Baby small cookies

I am pulling out the plug from my overfilled bathtub of a brain. I have been keeping myself from this blank white page with so much possibility because I'm just too full and I'm afraid of what might come out. I'd love to think it will be gems of every color, shining and polished, but it will probably be smelly old bottles of milk and long gross toenails. But I'm going to take baby steps. Start small.

Here's the thing. It's been a little bit of a crazy few months. My grandfathers both passed away, first of all, which is the major hole that I had to put a cork in. I got through the week of two memorial services, stayed as strong as I could, and I'm just now starting to get those moments of complete sadness and silence where they both used to be. Mostly when I'm reading to Grace at night and she's nestled under my chin, and I remember sitting on their laps. Mostly then.

My baby girl is growing every single day. She is not a baby girl anymore. She is a little girl now. She sings songs in the car, which pretty much blows my mind. She counts as we go up and down the stairs. She has grown enough hair for pigtails. It makes my heart ache with adorable.

We also did some traveling over the last month or so, to beach and sun after the string of snowstorms that, at first came with a sense of relief from routine and then slowly turned into a mean, windy, "nah-nah-you-have-to-shovel" bully, whipping outside my window. So over that. We were so tired when we got there that relaxing was the only option. Except it was more like falling-in-a-heap. And it was lovely.

And now, finally, spring is here, the yard is slowly being cleaned up and turning a deeper shade of green every day. Grace doesn't have to wear a hat every time we walk the 3 steps from the house to the car. We threw a football around last weekend. I got a hair cut. We are unfurling like little baby ferns. Starting small.

Here is my takeaway from this long, drawn out, end-of-winter time: these days, life moves like lightening. It is up to me to pay attention, to chronicle, to just. stop. moving. It's not hard. It's small. But I have to stop. And savor. And remember.

At my Grandpa Don's memorial service, I was struck by how many people had stories that started with: "Don changed my life." It was amazing. There were so many stories I never knew--none of us knew. It was wonderful of those people to share, and I smiled at the thought that even though he wasn't there in person anymore, Grandpa was still there, teaching us by example. Do good. Reach out. Start small.

It was 70 degrees on Monday. It was 45 degrees today. We're starting small, slowly. But we'll get there; baby steps.