Under the Table, Drawing

I grew up in a tiny rural town in an old farmhouse perched on top of a lopsided hill.  That house held my fondest memories as a child (and a ton of lady bug carcasses).  Our favorite place to congregate was the old summer kitchen where we shared fights, homework help, and my mom's incredible cooking.

As my two sisters and I grew older, the tiny kitchen became tinier and our tired old table had to go.  Its replacement was a solid, beautiful, oakey thing that could hold half a football team.  

One day, we were laying on the kitchen floor when one of us had the brilliant idea to pull out the markers and brand our new table.  I, being the oldest, obviously delegated the delinquency and Christen scurried off to grab the Crayolas.  

Now three giggling girls hiding under a table trying to draw on it in secrecy while nearly imploding from the rebellious joy of it all, were bound to be quickly discovered.   

And we were.  

As the table cloth flung up, we froze and stared up at our mother, staring down at us.  

No one spoke for a good ten seconds as she took in the scene; her eyes weighing everything, looking to each of us.  

"What are you girls doing?" she asked, face unreadable.

"Um….drawing…under the…table," I hesitantly offered.  

"Hmm…." she said

(Here it was:  the punishment.  De-poopig the chicken coop?  Weeding the garden?  No Full House?!)

"Hand me the pink," she smiled, as she dropped onto her belly and wriggled under there with us.  

Whaaaat??!

The tension bubble burst with an explosion of laughter as we scrambled to get her a marker.

She drew her picture then left us to one of the most incredible afternoons as we scribbled stories, faces, and signatures into the oak.  A turning point afternoon for me.

Fast forward 20 years, right before babies and Texas happened, and Mom showed up in our driveway one day with a pickup truck and some elbow grease, delivering the best birthday gift I could imagine:  that old table.  After years of Easter egg dying, hot cookie sheets, blanched tomatoes, and manicures, nearly all the finish was long gone and many scratches, ruts, and gashes gouged its surface.

My husband and I set to work restoring it.  We sanded down the top, refinished the polish, replaced the leg bolts, then sat for quite awhile reading all the things three little girls scrawled under there long ago.  

That table has been through a lot: six moves, the aforementioned Easter eggs and cookie sheets, late night curfew-fights, loud family meals, louder games of Euchre, raspberry stains, spilled milk, sharpies….

It is well-lived, well-used, well-loved.

I want my life to be like this table and the choice my mom made decades ago to sacrifice one of the nicest things we owned, for years of memories and experiences to come.

To keep things…and hearts…pristine and undamaged, a kind of quarantine has to be instated.

"Keep back!  Shoes off!  Don't touch!"

…like a formal living room padlocked and laser guarded, reserved only for holiday relatives or a visit from The President.

My life, nor this blog, is anything like that living room.  It's messy, funny, unpredictable, emotional, and exhausting.  So that is much of what you can expect when you take a click here.  Plus:

• multi-contributors' transparent articles/thoughts/ reviews/strangeness
• reader interactivity
• giveaways
• motherhood glories and defeats
• funny things
• faith things
• painful things
• weird things

So pull up a chair (sorry about the Playdoh...) and share a cup of coffee in a well-lived kitchen around an old crayola-ed table and raise a toast to this crazy life.  Then grab a crayon and and spend some time of your own, under the table, drawing.