Jameson turned eight.

Yup, eight.

Eight is kinda old. But only kinda. Traces of little mingling with shadows of older. I watch him swing between those worlds, sometimes with joyful abandon, sometimes the struggle of a soul trying to grow and stretch and realizing its own brokenness.

He’s not much for talking. Not really. More doing, less talking. But once in awhile, I’ll notice him suddenly beside me, lingering, and I know his heart has something to spill. Even if it’s just to tell me about the great book he just finished. Some things need to be heard by another human, and I’m happy to be his go-to hearer.

Pushing him forward to new capacities for thinking, working, diligence, creativity, servanthood. Wanting to see the flame of love for Jesus grow into a blazing passion as he grows. Teaching him to study the Word a bit deeper, to ask questions, to watch rubber meet road and Jesus be enough.

Loving his freckles, fast multiplying across his little boy cheeks. His crinkly eyes when he smiles, which is often. What joy he brings! His eyes dart constantly, as he thinks, thinks, thinks. Never sit still. Not really. Even when he sits, his brain is moving. His front teeth are oversized, just as they should be on a lanky, Norman-Rockwell boy. He loves baseball, football. But kickball with me is best. We laugh, and it warms my soul. (I need to laugh more. He needs me to laugh more.) He plays piano. He would blow right through, never fixing a note, if I wasn’t calling from the kitchen. He’s a fast learner, which means working to learn is something he has to learn. Drumsticks are his new best friend. Everywhere he goes, they go. He has rhythm in his body, all the time.

Learning to love people, even more than his own ideas. Being an oldest brother brings that out in him, sometimes with more effort than others. But his siblings love him completely. William is his best friend. They forgive instantly. I can’t believe how strong and pure that love is.

This boy. I just really love him.

Celebrating his birthday with Dutch Babies, playtime with siblings, adventures in the woods with two friends, and dinner with Grandpa, his birthday buddy.

He’s a keeper.

cute things.

Boys with dimples, being so excited about new lights for a new season of dark evenings…

…and who begged to rearrange their beds so they’re almost touching. Despite the utter awkwardness of the arrangement, who could say no to brothers who are best friends?

Spun-gold hair. It just gets lovelier.

Siblings chats. Very serious.

And last. I mean, come on.

Lots and lots of cute things. Not always the first thing I see when I take note of life around me, but goodness. It’s a treasure trove of adorable people here in my world.

all in a week.

What a week!

One week ago, these fine young gents were trying out the window seating at the Canton Bagelry, which was then open only to adorable children related by blood to Mr. Dunphey or Ockrin.

At 2:30am Monday morning, the Mister and I turned off the lights and locked the door behind us, completing a grueling summer of preparation by Ryan and Gabe and so many others. Done, ready. Launch.

(Another tractor pic? Oh yes. You have no idea.)

Cue the next four days: sick babies and mama.

Yes, I cut flowers for the sake of sanity.

Sometimes she would sleep for 15 minutes. Pretty girl.

Sometimes she didn’t sleep. But then I could just eat this.

One of my kids has a sense of humor, apparently.

Then we started to feel better. We even did our Friday errands, which included peaches!

And I’m not big into the ombre trend, but when I cut into this tomato, I repented of my ways and declared it the most beautiful thing in the world.

Just in case I thought this week was going to end with quiet and calm, Beatrice had an accident that had me driving her to the ER for stitches this morning.

Whew. I’m not a whirlwind kind of girl. But apparently this isn’t my universe, so things don’t always cater to my temperament. I am going to go out on a limb, though, and say that I’m hoping to slowly start school on Monday. A fresh set of colored pencils, brand new composition books, and Mama creating a little semblance of order-on-a-page (hoping to make up for the tangled-mess-in-my-brain) is all that these great kids need to get excited about a new school year.

After the last few weeks, I’ll hold my hopes for Monday loosely. Better to hold tight to the right things: Jesus.

where did it go?

And by “it”, I mean summer.

It is, you know, almost a week into September, and I’m still just sort of standing here clueless, saying, “Wha–?”

A strange summer. Even my photos reflect the helter-skelter life lived these last few months: uploaded in bizarre and random fashion, almost impossible to sort.

Tonight I just browse through. Smile. Laugh. Cry a little because you know? It was a blur. But it was full of joy.

My dad rescued me when I was having tractor troubles — over and over. And over.

Matching dresses. And a little too much love.

“Take our picture, Mom, can you?”

Two sleepy-head girls after several nights of being out late while I helped Ryan.

Just a smidgen of the abundant joy I have.

(Not pictured: the redeeming work of Jesus in my heart every day, and the presence of the Holy Spirit indwelling this frail, undeserving soul every moment. Joy unspeakable.)

july, part 3

Then there are the miscellaneous photo memories: We came home from Maine and took an evening walk in pajamas, because that’s what you do in the summer. Grandma and Beatrice enjoyed Grandpa’s concert in the park together. A new skirt was sewn for my dancing girl. Mornings were started on my side stoop, soaking in birds and leaf-whispers and the scent of a new day. Evenings, too, were savored. My gardens, though dry and weed-covered after one week in Maine, continued to provide blooms for the kitchen table. The CSA is again a wonderful blessing, adding color and freshness and surprise and health each week. I love it. Sour cherries were the prettiest they’ve ever seen, and hours of pitting and freezing was rewarded by the prettiest jar of pink ever. Little girls, in their last month before turning 3 and 1, were adored and snuggled and loved on. Little boys, growing bigger and sweeter each day, played hard and worked hard, loved me well and were elated every time Daddy said, “Wanna come to work with me today?” This last week, I read a book and remembered why I don’t do that very often: I can’t put it down till it’s finished. Self discipline, out the window.

*****

Monday morning dawned, and there was fresh grace. After not having a “real” (read: paper) calendar for two months, I sat down with my coffee and sketched out August.

August.

A few more weeks of footloose and fancy-free. Some more family time, beach days, visits with friends.

Two girls will have birthdays. I’ll create a chore routine, and we’ll get it in motion. Pencils will get sharpened, books will come in the mail. And then we’ll turn that calendar page and be ready to start a whole new season.

My, how it flies.

july, part 2

It really was a busy month. And right in the middle of it, on a Friday evening, Jameson reminded me of Founders’ Day, a local reenactment event. I’d told the kids we would try hard to get there, since we’d been reading about the French and Indian War over the summer, and this would help bring it to life. Ryan said, “You should go.” And so, in spite of all of the grown up things that needed my attention at home, the kids and I packed water bottles and granola bars and drove all the way to the St. Lawrence River. “That’s it?”, they said when we arrived. After driving to Maine the previous week, they were thankful!

And I was thankful we went. It was a truly lovely, peaceful, quiet, interesting, I-love-to-be-with-my-kids kinda day.