Define "Intentional"

Well, today happened. It came. Everything that ought to have support today, had it. That counts, right?

Actually, it was a good, productive, intentional day. We had a truly horrible concoction for breakfast, but I had all this fruit we needed to use up... The boys ate two bowls of it, though, so it couldn't have been that bad. Right? Then we read, did some wash, and everyone took twenty minutes to play. Yippee!

Zorak returned to the abode for lunch, arriving to find three boys with their upside down bicycles strewn about on the grass (they have been forbidden to so much as eyeball the dirt beyond the grass for as long as we continue to live here). They were "fixing things". (No, nothing's broken on the bikes, but it's such fun to tinker!)

I was able to provide Zorak with a lovely lunch, except for the mold I didn't see on one edge of the crust. Ugh. I'm not trying to kill him, honest. I looked, even. Ah, well, he still seems to love me. I also had a list of things we had accomplished this morning: we found a dentist and have appointments next week; I spent some time getting the boys psyched about having "our very own dentist," and other propagandizing necessary to ensure that they do not have the same idiosyncrasies I had as a child, if you know what I mean; I spoke with the Bush Hog Guy and was to meet him this afternoon at the house; the boys and I began studying James 1:19-wherever-we-end-up-stopping; we'd rounded up library books (again) and would swing by there on our way back from the house; found an HVAC guy to check out; called on insurance; and played. It felt so good. So useful.

Then Zorak asks, "So, what's our 'intentional plan' for this evening?"

I froze. "I don't know!" I squeaked, "I'm new at this!"

The afternoon deteriorated a bit, I admit. My stamina has waned since I've given up living this life properly, so I imagine it'll take some time to get back into the swing of things. The two-hour delay getting the Suburban back sort of started the mental stuttering. Then, Smidge didn't nap quite well in the car, so I had to haul a cranky (HEAVY) child up and down the hills on the property with the Bush Hog Guy (ow, that hurt muscles that shouldn't hurt from just walking!) The Bush Hog Guy thought we were to meet at 2:45, not 1:45, so after walking around the property for an hour, I'd just left him a message that we'd try again some other time and was pulling out of the drive when he arrived. Through all that, I was maintaining pretty well, though. A good, deep breath can make a two-hour delay feel not-so-bad and remind you that it's not a plot to make you insane. Candy corn in the pocket can alleviate the Grumps in a two year old. Extra water bottles can rejuvenate two hot and tired boys. A smile and an understanding tone can make an awkward first encounter downright pleasant in the end.

Then we got to the library. And the book. The one book. I needed to return. Wasn't in the bag. I'd asked James to put it in the bag this morning. He hadn't said he didn't do it, but his actions had indicated he did. When I asked him where in the bag he'd put it, he said sheepishly, "I never found it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that." Oh. That's where I fumbled. I didn't yell (thankfully), but I wasn't pleased. As Jill would say, I slipped into Lecture Land. I buckled back up and we left the library without so much as setting foot inside. *sigh* Not one of my more esteemed moments, I assure you. Here's where I could use some input - How do you dig down and find that extra back support for your camel when that last straw gets dropped on it? It's not like the Wee Straw Bearer came and thumped it onto my poor camel just to watch it suffer. It's more like the debris that flies off the back of a contractor's truck. He's got a lot of little straws, and since I'm in the back, herding the cats, the occasional straw is bound to fly off and hit my camel. I know that, and yet at three in the afternoon I could not have formulated that thought to save my life.

We were back on track by the time we arrived home. The boys helped fix a significantly less questionable supper than that breakfast I'd served, and we had a lovely evening talking, laughing, sharing, playing.

Smidge is speaking more and more each day, which is a huge source of hilarity to the boys. They encourage him and rejoice with him, high-fives all around. It's beautiful. Zorak and I bragged to the boys about themselves and enjoyed watching them beam. We snuggled, and then they enjoyed ice cream and play time after supper.

The boys helped polish the metal on the muzzleloader they're refurbishing. It's a huge Daddy 'n Boys Project. My home smells like gun oil. Personally, I was thinking something along the lines of cinnamon-apple, or perhaps a nice light vanilla. But this is a happy smell, and it's accompanied by the thrill of learning, the joy of success, and the pride of craftsmanship. I can handle that. We're blessed.

And now, the Wee Ones are tucked in and quiet. The maintenance men will be here in the morning to fix our faucet and ice maker. The house is in a condition that won't cause me to panic. I am going to curl up with the scarf and the hubby and give both some attention.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy