Tree Buds

We’re on our daily afternoon outing around the neighborhood. The older girls are on their scooters, and my son is on his red bike (no training wheels, and he is proud!). I could have chosen to ride my bike, but instead I walk/jog in a half-hearted attempt to keep up. The kids are trained to stop at each corner and wait for me, so I’m not worried about losing them. They’ve ridden this path so many times they think they own it. 

The children scoot/pedal quickly ahead, and I stop to look up at tree branches towering above me. The tree has been trimmed to give passage to the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, so those who walk or ride by on bikes and scooters won't be snagged by twigs. The air is chilly and the sky is gray with ominous clouds as I observe the spreading branches.  

At first glance, the tree appears dead. There are no big, green leaves, only an intricate pattern of dry sticks and twigs. But upon closer inspection, there are tiny green buds at the ends of the branches. Tiny sprouts of green illuminated by the dismal backdrop that I would have missed had I not stopped there to look up.

Ahead on their scooters, my children round the corner to our house, and I break into a jog to catch up. Once home, we shed shoes and jackets and the kids plop down at the kitchen table while I hand out lunches. I glance out the window at our own tree and notice its scraggly branches hanging down, dormant and bare and seemingly devoid of life.  

We've been sheltering in place for over a week now. Two Fridays ago my oldest daughter's school sent her home and closed their doors. My middle daughter, who I homeschool for first grade, was also given notice that the workshops and extracurriculars she usually attends are closed. My youngest has his preschool classes cancelled and his swim lessons suspended until further notice. Church is closed. My gym is closed. My weekly Bible study group is cancelled. My book club suspended. The parks and playgrounds are closed. This is happening all over the world. Closed. Cancelled. Closed.  

We have nothing to do and nowhere to go. 

Let me rephrase that. We have nothing we need to do. Nowhere we are supposed to be. No classes telling us to arrive at a certain place at a certain time. Everything on hold, frozen in place. We are living in isolation, hoping to weather out the current storm while praying for those who are affected by the virus and the shutdown of innumerable jobs. 

Honestly, we’ve settled into a pleasant rhythm at home. I turned off all alarm clocks (except my husband’s- he works in healthcare, so he still goes into his workplace every day), and wrote out checklists of chores and schoolwork and activities for the kids to accomplish every day. 

“Are we going anywhere today?” the kids have been asking. 

“Nope, everything is closed,” is my reply. 

“Okay,” they nod, accepting my answer.

We do schoolwork, listen to audiobooks. They pass crayons and markers back and forth across the table. I’m thankful for the peace, the absence of the hustle and bustle and the scramble to get out the door. I appreciate the lack of pressure from school and peers. 

The children giggle together, build hamster houses out of Legos, create forts, throw paper airplanes, have tea parties with their dolls, read books, bake and eat, play outside, and the list goes on. I’m discovering I make a great introvert. I have no need to speak to anyone, to attempt awkward small talk with other parents at various events, to worry about how to dress or what to bring to social gatherings. Instead, my energy is focused on my family, my house, my garden. I read and write and pray and rest and bake and cook and breathe.    

The tree in our backyard is straight and tall. The kids love to hug and climb its thick trunk. Each fall the leaves disappear, leaving behind bare branches and twigs. Sticks break off and fall to the ground, and the children greedily snatch them up, turning them into swords or flags. Every winter I stare at that tree and wonder if it’s finally given up, if anything will start to grow again. There are no leaves. No signs of buds. The bark looks extra dry and I wonder if this is the year I need to call an arborist to take it out.

But every year I’m taken by surprise when I finally begin to notice a leaf here, another leaf there, a tiny bud at the end of a branch I could have sworn was going to fall. Maybe, despite giving the appearance of dying, our tree was just relishing in the quiet, growing and nourishing itself internally before it could blossom again. Like the kids and I in our private, peaceful space. We’re weathering out this season in our own way, growing and nurturing each other quietly, until the season changes and we're able to burst forth.

Image Created by Phoenix Feathers Calligraphy, for Coffee + Crumbs,
2020

This post was written as 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 read the next post in this series "All Things New".

Throw Pillows

Stop jumping on the throw pillows!” I turn and yell from the kitchen, hands pruny and sudsy from doing dishes, splattering drips of water on the floor. The two children in the living room ignore me, quickly piling pillows in a beige and orange and turquoise tower between couch and coffee table. The youngest crouches on his toes, four years of boy limbs in a ball of quivering energy, and leaps. His gleeful hollers reverberate in my head as he becomes a panther and pounces onto the pile. I cringe, watching as he topples the pile of pillows.

“My turn!” shouts the next child, long brown hair falling in her face as she scoops pillows back together. The younger scrambles out of her way and I scowl as she takes her turn. “What have I told you about jumping on the pillows?” I shout, teeth clenched, “But it’s fun!” they grin at me with wide, hopeful smiles, hair askew and cheeks pink from exertion. “No!” I wipe my still dripping hands with a towel and march over to yank the back door open. “If you want to be crazy, go outside,” I command. Smiles fading, the children trudge out the back door. Grumbling, I pick the pillows up off the floor, one by one, and place them in their assigned spots. I notice the tear in a beige pillow and set it strategically in a corner. The permanent marker on an orange pillow faces the back of the couch. I place the unblemished ones in front, breathing a sigh of relief when order is returned. Now I can do the dishes in peace. **** I’ve always been an orderly, organized person. “Everything has a place, and everything in its place,” as my grandfather, then later my mother, used to say. The phrase planted itself in my heart, and I translated it to mean that orderliness equates tranquility, that I can only have peace when nothing is out of place. When I was younger I had a Barbie house, a present from my grandmother as a place to play with my dolls. Two bedrooms upstairs and a kitchen and living room downstairs. Plenty of room for Barbie and her friends to walk around and play. It claimed a special spot on my bedroom floor. Yet, I never did get the hang of playing with dolls. I didn’t like to conjure conversations or move them to speak with one another. Instead, I prefered to organize them. I set up vignettes in that Barbie house, couch arranged over here, Barbie reclining just so, dressed in her outfit of the day. Her little sister sat nearby, reading a book or brushing the dog. The table was set prettily for dinner, always. Tiny food on tiny plates, laid out exactly where I wanted it. Everything was as it should be, and there it would stay until I decided the scene needed to change. In college, despite sharing a tiny dorm room, I maintained control over my side of the room. My bookshelves were artfully arranged with color coded notebooks and folders to match the textbooks. Green for science, red for reading, with coordinating pencils and pens. I made my bed every morning, blanket folded in a perfect rectangle at the foot. Luckily, my roommate was every bit as organized as I was, and I don’t mean to brag, but we frequently won the clean room award when inspections came around. Despite the stresses of late-night studying, being away from home, and navigating new relationships, I felt better, lighter, when I went to my room and put everything in its place. As an adult, decorative pillows are a symbol of my control. What better way to show how sophisticated and peaceful my life is than turquoise and orange throw pillows that perfectly match the stripes in the curtains which go so well with the colorful pattern of the rug. I have throw pillows piled in the sitting room, soft and fluffy, smooth and cool, sitting in their spots on the couches. I have them on my bed, perfectly placed on my side and my husband’s side. They are in the children’s rooms, neatly on comforters, drawing my eye up away from the toys scattered on the floor and up to the order I try to maintain for my own sanity. ***** The dishes are done and I’m wiping the countertops when my daughter opens the back door and steps in, shaking off leaves and dirt from the yard. My son follows on her heels. “Mommy, we were swinging and jumping off to see how far we could go!” My son tells me. “I jumped this far!” He says, holding his arms wide. “That sounds fun!” I smile. I place the sponge on the sink where it goes and survey my work, thinking of what I want to organize next. “Can we build a fort?” my daughter asks, interrupting my train of thought. “Yeah, we want to build a fort!” my son chimes in, jumping up and down. “Go for it,” I say. “But don’t touch my pillows,” I give them a half-hearted glare. “Okay!” they respond. I watch as they move the chairs out from the dining table and into a row. My daughter slides the piano bench out while my son grunts as he scoots the heavy coffee table across the floor. I cringe as my nicely arranged room is disassembled, but I control my impulse to push the furniture back into place and instead stand off to the side and observe their progress. They run upstairs to grab blankets, throwing them over the stair railing to land in a heap on the floor. The chairs and bench and table are soon covered in Frozen and Batman blankets, the room transformed into a series of tunnels and forts. Little heads poke in and out, giggling and playing. Dolls and stuffed animals come downstairs, somehow a card game is set up under the blankets. My heart swells as I watch the two of them play together, creating their own imaginary world and organizing it how they like. They arrange and negotiate and set things in their places, putting order to chaos, creating harmony. With young children, I realize peace isn’t something I can display and put perfectly in its place. It’s not having control over outward objects or making sure everything stays exactly where I put it. Sometimes peace can be messy, with furniture all over the place and my sitting room covered in blankets. The smiles and giggles of my children remind me that I can let go of some order and move things around. That my heart can still be happy if everything is not in its place. But, lest you think I’ve become a new person, let me remind you that my throw pillows are still off limits, a compromise of sorts between my old life and this new one of motherhood.

The Story of the Minivan

The registration is due for the first time on our minivan. We purchased it last year, our first minivan. It was a spur of the moment decision. Sure, we (and I'd like to clarify that by "we," I mean my husband) had been throwing around the idea for years, but really, a minivan? That just conjures up images of soccer balls and dirty sneakers and children jumping in and out all day long. I picture frumpy oversized shirts with yoga pants and coffee in one hand and messy ponytails and bleary eyes and basically, mom life, because who else drives a minivan besides a mom? I was not about to give in to the stereotype. Who says I need a minivan to be a mom? Not me.

Previously, I had my share of SUVs. There was the seven seater SUV (now I can't even remember what it was) with the gigantic trunk. I fit the double jogging stroller in there no problem, and tossed Costco groceries in with it. I had my coffee and my yoga pants, but there was no frump about it. Then that died and I found the next SUV. Again, seven seats, lots of trunk space, even captain's seats in the middle. This had the interior of the minivan, but really, it was an SUV. The doors still swung out, and the driver's seat sat tall.

Then one day my beloved SUV wouldn't start. Granted, I did strap the children in to their carseats and was standing by the car with the doors open chatting away to friends, but goodness, I don't talk that much. But when I turned the key to start the car, nothing happened.

Thankfully, the nice manager at Chik-fil-a brought out some jumper cables and we were fine (also thanks to YouTube because I had a funky SUV whose battery was located back and under the passenger seat. I know! It's supposed to go under the hood. But it didn't. YouTube was a huge help during this trying time).

Then it died again. I had to make sure I didn't leave the doors open for any amount of time, or the battery would drain.

So we bought a new battery and all was fine.

Then the thing randomly chose whether or not it wanted to turn on, depending on the day. Or the check engine light would flash menacingly at me. Not a big deal. I'm an introvert and all for staying home. So I'd wait a few minutes and try again. And again. And again.

But when my son went to the Emergency Room and the car wouldn't start (thankfully it was when we were leaving to go home after he was released, so we were stuck in the hospital parking lot), enough was enough. What if it hadn't started when we needed to get there? I've heard ambulances are expensive.

I thought about getting another SUV. I looked at the new ones (we were buying new so it could last as long as the kids live at home), but for some reason the newer SUVs are smaller. At least the ones I liked were. Which defeats the point, honestly. Don't you drive an SUV to take up space? To tower over the tiny compacts on the freeway? To show off your power and look down upon those who dare merge into your lane? Just me?

That weekend we traded in for a minivan.

I have to give it to Jacob, the salesperson who sold it to us. He was good. I have a deep hatred for car shopping. Something about being talked to about features and options and having someone in your face who won't go away and just leave you alone to think about things (remember, introvert?), just makes me edgy. Jacob was nice, though. And he didn't talk too much and answered all our questions and drove us all over the lots looking for the features we wanted. Yes, we still spent hours and hours waiting on paperwork and signing stuff (thank goodness the dealership had games to occupy the kids), but it didn't seem to take as long as I had thought it would. And now I have a bright, shiny, new minivan to last me for the next ten years (that's the plan, anyway).

I mean, sliding doors. Not just sliding doors, but sliding doors with automatic buttons, both inside, on the remote, and by the driver's seat. It was the sliding doors that did me in. Now we pull into a parking spot like we own the place. "Am I in the lines?" I ask the kids when we park. "Look at how we can fit and not hit the car next to us when we open the doors!" It's magic, I tell you. Pure magic. No more standing behind doors if it's windy, praying they don't dent the car next to us. No more telling the kids to wait to open the door until I got to their side of the car. No, sir. Now we have buttons. Push and wait. Then push to close again. We have conquered wind and tight parking spaces. Thank you, sliding doors on my bright, shiny, new minivan.

Although the first week we had it home, it was rear-ended in the McDonald's drive-through. By rear-ended, I mean bumped enough to damage the rear cameras. But the kids have quite the story to tell about being in an accident and how exciting it was! We had to give it back for a week to get fixed.

Then, we had a bright, shiny, new minivan with an even newer bumper.

Although not too long ago we were hit in a parking lot and had to take it back in to get fixed. Again, pretty minor, but enough so that the paint was scraped down to the metal and would have rusted would I have ignored it like I tried to convince my husband we should do. He wasn't having it. So now we have a bright, shiny, new minivan with an even newer new bumper.

Anyway, I'm a mom with a minivan now. Do I feel large and frumpy and inelegant on the road? You bet. Do I tower over the other cars and give them haughty looks when they try to merge into my lane? Nope. Will I happily trade it in for something completely different when the kids are grown? Absolutely. But do I love those sliding doors and not having to be blamed for the paint scratches on the cars next to us? Indeed I do.



Insert picture of Toyota Sienna in pretty ice blue color (there was a technical term for the color, but I don't remember. Feel free to Google).