It feels right tonight to be sitting in bed, pillows propped high and soft. The sprinklers just kicked on in the back, the comforting sound of home.
Working full time has made my home even more of a sanctuary, a safe place to rest before and after the hullabaloo of the day.
In the morning I try my damndest to rise at the glorious hour of five thirty AM to curl up on my couch with a cup of hot Joe and a book or two.  I like to pray then. Then as the clock ticks ticks ticks I know it's time to MOVE...and move we do until, on a good night, nineish, when the boys are in bed and the kitchen has been picked up and wiped down and lunches have been made, and oh, the coffee. Setting up the coffee for the next day is the most important thing I do all day long.
For Mother's Day Joey got me Wild Water's passes so we went last Saturday. We packed a lunch and ate in the back of Joey's truck with old towels laid out as blankets on the black casing so as not to burn our buns.
I stayed mostly in the kiddy pool with Noah. He was very independent and when I told him I was cold and wanted to warm up for a minute, he turned right around and went on the slide himself. That's when I knew this was going to be a wonderful summer and the passes the best Mother's Day present to date. Independence in my children is an  immeasurably beautiful thing.
 Ethan also climbed the latter (literally) in his own independence and went on all the BIG slides he was tall enough for. This, for a kid with whom we have struggled ever since he was six months old and I put him in the pool at our apartment and he screamed his head off, to get him to just enjoy being in the water. Getting wet. Getting water in his eyes. Not freaking out.
He had an amazing time. Joey enjoyed being with him.
I forgot how damn high those slides are, and was a little annoyed as to how out of breath I was carrying the double tube up there. I guess maybe I need to go back to kickboxing.
Which leads me to...I went to the chiropractor today, just to kind of check in and get some info but instead got my whole body twisted and popped and squeezed. It felt amazing! BUT, not as amazing as an hour long massage, and since it's the same out of my wallet, I'm going to stick with the massage. He did tell me one leg was shorter than the other though. Shoot. Maybe that's why I walk funny.
But I miss working out hard. I miss the endorphins you get, miss feeling really good after. You don't get that by just "moderate" exercise. "Moderate" exercise leaves me feeling a little tired and frustrated. Like nothing was released. Hard exercise, on the other hand, leaves me feeling refreshed and strong, like I can take on anything.
It may be time for something new.

Living in Spaghetti

The thought, Writing is like holding on to something that is completely and unmistakeably mine. Where so much of my life is run by the "have to's" writing stays a precious and rare "because I want to" makes me get out the laptop, despite not knowing what it is I want to write about and feeling like my eyelids weigh 450 pounds.
We are in the middle of our week. Noah went to bed smoothly tonight because I've learned to start the whole process much earlier than you'd think you'd need to. I have more patience, he's less tired and grumpy. We can get through five or six stories (holy smoking cows!), a couple of songs, even the 'tune' he likes to play on his harmonica (how in the world THAT ever got thrown into the bedtime routine I will never, ever, know, but it's there, right after turning on his CD player and before placing him in his bed).
Then Ethan. We played checkers after having cookies. He wanted a 'date night' at home. It was fun until the very end, when I beat him. Six year olds are very sore losers.
After he calmed down, he read me, "Take me to the Zoo" and  "A Fish Out of Water". Both books have this rhymey rhythm that put me right to sleep. Reminded me of my dad snoozing on the couch way back when I was little and loved to read.

I remember learning to read. I remember learning to read words like, "LOOK" and "BOOK" and the biggest and weirdest word of all "SPAGHETTI". That one made no sense to me whatsoever and was the first sign that there were things in this world that just don't make any sense, and that's just the way it is. It was the first time I remember having to live in a state of ambiguity. I had to keep going, keep learning how to read, even when  that whopper of a word was thrown in there and smashed to bits all the neat little rules of grammar I was learning.
It would have been nice if someone would have let me know it was an Italian word, not an English word. I think I would have been able to accept it easier.
The inevitable would have come anyway, words that defy all rules and guidelines, words that just are just because.

 I feel sometimes like my whole life is full of  spaghetti, full of things that don't make sense but I have to live through them anyway. Finding the grace to do so is the real miracle: grace to stay hopeful, looking forward to a time when all of it, every single detail, will make perfect sense.
In the meantime we read stories and play the harmonica and checkers, and wait.