Everybody Happy

Time really is relative. Why are some weekends frenzied and stressed, and others—like this one— are delicious? Nothing's substantially different in the details. The domestic and social commitments break down about the same. There are the same resources to work with. The same ratio of adults:children, muscle:chores, money:wants/needs, and hours:ground to cover.

But it doesn't come out the same everytime. There's a mysterious variable that enters, or disappears from, the equation and makes all the difference, and I've yet to name it, much less learn to control it.

The baby took a late afternoon nap that let me settle long enough to write a poem I've been meaning to get to for a while. The big boys have been dressing up in costumes, painting pictures and are now playing their new Haba Dancing Eggs game outside in the the twilight. An hour or so ago, the three of us walked slowly around the neighbourhood, me with my mug of tea, as they called out the names of things. "That's a Pine! That's an Oak! And that's a Hedge!" They've learned well. I teach them the words for living things as mothers used to teach the Bible. I point as we walk. "Yucca. Magnolia. Periwinkle. Jasmine." Chapter, line and verse.

Last night I went solo to an art opening where I grazed on sculpture, music and hors d'ouvres and feasted on some really satisfying conversation. This morning, Patrick made a beautiful website for a friend of ours and took out the trash without being asked. The littlest Who came with me to run errands and got a lollipop at the same drive up window where I got a very nice bottle of Zinfandel Cellar No. 8 on sale for a song. Eight-year-old boy got to go to a birthday party, and six-year-old got to wear his flight suit to the grocery store. Heartworn Highways came in the mail after being in my Netflix queue for a year. And, to stray just a little beyond this wonderful present moment, I have been given every reason to expect that I will wake up to coffee brewing and breakfast in bed.

When Mama is happy...