that is woven so intricately and boldly throughout my very existence. I am only human. The day before me only holds 24 hours. 24 fleeting, unending, overpowering, exhilarating, exhausting hours in which to dream my dreams and plan my plans and accomplish my goals. That is all I am promised each morning I wake. And I fret. Somehow there are always crumbs on the counter and smudges on the floor. The bathroom rarely smells garden fresh no matter how many daily scours and scrubs I give it. There are remnants of popcorn seemingly forever on the living room carpet. The front room is littered with blocks, a full town complete with train station and several rail lines winding throughout. My laundry baskets forever overflow. And everywhere I look are stacks and piles..books and art projects..finger paintings and to do lists..library receipts and trip itineraries..I just barely get one sink of dishes cleared when the next is already breathing down my neck. Is this me? Is all of this a true testament of me? All the cleaning and scrubbing and sweeping and sponging? Is this a true picture of our family? The teetering tottering piles of books and blocks and train tracks and stuffed toys? In essence yes. This is us. Good and bad. What we are. The crumbs on the counter represent the warm buttery wedges of chocolate chip banana bread we shared amid smiles and laughter at the breakfast table. The piles of art projects and finger paintings are the result of eager little hands that couldn't wait to capture something beautiful they imagined while playing outside. The bathroom fails to be pristine because a smiling eyed, babbling two year old little man is excitedly learning to pee in his frog potty. And the remnants of popcorn? Those seem to linger between couch cushions and under chairs from the last uproarious movie showing with Daddy. It's all there if I care to see it. To really see it. The stuff life is made of. Crumbs and messes and spills and mistakes. Beauty and dirt and madness and glee. Real life. And when I look at the piles and piles of books all around how can I help but see chubby little hands turning the pages, mouthing the words, rejoicing over the pictures, their little minds capturing and remembering and enjoying each precious page. This is what's real and true. The real stuff that dreams are made of. Dreams that last are piecemealed together with crumbs and kisses and love and muddy messes. The beauty can only clearly be seen when it is shining through the glorious messes. And what true joy comes when we finally make peace with our mess.

Adam

He's five today. My little man. Our family dreamer. Sitting there with a faraway gaze, building worlds unseen. Our little colicky, always needing to be held, unable to sleep without clutching a lock of my hair baby has grown into a beautiful, kind hearted little boy. Quick to find the humor in a situation, running everywhere ("Look at me Mom, can you believe how fast I am?") Intuitively he understands deeper meanings, unspoken things. Instinctively he "gets" music, it invades his soul. My little brown eyed boy is becoming just that..a boy. No longer my little tagalong he has grown. And I couldn't be happier. Happy Birthday Adam! Cannot wait to see what wonderful adventures await you my little friend!