Black Bean Burritos and Independence

THIS KID.

(I'm using these photos even though they have nothing to do with the story. At least they are recent shots of this kid.)

THIS KID.

So he got out from soccer practice and, of course, he was hungry. As I was driving him home, he asked about what he could eat.

More spaghetti? NO. 

Leftover chili-lime chicken and rice? *Wrinkled nose*

Salad? I'm going to have salad.  Ew, Mom. 

OK, I said. You can have whatever you want, but you have to make it. And clean it all up. Everything?  Yes. Everything you use. Spotless. Because Papa and I have already cooked and cleaned, and we are done for the evening.

He decided on a bean burrito. That meant he had to open a can of black beans. Find the colander. Rinse and season the beans. Roll them up with grated cheese in a tortilla. Microwave it. Not particularly hard, but he is a nine-year-old.

He did it. A few questions about where to find things like cumin and granulated onion and garlic powder...but he did it. AND he cleaned up!

After all was said and done, he came to me so proudly. I had two burritos and a side of beans, Mom! I did it all myself!

(I did not mention how TWO bean burritos AND a side of beans would probably not feel so good tomorrow.)

And now he's in bed reading a chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird, which I handed over to him two nights ago because he has read everything else that is remotely appropriate in our house, and we haven't had time to go to the library. AGAIN. And we have a lot of books in this house. Fat books. Entire series of fat books. He has read them all. Sometimes more than once.

One of the coolest things, I think, is watching your kids mature into the capable, interesting people you hope they'll be. THIS KID. He's totally getting there.

Rainy Day Pickup

Sitting in the pickup line for Sadie and Benji. These are my views...

Sundays

It's 8:15 p.m. and everyone is asleep except Benji and me. The kids go to bed around 7:00, but Benjamin usually stays up to read for a while. Maybe it's his whirring brain, maybe it's just that he's older; he often has trouble falling asleep.

I stay up to finish washing dishes, to fold some clothes, to write a blog post or send an overdue email. I don't stay up because I'm a night owl anymore. I'm not a night owl anymore, nor am I an early bird. I never was an early bird. But the alarm does go off at 5:30 now, every morning, so that I have time to get in a workout before the day flies past me. In light of that, I don't stay up very late these days.

Sundays are lazy days, really the only lazy day a family of our size can take. We've started going to the later service at church so that we can take it easy in the morning. We come home, eat lunch, and everybody naps. Today I lay on the floor by the fire with my little dog. The Papa snoozed in his reclining chair, a pillow over his eyes. The kids were in their rooms playing quietly or sleeping. We have to recuperate for the hectic week ahead.

And yet even as this was a lazy day, there were still two trips to the grocery store, making three meals from scratch along with extra to be consumed in tomorrow's lunch, and moving several loads of laundry along. I gave Benjamin a haircut, and he finished a book report. The dog was brushed, firewood was carried up the stairs and stacked, a new jar of Laura Scudder's peanut butter was stirred in preparation for the morning.

Now it is quiet, so very quiet, and I need to work on some tasks for my church. I've volunteered to coordinate service and outreach efforts in the community, and I'm laying some groundwork for an event in April. An adoption and fostering event...so, you know, right up my alley.

This Sunday, lazy Sunday, is coming to a close.