It’s been a long week. Too much screen time and busy-ness and too many online meetings. I was hoping to get out and DO something. I wanted to go to the beach or go hiking. I wanted to head out of the house and have an adventure. But it’s 10:15 in the morning, and I think I’ve changed my mind.
I woke up early, around 6:30, and checked my phone. There was a text from my daughter, sent at 11:14pm (after I was already asleep) and it read, “Can you make sure I’m up by 6:15?” No. No, I cannot. That ship has sailed.
So I check her room; her bed is already made and empty. I check the driveway and her car is still here. I stumble into the kitchen and sit with her for a moment. She hands me a banana chocolate chip muffin that she baked last night while I slept. It is sweet and light and delicious. She’s up so early because she’s going to get her hair done with her sister. I pause for a moment and admire the adult she is becoming before she drives away.
Since we’re awake, Jack and I begin our Saturday morning chores early. We load up the trash and head to the dump. On our way back through town, we stop for coffee. Then we take a trip to the farmer’s market to buy corn and veggies for tonight’s dinner. They’re selling fresh, warm, cider donuts that smell like heaven, so we grab some of those to bring home to the boys. These Saturday morning errands have become a cherished part of our weekly routine.
When we arrive back home, there is a package for Cal. It’s an early birthday present from his Aunt and Grandma; a Lego kit he’s been eyeing for months. The excitement on his face is enough to make this day feel like a success already. As he opens up the package, he proclaims, “The directions are like a real book. 217 pages! I’m going to need a cup of coffee.” He’s not quite 12, and he brews a cup, heavy with cream and sugar. I’m not sure whether I’m proud or appalled. He sips from a steamy mug and settles in with 1,173 small bricks.
I grab my computer; it seems like a good time to write. In the living room, I open my laptop, on the couch across from where Lee is working on a new sketch. He starts with a pad and paper, photographs the rough image, and then uses his iPad to turn it into something sleek and professional, deftly swapping between functions with the stylus on his screen. I am in awe of his skill.
Meanwhile, my husband grabs his guitar. As I type this, he’s gently strumming and composing in the other room, pausing every once in a while to write down a lyric or a chord. When he plays like this, my breathing slows and my mind settles. I could listen all day.
How precious is this moment? The art and the music? The building and the connecting? Writing. Creating. Relaxing. I realize that I don’t need an adventure. I need exactly THIS. I take a moment to breathe it all in.
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Isn’t that beautiful? Ha. It’s over in a hot minute.
In a blink, the drawing morphs into YouTube browsing and the sound of the guitar is replaced by the sound of the television. Jack picks up his phone and settles in on the couch.
I head to the laundry room with a load of towels, and pass a plate of half-eaten nachos in the basement. Somebody has left clothes in the washing machine that now smell like mildew. My blood pressure rises.
The boys are bickering over the last cider donut. The nacho plate is now in the sink, still full of nachos, still not washed, still not in the dishwasher.
Jack is playing a game on his phone. Cue standard argument. Me: Will you help me? Him: Why can’t you just relax?
A short debate.
Me: Can we just clean the house real quick?
Him: I thought you wanted to go do something?
Me: I thought you didn’t.
Him: We should clean the garage.
Me: You want to clean the garage but not the house? Fine. Go ahead.
Him: I thought we could work on it together.
Me: Nope. Not a chance.
Him: Forget it.
Silence.
Kyle makes plans with a friend. I tell him he can’t leave until he cleans up his mess. Cue the teenage attitude.
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Jack knows I’m mad, so he volunteers to be in charge of dinner. I think we’ve come up with a plan that involves a little shopping and a lot of cooking. He’s ready to go to the store. I tell him I’m in the middle of something, as I document this ridiculous morning.
You’re in the middle of something? You’re writing about all of the nothing we’re doing? How is that even something?
But it IS something. It’s what we’ve got. Beautiful moments and stupid arguments and good intentions and pivots. We’ve got moody teenagers and talented artists. We’ve got bakers and builders and writers and musicians; family meals and stale nachos and dirty dishes and smelly laundry.
And whether we head to the beach or head to the kitchen, whether we plan our or day or just let it evolve…
I need to remember that ALL of it is part of the adventure.