One random evening, we started a fire in the fireplace. Evy was already in bed. And Ethan was in his jammies ready for snack and then bedtime routine.
I saw that fire. Saw the snow outside.
And had the ideas for smores. So we made three. One for Ethan. One for Matt. And one for me.
And we sat on the hearth.
We sat down in silence, but before Ethan’s first bite, he suddenly got up bolted out of the living room and ran to every light in the house that was on. And turned them all off. One by one. Yelling to us to “stay right there, don’t start yet, wait, one more light….”
One by one. The mainfloor lights went black until it was just the fireplace that was light.
He bounded back over to us, grabbed his smore, cuddled right next to us on that brick hearth.
He took a bite. And giggled.
It was so dark and quiet. I actually found myself entering this place where I saw him cuddled with us, and then simultaneously walking out to college. Maybe it’s because next year this time he’ll be in kindergarten. Or that he can barely sit crosslegged cuddled in our laps anymore. And then my brain came back. And my soul sighed on the inside. It was something so perfect, we didn’t even talk. Not even a whisper.
That was the first time. That time it was just us.
It was repeated yet again last week. Yet. I broke into the silent, magical moment and just took a few photos with my phone. But it felt weird doing it. Like I somehow made a ripple in something that was supposed to be pure, uninterrupted. I didn’t want to ruin it. Because it was kinda like this secret thing of just us. In fact I almost didn’t want to remember it via a photo, instead just live in the moment. But I decided to break that magic for 10 seconds. And then quickly re-enter it. Cuddled together, with just some crunching and sticky fingers.
In the middle of these silent moments, sometimes I yearn for no public life. No Instagram. No blog. No photos or videos. No memory books. Just us and our souls together. Who needs to see these moments? No one. They’re ours.
But then I nostalgically go through our annual photo marriage books, and ache inside from the love and memories (both good and bad) that it triggers. I learn from our past. So I know I’ll want them in hindsight.
It has become clear recently that as our kids get older, these quiet, soul moments will probably become greater. And even more personal and private. So likely our habits will be changing towards the things we show publicly. I’m kinda liking the slower, less constant pace. Being OK to craft and ski and read books without trying to document it all. It’s a constant tension I fight every week.
I yearn for people that we love, that are maybe far away, to be connected to us and see our family. And not just the good. But the hard and the real. However, I increasingly desire for the knowing to be different – more interactive and direct. In person. Seeing their eyes. Rubbing shoulders and giving hugs.
This space on this blog is a little bit magical. And a little bit real and honest. And it feels like my space. My place to create and make. Something for my soul, which feels really nice.
Maybe someday soon, my creating and making will be morph into something more direct. More personal. More delayed. Something I make and can hand to our people, in person, to talk about and remember with them sitting right next to me. Either way, thank you for taking the time to be in this space with us. Crunching graham crackers, gooy-marshmallow-fingers and all.