Last night, the kids set up camp in the yard and cooked their own dinner. We watched just long enough to ensure safety and morale were in adequate supply, and then we retreated to the house because we get to take showers and sleep in our bed there. Coming home early was the right move.
I have the hardest time remembering my youngest child’s birthday. Perhaps because the date and year were so close? 7/14/13. Even just now, I typed it wrong and had to erase and fix. Anyway, I spent a solid portion of this morning convinced I’d screwed it up and missed it this year. Sorry, baby. Momma loves you on all of the days.
Really, really glad this dad loves me. He also loves his dad and my dad and my granddad. He’s a good dad.
Some days are hard and some days are magical… most days are in between.
It’s Friday. I’ve left work early and surprised my kids by picking them up at school. Did I have to call my husband and get tips on how to enter the school parking lot at this hour because I’ve never done it? Yes. Did I feel sheepish about that and then brush it off because it takes a village to raise a kid and I’m simply one part of the whole? Yes.
I greet my children on the crosswalk. They shriek with delight at the ice cream sandwiches that await them in their seats; we are lucky enough to live in Alaska where things stay frozen without much assistance. I deposit three kids safely at home before taking the baby to ballet; mask over your nose sweetheart and do you have the right shoes? I meander around the thrift store until it’s time to pick her up. What a delightful view of town I have, to leave early on a Friday!
We drive home into the sunset, literally; we ooh and aah over the pink haze that drapes across the snowy mountains in the distance. I climb the stairs to my room and take off my work clothes. The house smells so clean. What a treasure, to crawl into bed and wait for Shabbat to begin. Good Sabbath to you.
And then, the phone call, the one my long term care facility has gone the entire (!!) pandemic without. One of your residents has tested positive for COVID-19.
I pack a bag and hug my children. My husband loads the car with my favorite pillow and a shirt or something that smells like him. I do not remember. I float around the house grabbing items I think I may need if I’m unable to come home for awhile. We have come so far. How many more will follow this test result? Did I update our PPE guidelines? Do I have the staff I need? Do I have what it takes? What will happen next? In the end, I settle on the trite but true. This is what I signed up for. I can only hope my team feels the same. And so, I return to work. Good Sabbath to you.
We welcome the New Year on an old loveseat we’ve dragged beneath the bedroom window.
Out of nowhere, Chris laughs aloud about the way I used to bang furiously on the walls of our old farmhouse, to get the mice to quiet down so we could get some sleep.
Now here I sit, feet tucked beneath me and blanket atop, pausing a book to stare at the glacier outside. A bald eagle lands on a nearby tree branch, eyes level with my own.
What a life it’s been with you, my husband says.
It’s late. We’re finishing a Netflix episode and out of nowhere I say, I’m thinking about cutting my hair. I glance up to a funny look from my beloved. This man will say exactly what he thinks of my fashion choices, such as the neon clogs. But he rarely offers commentary on the parts of me that are attached to my body. He is a wise man.
Isn’t this the trope of women everywhere? Aren’t we always thinking about cutting our hair? Consider the cut, take the risk, lament and grow it out? This is our process. Let us be.
I’m aware that I carry my weight in my face and we are headed into winter and I’ve made some questionable hair choices in the past and and and… Do you not want me to cut my hair? I ask.
This is tender territory, we both know. It’s my body and yet, he looks at it most. My husband hesitates and then…
I don’t mind if you cut your hair. It’s the highlights. I don’t like the highlights. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you. I think they age you. He gestures to his computer, where he is editing photos of our most recent adventure. His new camera can see through my pores and into my very soul. His new camera is a blessing and a curse.
I say nothing. I would prefer almost any critique to aged, but I won’t tell him that. I’m mostly embarrassed because I know he’s right. I hadn’t done anything with my hair in years; the new look felt a bit off from the moment I had it done on vacation several weeks ago. It wasn’t quite the look I’d pictured, but summer was here and I was ready for a change. I should’ve known we’d missed the mark when an older coworker asked if I’d gotten my hair frosted.
I say nothing. Instead, I thank my husband for the feedback. We finish our show. We go to bed.
The following night, I buy a box of dye at the grocery store and gently tone out the blonde pieces, in the quiet secret of the half bathroom downstairs. The box dye has given me the look I wanted all along. I have almost the same hair color as my kids, which has always been the goal. I go to bed triumphant and wake up victorious.
My husband does not notice.