Newspaper floors

There's a story my grandmother told me about her mom; about waxing the floor and covering it in newspapers for the next several days to preserve the shine.


The story has stuck with me. I think of it in lots of instances. Most recently, after mopping my own floor and wishing I could make us wear the booties they give out at home shows for the next week or so. (Unfortunately, I don't think they come in a size small enough for The Lou.)


But I think of it also when I want to preserve shining moments; when the tendency in me to photograph, record, write or sketch something into some post-existence—to keep it pristine, at least in my mind—overwhelms by better senses. Or when the desire wells up to preserve relationships they way they once existed, rather than letting them grow as the organic things they are. I pause before taking my first bite of a meal I'm particularly proud of. I try to keep my hair and clothes looking the way they did when I walked out the (bathroom) door that morning.


I think most of us have a tendency to preserve.

And is it bad?


I've had countless conversations with Mike about the culture of preservation we see in the Italian people. The recipes, the churches, the way things are done just so. And truly, I think tradition is important.


But it can be taken too far. Crinkled newspapers aren't nearly as nice as a worn in floor. Some things don't need preserving.



Our conversations on preservation always conclude with thoughts on why we feel it's important to be innovative, to embrace modernity, to be forward-looking and stare the future in the face. And how the message of The Restoration is not about looking backwards, but about preparing something greater.


After all, there's so much to look forward to.

The enthusiast

It's in the 60's my friends. We've spent all afternoon in the garden. Ada tromps around, explores little corners, digs around in the dirt. She was even munching on a leaf with a slug on it. (Thanks for catching that one Brianna!)

When we came in for naps (Wait, naps? Nap. I wish I took one too) Ada screamed and thrashed and let me know in no uncertain terms that she would rather live in the garden outside than sleep.


I have a feeling we might be spending every waking hour out of doors. Fine by me . . .

Happy Friday!

The No Escape Clause

 I was still in a lovey Valentine's stupor when I listened to the weirdest story on a podcast. It was about a couple who basically had a Rumspringa and ended up deciding they weren't for each other. The man of the partnership was interviewed and concluded that:

"If I do get married in the future, what I think I would want to do is have an agreement that at the end of seven years we have to get remarried in order for the marriage to continue. But at the end of 7 years [the marriage] ends and we can agree to get remarried or not get remarried."

"Why?"

"Because I think you get to choose and I think it would make the relationship stronger."

"I don't know what I think of that. 'Cause I think actually that one of the things that's a comfort in marriage is that there isn't a door at 7 years and so if something is messed up in the short term there's a comfort of knowing like, Well, we made this commitment and so we're just going to work this out. Even if tonight we're not getting along or there's something between us that doesn't feel right, you have the comfort of knowing like, We've  got  time. We're going to figure this out. And it makes it so much easier. . . The no escape clause--weirdly--is a bigger comfort in being married than I ever would have thought before getting married. "

I think the interviewer's concluding remarks will now act as the framework to my standard response to the question: Why did you get married so young? (or got married at all).

I've always believed that love is a choice. And I agree with the guy: it does make the relationship stronger. But it's not a choice we make once when we say "I do." It's an everyday, thoughts, words and deeds choice. It's a choice to put ourselves second and the one we chose first. I love Michael, and he loves me, and we actively choose each other. Every day. So we can do anything. Because choosing each other is empowering. It's also a choice that reassures: You've got time to figure everything out.

Marriage, for me, was an easy choice to make. Sure, Mike and I sometimes tell people half-jokingly that, "You would have gotten married this young too if you were a Mormon," but that's only a partially true. Truth is, it was easy because I knew that we would be active participants in each others' lives for our whole lives. I knew that we would dedicate each day to our family. I knew that by doing that, we would grow to love in a way that is more sincere and complex as each month wears on.

I'm so glad my marriage doesn't end by default every 7 years. How arbitrary. And how distrusting of the choices you make each day for love.

We're in this for the long haul. It's only just getting fun.

Are you my mother?

On our walk to the library we saw loads of babies and strollers and costumes. And babies in strollers wearing costumes. I had forgotten that Carnevale dei Bambini was that afternoon. The piazza was covered in confetti and streamers littered the cobblestones. It looked like a light multicolored snow. I got Ada out, she toddled around, picking up pieces of paper. We threw them in the air. Looked at the balloons. She flapped her arms when she got excited about all of the bright, colorful, and fun things she was seeing.

Of course, I forgot my camera. But maybe it's a good thing. I wasn't distracted by trying to take a good picture. I just enjoyed the time with my girl and talked to a few Italian women who asked if my daughter was twins with a Italian baby toddling nearby. When I said, No. Non lo so questa bimba. Lei e mia figlia.

Then they asked how old I am. And then they asked how old Ada is. Those two questions seem to always follow the discovery that I'm not Ada's nanny.

Because the day is beautiful

C'è il sole.

I woke to a screaming child two nights ago. When I fumbled around for her in the dark my hand found wetness before the baby. And then it rested on a wet, screaming baby who wouldn't stop rubbing her eyes, which prompted more hysteria. I called for Mikey to turn on the lights, and when he did, I saw my Ada absolutely covered in vomit. Her clothes, her bed, her face, her hands. She looked more helpless than I've seen her look in a long time.

I scooped her up and stripped her down, all the while trying to get her to stop rubbing her eyes with messy hands. It will just make it worse, Sweetie, I tried to tell her.

I spent all day yesterday trying to get everything washed and dried before bedtime. I did six loads of laundry.

Today, there is sun. It's bright. If you stand still enough you can feel its warmth.

Today, I went into my bedroom to hang yet another load of laundry. Ada was happily jabbering as she sat under the drying rack—just one of her many personal hideouts. The sun streamed through the gauzy curtains. The house was warm and clean. Ada was content and well.

I stopped.

I stood still and felt how beautiful the day is. How beautifully simple my life is. It was one of those rare, but sweet moments; one of those moments that become fixed in our memories as a snap-shot of perfection. Pile up enough of them, and you have picture of heaven.

I don't think I stand still enough to feel enough. I'm working on that.