12 February 2014

late night, january 31st, 2014 | a letter to my oldest

who knew, stumbling upon this life of motherhood, i would love it so fiercely. nothing else has defined me as much and nothing ever will define me more. i am sure of this.

as i watch you gallop away into the arms of adolescence, i hold back little sobs of joy.
 you love. you are fiercely loyal.
 you love to argue your points.
you are slowly becoming a man.

 as much as i love this, i would, in an instance, turn back time to walk down the doors of your childhood once more. drink cup after cup after cup of cup of tea made in your pretend kitchen. bake with you, play dinosaur with you. hide out in forts with you and camp again under the stars knowing that all is right with the world.

in my dreams, i sit on the edge of a long pier. my feet are dangling off the end and as i stare off into the expanse of the mist and layers of fog lifting off the lake, i see that i have worlds of unknown lives to still live, but i don't ever want to take the plunge, i don't want to heave off the end of the pier into the water, i don't want to stop being a mother to your littleness, i don't want you to be big and me to be older. and as much as i don't want it, i know it will still happen, even if i had ten more children, it would never stop you from leaping into the unknown of adulthood, and me watching your ripples slowly slip away as you swim out of sight.

xxoo


26 January 2014

4 | clickety-clack call of the week's end | 52 weekly stills

an odd assortment of weekly stills:
-a wall
-a young lad in a foul mood
-books & things next to my bed
-a window
-the youngest
-the middle
-leftover remains of strawberries
-a visit to La Brea Tar Pits

25 January 2014

4 | 52

this one. wraps his eyes around my heart, even when he doesn't mean too.

as a matter of fact, all three of them do. xo

12 January 2014

clickety-clack call of the week's end | weekly stills

weekly stills.
1. lego obsession
2. much needed coffee
3. craft supplies
4. long neglected christmas cactus
5. neglected homework
6. the oldest, mr. crabby-pants, staring off onto the lacrosse field
7. a fence
8. rainbow loom madness
9. the middle.
10. portraiture of the oldest.

 joining in with beetle shack & angels love red hair
p.s.... i cheated a wee bit. most of theses are from my 365/ 10 on 10 project here.  xxoo

2 | 52 portraits

the feisty baby, the youngest.

couldn't resist putting one in this week. this is from my 10 on 10 series over here. xo

08 January 2014

writing january's name | life's work


what will be left behind when we go? some of us are very sure of what are imprint will be; others, we cling to small strands, tiny threaded marks, the beat of our child's heart. we are unsure what the legacy of our path will be, unsure that we will have something worthwhile to look back on.

in the busy rush of the day, i am a hurried soul, running from shower, to dressing, to shoes on, to kisses on boys' heads, to out the door.

other times, i slow down. and instead of running from my self, from my body, my dreams, i am present. there in that space of slowness, i find space. breathing space.

i am in the shower. the air fills with the spidery veins of heat and hope, clouding my eyes from seeing clearly, filling up my lungs with steam, so as i turn off the spray, and step out of the shower, i am surrounded by the heavy warm air, thick man-made fog.

i pause. my skin. bright red from the heat of a too hot shower, my bare body unabashed and briefly free. i lean in close to the mirror, and try to wipe away the clouded mirror pane; and there, ever so briefly, i see all the marks of a life lived so far, the wrinkles and worry lines that now frame my face. i wonder what have i become. but before i despair, i lean in closer,  holding up the mirror with my hands, my breath fogging the mirror once again, and in that fraction of a second before the damp closes back in again, i see a glimmer of the deep in my eyes.

there, i see into the beating of my heart resetting my soul anew. there i see that my life's work is not all unaccounted for and disregarded. there is the brief connection between who i am and what i do.

there i see that the mark i am making as i tread across the days is not all ugly and scarred, but hope-filled and beautiful.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
excuse the rambling. joining in with write alm for january prompts.