This past week was a busy one, made more complicated internally by changes to Quiver’s work situation and changes in our familiar routines. Over the weekend I had been feeling rather overwhelmed and generally behind in so many of the life plots (and attitudes) I need to be cultivating. It seems an odd time to be writing about hot dogs, but here we are.

Sometimes just a little change of plans, tossed with a pinch of spur-of-the-moment can create a much-needed shift in perspective. At some point during the middle of the afternoon (probably about the time I was reading and making mental notes for tomorrow’s final Geek episode of MeMyBook&Eye) I decided to ditch the leftover dinner plans and opt for more of a celebration mindset.

Celebration hasn’t really been at the forefront of our thoughts this week. We’ve been dealing with the emotional and physical ramifications of Quiver shutting down a business and beginning a new job. We’ve been busy with extra responsibilities beyond the normal routine. We’ve been challenged by some of the boy’s growing pains. We’ve been playing catch-up after new strides (quite literally) in Baby Girl’s growing independence. We’ve been cooking and cleaning and bathing and writing and laundering. We’ve been impatient with one another, with ourselves and with circumstances.

So, I decided an impromptu party was in order to lift our spirits and right our vision.

I realize that the word “party” conjurs up lots of different images. To adequately understand our version of a “party,” I’d better explain that we have family parties for just about anything. Usually the standard criteria for a party at the Montgomery house is a pretty sparse list: 1) something to laugh or jump up and down about; 2) something edible; 3) some form of decoration, be it new placemats, party paper plates, construction paper cut-outs hanging from the “chandelier”, table cloths, candlelight, etc. That about covers it.

Yes, I decided that tonight was an excellent time for our third “grill party” of the month–no time like the present. The plans made for extra excitement because we decided to have it in the BACK YARD where we could eat the whole meal OUTSIDE. Big fun. With catsup on top. The trappings of this party? Here’s the abridged version:

8 hot dogs + buns
1/4 bag charcoal + requisite lighter fluid
1 bag Cheetos
Sundry condiments
1 highly portable Pack-n-Play
1 blue checked tablecloth
2 $1 styrofoam airplanes
2 funky plastic things that spin and light up when you push the button
1 happy beagle
5 large marshmallows
1 coat hanger
1 bag mint chocolate cookies (in lieu of graham crackers and Hershey bars)
1 yellow lightning bug
4 “Lighting McQueen” party plates
Napkins (enough)
Giggles (uncounted)
2 tricycles
1 pink pair of pants (size 9mo)
2 porch lights
1 quick trip to the bathroom
The first “touch of Fall in the air” night this year
4 people I love (so much I can’t stand it)

Somewhere in between squirting mustard, fending off puppy paws, responding to the 637th “Mommy, watch this” and strategically planning my last bite to include part hot dog AND part bun–somewhere in there–I recognized again how much I have to be thankful for, how good I really have it.

Hot dogs with a side of renewed perspective. Who knew?

It’s funny how luxurious a morning routine can be. Over the past four years since our morning rituals began to involve a third (and fourth and fifth) party, our schedule has changed periodically. We’ve tried all kinds of permutations to discover a working combination of showering, ironing, dressing, eating, hugging and driving to get the work day started. Typically each trial and error session has given way to the next coinciding with new skills, or stages (or children) in our lives.

I discovered this week that we’ve been living in the lap of morning luxury, Quiver and I waking up with the daily anticipation of barely awake giggles, groggy hugs and more “help” getting to the car than we can handle. We divvy up the jobs, but still, there’s a perpetual full house participation. We’ve both had the opportunity to be involved in waking our children, getting them dressed for preschool, enjoying the plethora of voices and sound effects and conversations that so often are the backdrop of brushing teeth and eating poptarts. Each morning we’ve had the opportunity to double-team locating each child’s favorite tag-along stuffed animal and juicy cup, and to share the buckling tasks of three car seats.

Every day we’ve enjoyed a sometimes challenging, but familiar full family trip to daycare, a parade of little ones bearing nap mats or bottles or just the gusto of life as boys and a smiling Baby Girl. We’ve ALL traveled to each preschool classroom giving tandem hugs and kisses and “good days”, often distracted from signing our names to acknowledge arrival–first Baby Girl, then Squiggle Bug, and finally, Little Drummer Boy. Quiver and I have waved and blown kisses and eased ourselves into the transition of clients and offices with smiles on our faces and “spit kisses” on our cheeks, pulling out of the parking lot in different directions in preparation for the day’s work.

This week was different. I was reminded again of the blessing we have in just how much we do things together. Quiver has a new job with a local landscaping company that has meant some long hours and a few early mornings out of the house, meaning that he couldn’t participate in our normal AM routine–not so easy for a family man. At least not one from our kind of family. It’s odd to some, but we’re just the kind of folks who like to do things together. It’s not that Mommy or Daddy can’t adequately accomplish the morning requirements by themselves. It’s just that it’s so much more fun when we do it together. Anticipation of the change made us start missing Daddy during p.j. time the night before. And, we couldn’t help asking while pulling on the Transformer underwear, “don’t we wish Daddy was with us this morning?”

Tomorrow morning IF it’s raining–if he doesn’t have to leave the house at 6:30am–I don’t think I’ll complain about how long it takes him to put on his shoes, or the mud he’s tracked across the carpet. I don’t think I’ll insist that Little Drummer Boy go back to the table while I dry my hair or cut short his morning hug so I can hurry through blush and eye shadow. I don’t think I’ll tune out Squiggle Bug’s play by play of Old McDonald’s menagerie or rush him through the slow climb into the tall extended cab back seat. I think I’ll gladly take all the big brother help I’m offered for carrying Baby Girl’s diaper bag, or choosing a “cute” dress or providing some changing table entertainment (volume 10, and all). I think we’ll slow and take a closer look at the road construction crews and the pick-up trucks we pass. I think we’ll look for a front-end loader or a digger. I think I’ll linger with the good-bye kiss just half a second longer. I think I’ll crawl up into the lap of morning luxuring, sit a spell and smile.

I spent the last two days desperately needing an oxygen mask. I’m on a staycation at Myrtle Avenue for part of this week, and I have been anxious to bring some order to a few areas of our house that haven’t seen it in the last couple of years. One laundry room, one utility room, one walk-in closet and about a dozen boxes and trash bags later, I have the contented self-satisfaction of creating a place for things that have been left wanting and letting go of the unnecessary. I’ve waded through dusty boxes, papers, piles of oh-I-forgot-we-had-that and other allergy inducing stacks of what have you. I’ve sweated, washed, climbed up and down ladders, vacuumed, swept and lugged around giant garbage bags. It’s been a great two days! The only thing that would have made it better is if I had been able to do all that while also hugging my little ones. Alas, daycare was the better option so that the piles and I could have a little alone time to work through our differences.

I’m one of those domestic engineers who is in perpetual nesting mode. There is almost no feeling I relish more than the peace of enjoying my own home when everything is in order. I don’t know how it is for the rest of the human race. I only know that for me, an ordered environment leads to an ordered and relaxed mind. It leads to refreshment and fresh thinking. So, despite the inevitable sweat and sneezing, I can find simple pleasure in creating a place for everything–a beautiful and colorful, yet quirky place–but a specific place nonetheless.

I know what you’re thinking, and I’m perfectly willing to own my obsessive tendencies. It’s not that I have an incessant need to constantly tidy up. The 2 or 3 years it took to create the piles I’ve been ordering rules that out. But, I do “need” a positive environment. I have a coping threshold for how much clutter I’m able to live with while maintaining my good humor and the ability to think rationally. It’s just a fact I’ve come to recognize. Also, I have clear criteria for what constitutes a home rather than simply a house. Part of that criteria includes being surrounded by the pattern and texture of beauty (at least to my eye) and the layered trappings of memory.  Feathering my nest puts me in the perpetual process of denoting memories, articulating preferences, stimulating peace, contentment and refreshment through the surroundings that have most come to signify our “place.” In her book, Creating a Beautiful Home, designer Alexandra Stoddard said:

“It is human to want to give physical expression to that which we hold sacred, and to define ourselves–through light, color and texture–by the spaces we inhabit… Home gently and subtly forces you to face the reality of your unique qualities and to mold, contour, adapt, build and change the things that don’t support this truth.”

Making a home out of a house is a gratifying and worthwhile pursuit. After having children, the pursuit has been made even more poignant with the thought that this specific place, which for so much of their early lives is the very center of their world, is the place that will build their assumptions about life and about home for future generations–whether what to emulate or what to avoid. Like it or not, THINGS, the trappings of life and activities and relationships, are often the tangible expression of those abstract, unspoken values and emotions we hold “sacred.”

By “things,” I don’t necessarily mean the latest and greatest from the catalogs, HGTV and Toys R Us. No, those things can sometimes make an impression, but regardless of trends or popularity, it is so often what we do with “things” that infuse them with their power of place. It is the wonder and excitement of my children seeing a Mickey Mouse gumball machine, purchased when I was a child and unearthed from the boxes of personal ephemera. It is the anticipation of filling it with M&Ms for ready snacks where the fun lies in scooping them from the slot. It’s the lamp and hand-me-down lampshade set on a chest to light a darkened corner in the reclaimed entry space. It is realizing I just created Buddy the Cat’s new favorite napping spot isolated from the curious hands and squeals of toddlers. It is an old Valentine I made for Quiver found in a box and hung in a newly cleaned and appointed office bathroom. It is blessing him with a convenient way to clean up during a hot August day of landscaping work. It is speaking an unexpected reminder of all we hold dear.

In my nest building, another of Alexandra Stoddard’s descriptions equally motivates and encourages me to declutter each moment and take good care of it:

“For me, home is the coming together of my past memories and experiences, of my love for my children, husband and friends; my love of nature and beauty; my love of life and belief in continuity; my optimism tangibly expressed in life-enhancing ways–room by room–and of the tender appreciation that no matter how much of myself I put into this home, I, like everyone on earth, am a temporary guest.”

A temporary guest.

When Baby Girl was not quite two months old, I remember a smile creeping to my face as she would hold her hands up in front of her face and stare at her own fingers. Watching intently as each finger moved, she was fascinated by them, and I by her again. I have loved that moment with each of my gifts–that moment when they discovered for the first time, “Hey, those are mine. I can move them.”  Finding your fingers is a monumental step.

She found her fingers, then found that she could move them, then that she could hold things. As the sense of discovery moved from her fingers to her toes, she realized that toes were good for chewing. Naturally, putting fingers and toes together brought a whole new dimension to life: mobility. Sitting, skooching, lop-sided crawling, standing, stepping while holding on. Now, we’re approaching another more literal monumental step. THE monumental step. The first. I’m not sure I’m really ready because I know one small step for Baby Girl is one giant leap for off-to-the-races. We can only barely contain her perpetual motion as it is, and her brothers are already quite often vexed by her speed, agility and desire to join the game. I can only imagine what ramifications THE step will bring to that scenario.

Still, as I watch Baby Girl, I can’t help but think about that day in October when I first noticed her find her fingers. Look how much she’s grown. Look how far she’s come. Look how our lives around her have changed, just from her ownership of those tiny, precious digits.

In the months since Baby Girl’s discovery, I have been sitting on the cusp of finding fingers for myself. In seasons of dissatisfaction or seeking after something new, I’ve realized that change requires the discovery of my own ownership of where I am. If I want a situation or attitude to be different, I must find my fingers. I must find my action and my will to move. Even if the change I think I seek is in another person, I can only move myself. I’ve been convicted that I must BE the change I want to occur around me.

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” (psalm 37:4)

Again and again, I’ve come back to that familiar promise. How easily I can focus on the delight and the desires. But, if I step back one verse, I see the first grasp of the fingers. “Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness.” Even before delighting in the Lord Himself comes taking posession of the land He’s put me in. Comes the willingness to live there. The gumption to cultivate it.

If I want a more loving and peaceful home, I must sow seeds of love and peace by my own actions and attitudes. If I want to see new areas of creativity blossom, I must discipline myself to take the steps to weed and water. If I want the description of my daily life to be different, then I must take the effort to cultivate changes row by row, seed by seed and snip by snip. And, that effort begins with the realization that, “Hey, those are mine. I can move them.” Monumental steps, and indeed carefree running, begin with finding fingers.

The tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)