Ruth

Fifteen years ago, in the very beginning of the day, in a room crowded with pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, diapers, wipes, bottles, cozy soft baby clothes, sleeping, messy-haired, drowsy, weepy, expectant brothers and sisters, one beautiful, tiny, snoozing infant twin boy, and two beyond exhausted, loving, shattered and grieving parents–we said goodbye to the tiniest members of our family. 

There was a crystallization of the intrinsic value of human life. Holding her. Experiencing her. Smelling her new baby smell, feeling her heart beat against my palm, her ribs expanding oh-just-slightly as she inhaled and exhaled– lungs and diaphragm working with each breath, touching her soft, translucent cheeks. Watching my parents rock her and will a longer life into her veins. Holding her adorable, tiny, tiny bottom in one hand, and her back in the other, the way you do with all babies. Looking in her eyes and wanting more than anything for her to understand one thing in that moment. 
That she was loved. 
Cherished. Precious.  Known. Seeing her entry and exit in the world. Ruth, with her pale, pale skin. Her sweet, quiet voice. Her broken heart. Her light-as-air frame. Her incredibly delicate, long arms, legs, fingers and toes. Her little rosebud mouth. Her tiny elf ears. Her funny, sparse, sticking-up-all-over, dark hair. 

 It has never been more obvious that behind all our randomly joining, "complex as a baked potato" cells and biological coincidences–that there is a process, a purpose, something more that far exceeds our knowledge of conception, embryonic development and personhood. So much so–that even when our definition of what is valuable or needed in the world, is so woefully not met. When someone is born broken or seemingly useless to society. Oh-such-a-burden. 

That, when we are forced stop,  see, experience, know that person; we cannot help but be silenced by our arrogance.

 Cannot help but be quiet, quiet in awe. 

demon coffee

I may be responsible for single-handedly keeping Starbucks in business since January of 2009.

 I'm not sure how they are going to keep afloat when my husband is home more often and I have more than the voices in my head justifying four-dollar coffees. Who buys those expensive caramel-ball thingies? I do. Who buys a six to twelve-dollar mug every Christmas? I do! Holiday CD? (Remember those?) Yup. Kid's traveling mugs? 

Totally necessary.

 Don't think I don't feel guilty. 

I've added up the numbers a few times. 

It makes my stomach clench.
And that makes me sad.

So sad in fact, that I feel the need for a warm delightful, 

frothy, with-notes-of-smooth-cedary-caramelly-goodness, coffee. 

Tired?  Get a latte. (That one's obvious.)  

Feeling fat? Try the morning bun. 

Feeling fat? Try a, "skinny" anything. 

Feeling fat? Indulge in the 500 calorie pastries, but promise yourself that it's the last time.

 Tight on cash? Aren't we all? Skip buying gas instead. Man can live on high-calorie coffee drinks alone.

Sick of other people railing about American excess? Get a macchiato, AND a bottled water. Five pennies out of that two-dollar purchase will go to help others have clean drinking water.

 (That's like, half a dime! Or one-twentieth of a dollar!)  

On a road trip with five children? Starbucks has the cleanest bathrooms around.

 (Really. They do. Across America, their bathrooms win. Hands down.)

Been home all week with said five children and need to get out, but don't want to get them out?
Two words: drive thru.

 Need some atmosphere? You know where to go. Who else has those cute little worn-wood stools, factory lighting, rad music, and brightly colored poster art of Africa and other countries? 

Want to treat the kids? The cake pops are only $1.50 apiece, and the boxed chocolate milk is ORGANIC. 

 (For me, that's only around $17 in treats for the kids. A steal.) 

Craving humiliation? Take way too long perusing the menu, and then try confidently explaining that you want a 16- ounce specialty-whatever-drink in Starbuck's speak.
Like watching awkward interactions? Watch your husband or father order.
 It's the best.

Then, once you know how to order everything on the menu--just the way you like it; go to the nearest wall and bang your head on it for spending so much of your life flirting with the biggest, baddest, succubus in coffee culture today.

I mean the coffee kind of succubus. Not the sexy-time kind.

Nine Years

    

Nine years of doing the unexpected.

Nine years of thinking outside the box.

Nine years of watching him discover.

Nine years of worrying about his safety. (!)

 Nine years of his ridiculous camera smiles.

Nine years of me having to think outside the box to understand him.

   

Nine years of honor in being called his mom.

Nine years of adventure in experiencing my life with him.

 Nine years.