the Wise Robin

these days

 

these days are slow and steady blending almost seamlessly, punctuated only by rainstorms. these days are filled with fairy floss pink blossoms clinging to peach branches. these days are the yellow green softness of tiny buds reaching for the sun. these days are older girls singing in the season and little ones in moses baskets under the washing. these days are leftovers for lunch, early evening meals and warm baths. these days are wakeful nights peppered with sleep. these days are the dog standing, stretching, turning and resettling with a sigh. these days are a little spring fibre crafting and a lot of handstitching of quilt binding. these days are petals swirling to the ground, gathering in corners and marking the passing of time. these days are highchairs, finger foods and dogs waiting for falling crumbs. these days are broody chickens and growing babes. these days are snuggling on the couch for afternoon read alouds. these days still have that winter vibe of being cloistered indoors. these days i rock and nurse while watching the puffs of cloud flying over the eastern hills. these days time alone feels stolen and fleeting. these days are a waiting spinning wheel and silent knitting needles. these days i wonder what i have to offer in this space that doesn't include laundry, bibs and sleeplessness. these days are full of dreams, big and beautiful and for making them real. these days are bigger bags and hunger for adult conversation. theses days are passing quickly. these days are isolating, full and sweet. these are my days. what are yours?

being eight

 

 

This past year you learnt the australian crawl, grew three and a half centimetres, became afraid of the dark, decided pants were better than skirts, danced in front of a really big audience, began to read music, become more fond of purple than red, gained a sister, lost a lot of my time, made new friends, declared you were no good at drawing (oh my love how untrue this is), bought a hermit crab and named her Julie, devoured book after book, gave avocado another try, opened your own bank account, lost some of that childhood magic when you announced that the ocean could not be heard in shells, but kept my hopes alive with all the fairy houses you built and the notes you left for them, started to enjoy writing, picked your Mama beautiful posies from around and about, didn't find me embarassing (yet), still looked for morning snuggles, bathed less than I would have liked and more than you wanted, cooked pancakes by yourself, raised seven chicks, asked what war and politics was, started doing your own hair, grew six new teeth, went raspberry picking, had your first girlie sleepover, became the apple of a three year old and a nearly two year old's eye, wanted to play with girls more than boys, moved back into our room, remembered things without me asking, and grew and changed in so many ways that I can't remember. How I wish sometimes you would stay little so I could hold you close and whisper in your ear the magic of shells and swirling, sunlit dust. Precious girl, you are so loved

Mamaxo