Egg dyeing, dirt and bluebonnets

Take two toddlers, one dozen of Aunt Poppy's already God-colored eggs.  Boil eggs. Consider stripping toddlers down to Hello Kitty panties and diapers, but decide they're washable and push ahead.

'Grammy, what are we doing? Do we eat the pretty soup? Is it snack-time?'

Convince both one beautiful children to wear bunny ears. More success than I expected. There are things you cannot make children do. Eat, sleep, poop, and wear bunny ears. Maybe in that order.

'See Grammy, who needs bunny ears? Besides, they would muss up my hair.' 

It's pure grace to look through a little one's eyes, step back through a veil, to another side where I used to live. See things the way God does.

'Grammy! We're not eating these eggs? We're playing with them, changing them  to beautiful colors?!'

Jae Beth checks her beach-sand colored 'Mama' egg. Which may have fallen on the floor and crushed the shell, but it still says 'Mama' so we keep it. Mama will love it all the same. There's green like the holly bush, and bluebird blue, kiwi green, and pink like baby cheeks.

Considering the ratio - two to one, the project came off pretty well.

Sunshine and crisp air coming through the back door screen calls us to head outdoors, dig in the dirt. Just a tiny corner of the yard Daddy won't mind us mussing up. We take buckets and shovels and lunch outside.

Beautiful rolling blur of energy and squeals, as liable to deck his sister, or pull her waist-long hair as he is to lay her flat with a hug. All within the span of 30 seconds. After 37 years of parenting, I'm learning to stay ahead of the curve a bit:  a braid is less tempting to little fingers outstretched. 

Their lunch - carrot juice and crackers and raspberries for good measure. 

My lunch: food for thought. I wonder if we learn to say 'sorry' early on, when we're still at one and two syllables because God knows we'll need to keep it handy. We'll grow up and continue to lay others flat with words and actions. How long has it been since I spoke those words, face to face, when I've wounded someone?

Mama's kitchen spoons left laying in the yard dig up memories that have been buried for decades.

'How to get more dirt stuck to my body? That's the question!'

'Grammy, come lie down on the grass with us, under the bushes. The world is so much prettier from down here where we are.'

I turn my head for 30 seconds and Beautiful Boy splats right down in a mud puddle. Splashes his arms up and down, squeals with delight. We're back inside, standing at the kitchen sink, him stripped naked and scrubbed til his skin is pink and shiny and smells of dish soap. We trek up the stairs, hand in hand, to read The Velveteen Rabbit (condensed version). We rock and sing off-key Jesus Loves Me and This Little Light of Mine.  This is not The Voice, but rather truth being whispered across the tops of their heads. Then they are tucked in with kisses and prayers til I see them again next week.

Back downstairs, I sit and drink tea, thinking 'the old gal ain't what she used to be'. I am tired. I am blessed to be this kind of tired. Soon Mama returns, and I pack up, head home. 

Along the way I spy a patch of bluebonnets, just off the road. I pull over and lie down next to them, waiting for Papa to call me, saying he'll meet me for dinner, stained sweats and sans makeup. We toast glasses of merlot, wish each other a happy 32nd anniversary, and pray for 32 more.

The end.