Mama the goof

This weekend, we visited with family while attending a funeral, and there were (as there often are at family gatherings) a well-loved collection of kids of all ages floating around. (And by floating, I mean running and laughing and chasing and laughing and admiring butterflies and laughing and hugging grown ups and laughing and playing shy and then laughing some more). Some were shoulder height, some were knee high, and one was taller than I am (!) but all are very, very loved by a large extended family that is very good at loving.

Little kids have energy. Lots and lots of energy. And in that curious way that life has, the smaller the child, the greater the energy. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that the littlest ones at the gathering had more energy to burn than all the adults in the room combined – so much energy, in fact, that they managed to wear out more than one adult as they worked their way around the gathering.

It is easy to forget, once your kids reach a certain age, how very much energy a child of two or three or four has to burn, and how much adult energy their caretaking requires. Luckily, it is just as easy to recall all the silly games and songs and knee-bounces that your kids loved when they were two or three or four, and then proceed to amuse yourself for an hour (or two, or three) singing silly songs, playing with play dough, colouring pictures, inventing stories, and bouncing babies on your knee while singing “Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up… Fall down!” and dipping them down almost to the floor amidst many giggles.

The giggles, of course, are often followed by cries for “More! More!” and, being a softy who can’t resist a happy child, you do it over and over and over again… and then you do it some more.

(For the record – there is nothing cuter than chubby little baby fingers signing “More! More!” while the finger-owner is grinning the kind of grin that sets eyes to sparkling and cheeks to glowing).

The next morning, I managed to get my niece to giggling so hard she could barely breathe, and K announced in all seriousness: “Mom, you are a goof!”

A goof?

Me?

Huh.

Wait — is that a good thing or a bad thing? I had no idea, and as serious as he was looking at that moment, I really wasn’t sure where he stood on the matter. So I did the only thing a Mama can do at such puzzling moments. I said “Really,” then I arched my eyebrow in his general direction and waited to see what he would do next.

“Yup. You are a big goof. You are always so silly when you play with kids.” he told me [insert a dramatic not-yet-teenaged eye-roll here.]

I was fully expecting the next words out of his mouth to be “You are so embarrassing!” or something along those lines, but instead, he threw himself into my arms for a hug and whispered in my ear:

“You are the best goofy mom ever.”

Huh. How about that. Mother’s Day came a week early for me, it seems.

And just for the record? I love you too, my darling boy. More than you’ll ever know.

The Silliness Project: How To Make Your Bed The Silly Way

Making beds is a daily chore around here. The kids grumble about it almost every morning, but by the time they leave for school, their beds are made. Mostly. Some days they make their beds quickly, other days they make their beds almost painfully slowly, but the beds usually get made. Grudgingly, grumblingly, and sometimes with a whine or two or three.

I make a point of never going back in to their rooms to fix their beds after they have made them. I don’t straighten crooked comforters or rearrange piles of pillows. I don’t criticize or critique their performance. I merely model what I want, talking through my process as I make their bed for them once in a while — as a treat, of course, because I love them. I even tell them so.

“I’m going to make your bed for you this morning because I love you soooooooooo much!“

And then I do, talking the whole time about first clearing stuffed animals out of the way, then straightening the sheet and tucking it in solidly at the bottom so they don’t kick it free at night, then the comforter goes on, nice and straight and flat so there aren’t any wrinkles to bother you at night. Next, the pillows, fluffed up so high and fluffy. Finally, it’s time to decorate – stuffed animals galore, arranged just so, keeping the bed warm and cozy until bedtime tonight.

Today, as sometimes happens, B asked for help making her bed. She had stayed up late last night as we visited with friends and was too tired to do it all by herself. It was too hard. In fact, it was impossible to do itall by herself, don’t you know.

(I am sure you can picture the sad little voice and the puppy-dog eyes and the droopy lower lip. She is, after all, very, very talented at dramatic facial expressions.)

What was this Mama to do with a look like that other than say “Of course, darling girl” while doing her best to smother her laughter?

The sad little face persisted in being sad, however, and I realized that there was an actual element of truth in her claim of being too tired. So tired, in fact, that shehad lost her smile. It was time for an injection of silliness.

So we made her bed. The silly way.

First, we undecorated her bed. While I cowered in the corner hiding behind the lid of the Rubbermaid bin, she flung teddies off her bed willy nilly. Some came close to my head. Some, I was able to successfully bat away using my impromptu Rubbermaid lid-shield-bat. One, a perfect home run of flung teddy bear goodness, flew off the bed, was struck by the Rubbermaid lid-shield-bat, and made its way back on to the bed before you could blink.

Needless to say, much laughter ensued.

Next, we pulled off all the covers and dumped them in a puddle on the ground and I pronounced the bed to be perfectly made.

More laughter.

So I threw B into the bed to try it out. Comfy, flat, no wrinkes… perfect.

“But Mama, you need a sheet!”

Right. Of course. So I flapped the sheet a few times and tucked in the edges, with B still in the bed.

More laughter.

After straightening out the fact that you don’t put the sheet on with the kid under it, we tucked the sheet in and made it flat and announced it perfect, at which point I threw B back into the bed so I could put on the blankets. The pink fleece blanket was first, with much smoothing and pressing and tugging on the great big giggly lump that I just couldn’t get out of the middle. The not-so-turquoise turquoise quilt was next, with more bump smoothing and squashing and giggling, and finally the top quilt for warmth, with more smoothing and squishing and puzzled frustration and lots and lots and lots of giggling.

B threw back the quilts with a dramatic flourish, pronounced me to be the silliest Mama ever, and then remade her bed all by herself, wearing an enormous grin the entire time. Bed made, it was time to decorate again, with stuffed animals and dolls and extra little pillows until her bed looked just the way she wanted it.

A corner of the sheet was sticking out at the bottom and the top quilt is not what I would consider straight, exactly, but it is fairly neat and rather enthusiastically decorated with about a billion bears and dolls and things, so it will do.

Most importantly, B is a happy girl again, and that, in my books, makes the way her bed was made absolutely perfect.

Hamsters

Yesterday, I posted about the rats we are taking care of. We are also taking care of a pair of hamsters: Flapjack and Diablo. Diablo is a timid sort and is usually to be found burrowed into the bedding under the hamster wheel or tucked into a corner. Flapjack is much more active, though he, too, spends much of the time hiding.The kids find them much less interesting than the rats, since they don’t tend to do much of anything.

Unless you take them out, that is.

As the hamsters are dwarf hamsters and rather tiny, I have this fear of losing one or both of them down a heating vent or in the depths of a closet, so we are careful to keep them in their little plastic bubbles when we take them out of their cage.

Meet Flapjack.

Flapjack likes to scurry into corners, even when encased in a plastic bubble. This outrages K. K seems to believe that a hamster should have more sense.

And…

Meet Diablo:

(the hamster, not the girl.)

There was a show I liked to watch on television when I was a little girl, called Tales of the Riverbank. It was a silly little show full of little animals who lived on a riverbank (surprise, surprise) and got into all sorts of mischief and had all sorts of adventures.

There were rats, and guinea pigs and, of course, Hammy the Hamster.

I loved Hammy the Hamster when I was a kid. My brother loved him too. Of course, when you are watching a rather trippy show where the rats and hamsters and guinea pigs spend their days driving boats and flying planes and firing canonballs into the village, what’s not to love?

(Go ahead, click the link. It’s only a 5 minute video on YouTube. I’ll wait.)

As a kid, I wanted a hamster something fierce. Why, I could have my very own Hammy in the house! He could have a house, and a boat, and even his very own diving bell for excursions into the depths of the bathtub!

The reality of hamsters is rather different from the show. They don’t talk, for one thing. Not even in slow, trippy voices. They don’t drive boats, either. In fact, from what I can tell, they seem to spend most of the day sleeping, nestled deep in the bedding and only occasionally coming out for food or a drink of water.

I must admit, as much as it pains me to say it, I think I like the rats better.

Rats in the house

There are rats in the house.

It’s true. Two of them. One white with faint gray markings, the other white with dark brown markings, and they are — surprisingly — very friendly and sociable creatures. The one with brown markings is named Sonic, the white one Rose, and they belong to friends of ours who are off on holidays.

The nice thing about looking after animals while their owners are away is that the kids get to experience all the joys of pet ownership without us needing to actually own the pets for any significant length of time. They get to play with them. They get to feed them. They get to give them treats. They get to clean up their poo. And then, at the end of a week or two, they (thankfully, in this Mama’s opinion) go away.

The rats, to my great surprise, like people. When we walk into the room, they come see what we are doing. If one of the kids puts their face near the top of the cage, Sonic will happily scale the bars to put her  face level with theirs where she can twitch her whiskers and wiggle her nose and try her very best to determine if the child in question has treats. She also sits there and tries to look as cute as possible. We think Sonic believes that if she looks cute enough, someone will take her out and play and just possibly give her a snack or three.

Sonic is very good at looking cute. Sonic gets taken out and played with a fair bit.

Recently, we acquired a treadmill. Treadmills come in rather large boxes. For whatever reason, we decided that the rats might enjoy running around the box the treadmill came in, so we dragged it out of the garage where it has been patiently been waiting to be cut down to a size that can go out with the recycling and set the rats free. We also put a few slices of apples and some sunflower seeds in the box, along with their little rat igloo.

Rose likes the igloo.

Rose likes to explore, too, and explore she did. She explored the corners of the box.

Then she explored the sides of the box.

And then she had a snack.

As you can see, Sonic wasn’t sitting idly by while Rose was busy. Sonic was a maniac. Sonic raced this way and that, right and left, up and down, around and around, until…

BOING!

Sonic jumped right up on to the edge of the cardboard, perched precariously on the very edge of the cardboard (and accompanied by much excitement and no small amount of shrieking from Miss B). You could just see the little wheels turning in that ratty little brain… Where should I jump next?

Onto B’s chest was where, as it turns out, and she was slightly less than calm. Rats claws are somewhat scratchy, you see, and when rats are seen up close — as in on your chest just under your chin sort of close — they are rather larger than you think they should be.

Luckily, B was quickly rescued amid much laughter (and more shrieking), but no amount of apple-enticing could convince Sonic that jumping out of the box was not the best game ever. Every time we turned around, there was Sonic, poised and ready…

They are ever so much fun, these rats we’ve borrowed for a bit, even if they are a little bit fear inducing at the same time.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about the hamsters.

Can a pebble be a mascot?

Today’s WEGO Health challenge is to come up with a mascot for your medical condition / health focus. At first I thought ‘a mascot? Seriously?’, but then I realized… I already have one.

It’s true. I have a mascot. It lives in my pocket most days. It’s my pebble.

It is a very lovely pebble. Some days, it is a piece of Tiger Eye. The other day, B loaned me a silky soft piece of red stone that just begged to be played with. Sometimes I use a piece of purple amethyst. Other days, any old stone will do.

A pebble is a very forgiving mascot. Anyone can have one. It can be any size, or shape, or colour. And it works for every single health condition out there. You see, the power of the pebble is not in its shape or size or colour.

The power of the pebble is in the fact that the pebble is something separate from you.

Your pebble, your illness or condition or syndrome or disease… it is not you. It is a pebble that you are being forced to carry around, perhaps for the rest of your life, but it is most definitely not you. And when your condition has you despairing, you can always reach into your pocket, pull out your pebble, and give it a stern talking to. “Hey, pebble!” you can say. “You suck! You are a terrible houseguest! I don’t like you!” and then when you are done talking to your pebble…

…put it back in your pocket and find something better to do than talking to a pebble. Like reading a book. Or knitting. Or staring at all the tiny green growing things just poking their heads through the earth in the garden.

Because the thing about pebbles is that while you may be stuck carrying one around, you are not a pebble. You still have so much more life to live and wisdom to learn and mischief to make and fun to enjoy. Some things may be harder, or even impossible, given that you’ve got a pebble to carry around, but so what? Forget those things. Find new things. Stick your pebble in your pocket where it belongs: along for the ride, but definitely not the driver.

And remember, when it feels that your pebble has taken over and no one understands what your life has become:

You are not alone. I have a pebble, too.

(It’s right here, in my pocket.)

My perfect day

::Sorry, this didn’t post as planned on the 14th. This past week, we said goodbye to GreatNana, we temporarily acquired two hamsters and two rats while friends are on vacation, and then half the family got sick with the nastiest cold we’ve seen yet this season. I just haven’t had the energy for tending to this space. Today’s challenge is “blogger’s choice” so I choose to post what I had written up and meant to post a week ago. Better late than never!

Today, WEGO wants to know about my perfect day. In the earliest days of struggling with chronic illness, I would look back on my life before and long for days where I could get down on the floor and play Lego with my son without paying for it in pain. I would wish for a morning shower where I could wash my hair and shave my legs, and then blow dry my hair, all in the same morning. I envied those mothers who talked about working all day, playing with their kids at the park in the evening, then going to the gym for an hour before staying up until 1:00 in the morning painting the livingroom with their husband.

In those days, my life was ordered in 15 minute bursts of activity followed by 45 minutes of recuperation time and I still couldn’t function at what I considered to be a bare minimum of normal activity for a woman of 30. I lived in the past a lot back then. I wished for everything I had lost when my health deteriorated. I wished for other people’s energy levels. I wished for a miracle cure. I dreamed of having a perfect day where all my symptoms just went away.

And then my wish came true.

When I was pregnant with B, for reasons no one could explain, I got better. It was sudden, this healing. I simply woke up one morning to discover that I somehow weighed 13 pounds less than I had the day before. My knees were no longer puffy and swollen. My muscles were not sore. I could move freely, without limitations – so freely, in fact, that my physiotherapist at the time commented on it. (Her exact words were “What did you do?? You’re better!” but I had no good answer to give her.) I felt refreshed, full of energy, and eager to meet the day.

And so I did.

For four amazing months, I did whatever I felt like, when I felt like it. Work was enjoyable and I didn’t fall asleep with my face mashed into my keyboard even once. I could chase my toddler around the park, give him piggyback rides, and crawl around on the floor pretending to be a bulldozer. I could work all day, play with my son all evening, and still enjoy an evening out with friends. I baked. A lot. I played. A lot. I painted the house. I dug up sod for garden beds. I stopped using my cane for the first time in two years.

Until, one November morning, it was back. My perfect days were gone, just as abruptly as they had arrived in the first place.

And I felt blessed.

In the meme I wrote a few years ago for Invisible Illness Week, I wrote about that moment:

I felt regret that it was over, but I felt blessed to have had such a long stretch without pain other than the ordinary sorts of pain. It was a reminder, I think, that I was a person independent of my pain, and that I couldn’t let my pain become me.

I haven’t had a pain-free day since then. I’ve had what I consider good days, and not-so-good days, and days that bring me to tears, but never since then have I had a day without pain. A day without making impossible choices. A day that isn’t a struggle to keep going despite it all, and sometimes a struggle that I find myself starting to lose. My daughter is seven. My son is nine. My daughter has never seen me not in pain, and my son was too young to remember it, and my spouse still struggles to come to terms with the many little ways I’ve changed since the pain came to stay.

It is still true. My daughter turns nine next week today, and my son is almost eleven, but it is still true, what I wrote back then: I am a person independent of my pain, and I cannot let my pain become me. My pebble… is not me. Will never be me. My pebble is a pebble that I must carry around with me, but it is not me. And I can still have perfectly dreamily wonderful days, even with a pebble in my pocket.

Take yesterday, for example.

Yesterday, I woke up early as is my habit, and once the kids were up and breakfasted and ready to face the day, we went outside and tackled the garden. Together we stripped away some of the dead leaves from the irises and lilies, and then we set up the frame for the hammock. We moved three little plants, planted some garlic in the garden (I forgot to plant garlic last fall so I am hoping that I am early enough to get something of a crop this year), and then they abandoned me to go play with friends. They played until noon, and then we walked to the library and went out for lunch. We stopped at the grocery store on the way home (they had just started setting up the garden centre so of course we had to peek in to see what they had), carried home more than a few books, and then curled up to read and read and read, just because we could.

Throughout all of this, I took breaks. I sat down periodically. I walked slowly when I needed to. I paused often. And each place we went, we found somewhere to sit for at least a few minutes. In short, I made accommodations so that I could enjoy as much of the moment as I could, and so that I could extend the amount of time we spent out together. And then, returning home, I rested up so that I would have enough energy and good humour to make it through the evening.

Before, I would have pushed too hard, hurt too much, and regretted no longer being able to do everything I could do before. Now, I know better. Now, I slow down, I strive to be gentle with myself, and I choose instead to see all the blessings in the day rather than the limitations.

I still hurt after so much activity. I still ache down to the bones. I still am tired beyond belief considering how little we really did. I am still cringing inwardly with the searing agony that is passing through my hips and knees with every step. I am still wishing for relief from the dull ache that has spread across my shoulders and halfway down my back. I am still striving not to claw at skin that has been invaded by a dragonload of pins and needles in reaction to all the activity. Nothing has changed. Yet despite the inevitable pain and fatigue that comes from a day full of activity, I choose to remember it as a day full of simple pleasures, shared adventures, good books, and lots of laughter.

I choose to remember a perfect day.

To do anything less is to choose to live a life of misery, and I refuse to do that. I choose instead to remember today and every day as being full of perfect moments. They aren’t perfect, of course. No day is, and that is doubly true when you are dealing with a pebble, but I tried living a life where I focus on trying to make my reality fit my wishes, and it only served to reinforce how much my life has had to change. How much I have lost. How much I can no longer do. So no, thank you. I refuse.

I refuse to let my memories be shaped by all the miserable, exhausting, painful moments. I do my best to accommodate my body’s limitations, I do my best to include moments of peace and joy and laughter and love, and I choose to remember the good bits instead of the bad.

I choose to make each and every day a perfect day, if only in my memory.

Life is ever so much more wonderful when I choose to see it my way.

Ten things I couldn’t live without

I high hopes of being able to sustain a daily post for the WEGO Health Activist Writer’s Month Challenge, but here we are on Day 13 and I have already missed several days of writing. Living with a pebble often means that I have to readjust my plans and take on only the highest priority items in any given day. This week, that has meant dealing with an ongoing chronic health issue for one of the kids (yes, kids often live with pebbles too) and putting my remaining energy into schoolwork (I’m in full time school this year and nearing the end), laundry, and feeding the family. Blogging is the first thing to go when my days have too many pebbles to handle with grace, and so I have been absent here.

Today’s challenge is to write about the 10 things you couldn’t live without. If the world were to end as we know it and I was to find myself stranded in the woods or on a desert island, what would be the 10 things I would want to have with me? A very interesting question, and one which makes me wonder: why only 10 things? Surely I could fit more than 10 things in a bag if I had to?

I wonder, too, how long I would be stranded and what resources would be readily available. Do I have to bring food? Do I have to bring water? What about shelter? What about health-related necessities, like a first aid kit, my favourite body pillow that lets me sleep comfortably at night, my knee brace, my cane, and an unlimited supply of painkillers?

What about the little luxuries, the things that make life bearable?

Assuming that I am being funneled to a refugee camp where shelter, water, and basic food is being provided, what little luxuries would I want to bring with me to make dealing with chronic illness while living in such a situation more bearable?

::10::

The hammock, which is the single most comfortable place to read on a lovely summer’s day. Good for sleeping, too.

::9::

The brightly coloured woolen blanket that is soft and thick and oh-so-very warm, even in the middle of a sudden summer downpour when the rain is falling in sheets and you find yourself soaked to the skin but happily warm as you hug a three year old girl tight in your arms under the blanket and marvel at the power of nature, the sheer quantity of water falling from the sky, and the power of wool to retain body warmth even when wet through.

::8::

Yarn and string, of any kind, though wool is probably the most practical as it has properties unlike any synthetic materials, such as warmth and durability and the ability to be turned into felt. What’s more, if you can find a sheep to befriend, harvesting wool and turning it into usable yarn isn’t very difficult at all. You can also use any length of yarn or string to play Cat’s Cradle or Chinese Jump Rope, or to tie your brother up with when he is being excessively annoying.

::7::

Knitting needles, to knit the yarn with, and a crochet hook for finishing and for making denser crocheted fabrics. And, if I knew I would have access to sheep, a drop spindle and a pair of carding brushes, so I could make my own yarn. Too practical to be a luxury? Perhaps. But for me, knitting and crocheting is also a way to distract myself from the reality of life with a pebble on my worst days, so it is also a luxury.

::6::

Needles and thread and bits of cloth. What can I say – crazy quilting and embroidering has become an obsession for me, and a luxury I would dearly love to bring with me wherever I go.

::5::

A deck of cards, a Mancala board, and a chess board. In other words, simple, classic games that can be played by people of all ages and that you will never tire of. Though honestly, you can play Mancala with a board scratched in the dirt and a handful of pebbles and it is just as much fun, if not more. The ultimate in portable strategy games, and one that you can learn in a minute and spend years mastering, if you ever do, and variations of it have been played around the world for well over a thousand years.

::4::

Seeds for the garden, vegetables, mainly, but also for an apple tree and a walnut tree and raspberry bushes and other edible perennials. While it may not seem like a luxury at first, to be able to provide for your own table is a blessing, and to be able to ground yourself in the daily chores of tending a garden is pure pleasure disguised as work. My garden has always been as much about meditation and healing as it has been about food and flowers, and it is a luxury I would want to take with me.

::3::

Books, as many as I could manage, because with a few good books along for company, you are never entirely alone. With the advent of the e-book and access to a power source to charge my e-reader with, I could keep us all entertained and informed and always growing intellectually.

::2::

A notebook and pencil. Writing is, for me, the greatest pleasure and an infinitely flexible source of entertainment. With a notebook and pencil, I could write no matter where I was. I could invent stories to entertain and amuse and distract from the reality around us. I could challenge someone to a game of Dots or Tic Tac Toe or Hangman. I could keep children busy drawing, and make them laugh at the inadequacy of my own artistic efforts. I could teach them math, or spelling, or anything that needs a little diagramming or illustration. I could have them keep a nature journal, or a diary, or invent their own comic book. I could challenge them to a paper airplane contest. I could make envelopes to save seeds in. With paper and a pencil and a little imagination, anything is possible.

::1::

First on my list would be my family. My family is an infinite joy, the core of my heart, and a very large part of what keeps me going each and every day. When life with a pebble becomes too much, the kids give me the reason I need to keep going and The Man We Call Dad lends me his strength, his empathy, and a solid presence to lean on when I can barely hold myself upright, both figuratively and literally.

Looking back through this list, I see a little comfort, a lot of distraction, and an even greater amount of sharing and caring and love. Most of the things I consider luxuries centre around keeping my mind off pain and the constant buzz of pins and needles.

The rest help us come together as a family in laughter and joy and just a little bit of competition, but in a way that I can participate in given my more limited mobility and the constant struggle with fatigue, because with my family by my side and a lot of joy in our hearts, life is so much better.

TAST Satin Stitch

I happened across an adorable embroidery pattern – a set of vintage-styled bonnet girls doing housework the other day. There is one for each day of the week, with captions such as “Laundry on Monday” and “Ironing on Tuesday” and so on. They are terribly cute, and Miss B agrees.

She agrees so much, in fact, that immediately after downloading the pattern, we carefully traced the pattern for the ironing girl onto a piece of white evenweave fabric and she has started stitching it.

Since the TAST stitch for the week is the satin stitch, after a quick lesson, she set to work filling in the hem of the bonnet girl’s dress with satin stitches in pink. (I would love to show you a photo but with my recent computer troubles, I still have not gotten the card reader working to be able to download photos from the camera).

You may recall that Miss B declared pink to no longer be her favourite colour a while back. So much so that we had to replace her pink bedding with a turquoise quilt, and repaint her pink walls with a pale blue. It seems that while pink is no longer a favourite colour, it still has a place in her heart.

(And on the hem of a bonnet girl’s dress.)

Keep calm…

Today’s WEGO health blog challenge is to invent your own “Keep calm and carry on” poster. My all-time favourite is the one created by my sister:

It makes me smile every time I look at it — the sort of smile that has your mouth turning upwards and your eyes crinkling at the corners and other people asking “What’s so funny?” because you just started smiling out of the blue.

If I were to invent such a poster of my own that relates to living with chronic illness, I’m not sure I could improve upon the original. So much of life is about finding a way to carry on despite the limitations imposed on you by your illness, and finding a way to carry on as gracefully as possible.

For me, knitting helps. It distracts the mind and keeps the hands busy so that I don’t claw through my skin in an effort to relieve the pain and pins and needles that are my constant companion. But, someone else has already invented ‘Keep Calm and Knit On.’ Someone else came up with ‘Keep Calm and Cast On’ too.

More than knitting, laughter is the best medicine. Laughing with friends is even better, especially when it comes on the heels of mischief making of one form or another. I do believe my poster would have to read ‘Laugh Lots and Make Mischief.’

 

The Art of Conversation

Today’s WEGO health blog challenge asks “what is the best conversation you’ve had all week?”

We talk a lot around here. I’m not sure who is the bigger chatterbox – me, or the kids. We talk a lot. We talk about important things and silly things and sometimes about nothing much at all, but one constant in our days is conversation, and lots of it.

Yesterday, dear friends who were posted to Germany last year came for a visit. With four young kids and two great friends whom we haven’t seen in too long in the house, there was even more talking than usual, and we didn’t even get around to cracking open a bottle of wine. We just… talked. And talked. And played, and laughed, and talked, and ate, and talked, and laughed some more, and had apple pie and ice cream, and talked and laughed until it was time for them to head back to their hotel, at which point we talked just a little bit more before they really,really had to go and tuck the littlest ones into bed.

Conversation is a human constant. It cements friendships and shares knowledge and grows imaginations and fosters closeness with the people we engage in conversation with.

Lately, K has been having a bit of a rough patch with one of his friends, and so he and I have been talking on and off about how he could go about fixing it. This morning, we talked again, and brainstormed different ways of starting a conversation with his friend so that he could patch things up. The Man We Call Dad sat and listened quietly while K and I chatted, and then he said something so completely baffling, but also so completely right.

He said “Or, you could just call him up and go hang out. Sometimes, just hanging out together fixes everything.”

K instantly looked happier, and went off to call his friend. Hanging out, it seems, is the best form of conversation around when you are a boy of ten.