Beautifully Ordinary

We all have extraordinary moments in our life—be it birth, recitals, trophies, graduations, weddings, promotions.  They should be celebrated & documented with zeal and savored with the emotional tug those memories provide.  For sure, hands down, absolutely.

In all honesty, however, when I’m flipping through childhood or high school or college snapshots, it isn’t the ones where we’re all together, smiling, looking our best that are emotive.  They’re beautiful.  They’re frame worthy.  They’re lovely.  I’m entirely grateful to have them. But the ones with the toys strewn across the floor and I’m wearing my favorite rainbow shirt and my hair was a tangled disaster and my little brother was darting out of the frame zips me back in a second.  The toys, the clothes, the hair, down to the way I’m sitting (limber, anyone?) all in their imperfection, doesn’t bring me to one moment in my life, it brings me to an entire Era.  I’m rollerskating down Memory Lane in one image–pulling stories and heartstrings in a singular handheld 3.5×5 print.  Imagine what an entire album of one whole ordinary morning or afternoon would do!

The following work-in-progress images are imperfectly perfect and beautifully ordinary.  They offer a story beyond a portrait, something I love today and will cherish tomorrow.

What do you see?

What is your ordinary?

Six months after the last soup image, Ben still devours it, albeit with a bit more hand-mouth control.  Here is a Roasted Tomato Soup that we made together (a term I use loosely) from our friends’ and grandparents’ garden bounty.

After-school snack.  Jack, who has been recently and reluctantly “knife trained,” drops his backpack, grabs an apple from the crisper, and slices off two hunks and hands one to Charlie to eat outside.  Jack is a lefty. Note the knife position.The late summer casts long shadows earlier in the evening now.  Ben is my only child to ride a tricycle. Really.  He loves outdoor, gross motor toys in a way that the other two never did.  Fail on the shoeless rider, win on the helmet.  Working with a three-year-old here.

The summer of Pokemon. Is it wrong to hope he’s on to something different next summer? 

Homemade chocolate chip mint ice cream on an ordinary summer’s morning.

Post-shower, pre-bedtime summer reading book from the library.  Sun-kissed skin, bright curly surfer hair,  lean spaghetti-like limbs. This is our nine.

Summer shadows. Swimming shorts. Scooter.  That scooter won’t be there in ten years.High noon sun picnic on our most favorite quilt.  I won it at Jack’s preschool auction when he was four; we eat picnics on it from late spring to early fall, snuggle on the couch under it all winter, and make forts with it year round. My great-grandmother bequeathed me a lovingly threadbare, pale blue butterfly quilt when I was nine.  My attachment to it is solid because–from elementary school to my first apartment–it’s woven itself into my life.  I’m one of those people who let the kids use every quilt and baby blanket that was given to them–snot on, pooped on, barfed on, stepped on, dragged through the grass, and slept with every night, cuddled with every day, and just thoroughly loved. I don’t want to hand them a crisp, wrapped in tissue paper version at twenty-five and have them say, “Oh gee, thanks. I have no recollection of this being mine.”  Why keep it pretty if it’s not meaningful? The sun can only do this on my kitchen counter in the late afternoon, so this must be Ben’s post-nap snack. We only get cherries a few months of the year.  And that pudgy cherub hand can reach the counter higher than a year ago, but nearly as high as next year.  I don’t need to put a date stamp on the back; this picture tells exactly how old Ben is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I couldn’t have orchestrated a better story of Ben at two-and-a-half if I had tried.  He’s tirelessly obsessed with the alphabet…several of you are nodding your head in agreement, others are laughing at this understatement. Charlie, 6, filled in the I and J while I got pulled away in the middle of my scribing….something he would not have done even a year ago, and I adore that kindergartner backward J handwriting to no end.  This “truck” is eight years old–a gift for Jack’s first birthday–and despite the eleventy billion costly items smashed into our garage, this is about the only one Ben will use with any affection.  Also?  Target diapers–you can spot those pale blue circles anywhere, yes?  Do I wish he was in those adorable little boxer briefs I bought three months ago?  Absolutely. He will be when he’s ready, so I’ll own where he is and know this is my last baby in diapers and that’s okay.

And P.S., “Mama, make a green heart too.”  Swoon.

 

Not only does the top bunk never get made, but it’s also pointless to make the bottom one because all three boys routinely dive in after school to read or have elaborate football or spy games with stuffed animals or just decompress while chatting, laughing—-or kicking each other out & eventually ending in tears.  Truth.

Life is messy in general, but life with a toddler is downright slovenly at (most) times. Ben is no exception–he may, in fact, be the rule.  If you know my Ben, then you’re acutely aware that his love for soup runs deep & wide, second only to chocolate, which looks identical on him.

After-school in all it’s messy glory. All three backpacks and coats, hats, & boots casually tossed aside. Landed where they were shed. The little bee backpack?  My two-year-old’s. One of his first animal sounds was “buzz,” he had a “Save the Bees” first birthday, and was a bee for his second Halloween….so, we’re milking the bees before he moves on to something less cute. Like Ninjas. His winter snowsuit tossed on the bench was worn by both of his older brothers, and it’s with some nostalgia in my heart already knowing all three of children really experienced their first snow (in tossing, walking, umm…eating) wearing it. Sniff. Charlie’s (my number two) backpack came from Shanghai when my husband was there for 2 weeks a couple of years ago–Charlie was merely 3yo but declared that his kindergarten backpack for the future.  And Jack’s (my number one) backpack is officially not cute–no sharks nor adornments, just gray & black & sturdy. This backpack he chose in the fall was the first sign that he thought 3rd grade is serious business. The jumble of coats and bags and certainly puzzles will not always be here–and they certainly won’t always be cute.

I can see my green swim bag at the bottom of the stairs.  Swimming two to three days a week, it never ever gets put in a closet.  My purse on the floor on the left says I’m done with the diaper bag.

Most importantly, someday this entryway will be too clean, too perfect, too lonely. This is our story today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautifully Ordinary is a trademark of Jen Lucas Photography, LLC.