Frost

And summer went away.

Happy

Birthday to you, deeeeeeaar Llllllllllllllllllllll. . .

Salmon Run

Not much to say here, really. Some were nearly three and a half feet long.

Snapshot

One evening late last summer we returned home from a day out and about. While I was unloading the van with G's help, E hefted Q inside, while K and S answered a ringing phone to talk to daddy. I came roaring into the living room ready to feed what I was certain would be a starving, impatient baby, only to find this.

Our family has a history with this story. I first told the story to the kids' dad when we were freshmen in college. (On the phone--I was knee deep in an art project and he probably should have been studying.) I've calligraphied a passage from the book numerous times for friends and relatives in the midst of chemo. And now this. My heart is sort of in my throat every time I see this picture.

It's the first time E voluntarily read anything aloud to anyone, and she picked this book to read to this baby brother (who was born with very velvety ears that have been rapidly worn to real-ness) while their daddy was on speaker phone with the little girls in the same room.

And Q listened intently to the whole story.

Later

The weather was still pretty nice. This was taken the weekend of my cousin's wedding in a nearby dahlia field. Dahlia's were the wedding flowers and they were fantastic.

Summer

Long, long ago, on a planet far, far away, it was warm. The sun shone brightly. The wind was calm, welcome for it's relief of summer heat, rather than reviled for it's delivery of tree trunks unto dining sets or miscellaneous irreplaceable family heirlooms. There was no ice, no snow, no days (or weeks) without power, no half frozen track at the local junior high, impeding us from even having a decent walk in it's spongy, muddy texture. There was no need for several layers of clothing, for arguing small folk into the need for socks, never mind mittens. Ah . . .

Whew

They're baaa-aaack.

(Insert Hallelujah chorus.)

At the airport there were tears from S, wailing from K about the lotion she had to toss at security because it was twice the allowed size (though it's not so much about the lotion as, well, the mostly unspoken facts of her life). E reclaimed Q as "hers" and G wandered around blankly for a few minutes after we got home saying, "I can't believe I'm home." (Good? Bad? Only time will tell.)

So now that my kidlets are back, safe and more or less sound (I'm hearing about the scary movies, etc., as usual, and will for a few weeks until the nightmares and memories fade), my feet are back on terra firma, my brain's been reinstalled. I am also recovering from the chestiest, phlegmiest bug I've had in awhile and I feel more human, so I'll be back to post about last week's round of Q appointments. Perhaps I'll write a dissertation on discouragement, hope renewed, or something like that. Or maybe I'll just sleep. (Note the hints of late night unreasonable optimism? It's a side effect of motherhood. All things seem possible when they're tucked silently, motionless-ly, detritis-less-ly in. One's brain positively reels with all the range of possibility. Can you think why I refer to the mood as unreasonable optimism? Perhaps because, were I less tired or sick, the mood would be recognizable as something more like mania? Hmmm.)

Anyway, who cares. They're home.

Haaaaallelujah, haaaaallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallay-hay-luJAH!!

Handel rocks.