Fair Warning

Second only to blog entries about poop, this is a blog entry about toddlers and private parts, with a bathroom twist. Click away now if you prefer not to read this sort of thing.

Well?

Are you going away?

No?

Fine, don't say I didn't warn you.

I picked the girls up from the sitter's today after having lunch with Sean. Our forty minutes at the Bistro saw me consume approximately 48 ounces of impossibly delicious ice water and lemon. I thought fleetingly about popping into the ladies room before leaving, but decided I'd rather wait and be on time for pick-up.

Silly me. Silly, pregnant, over-watered me. No sooner had we walked out of the joint, then I felt the searing pain of a thousand daggers near my bladder. It was as if it had been 8 hours, rather than one, since I'd last used the facilities. I did that tell-tale, ginger stutter step as I tried to get to the car as fast as possible without jostling my midsection too much.

The drive to the sitter's is a blur of fervent please don't pee, please, just please don't pee, just hold it in, hold it in Amanda, you can do it muttering. I dashed into get the girls, the sitter wanting to chat and the girls wanting to show off and cavort with their note that talked about "peeing on the potty."

"Wow, honey, that's great. Mama needs to do just that. Let's get home."

So I shepherded them out to the car.

"Mama, have ya gotta pee?"

"Yes, sweetie, I do. Really bad."

"Really bad? Huh? Ya havta pee really bad?"

"Yes, honey, it hurts. Let's get home so we can get mama on the potty."

"Mama, ya gotta drive faster. Ya havta go pee really bad in case it hurts your vagina."

"Uh pee. Uh pee. Potty. Paw-teee!" Avery kicked and squawked exuberantly.

"Ok. Let's get home."

"Mama?"

"Yes, Briar?"

"Mama, will you get home and pee so your vagina doesn't get hurt and then call daddy so his peanuts are safe?"

Halloween Test Run

Several weeks ago we were out front making fuzzy sidewalk chalk art when one of the moms from our neighborhood came by with her kids. She passed us an invitation to a Halloween Costume Party. Briar started chirping "party" and Avery gleefully parroted her, "Paw-tee. Pah- DEE!" I laughed and shook my head in that oh-aren't-kids-precious way you do with someone you have absolutely nothing in common with other than your kids. Seems to be some weird, forced way of creating a common bond and so help me it is an impulse I cannot resist.

I followed with, "Oh of course we will come. We cannot wait. We'll go buy costumes right now." I felt huge shades of Molly Ringwald wash over me. Shut up, Amanda. You've got the invitation, leave well enough alone. "Oh and please, please, please, please let me know if there is anything we can bring, or anything I can do to help!" I might have offered to mow her lawn and hose down the drive, I really can't remember.

She thanked me and headed on her way to deliver more invitations. Briar was pawing at the invitation so I bent down to show her. I fleetingly wondered if maybe we were invited by default, standing between her and the popular girls down the way, handing us an invitation being a means to an end. Then I saw it, the invitation bore the names "Avery" and "Briar" across the top. It had been planned. I think this means that we have officially been added to the neighborhood invitation distribution list.

I realized yesterday that the invitation requested an RSVP by the 18th. Damnit, it was the 20th. I called and left a message:

"Hi. It's Amanda. Amanda from down the street. Ah, I am Avery and Briar's mom. I was just calling about the party. I hope you knew that when you handed us the invitation and I said we were coming that we were indeed coming. I just, I know I am rsvp'ing late, unless you took the yes when you came by as our rsvp. I just, I should have called, but I was so sure we'd come. I hope it's ok. If you need anything please let me know. I'd be happy to bring anything you might need or pitch in during the party. Just give me a call. Ok, so, hopefully we can still come, I mean, we will come, I just hope we don't throw your numbers off. We'll see you tomorrow. Again, call if you need anything. Thanks."

I cannot leave a message that is shorter than two minutes, throw in my neighborhood clique neurosis and you are sure to get a ten minute message. "Hopefully we can still come?! Ugh. I was left with a message hangover. The party was at 2 today and by noon I still hadn't gotten a call. If the girls hadn't been so excited I just might have bagged the whole thing.

We made our way to the party, the girls in their short sleeved costumes were comfortable in the nearly 80 degree weather. It all worked out as our host poo pooed my worries and said that she hadn't called because she knew we were coming and she didn't need any help. I beamed, maybe I'm not a total misfit?

And our girls? Not misfits, but they do prefer swings to candy and do seem a bit stunned by the antics of the other kids.

Sunlight's Inspiration

Morning came early with a declarative, "It's morning time, let's go," ringing from Briar's room before 7, while Sean was trying to put the dog outside to prevent her whining from waking the entire house.

"Mo-nink. Mo-nink."

"Hey Avery! It's morning time. You up? Good girl!"

"Uh guh-girl. A-ree, guh girl."

"Morning time for going into mom and dad's room." And then the footsteps, first little, three year old paddle feet, then 30+ year old, sleepy feet. I cringed as I waited for the banging of baby doll against crib and toddler exclaims to hit Sean's ears, sealing his fate as up for the day.

"What? Everybody's up?" He asked, defeat and delight mixing, with delight quickly eclipsing the rest as Briar leapt into his arms.

"Yup, we are up daddy, we are."

So that's how we started. When I came downstairs, I saw this and it moved me.



I'd purchased twig wreaths and dried flowers at GardenWorks last weekend intending to make our fall/winter decorations. Holding on to that exquisite and unexpected bit of sunlight, I set about creating our wreaths. I am obnoxiously proud to have not bought them at Target.





Outside each window is an explosion of color, and with the weather still aptly described as balmy, I think we'll go harvest leaves today.





Here's hoping the day brings you a dose of inspiration.

The Cupboard Was Bare

Every so often we run completely out of food and as I glare in the cupboards willing a box of Annie's macaroni and cheese to appear I see it.

Sauerkraut.

Canned.

I don't know where the hell this thing comes from. I could swear that I've thrown it away seven times, and yet every time the cupboards are bare, Ole sauerkraut comes a calling.

Other irrefutable truths that remain constant during times of famine at Chez Magee -

There will be asparagus with rotten tips in the crisper.

There will be no less than two entire jars of pickles in the fridge.

There will be partially opened string cheese with hardened edges curling in the lunch meat drawer.

There will be vegan frozen entrees in the freezer.

I will be ravenous.

I'm off to the store, anyone need canned sauerkraut?

May Not Mean Much to You

But this photo shoot gone awry melted my heart.

"Smile, Ave."

"Huh-uh. Cull*, Cull."


*Avery code for cuddle.

Later I managed to get this:



I'm no Liebowitz, but with a subject like Ave, who cares.

This Kind Hurts

I knew from the moment I got up this morning,

(10 am, thank you very much, my sweet, magnificent, angel of a husband for keeping the girls sequestered in the far northwestern corner of the house while they went about their incredibly loud, early morning shenanigans. I'll get you back once we have three on the outside, I promise.)

that it was going to be one of those days that I would look back on for the rest of my life. The feel of the pillowcase on my face as I luxuriated in bed while Sean put the girls down for a nap, the quality of the light pouring through the kitchen window as I helped myself to a small, but sinfully brilliant cup of coffee, and the sky. The sky outside bore the promise of a crisp, early autumn day. We had plans to drive to Salem for Jon and friends' Art Harvest. I knew that nap time would work itself out, that my pregnancy fatigue would stay at bay and that it was simply something that we had to do. And so I listened.

We gave the girls a piping hot lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches with decadent organic cheese left over from Grandma's visit and apples from our last trip to the Farmers Market, also with Grandma. After lunch

(and a very long shower for me, again, thank you Sean, you are approaching saint hood)

we hit the road, bound for GardenWorks Farm.

The girls chirped about pumpkins and planes on the drive, never fighting and defying the odds of needing a potty break or a diaper change, and the pig tails they both requested, would stay perfectly perched upon their silky heads until ten minutes into the drive home. Like I said, something about the day was destined to be Frank Capraeasque. We arrived at GardenWorks and the memories began to take shape as we pulled in the gravel drive.

The farm was beautiful and the girls approached it with a certain reverence, Briar actually asking Sean, "Daddy, can you turn the music off so I can hear the farm and not the music?" We spent the afternoon walking around and delighting in the beauty of the day and each other's company.





She's just so big and fearless I can't stand it.



Moments like this rock me, so grateful am I to know that they'll always have each other and these memories.



The only thing better than a fresh peanut butter cookie?
A fresh peanut butter cookie and fresh-picked-by-your-own-hand-raspberries.



If the pig tails don't get you, then the jeans will and if those don't, I defy you to not feel a little tightening in your chest from the squat. If you still aren't feeling it then you just might have ice in your veins.



"I like the biggest red ones, mom.

Taking these photos a lump took root in my throat and a dull throb seemed to moan from my soul, Catch this. Capture it and clutch it to your breast, you'll need it. And so I shall ever more, hold today and those shining pig tails in the sun, as close to my heart as I can, and I'll call to them when I think of my girls away at college. I know I'll need them.

Where are they? Where did they go?

It wasn't even a week ago that I called the house:

"Hey, it's me. Just checking to see how things are going."

Sean sat across from me, a plate of stuffed mushrooms between us, our hands laced together over the small corner table at Davidson's. He was smiling, always tender as I struggle to gain purchase in the morass of loving time alone with him and feeling guilt for choosing to be away from the girls.

"Oh, we're fine. They've forgotten who you are." My mom joked. "I should tell you, we've been doing body art."

"Body art?" I asked, Sean stopped nodding his head to the man singing the blues on the stage, and turned to me raising his eyebrows, "Body art?" he mouthed.

"Uh huh. We're putting tattoos on each other. Don't hurry back, have fun."

"Ok," I said shaking my head. Relieved that they were having fun and grateful I'd been able to make the check-in call.

We spent the next hour holding hands and eating our dinner Lady and the Tramp style. The owners of the restaurant, celebrating their 11 professional anniversary, visiting every so often to tease us and chat. It was exciting to be out and slightly bittersweet as it was my mom and sister's last night in town.

When we got home the girls ran to us,

"Doe-rah. Doe-rah." Avery squealed.

"Look, mama, I got one Dora, and one 'nother Dora and a flower. And I got another one of a flower on my foot. Can you see it? Do you love it, my Dora and Dora and flowers?" Briar's face was flushed, her eyes wide.

"N'Doe-rah hand!"Avery bleated.

My mom and Abbie walked up behind them looking every bit as excited as the girls. Abbie told us with twinkling eyes,"For the record, the body art was all mom's idea." We spent the next twenty minutes or so admiring the tattoos, ooh and ahing appropriately.

The next day we made arrangements for Mom and Ab to drop the girls off at the sitter's, thereby avoiding a tearful farewell. It worked, the girls hopped out of the strolland clambered up the sitter's steps, Briar without so much as a second glance, Avery, however, stopped,turning back to my mom and Abbie. She knew something was amiss, but wasn't sure what. She'd spent the better part of a week molding her body to my mom's chest, her dark eyes dancing beneath thick bangs as she grinned, her face tight against my mom's shoulder. When she wasn't cuddling and flirting she was walking belly jutting forward and bottom sticking out studiously enunciating, "Aw-bee. Aw-bee!" It didn't feel right to watch them walk off with the stroller.

Her eyes have punished me for a week since.

"Uh, grandma?" Dark blue eyes boring into me.

"She went home, honey."

"Aw-bee. Aw-bee."Voice cracking.

"She's home too, baby, but they'll be back. Or we'll go see them."

Then she raises her hand to my face, eyebrows furrowed, "Uh, Grandma, uh see Grandma? Ooooh?"

"Soon, sweetie. I promise." I pull her to me and she hugs me, her hand patting my back.

"Tanks. Tanks uh Grandma." And she touches my face once more.

Later as we're eating at the dinner table, Avery's face is covered in ketchup and she raises her hand to take another bite, then stops abruptly. Her hand hangs in the air. Briar looks at her, then looks at us, then she looks down at her own hand.

"Mommy, Daddy? Do you know this is my Dora from Grandma and Abbie? Do you know that?"

We watch, nodding. Avery looks at her hand, tracing the fading Dora with sticky fingers. The memory of the visit seems to sweeten and strengthen with each flaking bit of tattoo.

"Doe-rah. Grandma."

"That's right, Avery. That's your Dora from Grandma. Mom, where's Grandma? Where's Abbie?" She asks, blue eyes so light they're almost transparent.

"They went home on a plane Briar." Sean explains. "Maybe we'll go and see them soon, ok? And they can come and visit again."

"Aw-bee. Aw-bee and Grandma comin'. Comin!" Avery's legs are kicking, beating against her high chair, ketchup splatters against the wall. For a moment my eyes blur as I consider the miles, the ketchup on the wall like bloody tears. I curse the distance that lays between us, wishing it were easier. Easier to navigate the realities of a big world with incredible technology and luxuries, but with nothing that can take the place of screaming at the top of your lungs with your aunt or of curling in your grandma's lap and reading. I wish for one second that things were different, that it weren't three time zones and too many busy schedules between us, wish that I'd taken a different path.

And then I look around the table at the three sets of blue eyes staring back at me. I see the paper pumpkins the girls made in the window, see the tree that shades us out front. Behind me is the porch my grandpa sat on, the place they held Briar during her first days. I see the pictures from our wedding and the glass cabinet filled with heirlooms from our families, the blending of two people's lives from opposite sides of the country. Looking at those eyes and these walls that surround us I see a miracle that could only have happened one way. So I swallow my lump and smile at our girls.

"You know what? Grandma and Abbie love you very much. They had so much fun and we are going to see them again. How about we read the books Grandma brought after we take a bath, ok?"

And they begin the frantic dance to get out of their seats and up to the bath as fast as they can. I know that we are not done, that they'll wonder tomorrow and the next day and the day after where Grandma and Ab have gone. I don't think it will ever get easier, but we'll get by. There will be visits and stories. We'll look at pictures and remember. And one day we'll find that we've carved a path of our own, a path lined with trees that will shelter us, flowers that will delight us, and kissed by a breeze that will carry the memories of our time together when we walk alone.

There You Were

I was standing in a store in the mall holding a shopping bag. It was a big city mall and miles from the staid atmosphere and displays of the Sears, JC Penney and Bon Ton that I am accustomed to. I was overwhelmed by the intensity of its absence of natural light, pulsating music and slick, faceless mannequins in clothes that looked nothing short of ridiculous to me. I walked quickly past the gaunt, slouching forms outfitted in slick purple and grey fabrics and stepped outside to wait for Sean, foolishly thinking there might be more air in the corridor.

A woman was pacing with a clipboard, stutter-stepping towards people with a hopeful look on her face, "Do you have a few minutes to sign my - -" she trailed off. No one listened, no one stopped. My face flushed as I turned, not wanting to be engaged by this woman, yet suffering for being one more person unwilling to listen to her - Another time, I promise I'll stop and listen to someone else some other time I vowed silently.

I walked toward the other side of the thoroughfare, breathing a sigh of relief as my feet led me to a patch of mall beneath a burned out lighting strip, the shadows felt as crisp as river water on naked toes. I leaned against the wall and set my bag on the ground beside me. The feel of the concrete wall against my back was cool and hard, I imagined I was at the park, the bow of the boat the girls love climbing pressing against my back. I was almost there, the din of the throngs of people slipping away, when I was assaulted by overflow from the food court. A steamy rush of nachos, Chinese food and greasy pizza swept past me, and I bolted.

Clutching the bag I walked back toward the store, searching for Sean. I didn't see him and the woman with the clipboard was eying me, so I cut right, behind a staircase and into a vacant storefront. It was dark and cool, no smells and less sounds. I watched passers-by shuffling to and fro, I examined the splashy window displays and I wondered how so many people could be in one place with so many attempts to communicate and yet it felt like the loneliest place on earth. No one looked at each other, save the teenagers mocking each other and the girls desperately seeking attention in their skimpy outfits.

I felt like an outsider and wondered when it had changed. When did the mall become too much for me? When did I start having to turn down the tv to think? Shutting the radio off to drive? I hadn't realized that at some point I effectively slid off the grid and became rooted in a world that has no contact with the pulse of this super polished commercialism. I was stunned and felt like a flashing beacon of deception. She doesn't belong here.

And then it happened. The corridor went absolutely silent, the pulse of the music stopped short of where I stood and the harsh lighting faded to nothing before it reached me. Standing there, one hand holding my bag and one hand on my stomach, you came to me. I felt you on my hand, knew you in my soul.

You.

My baby.

There in the clatter of an Albany mall you came to me. My first awakening of you as somebody. I would have sworn that light poured out of me, that we sent out waves to rival any sound system, but it wasn't so. Ours was an intimate meeting, shared just between the two of us. Shivers ran up and down my spine as your declaration of being rang through my body. I will never forget how you took hold of me and I cannot wait to get to know you.

Welcome home to mama, sweet one.

Let it be known

Sean: I want it known in the blog world that I went to the store in the driving rain for my radiant, pregnant wife.

Me: Sure, I'll let them know, but I'll also let them know it was for milk and not Häagen-Dazs.

Sean: Ah, but not just any milk, organic, fat-free milk*.

Me: I'll let 'em know, I promise.

*And for the record, it was good.

Pop Goes the Belly

I am e-x-p-l-o-d-i-n-g.

Seriously. I feel as if when I am sitting, the growth of my stomach is on par with one of those accelerated images of a flower growing that we used to have to watch in science class. And, hard to believe since it's only been about 16 months since I had Avery, but I'd forgotten the "gut checks" everyone does. Eying the belly before they even make eye contact with me, to gauge how much I've grown. I suppose this means I'll quickly pass the-fat-chick-at-the-bar stage and go directly to, "Oh dear god when are you due?"

"April."

"Really? But you are so big."

Awkward silence.

"Not to say you don't look great..." followed by a pained look down at my belly.

Please don't misunderstand, I am beyond thrilled that I have a life growing inside of me. I know that I am blessed, that said, there's still an inevitable terror as you realize that your body is once again going to defy the laws of science and extend in ways that are nothing short of jaw dropping.

Notice in this picture the look on my face in the mirror. I just hadn't realized the torpedoesque nature of my profile.

Eating Crow, kind of.

I have been fairly candid about my disillusionment about the friendliness of neighbors. It has been humbling because I thought that after the 5th grade gang-ups I'd shed myself of the burden of caring about fitting in, but I was wrong. Aching to belong lingers, no matter your age or place in life. Being the kind of person that uses humor to get past these things, I've often made light of our situation with our neighbors.

The truth is that we live in a lovely neighborhood. We have the best elementary school in the district a stone's throw from our house, we walk to the Farmer's Market every Saturday morning, we have three grocery stores to choose from, each within 2 miles of our house, and, despite my grumblings, we are blessed to have some wonderful ( and exceptionally colorful) neighbors.

This week my mom and sister are visiting, their mission, to get me off my feet and take care of things around the house.

"Now, don't do a mom-is-coming-to-visit cleaning blitz before I arrive."

"I won't."

"You promise?"

"Yup."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

And I didn't, at least not like we usually do. We did put some toys away and pass my beloved Dyson through the dried macaroni and crushed leaves wake that runs from our front door to the kitchen, but the laundry stayed dirty and I didn't run Clorox wipes over every imaginable surface. Unfortunately, I spent the first three days of their visit kind of tearing ass through the house, following the girls as they chased their aunt and just generally enjoying having them around.

Friday I hit a serious wall, cartoon style. I'd been going, going, going, when all of a sudden I thought, "Maybe I should lie down." The next thing I knew my face and the sofa began to resemble a memory foam diagram, the left side of my face completely submerged in the cushion. There was a vague sensation of clouds passing, which I realized was a person slipping past me and laying a blanket over my inert form, voices in the distance:

"Leafses."

"You want to go to gather leaves?"

"Uh-huh, let's get together some leafses."

"Ok, we need to find your shoes."

And then it was quiet. I'm not sure how long I slept, but when I woke my contacts were stuck to my eyes and I looked around sheepishly as I slid a pillow over the shocking pond of drool I'd created. I sat for a moment taking stock of the situation.

No dog. She always curls at my feet when I nap.
No sounds. No computer, no music. No girls.
Stillness. No clanging in the kitchen, no whirring of washing machine.
They were gone.

I stood slowly and slipped on a pair of shoes. Then I walked outside, the brightness of the afternoon a shock. Standing outside our house I listened for them, thinking I could at least determine which direction to walk. Nothing. No one in the backyard, no one down our block, so I turned left and headed to the corner. I'd not walked ten steps before our neighbor called to me:

"Amanda. Are you looking for them?"

"Yes."

"They just walked that way, should be right there." She was indicating down the street I was facing. I lifted my hand and called out a thanks. Taking a few more steps, I paused at the corner. Three doors down a head popped up.

"Amanda?"

"Yes?"

"They just walked that way." She said pointing her thumb down the street.

"Thanks."

"You should be in bed." She called out with a smile.

"You're probably right," I returned rather feebly, still dazed by the immediacy of the unsolicited help.

"Hey, Amanda!"

"Yes," I shielded my eyes and looked further down the street.

"They just rounded the corner and should be coming your way." A male neighbor shouted.

"Thanks."

"Now go put your feet up." He said as he went back to raking.

I shook my head. This neighborhood, these people, people I have yearned to belong to, had, in one unchoreographed, and heart piercing gesture of awareness and consideration, demonstrated that not only did they know we were here, but they cared. They cared that I was getting enough rest, cared that I wanted to know where my girls were. The emotion of receiving such old fashioned, good neighbor kindness made my heart swell. People were looking out for me and for my family. I cannot fathom a more precious thing to have than that.

Only if you really want to...

Today there are a number of bloggers promoting this as a day for delurking, which means, letting us know you are reading. I don't agree with the name, as I think it connotes a certain sneakiness. I love having people read my blogs and I hope that by returning it means you like what you are finding. So, if you feel like it, leave a comment today. Don't think of it as delurking, think of it as letting me know I'm not alone in the room.

The Way He Held Her

I was standing waiting to check in for my pre-natal blood screens. I was leaning into Sean, weak and frozen by the general sense of gloom that always weighs down on me at the hospital. It is a beautiful facility, but there is a bleakness, an absence of cushion from sadness and loss. The smokers out front, their faces drawn and gray, and their carriage a mixture of defeat and defiance, seem to represent the threat that it doesn't always work out.

Passing through the cloud hanging just on the other side of the automatic doors, came person after person, some flicking cigarettes behind them as smoke still snaked from their mouths, each more overweight and infirm than the last. I stepped back into Sean, grounding myself in the safety of his embrace, the feel of his body against mine, healthy and strong. After a while the smokers left, the haze clearing to reveal a wide expanse of blue sky. I looked down the hallway toward the elevators, there was no one, just the hospital's wall fountain, gurgling softly, cleansing the air.

The woman checking us all in was struggling with her computer, looking over her shoulder at coworkers oblivious to the line that was forming. The faster she tried to work, the more futile it seemed, and I looked away, back toward the window. An orderly was pushing a wheel chair through the exit doors, while a man in his late sixties, tall and broad, stepped out of a large F-150 and walked around to open the passenger side door. He wore a short sleeved shirt in a checked pattern tucked into Wranglers, he was confident and strong. The orderly and the man exchanged words I couldn't hear and then moved to help the person out of the wheel chair.

Her hair was curly and short, a soft halo of silver with black flecks. Her blouse was light and she held her arms out at her sides, unsure as she stood. The orderly stayed beside her, guiding her while the man watched. His face softened and he gently glided around her, gingerly holding her arms and then she was steady. His touch chasing away any hesitation, and she settled into his arms as he lifted her into the truck. Perched on the seat, her face turned slowly, first to the orderly, a weak "Thanks," as he headed back into the lobby with the wheel chair. Then she looked to the man, raising a hand and touching his arm, she smiled, tired. He leaned against the truck and beamed. I imagined this wasn't their first trip to the hospital, most likely would not be their last. But in that moment, there outside the hospital, they were ageless and pain free, in love and cushioned for their journey.

Butterfly Bush

I spent more hours than I care to remember worrying that I would miss something as a working mom. I hadn't realized how much I would want to be home, or just how quickly it all goes. I've learned to make things happen for myself, whether it's been to negotiate the ability to work from home part time or setting aside the laundry to go outside and pick clovers. We've only got these girls once and I am determined to make it count.

The other day we were outside, the girls were toddling around on the patio while I watered the plants. Briar was flitting about picking buds from the edges of the mums while Avery shadowed me wanting to drink from the hose. We'd been outside for about ten minutes when I bent down and handed Avery the hose, kinking the rubber to slow the flow while she held it with delight in front of her face. Droplets of water clung to her eyelashes and the heaviness made her shake her head giggling. I looked over at Briar, as she knelt beneath our butterfly bush. Two butterflies were dancing overhead and I called out to her, "Briar, honey, look at the butterflies! They're dancing with you!"

She stood up slowly and looked around, at first the butterflies started to fly away and the three of us watched them, disappointed. Briar lifted one hand as Avery whispered, "Buh-fly" and they came back, fluttering in and toward Briar and then back up. For several minutes she stood beneath the bush while those butterflies flirted with her. Avery waved the hose and drops of water sent the blossoms on the bush bouncing.

It was a moment I would have missed if I hadn't stopped to kneel and play.