because I want my son to know where food comes from; because I want my son to delight in the Creator

the pony's name was Alabama (we believe that stands for Auburn, AL)

"is that a horse?"

goat got her head stuck in the fence

the kiss--his idea

two seconds later, mouth full of dirt

ballet and body and numbers

Dear Ballet Teacher of '96,

I remember you, I remember then so clearly.

We submissively pulled pepto bismal pink tights over our expanding thighs and took solace in the fact that everyone else looked this silly, this naked, too. The maroon leotard was was ribbed and covered our bottoms but its shelf was no help for girls who were growing, who were becoming women, one awkward stretch at a time.

You were small, you were so small and the mirrors that shot our images across the room and back would not let us forget that.  And as we plied and releved and ront de jambed at the barre we hoped we were becoming stronger, more beautiful, and maybe someday we could go en pointe like the real dancers next door. 

And then one evening, at barre, you told us your number. 
 
You told us how much you weighed. 


And for girls like us, girls whose bodies were changing, wrapped in unforgiving elastic, set in front of tall mirrors, a number like that did not help. 


Did you know that girls like us lived by numbers?


Did you know that girls like us lied and told our friends we were vegetarians so no one would second guess our order of salad, no dressing, at McDonald's? 


Did you know that girls like us counted everything--the calories, the meals, the portion sizes, each digit on the scale?


Girls like us didn't know then that your petite frame and five-foot-one stature played into your low number. We didn't know that you ate meat and fat and actually enjoyed your food, guilt free. We didn't know we were beautiful, our different builds and sizes, and that health did not have to be defined by 

your frame, 


your body, 


your low, low number. 


I'm guessing you had no idea what girls like us were going through. 


But I do, now. 


And I will never disclose my number. Words like "skinny" and "thin" will not pair with compliments meant to build up another girl. I will use my words about myself, about others, to emphasize the value of the soul, of sparkling eyes, or spunk and spirit. And maybe about funky, delicious shoes. 

But for me, no talk of numbers. 


I've played the game before,

and no one wins.

it's the little kisses

I almost rolled my eyes. 

Not at the mentor who was counseling me with marital wisdom, but at the actual advice.


And when he comes home, I stop what I'm doing and I go give him a hug and a kiss.

I was twenty-two, newly married, and I had read the books, had done the counseling and the courses and had been at this thing for ten eleven months.

Seriously.

I needed to be told to greet my husband when he came home?

We were pro's. We had this thing down. We could start our own counseling practice, we were so freakin' awesome at being married.

And then familiarity set in. The newness wore off. Actual, salaried, you-could-get-fired-if-you-don't-take-this-seriously kinds of jobs, with the stress they generated, came into play.

Oh, and kids.

Shouldn't forget we had kids.

So, seven anniversaries, two pregnancies, five moves, eleven hairstyles, six cars, seventy, eighty, a hundred {?} fights, and a hundred and one make-up's after that conversation, her words still haunt me.

They catch me, soapy hands in sink, when I hear the door open and I think,

           Carter will play with him. Just let me finish loading the dishwasher. 

They catch me, tired body on sofa, baby in arms, and I justify, 
        
           He'll walk around the corner any minute now.

They catch me, evening routine already in full swing, and I reason that

          I can just smile now and kiss his cheek in a minute.

But I'm wrong about that. About the just-let-me-get-this-done-first business. My husband is my love. He's the one I chose to build my future, my family, with. He's the man I respect the most, the only person on earth with whom I am to work out the weighty mystery of marital covenant.

He's more than a room-mate, more than a break from my kids, more than an extra set of hands to help me get my stuff done.

He is my husband, and love is my first charge.  

My mentor was right. And her tidbit of marital advice was much harder than I expected.

It's the get-up-and-greet-him hug when he comes home, it's the {every night} goodnight kiss, it's the saying I Love You before hanging up the phone.

It's the little gestures in the hello's and goodbye's of life that keep us kind, that keep us closer to the honor and deference and priority that our spouses should have. They tell us that we are not as busy as we think we are, that our agendas can rest a minute, that simple celebration is more important than uninterrupted task.

It's not complicated, it's not sexy, but it sure requires me to lay myself aside for a moment. Who knew, after all these years, my mentor's words would ring true? Who knew I'd be preachin' that

it's the little kisses.