Nope. Not Today.

My mom and I have this thing going as we trudge through the first year without my dad. We'll talk about things we need to do, things that would have us moving forward, and just when we think that it finally might be the day to do this or do that... we simply say,

Nope, not today.

With her, it's been big things. Monumental milestones that she alone must face. Things like taking care of paperwork, grocery shopping for one, emptying out his sock drawer.

She's made it through the first two on that short example of a list. She's the strongest woman I know. The third, however, is proving to be a challenge. When she mentioned she had thought about it today and then promptly changed her mind after opening the drawer, I said what we have all said through it all,

That day will come.

I wonder when my day will come. The thing I am stuck on has to be the one thing that makes absolutely no sense. In the trunk of my car are three severely rumpled and very wrinkled suits (as if rumpled and wrinkled are not the same thing). I've had these suits in the trunk of my car since late September with one very clear destination in mind- the dry cleaners.

So why are they still in my car? I have no explanation really. It's become something of a family joke (which, by the way, brings no offer of anyone else dropping them off). For whatever reason, it is the mom responsibility which would be all fine and dandy if this mom would only respond. Every time I drive past the dry cleaners (which is quite often) and the thought crosses my mind to swing in and drop them off (which seems logical), I think to myself,

Nope, not today.

Why am I wedged in this do-nothing zone about suits, of all things? I remember getting ready to head home last year for what I knew was to be the final lap of my dad's journey and making sure all the males in the family knew where their suits were located. I gave strict instructions for socks, belts, and ties. I left nothing to chance and never factored in that I would be the one slacking after the fact.

I was so proud of myself today. After a week's worth of school antics that left me in tears three out of five days, my goal this weekend was to make a noticeable dent on something I could control... the growing madness within the home. By this morning, laundry was finished and put away, rooms were dusted and vacuumed, and my dad's picture was firmly in place within a shadow box my mom had given me a few months before. I shed a few tears as I pinned a note he had written me under his picture and shed a few more as I tucked his memorial service card inside his Bible. It was all good, though. It felt good... until the family piled into my car for dinner and the later retrieval of leftover pizza from my trunk reminded us all of what was still in there.


Yes, I know.
No, not yet.

No, I don't know what I'm waiting on.

Not one of ours, but certainly what one would look like on a hanger right now.

Hey, this is about no one but me. No complaints about the family members. I would be saying something, too, if the shoe (or in this case, suit) was on the other guy. I already said it makes no sense. The only thing I can venture to guess is that I've got a little too much on my plate right now and those suits are not a priority. That seems the acceptable explanation anyway.

But at some point, it will be the day. It'll have to be the day. I mean, a grown woman just can't keep driving around with male clothes in her car...

At least not without a good cover story.

Speechless

I'm the kind of person who does not mess with bowls when it comes to ice cream. The carton and a spoon is all that's needed to make the experience unique. I pride myself on being able to simply take a few bites (as in about fifteen) before sighing happily and pushing the sweetness away. It takes talent, I know.

Life in these parts has been on fast forward for the last couple of weeks. School is in full swing and my feet have a hard time finding comfort in my fluffiest of slippers. I haven't cooked a meal since last Friday and that was solely because of a birthday. I'm not sure what kinds of atrocities lurk behind my refrigerator door and I'm pretty sure the dishcloth by my sink has grown its own zip code.

I'm having a hard time caring. Oh, I did make a half-hearted effort tonight to take care of the dishes and vacuum the cat fur and tackle the litter box. I set the trash outside and hung up my work clothes (today's outfit anyway) and watered the struggling plant on the back porch. I called my mom and listened to the husband and meandered around the internet. I finished a case brief and submitted it late, watched a video on conquistadors just for the sheer fun of it, and fixed a cup of coffee to accompany the ice cream and the spoon... and yet, in all the madness, I cannot escape the very thing my mom and I talked about tonight.

It's almost been a year.

Taken during a visit soon after I moved away. We were going to church
 to listen to the preacher who would end up speaking at my dad's service. 

And this is where I run out of words.

In Black and White

Years ago when the oldest was four, the middle was two, and the youngest was still in the womb, I began writing in three separate journals. In the first, I opened up with tales of a t-ball game and the parental pride that goes along with it. In the second, I detailed a peek into the life of a toddler and the challenges of bedtime. In the third, I simply opened with "Dear Baby" because although the upcoming birthday was just two months away, we didn't know if the fluffy blankets would be purchased in pink or blue.

Last night, the oldest came home for a visit and I found myself digging into a cedar chest of treasures. I had never shown the kids these journals, but seeing as how the entire family was in the same room for the moment, I seized the day, so to speak, and handed them each their own special book. What followed was laughs and questions and memories.

The oldest read his quietly. The middle read his aloud.
The youngest just marveled at how much her big brothers loved her.

There were tales of new words and phrases being spoken, the ever-present paddle that was never far from reach, and even a few drawings and outlines of hands and feet. Each read the story of the day they asked Jesus into their heart. Each read the story of grandparents who have since left this world. Each read stories of special friends and special pets and special days.

Each read the story of them.

Although I did not make an entry every night- after all, not long into the story of the youngest was I able to actually call her by name and welcome her into the world... life with three kids under the age of five did not allow for a lot of downtime; but I still found some time, however, to carve out for them their own little slice of something special. All in all, the three books covered a time span of seven years.

Years that I now wonder where in the world time went.

They read those journals from beginning to end. As I collected them back to tuck away into our treasure chest, they thanked me and remarked how much they enjoyed reading them. As I tried to sleep last night, I wondered why I ever stopped writing to them. Life, I'm sure. In fact, now that I think about it, it wasn't too long after the last entries that our world took a turn in the form of The Great Move. Life became less about preserving our memories and more about preserving our sanity. The books were closed and the pen was capped.

But you know what? I'm gonna pick up where I left off. There will come a day when those books will be my words those kids hear in their head. I'm going to do my best to keep them laughing.

The oldest is twenty-one. The middle is nineteen.
The youngest is days away from seventeen.

There's plenty of stories left to tell.




Your mom and dad love you, kids.