“That was long,” he says, slipping his fingers between mine.

“It was,” I agree, squeezing his hand, noting the slight of his cheeks, the sure of his step, the big in my boy.

“Was it fun?” I ask with mothering words, leading the conversation my way.

He squints into my question. A cyclist speeds, a dog barks, a bird lands. “No,” he finally answers. He turns his head from side to side, sure of his answer.

We’re walking from his sister’s school talent show. I was so proud of the 7 year olds taking the “stage” with songs and poems, hoola hoops and jump ropes. I cheered for them with crossed fingers that they’ll hold onto that unabashed Look at me for as long as possible.

So it was fun, for me as a mom of one of those 7 year olds.

But when you’re 4 and you go to a lot of events and activities that aren’t your own, “not fun” is probably a pretty good description of how it was.

Before I have the chance to flex and smooth and mother this moment, his fingers release mine and he runs.

Bright sun and hot wind frame his quickness and far ahead, I see him drop. Knees to ground, toes tipped, he sits at the edge where the newly greened grass meets the sidewalk.

He slips off his baseball cap and starts filling it with dandelions, plucking them one by one until his hat is overflowing with sunshine, and fun.

His face lights, his voice travels. There’s no need to quiet either one so I ask, “Want to paint with those?”

His cheeks raise, “That’s fun.” He affirms. I couldn’t possibly agree more.

How to Paint with Dandelions

• Pick dandelions, leaving enough stem for little hands to hold
• Pour colorful paint onto a paper plate (or if your paint bottles are wide enough, you can skip this step and dip right into them)
• Use your dandelions as stamps, dipping them into paint and then onto paper
• Let your little one experiment with repeated stamps before “reloading” a dandelion, the stamps look different depending how much paint is on them
• We use a different dandelion for each paint color
• This also looks lovely with black paint on white paper or white paint on black paper
• When the masterpiece is complete, let it dry and consider framing it – holding onto your golden moment a titch longer.

Two years — but barely two inches — between them, they sit shoulder to shoulder. Heads nestled close, caramel against vanilla. Conspirators of the heart.

Chloe carefully places every single paint bottle we own onto the kitchen table.

She takes them out of the worn plastic bin they live in on an “up high” shelf that she can suddenly reach, and lines them up one by one.

The brightest shades of childhood – reds and purples and yellows and blues – face my two who happen to live in color. Endless possibilities, and messes, await.

I’m not a part of this project.

Can we paint? They asked.

Where are the trays? They added.

I answered their question and off they went.

Chloe pours paint into bowls, Brody “helps.” I wince, expecting a No said in a tone and a voice and a way that only big sisters can get away with.

But I don’t give her enough credit.

She gentles his hand, helps him along, adding a Good job, buddy for good measure.

My heart warms at their together and tugs with the want to join them. But I don’t.

This moment is theirs. And the helping and the painting and the mess that’s sure to come is picture perfect exactly the way that it is.

I sit back and watch them paint with golf balls and take pride in how vivid their version of together is.

How to Paint With Golf Balls

• Pour paint into separate bowls and drop golf balls into each one, covering each golf ball thoroughly with paint.
• Place a piece of paper onto a plastic tray or a cookie sheet and using a plastic spoon, scoop the golf balls onto the paper.
• Gently tilt the tray in every direction, rolling the golf balls all around, and creating a vivid painting.
• Allow your creation to dry, then show it off to everyone but dad, who might be wondering what happened to his golf balls! (*Rinse and dry the golf balls when you’re done and they’ll be as good as new!)

She places her hands on my knees. They splay in a seven year old way – tilted and spread and just the right amount of small. This warms my heart in the way that only reminders of still little can.

I reach for my coffee as she straightens her legs, points her bare toes.

“Like this?” She asks. Her hair just brushing her shoulders. Her eyes and her cheeks and her voice quickly losing the morning’s sleepy shade.

“Like that.” I say.

We laugh. Her voice is loud and it carries. I shoosh her, but I don’t really mean it. She’s made for bold and, secretly, I like it.

At four months old I’d lay her on her back so I could tie her older sister’s shoes or make a lunch or read a book. And laying in a cotton onesie, chubby thighs and delicious rolls on display, she’d grab those tiny toes, and laugh. And even then, her laughter shined.

This morning, as light breaks and the rest of our puzzle sleeps, we’re stealing a few minutes alone. Golden, all too rare, time as two.

I paint her nails one by one, each a different shade because when I asked, “What color should we do?” The answer was, of course, “All of them!”

When I finish, she tips her hands and her feet and admires our handy work. She’s sat still for a long time and she’s proud of how they look, how they shine. I’m proud of how they suit her.

Just then, Kayli walks into the room, brushes past us. She’s dressed for the day – jeans and a cute print shirt, hair pulled back into a messy bun that I’ve never been able to pull off, lips already glossed.

“Hi,” She says in one breath. And, “I’m going outside!” with the next.

Chloe’s eyes light. “I’m going, too!” She announces loudly and gets up quickly and slips her feet into flip flops roughly.

The polish smudges – on her toes as she puts on her shoes and on her fingers as she closes the door behind her – and I don’t say a word. (I’m proud of this, too.)

Because here’s what I want her to know: Our time together was enough, taking care of your appearance is important, but having fun always trumps it.

How to Paint Rainbow Nails

• I love manicuring my girls’ nails. I dip their fingers in warm water, dry them with a soft towel, and put sweet smelling lotion on their little hands.
• For rainbow nails, I keep nail polishes in bold shades in the colors of the rainbow on hand, and starting with the pinky on the right hand, I paint red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple and repeat until I run out of nails.
• I do the exact same on their toes.
• I aim for two coats of color and one clear top coat, unless they decide to take their shine outside. It’s brighter out there anyway.

They bound into the room, cross it, fill it. Six sneakered feet stepping one after the other, each footstep — and unfortunate footprint — a titch smaller than the one it’s following.

One unzips a sweatshirt, another changes into flip flops. They’re all talking at once, voices threading and braiding and telling the story we’ve all been waiting for: Spring is finally here.

My middle heartstring walks my way. I feel Jason’s exasperated eyes following her muddy feet and chalk stained hands; I note these, too.

But my eyes inevitably glue to hers. They match my own in shade and wonder and stubborn. They’re like magnets.

“Look,” she breathes.

And I do, I look.

I take in her hair wisped with wind and her cheeks blushed with spring and her hands stained with childhood, and because of these I ignore the mud on the carpet and the rip in her jeans and the chalk on my arms.

(You should know that this kind of letting go is sometimes hard for me, so I feel good — proud? — in this moment and that makes me lean into her — and spring — even more.)

“Chalk balls” we say at the same time. My words are in italics and end in a question mark, hers are bold and end in an exclamation point.

And with that, she splays what spring is to her.

Stained fingers and muddy toes, rainbow sherbet after — and sometimes before! — dinner and later bedtimes, exploring creeks and making chalk balls.

She’s stepped into spring, and childhood the way we all should. Eyes bright, cheeks raised, childhood in hand.

How to Make Chalk Balls

• Dip sidewalk chalk in water
• Color with the wet chalk (hard) until it makes a gooey, smooshy mess
• Roll that mess into a ball
•  If you’d like — and they usually do — repeat with several more colors, creating colorful, goopy chalk layers
• Allow to dry in the sunshine, and you have homemade chalk balls ready to color with, messy childhood included.

“In every CATASTROPHE there’s HOPE,” I read, sliding one fingertip beneath the letters, the words. I note its lack of polish, its need of shine.

Brody doesn’t notice. “I love this part,” he says, leaning against me, his golden locks brushing against my bare arm.

We’re reading Max’s Castle, a lovely picture book about a little boy who changes his story by turning each page’s block letters to make the page and the story go better.  CHAIRS to STAIRS to get out of a dungeon. MONKEY to KEY to open a lock. CATASTROPHE to HOPE because there is no other way.

We ignore his sisters yelling (fighting?) upstairs. I tilt my head against his. “I love this part, too.” He curls in closer.

–

Later that night, Jason and I sit side by side on the yellow couch, arms touching, toes grazing. His head tips against mine. Our family puzzle pieces every chance we get.

We lean in to better see the small screen in his hand. Our laptop and iPad and The Big TV are all free and nearby, but we sit peering at a tiny screen creating an equally tiny space for just us two.

We’re watching The Boston Marathon catastrophe unfold. We’re silent, which is unusual for us.

I curl in tighter to him, take in the laughter and some of the fighting (no question mark necessary this time) upstairs, and feel grateful for both.

–

“What happened?” Chloe asks, overhearing our talk. They’re always listening, aren’t they? Always.

It’s the next day and she’s unloading her backpack, Kayli does the same by her side. Brody is circling them both — lovies in hand — trying to find his fit in this evening ritual.

We’re all tired after a long day of school and work and schedules and evening activities.

Guiltily, I meet Jason’s eyes. We should’ve waited to talk until later, when they’re upstairs, tucked in, out of ear shot.

Our time feels so limited, our talk seems so urgent. But Chloe’s 7-years-old wide eyes mute these thoughts.

“Something sad,” Jason says, voice wavering, and explains in the best way we know how. One word in front of the other.

“That is sad,” she says coming to stand in between us. Her tiny frame seemingly even smaller.

Jason continues with her where he left off with me.

Showing her images of medals passed hand to hand, people carrying victims to safety. Restaurants donating food. Citizens raising money. National Guard members stepping in to help. A veteran crossing the finish line.

He lets her plant her feet and her heart in the sadness of Catastrophe and the resulting Hope that is a must.

I watch this unfold, my heart hurting and softening in waves. There is no other way, indeed.

“But I like those things, too!” Brody says, his face crumpling in the way that melts me. His eyes and his cheeks and his mouth instantly smaller. I soften.

“We’re trying it this way this year,” Jason steps in, sensing my waver. “And we’ll see how it goes,” he gentles.

His back against the sink, his legs crossed at the ankle, his arms mirroring the feeling. His stance is loose.

My hands are splayed on the cool counter, my shoulders back, my legs straight. I feel anything but loose.

Our children face us across that counter. They sit like staircases, elbows touching, nearly identical eyes wide.

“Are you guys sure?” I ask. The girls’ heads tip up and down, their lips wrapped in matching shades of approval. Brody’s bottom lip juts out further.

**

Our girls’ birth dates are just four days apart.

We had many young years of joint parties celebrated with a house full of friends and family, gifts opened and happy birthdays chorused and candles wisped out side by side.

And later, when they started moving toward friends of their own, we settled into a fine rhythm of separate parties. They’d smile their way through each other’s celebrations with a single friend by their side.

And when Brody came along, he was carried through, then toddled around, then dove into their parties like only a little brother can.

But this year they decided they wanted completely separate parties.

“I’m not sure,” I bit my lip.

“It’s their birthdays,” Jason countered.

So we tried it.

**

“It’s Not. Fair!” Brody pouts, as he “settles” by my side. His small frame hits hard against me.

Warily, I peek down at him wondering exactly how Not.Fair today feels to him.

I cajole him with snuggles and snacks and the offers of our own adventures. My voice loud again the quiet in our background.

It’s Chloe’s birthday party day. Jason has four newly minted seven year olds at a celebration outing and I have our other two puzzle pieces at home with me.

“We could go for a walk?” I say — ask really — my voice rising at the end of the sentence. I wince at the sing-song lilt I’m using. Even I’m not convinced.

“Well that would be fun!” Kayli says, walking toward us. Shoulders back, hair grazing collar bone, cheeks raised.

“Okay!” Brody yells, following her lead.

I do the same.

**

I shrug into my winter coat. Now that the calendar’s flipped to April, its needed, but has definitely worn out its welcome.

Pale faces raised to bright sky, we step together, our booted feet crunching snow. I note how unusual it is to see the three of our footsteps side by side.

“Look!” Kayli says. Once again, we follow her lead — and her eyes — and we look. She’s found bird tracks in the snow. Brody drops to the ground. Knees planted in white, fingers grazing the magic rightthere in front of him.

Kayli’s eyes meet mine, we smile at each other. “Lemons-lemonade?” She says, a well-worn phrase at our house.

And I see the way we’ve settled into a different combination of our five, how she found a moment to lead, how we went on an outing we would have otherwise skipped. How it’s important to sometimes feel life’s Not.Fair moments, and these are sometimes our path to the magic rightthere.

“Lemons-lemonade,” I say back. And while I might not love the way we ended up doing birthdays this year, I am breathing in the fresh and the new of this snow-kissed moment.

I’m stilled.

“I just want to do something with someone!” She says. Cries, really.

Her eyes tired, her cheeks teary, her lips pursed.

And I, am stilled.

Forever ago, when my kids and my mothering were both young, I took every bit of parenting advice I heard to heart. Cupped it in my hand, felt it in my core.

Be kind, say yes, give reasons.

But as my children and I grew side by side, and today almost shoulder to shoulder, I started hearing differing views.  And these, too, I tried to remember. Letting each one marinade until I – or they – were ready for them.

Let them wait. It’s good for them to see you complete things. Say no.

So this afternoon, after a busy and overwhelming few days away, I let them wait. I said no. I sat down to “finish” my work. (There really isn’t a Finish when you’re a parent, is there? Instead, there’s always More. And that More is what I was hearing the loudest.)

And as I sank into my favorite spot – in the middle of the yellow couch, toes tucked beneath me, Louie curled by my side, coffee in hand — my girl reminded me of what I had forgotten.

All of those pieces of advice mix and meld and braid as you use them. A good moment to say yes is often followed by the right time for You can wait.

But sometimes, like when afternoon sun slices through shockingly open windows and sheds sweet light on what’s True, you said aside all of the advice you’ve been told, except for what shines brightest in that moment.

And in this case, it was that my girl needed someone to sit and laugh and play and be with. And her sister was doing homework and her dad was at work and her brother knocks things down and I had said no.

So with her hand warming my knee as both my coffee and my To Do list cooled, I said yes and sorted rocks and washed out sand and thanked that glowing sun for shedding the light just bright enough for me to clearly see what I needed to.

“I think I can sit by myself this time,” She says, peeking at me with hazel eyes and honey hair and glitter-tipped fingers curved onto my arm.

“Okay big girl,” I whisper back, secretly “Knowing” she’d be back by my side by take off.

We’re coming back from spring break in California. It was a sun kissed week filled with all of the good things vacations are made of. Ice cream cones and late night movies and the biggest of hugs and the hardest of good byes.

The week took my breath away with its fun and its speed, and now it was time to fly home.

–

I sit back in my seat, belt buckled, book tightly clasped in hand. This is exactly how I do things — bracing myself for take offs and landings, Quiet as the prize kept in my mind’s eye.

Cheek to seat, I look at Jason by my side. He’s busily reading, no bracing required. “This is nice,” I think. This Quiet together we’re sharing on a flight seems so foreign with young children who need to be walked and rocked and fed and entertained.

Take off sounds slice through the plane’s – and my – Quiet and I suddenly note that it is, indeed, Jason by my side and not Chloe.

–

Leaning forward, I try my best to hear and see and Know what’s going on across the plane’s aisle.

The stewardess leans into the seats that hold my three and passes them their drinks – two apple juices and one Sprite.

“You’re so welcome, sweetheart. Such nice manners!” She says, through red-tinged lips and raised pinked-cheeks, just as I’m about to ask what they want to drink and to remind them to say their thank yous.

My HeartStaircases sit shoulder to shoulder and sip sweet drinks and watch silly movies beneath fuzzy red blankets that they’ve asked for themselves.

And I settle into my Quiet and my book and my husband and my flight home and the fact that in this case, there’s no Knowing required.

She passes the stack of books to me. Her small frame topped with shockingly red henna dyed hair is lit by California sunshine streaming into my teenage home’s kitchen. The beige tile gleams beneath stacks of newspaper and baskets filled with every possible kind of tea imaginable. The cabinet doors are all open.

Her tiny fingertips touch mine, her hazel eyes that match my own ask if I’ve got the Haggadot, the Passover Seder books. I do.

I place each one at the long table set by me. My Ima’s white table cloth, my Safta’s intricately flower lined dishes, my Babushka’s crystal goblets.

She stands by my side, we take in the table, the wine and the books shoulder to shoulder. A tired smile tells me she approves before she retreats to the kitchen to chop and dice and stir and mix our Passover food. Charoset, matzoh ball soup, hard boiled eggs.

–

I stand barefoot in my Minnesota townhome. Its lines are new and edges are soft, but we’re outgrowing the space quickly. Three year old Kayli and one year old Chloe are “helping” Jason grate apples for charoset. The scent brings me back to every Seder I’ve ever helped with. Crisp and sweet and fresh. A dash of cinnamon sprinkled, a splash of grape juice added.

Chloe reaches into the bowl and grabs a handful of sweetness with pudgy fingers. She brings it to her mouth, apple juice drips down her round chin and full arm. Mmm, she says. We all laugh.

I set the table across the room. My Ima‘s white tablecloth covered in wedding dishes we rarely use and goblets in the brightest shade of blue twenty-something old Jason and I could find. I set my mother’s Haggadah at my spot, one from the stack from years ago. Her name is written in Hebrew across the top in faded pencil. It’ll just be our family of four at this Seder, and I’ll be leading it. I place it by my spot.

–

Kayli and Chloe stand on either side of me. My bookends. “What’s next?” They ask at the same time, and burst into giggles.

They place one Haggadah at each spot.

“That one’s mom’s,” Kayli says moving the one Chloe just “carefully” placed.

My Ima is coming into town tonight and will be joining us for the Seder in our new home, barely moved into. “Actually, put it at Safta’s spot,” I say, wrapping my arms around my rounded — with Brody — belly.

They finish setting the table with shiny silver and new Haggadot, homemade place cards and flowers.

In the kitchen, Jason’s brisket smells amazing. I breathe it all in.

Shoulders brushing, I send a tired smile his way. “You’re welcome,” he says.

I pass Kayli a mixing bowl and Chloe the cinnamon and meeting their eyes, that are a smudged version of Jason’s brown and my hazel, we begin cooking and baking and chopping and dicing, gentling this year’s Seder with puzzle pieces old and new — exactly the way it’s meant to be.

I’m swiveling.

Sitting in a high-backed, black office chair — one of ten in a set — elbows propped on a table made of the lightest pine, knotted in just the right places. This is an official looking workspace. My bare toes graze plush carpet, my laptop is well lit, but my pages are empty.

I’m swiveling.

They talk around me. Their voices wind and thread and blend like their materials. Photos and stamps and stickers and papers and scraps piled and strewn and so very well used.

I’m away with my girlfriends at a scrapbooking weekend. Their mounds of completed pages — 12 x 12 versions of memories made forever prettied and captured and documented  — rise. A visual reminder of time well spent.

My blank documents are their very own visual of the words I can’t seem to be able to put to paper.

This group of women have been coming here for ten years, scrapping – and eating and drinking and crying and ohmygoodness laughing — their way through vacations and birthdays, first days of kindergarten and high school graduations, babies’ births and parents’ deaths.

The first time I came I felt the need to confess, I’m not scrapbooking. I used to. But now, I’ll be writing, I said, wincing and wondering and hoping that different was just fine.

And what I saw was, indeed, differences. Their creative on display, cut and cropped and matted and labeled until their story was told, while my space remained bare.

But today, as I (finally) start filling my own pages — fingers splayed, words tapped, moments documented – I see what was there all along.

Women archiving their families’ memories —  bound in the way that we all know best – by stories told.