Published from previous blog on April 20, 2020

I saw something in an email this week that mentioned our every day documentation during this season. I admit, sometimes I feel as if it’s not readable to post about Jubal climbing our piles of laundry on the couch in our bedroom and playing his iPad while I binge Outer Banks and try to get some words in for the day.

Or like last night, when Russ asked Jubal, “hey buddy you want me to teach you how to play guitar?” And Jubal snuck his way in between Russ’ arms and watched his hands pluck the strings as if it were the most important thing in his world, I snapped a picture but didn’t think about writing it down because this moment feels normal. Every day.

Just like it doesn’t feel significant to talk about the walks Russ and Jubal take every day, canvassing our neighborhood with the dogs, finding leaves that spark their curiosity, because this happens literally every time they’re walking. I forget about the conversations and the silly things Jubal says and only later when Russ and I are alone we look at each other and ask, “what was it that he said today that was so hilarious? Do you remember?

I don’t talk about the recent discovery that our son apparently prefers 1970’s Indie punk above all other musical genres. Or his insatiable need to have his blanket with him everywhere - even while making sandcastles with the dirt outside on our patio.

I don’t talk about the masks we got in the mail today and how now there are two hooks above our keys by the garage door so we won’t forget to grab ours before leaving the house on our weekly errand to the store. I don’t talk about the hand washing, the daily counting of toilet paper rolls, the Vitamin C intake and countless virtual trips to Target and Amazon and nearly any store that will deliver.

I don’t talk about how Jubal now mentions that his school is closed.

I don’t mention this stuff because it doesn’t feel monumental, but I know one day, it will be a welcome treat to read back and remember these days where we were learning so much about each other and our world was changing so exponentially.

The last time this happened, we were stuck on an island in North Carolina, waiting to come home with our new son. Every one then kept telling us to enjoy it — to soak up the time we had together because it would pass quickly and soon we would be wishing for those days of listening to nothing except for the ocean waves crashing against the shore. I believed them because I know myself. I know the atmospheres in which I thrive. And true to form, as we returned to our lives in Austin and the sound of ocean waves became more and more a memory, the ache deepened.

I missed it.

Because of the intensity of those days, I wasn’t able to journal. I couldn’t. There were too many emotions swirling in my brain and mind and all I could manage were small poems haphazardly scribbled in my notebook. Instead, I read. I read so many books.

But I wish I would have found some reservoir in order to write.

So now, as I hear Jubal’s giggles out front and know that any minute they’ll come rushing through the front door with treasures he’s found on yet another daily walk, I try to capture as many moments as possible.

Like yesterday, sitting out on the porch with little lion, I turn and ask if I can take his picture.

“Yeah, mama. You can.”

“Thanks, babe. Can you smile for me?”

“No. I think I just want to look at the clouds.”

And so he did. I’m so glad he chose that instead.