Ordinary Mornings

Breakfast is quite the love affair in our home. A big pot of oats set to boil, my four-year-old son having counted the cups and poured the water. He’s learning to measure but has a tendency to stuff handfuls of oats into his mouth instead of the measuring cup. His little toes reach up out of the stool, tongue sticking out, balancing, measuring, eating. My older son stumbles up the steps, and slides onto an island stool, head in hands drenched in sleep. His demeanor reminiscent of a sixteen-year-old, not the six-year-old presently in my kitchen. His fingers reach out to rummage through a stack of library books. He picks one out of his bag, opening up to the first page while he waits for his meal.

“What is a famine mommy? Why are they eating grass off the side of the road? What does it mean, they went to a soup kitchen? Doesn’t everyone have soup in their kitchens?” My eldest, the one previously drenched in sleep, snaps me to attention, asking questions in rapid fire. It reminds me of an automatic weapon, his queries laying siege to a silent world. I have grown accustomed to this onslaught, his never-quite-satiated hunger for learning. Depending on how much sleep I received the night before, I can become either overwhelmed or excited from his enthusiasm.

Our mornings together have become so much more than just a time to consume food. Shared conversations rise up out of the pages we flip through. I pause, listen and linger on their curiosities. We google together, watch a video on the topic, and search hard to find the answers to the thousands of questions that erupt from their brains. They are becoming curious, lifelong learners, and so am I.

Pulling me back from my thoughts, my four-year-old son wonders why the water is hissing and the pot is spewing a starchy white liquid all over the stove. I can hear my husband saying, “Lauren, how does this happen every time?” I realize, I forgot we were cooking yet again. My mind, often lost, in the story of a children’s picture book and the visual adventure my boys take me on each morning.

I jump up, lifting the lid of the little hissing pot, and grab the wooden spoon from the stash of kitchen utensils on my counter. I silently scorn our electric stove and turn the knob to low. The water recedes back once again, hugging the oats inside the pot where they belong.

Memories have a tendency to overtake me when I’m experiencing them through my senses. The smell of the cooking oats, of hardy burned starch mixed with melting cinnamon, and the sounds of steam trying to escape the pot lid hit me first. As I move the oats in a circular pattern around the pot, I feel the smooth grain of the wooden spoon in my hand and I begin to hear the sounds of my grandmother humming.

***

I can see her smile as I descend the stairs in my pajamas. She’s up before the light has magnified the sky. I see her wrinkled hand, manicured only by the dirt from the earth, stirring a silvery pot of boiled oats in her own kitchen. I remember what it felt like to wrap my arms around her waist, as a little girl, my gaze barely even with the knobs on the stove. I hear her giggle as I squeeze her all too tightly, “Would you like to help?” she asks in her warm, soft, sing-song voice.

It’s only Grandma and me and these precious moments together fill my little girl's heart to the brim. “Now, it’s two thirds cup water to one third cup oats” she directs evenly, “We need five servings. Your dad eats quite a lot these days.” I remember balancing on her stool, my tongue sticking out for added support, trying my best to imitate her movements. To this day, I measure out my oats the same way: two thirds cup to one third, counting servings, balancing oats, children, and precious time.

She’d set out her best china for me, a simple, natural, farmhouse style pattern deep cranberry and off white in color. A china set she used every day of the year. A single silver spoon and a side of wheat germ to add on top. Sometimes we’d sit across from each other at the little wooden children’s table that rested in front of the brick fireplace in her kitchen. On occasion there was even a cup of tea, English Breakfast with a splash of milk. She’d sit down across from me, fold her arms in her lap and engage whole heartedly my attention. I’d share my latest poem, she’d share the newest word and definition she learned or the latest books we’d read while apart.

***

I received a new title recently - stay at home mom, SAHM for short. When asked about what I do, you might catch me answering, “I stopped working recently.” But my mother-in-law’s perpetual voice in my head chimes, “Lauren, you work out of the home now.” Yes, yes I do, that’s right. I said no to my career for many reasons. But the one reason that shines light on my entire life, that makes me know I made the right choice, is simply that I felt a very strong pull to be at home. To cultivate something within my four walls that my grandmother cultivated in me. To slow down, be present, and create lasting memories of us, together. To build up what’s inside my home. To foster and grow a space for relationship, communication, and love.

I hear a bubbling and a dry, crackling sound and am brought back to my own stove. The bottom of the oatmeal is burning and I frown. With the knob turned off, I reach into our silverware drawer and pull out three simple spoons and set them at the places on our counter. I use them daily. They are a testament of my Grandmother’s love and legacy. A reminder for me to invest in relationships, that slow living is never a waste of time. Once shiny and new, the now-dull, weathered pewter reminds me of the importance of my place in my children's world.

When my hair has turned silvery gray and I’m sitting with my husband sipping a hot coffee while using oatmeal as a salve on a cooler day, these are the moments I’ll remember and miss dearly: the ordinary mornings with them. I hope that I’d make the same decision all over again. I want to be proud that I chose this life. I want contentment. The hours in the morning spent cuddling, nibbling, reading, rummaging through their minds as the questions spill out of their mouths like the oats strewn about on our kitchen floor, will be gone. I will know it was worth it.

Motherhood and Silver Linings

Intensive Care