London Eli Scout
What is now proved was once only imagined. - William Blake
-
Times Four.
In the middle of all our annual July Fourth who-ha, our family had the absolute honor to be present for the wedding of our beloved friends – “Nake” and Laura. It was a ceremony as simple and precious and redemptive and hopeful as I have ever attended. And as I sat in the blazing July sun, grateful that I chose to wear black making my sweat less obvious, it was impossible to be seated at the wedding ceremony, impossible to listen to the words being said, impossible to watch a father walk down an aisle and hand his daughter to a young man, without looking at my own wedding companions. Without peering…
-
dunce cap.
I was tidying up the kitchen table after being inspired to do so by reading this blog post by my friend. Listening to The Cure. (Seriously – the iPod was on shuffle and before I knew what was happening I was singing along to “Pictures of You”.) Seriously. That’s true. This whole post is true. (all of my posts are true.) This is what my life looks like. I heard some cries from the girls’ bunk bed where they had been playing happily for over an hour. It had been a beautiful thing that I knew could not last. (The youngest boy was asleep in his crib. The biggest boy…
-
sound bites.
I overheard London and Mosely talking this week. They didn’t know I was listening. “We’ll be best friends forever – right?” “Right.” “You can call us BFF’s.” “What?” “B.F.F. The B is for Best. The F is for Friends. The F is for Forever.” “Oh, right, best friends.” “I almost said Best Friends Virginia!” (Crazy amounts of giggles.) “Virginia starts with a V.” “So does vomit. Vomit starts with a V too.” (Dangerous amounts of giggles and then falling over noises.) Man, I love those girls.
-
a prayer. sort of.
“I think I just love God more than anyone else in the world.” That’s what Cece said my seven-year-old daughter told her one night in their cabins at camp this week. And after the campfire, Cece said London also shared some more thoughts as they discussed the week of camp and the teachings they had heard. “You know, if I was God, I wouldn’t want to save a sinner like me,” London told her. And part of me feels my heart swell to near-implosion at the tender image of my little one thinking such deep and pure God thoughts. And part of me reels in terror at the thought of…
-
eight summers.
How have we come so far so soon? Eight years. Buddies before birth. Raven. London. Last year these girls were walking the paths of camp. This summer they made their debut as Official Campers. Campers who slept at camp in bunk beds. With a Camp Leader all of their own. (The kind and lovely Cece.) This week they ate camp meals every day. They played Slaps in their bunk beds. The went down the slide so many times and so fast. They called once a night. They took notes and short rests and slushee breaks and long walks. How in the world can this be possible? How can eight summers…
-
making summer plans already
London is a lot like me. She likes to know the plan for the day. She loves to read. And she has a fondness for placing human feelings onto stuffed objects. And, like me, she is already thinking about this summer. We had our first taste of watermelon yesterday After which she announced, “Hey, this summer, let’s get a huge watermelon, go to the yard, get naked and let daddy cut our watermelon with a sword.” (For the record – I don’t recall there ever being a moment in family history where we all devoured watermelon clothes-less in our yard. Yes, we have cut a watermelon open with a sword.…
-
a couple of seven-year-olds
It’s usually at night when I am most aware of it. Lying between London and Mosely in their single loft bed. Listening to them recount their days. Answering the same series of questions London asks every evening about the next day. “What’s for breakfast? What’s for lunch? What’s for dinner? What are we doing all day? How many hours until morning will be here?” It’s during this nightly ritual that I notice all the details I have been too busy to see all day. The way these two girls really know one another. The way Mosely’s two new front teeth are inching their way fully into her wide little smile.…
-
Just so you know, Mom.
Not all of London’s notes are love letters. The other day I walked into the kitchen to find these announcements placed on canisters on our counter. First – on the jar of peanuts. And then the container of oatmeal. (Clearly not her favorite Monday morning meal option.)
Keep Reading . . .
and there’s a video
Q Bitz Solo: A Timberdoodle Review
a little this, a little that
-
Wanted: Your Ideas
Now that she can write, London loves to express herself through words. And you know I love that. She has started keeping a journal that she writes in while she is in bed at night. It is precious to me. Filled with paragraphs of ideas and thoughts. A page filled to bursting with a retelling of her day and how she thought it would turn out one way when it really turned out a different way. A listing of all the places she would like to visit on her upcoming daddy-daughter date. And lately, she has been leaving little notes for me all over the house. And I love finding…
-
#1,278
And another reason that I love this kid . . . . Making the rounds after 10:00 p.m. last night, I spied a little extra light shining by the reading chair in our bedroom. And in that chair, curled up and cozy, sat my London Eli Scout reading Roald Dahl’s novel Fantastic Mr. Fox. No, I did not tell her that it was too late to be reading. No, I did not tell her to skedaddle on to bed. I just smiled at her. Kissed her head. And asked, “Can I come join you?”
-
it’s funny because it’s true.
The following conversation occurred during last night’s bedtime routine. Location: London and Mosely’s bedroom. Kevin: Good night, girls. London: Good night Daddy. I hope you feel better. [Kevin has strep throat. He feels not well. Very not well.] Kevin: [Overwhelmed with love for her consideration] Thank you London. I feel so blessed that you are my girls and how you guys show me that . . . Mosely: [Interrupting this tender moment.] I lost my lip. I think I ate it.
-
I’ll buy that.
There something else about that whole Webkinz debacle that I didn’t mention in my last post. (Because who would have kept reading as long as it was anyway?) Little does London know – and never needs to know I guess – that at that moment in that overly-lit store, I would have purchased that kid nearly anything she asked for. Seriously. And here’s why. London, my own ever-changing seven-year-old mini-me, held the orange and black stuffed alley cat of her choice up to me and said, “Look, I have to choose this one – her eyebrows look sad and I think if she comes home with me I can make…
-
Hello Holidays.
This weekend we finally opened our doors to the season surrounding us. (We’re a little slow like that sometimes.) We dug out the fake tree. Again. This year the result of our Fake Tree vs. Real Tree debate has nothing to do with travel plans. Instead, it has lots more to do with the logic presented by a seven year old. London somehow fell on the Fake Tree side of the argument. And she presented three very reasonable arguments for her cause. She articulately stated . . . 1. We already own a fake tree. It’s in the storage shed. It’s already free. 2. You have to water…
