My man is away on business this week. I love him, and he loves me, but I think we both enjoy the different rhythm that a business week away brings. I am thankful that my Mr. loves Jesus, and prefers a quiet night surfing in his upscale hotel room to all the trouble that Vegas can offer. He can turn the air down as low as he wants, crank up the electric white noise with no one complaining, and I can listen to the crickets here, and pile on the duvets, with no overhead fan disrupting my preferred temperature.
I love the sounds of silence. The sounds of quiet. Real crickets (or are they frogs?) outside my french doors. Real wind blowing through the chimes on the back porch. The sound of my six year old breathing heavily next to me. Quiet.
We have an alternate routine when Mr. is away.
I do a little less parenting, a little less cleaning, and a little less cooking. The kids are more than happy with chicken nuggets two nights in a row for dinner...or cereal night...or tonight's menu: Lean Gourmet lasgane freshly microwaved from a cardboard box...with a few clementines thrown in on the side to quiet my maternal-nutrition-conscience.
The popcorn might remain on the floor unswept until morning, and the dishes might stay in the sink overnight.
And I indulge in something fun...like my newfound fascination with Pinterest.
I know that there will come a time when parent-child sleepovers are inappropriate, but for now, each of my children sidle up to me secretly and ask if they can be the first one to sleep in my bed since Mr. is out of town. When the select child has a turn for a sleepover, we read whatever they select. (This week we had the first chapter of Harry Potter, book one; a Junie B. Jones book, and the story my daughter is writing herself). Then we take turns asking one another questions and writing the responses down in a journal.
Earlier today I had tea with a friend who had grown up in Romania. Her grandparents were from Moldova. She told me stories of being very poor in a village and staying with her grandparents on a farm in the summers. She remembers her grandfather telling her of when the Russians invaded their village, burned their home, and how the children in their family were hidden in the hay in a barn to keep them from being abducted. She is thinking of writing her family stories down, so that her own American-born children will know what life was like for their great-grandparents. I hope that she does and that the stories are not lost. It's hard for so many to find the time to record their thoughts, take the pictures, or tell the stories. Life (or watching a fabricated version of life electronically) seems to get in the way.
As I listen to my children fall into a deep sleep, I am so thankful that they have been blessed to be born here, in a time where war is not at our doorsteps or a part of our everyday life. The biggest thing they have to worry about is whether or not they will get their preferred seat in the minivan or the last serving of their favorite cereal before a brother or sister takes it.
May they grow, in time, to understand how very blessed they are.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.