Now and Then

Woman with Infant Flying by Brian Kershisnik

Dear Margaret,

Today I sat around a table with friends talking about things that matter and things that do not. I found myself wishing that adult you were there to be a part of our discovery and discussion. It occured to me that you will never have a conversation with me when I am 25, that in many ways you will not know who I am until I have passed through much of what life has to offer me. There is a sense of loss in the fact that in this life you will follow me rather than walk beside me.

Just a few things about myself that may change before you even learn my first name. I research and outline novels that I never write. Your mama cannot make rice for the life of her, not even minute rice. It burns everytime. (On a related note, rice is one of the only things you will eat right now...so bully for me.) I spend a lot of my time reading about dictatorships, imperial design and historical calamaties. Five years from now I hope we are still in this little house with a fenced yard and a swing in the bottle tree for a certain little girl.

Just a few things about myself that will not change, not even when your last name does. I love your Dad. He is the best man I know. I will always want to be a writer when I grow up, even when I am eighty. Be Still, My Soul is my favorite hymn. I love my Heavenly Father. And I love you little Zuzu. Love you so much I would grow you up this instant just so I could know what is going on behind those blue eyes. Would grow you up this very instant if it didn't mean I had let you go even earlier than I already do. (The folly of youth? Twenty years from now I will be wishing I could shrink you down and sing you to sleep.)

At 25, I can already see that bringing you into this world was reason enough for me to be sent here at all. A pretty big revelation for someone that can't figure out how to cook rice. Imagine all the things you will teach me once you can finally talk.


Here's to our first conversation.

Love,
Mama

Yes, that is a mustard stain on her shirt...from yesterday

Margaret loves computers, corn bread and her blankie. Margaret hates water, lactose and being clean.

I just love Margaret.

Lend me some sugar

God created Monday to balance out the bliss of Sunday. Meg being flip? Think about it. This logic isn't unprecedented. The universe seems to function on the principle of opposition. Joy and sadness, peace and war, meals that include bacon and meals that do not. Miss Sugarpie Sunday could not exist without Maiden Drudge Monday.

This Sunday was a particularly lovely one. The sun was bright. The day was ours. I even made breakfast. Riley studied for finals and I took a two hour nap. All that napping and eating really worked up an appetite for more food and friends. Luckily we scored an invite to turkey dinner at Riley's Grandma and Grandpa's house. They sure know how to put out a spread. It was Thanksgiving in April and I have to tell you I think it might have the power to cure all manner of domestic and international ills.

The Family Bingham

Uncle Tay invents the gravy pacifier

Zuzu searches for more of that gravy gold

The pie was *that* good and the crust was *that* flaky. And I *did* take the last two scoops of vanilla ice cream (in your face Taylor).

When I think about the glorious days I am given on this earth I know I have been portioned out more than my fair share. It is my hope that the discrepancy is never noticed. I sure do love Miss Sugarpie Sundays.

Me. Happy. Usually.

The Pippy to my Longstocking

This is the view I have most often of my zuzu pi. The minute she hits the ground she is headed east of our little eden. I am proud of her independence. I am happy that I get to run after her and scoop her up.

And I am really jealous of her sweet red and white leggings.

Like it is even a question.

Because false modesty is overrated.

Zuzulini

Margaret has become very serious. She walks around the house like a mini european dictator that just discovered the peasants haven't brought in enough cheerios. She isn't mad. Just emphatic.