photo by Jed Wells

These days I wear muu-muus. I slouch around my house barefoot with wild hair and an overuse of chapstick. I propel myself into housework, inviting the gorgeous little people at my feet to join. They don't help much. There is always music, always humming of some machine helping me with my effort. These days I organize closets or vacuum the stairs or throw out wilting food in the fridge.

Yesterday morning The Chief and I made pancakes. He stirred, I cracked the eggs. When our cakes were round and golden we sat at the table where I let him douse his stack with syrup like a fireman's hose to a flame. Ever stuffed her cheeks with clementines and sticky pancake residue. Most of it ended up three feet below--a buffet for later, an unsanitary reward for the proficient house crawler.

Lately we've been staying inside until the sun is the warmest in the sky. It is then we wrap our bodies in warm layers and venture out for a walk in the neighborhood. But if we aren't speedy, or too careful about engaging passerby neighbors, we find ourselves racing the sun down the street. The Chief signals the warning,


When the western horizon's pinks and blues turn into greens and dark we are home again making noodles and dancing off residual energy in the front room. We hop in the bath and scrub little parts clean. We warm up nightly bottles and sippies. Prayers, scripture reading, lights out.

This is my ode to February. A month of staying inside, of sun worship at the window, of muu-muu wearing and concentrated house cleaning. A celebration of stability, lovers and home.

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