We're Not Perfect: We Have Frogs in Our Window Wells

We're not perfect; we have frogs in our window wells. They have been accumulating for days. I can see them sometimes when I go down to visit my daughter in her room. Between sentences, the pale side of a frog's underbelly will appear at the edge of the egress window, a white silhouette giving all in a desperate attempt to scale the insurmountable for the hope of freedom.

I can identify with him. Trying to locate my daughter in her room on this side of the window pane can feel the same way.  Unmade bed, clothes strewn about, books -- large and small -- everywhere, gum wrappers, papers scattered, and in a sordid jumble of covers, my daughter's face shining in the flickering light of a computer screen. Together the scene seems like an entirely insurmountable obstacle to the hope of an uncluttered home (to say nothing of felicitous mother/college-age daughter relations). I feel the same urge to throw myself at the window to try to get out.

Until I demand, "You NEED to clean up your room!" It comes forcefully (if not as gracefully as the lurching frog) out of my mouth.

Failing to sense my urgency (just as the tireless efforts of the frogs have been long ignored), "I know, Mom," is all she says.

"How can you live like this?" I ask hoping to appeal to her sense of decency.

"I need to get this homework done," she explains as the changing computer screen alters the lighting on her face but not her expression.

"But your room smells," I reply.

"I know, Mom. It's the frogs," was her unimpassioned response.

I want to have the idealistic fervor (and I once would have) to shout out, "If you don't care about your room, what about caring about them? They are dying out there! At least your room would smell better." But presently lacking energy to fight this perennial battle, I turn around, quietly shut the door, and walk impassively upstairs, comforting myself by picking up crumpled bits of paper while engaging in wishful thinking.

Later, over thirty frogs rescued from one window well thanks to my son.
 One small step further along the road to perfection.

Football, Pining and the Present

Light fluctuates on blades of grass before me while leaves behind me bob in the wind, catching sunlight and then missing it. I've been called to be a spectator, lawn chairs set out before me, when all I really want to do is put pen to paper. But sun's warmth still inhabits the yard and eager faces plan whispered strategies, ball in hand.

I settle in feeling a little chilly on the sidelines in the shade. "Tith onya wap ," my dirt-speckled toddler says. It takes me a minute to decode.

"Oh, you want to sit on my lap," it was more a declaration on her part than a request. I guess my lap is doing nothing better so up she comes. My thoughts are not with the present, instead I am pining for the letter keyboard: thoughts, ideas, contemplations all clamor inside for expression. I turn toward the stroller now rolled alongside me, distracting me from my inner musings. Brown eyes and an instant toothless smile fill with recognition at the site of me. I am struck. Here is life. Here is hope. Here is the present in glorious personhood staring at me through baby's eyes. So worth my time...I am drawn into the moment. The small guilt of wishing for other things assuaged as I happily choose what is.

Then the game begins. Unfolding before me is another marvelous sight. Three of my sons and a daughter playing football with their dad.

Yard Football (taken with my phone)

I am immersed in the game: the huddles, the plays, the energy. It seems like a long time since the mingled ages in our family played a sport on the lawn.

The baby now takes the place on my lap abandoned several times over the course of a few minutes by my toddler who, after being ensconced in the stroller, was given Long Face, a kitten, to cuddle. Now Long Face is being used as a prop to pester my left ear and arm.

Suddenly my name is ringing out, I am being called into the game. Not eager to participate, I hesitate. But insistence on their part is greater than the lackadaisical resistance on mine, and so I join the game, taking the place of Daddy.

A little disoriented on the first play, I quickly gain my bearings in the game. Plays come and go. I run. I catch the ball. I stop the other side. My daughter on the opposite team expresses surprise over Mom as competitor. My heart is beating and I feel alive as the wind cools me and I breath it in. I've forgotten until this moment how much I enjoyed playing the game. Gratitude is released in my heart like air exhaled and along with it pining is replaced by the glorious present.